The Queen's Sorrow Page 11

  Preparations were under way at the palace for the festive season and word was that this was to be a big one, there being not only the birth of Jesus to celebrate but the coming birth of a prince. Here and there, in smaller courtyards, under canvas canopies, pageant-screens were being built and painted: brash heraldic designs, lush landscapes, swirling seascapes. Once, Rafael saw a dozen or so people being fitted for costumes of some kind around a heap of feathery, glittery wings.

  From memory, he sketched those people and their fluttery pile for Francisco; and in the accompanying letter he asked Leonor to write back, confiding that he didn’t think he’d be home until after Christmas.

  The prince still hadn’t left and now, for form’s sake, he’d have to stay for Christmas. When Christmas was over, though, it would be too late because the queen would be well into her pregnancy and then how could he go? How would that look? His wife, heavily pregnant for the first time at almost thirty-nine, and old anyway for her years. Rumour was that the prince was as desperate as his subjects to go, and Rafael could believe it. England remained hostile, he was no nearer being crowned king, he had been drained of his funds, and, no doubt, pined for his mistress. Rumour had it, too, though, that the queen wouldn’t allow him to go, which Rafael could also well believe. Because, if the prince sailed away, when would he return? It had taken long enough to get him here in the first place. He’d delayed, arriving almost two months later than expected, and offered no convincing explanation. But now, in the queen’s understandable view, he was happily married and expecting a baby, so why on earth wouldn’t he want to stay? To share the joy, all being well, or to comfort his wife if it wasn’t. And – purely practically – if the very worst happened, he should be in England to take over. There was something else, too, Rafael thought, which was no less important: how would it look to the people, if he didn’t stay by her side? How would it look to the world? Cynical people in a cynical world, and she’d know very well they were watching.

  Whenever Cecily asked after his progress with arrangements to return home, he described his disappointments as best he could, and she was sympathetic. I’m so sorry, Rafael. How silly, this is so silly. Once, she sighed, ‘You must …’ and shrugged. Despair? Miss your family? And once she said with a sheepish smile, ‘But I don’t want you to go,’ and although she said it lightly, as if it were nothing, as if making a joke of it, he sensed – to his surprise – that the sentiment itself was no joke, and he was touched. His own smile flared in return and he said, ‘Thank you,’ and he wanted to tell her he’d miss her, too.

  It was true. He couldn’t imagine why she’d miss him – he was a burden, another person to cook for, clean for – but he loved her company. He was comfortable in her company, although if he’d voiced that it would have sounded nothing much, which didn’t tally with how it felt. And indeed that was how he’d have considered it, previously: something that other men might say of their wives. Leonor’s presence, though, he’d never found particularly comfortable; Leonor’s company was many things, but never comfortable. He enjoyed himself in Cecily’s company even when they were doing nothing. Perhaps especially when they were doing nothing. He felt understood by her, even though he was able to say very little. He’d never experienced that before with a woman. Hadn’t known it was possible. The way she looked at him: direct, which was not to say that there was anything improper in it. On the contrary: the way she looked at him was clear, uncomplicated, like no woman in Spain ever did.

  Like all his fellow countrymen, Antonio was complaining of the delay in their return, but although he’d be missing Spanish sun and food, and he’d be glad to escape the hostility in England, there was no one in particular to whom he’d be going home. There were no ties to have been damaged by his absence. And he was managing to live his life here in England largely as he’d lived it in Spain: friends, fun. He would emerge unscathed from this adventure, which was all it would be, for him, soon. Those from whom he’d been winning or borrowing money were running low, though, and were less keen to part with it. He was having to come back more often to the Kitsons’ in the evenings. Infuriatingly, he was suggesting by his manner that this was actively his choice and – worse – that they should be delighted that he was gracing them with his presence.

  It was during these evenings alongside Antonio, though, that Rafael became aware of how his own English had improved. To his surprise – and pride – it was better, now, than Antonio’s, perhaps because Antonio had been spending so much time with Spanish-speakers. Unlike during the first few weeks, Rafael understood everything that Antonio said in English, or was trying to say, and could even help to translate. With his new-found confidence, he found he was taking more chances and, in turn, learning even more. It was only on Cecily, though, really, that he tried out this blossoming English.

  He took care never to mention the queen to Cecily, even though he didn’t know why he was avoiding doing so. He’d seen the queen, once, at the palace – with her entourage she’d passed by in a loose-fitting gown which was laced at the back even though she was only three months pregnant. She’d walked tall, despite her diminutive stature. He’d been reminded of when Leonor was pregnant. Rafael had been ready to see Leonor pregnant in the first year of her marriage to Gil, even though he’d wondered with trepidation how he’d feel. More of what she was might be revealed to him, he’d felt. She gave so little of herself, it seemed to him; but, pregnant, she’d have no choice over that, would she? And that, he was keen to see.

  But it hadn’t happened. Two years, and nothing. Then two more years, then two more. Gil did talk about it; he was never one to avoid mention of what was important, he was an open man. But there was nothing, really, to say. God’s will. It could still happen. There are compensations. I feel for Leonor. Just what Rafael expected him to say. If Leonor ever had to allude to her childlessness, she shrugged her bony little shoulders, downturned her mouth, slid her gaze away as if to dismiss it. Gil was expansive with children, but, then, he was expansive in general. It wasn’t for show. She was the opposite, but that, too, was how she was, and it worked just as well. She didn’t talk down to children. But, then, she didn’t talk down to anyone. She wouldn’t have known how. Her way with children, as with everyone and everything, was quiet and cautious.

  December the second, a Sunday, mid-morning, and Rafael was trying to decide if he should set off for Whitehall. Weekends were no different from weekdays in that lunch was provided, but – both weekdays and weekends – he was taking up the offer less and less often. It was a toss-up: lunch, but two bitterly cold river-journeys (and recently, for five days, the decision had been made for him by the freezing of the river); or no lunch but a fireside in the Kitson household. He was always keen to escape the clamour of the household – a week ago, the Kitsons had arrived back in residence for Christmas – but his clothing was inadequate and he couldn’t afford to have anything new made. Perhaps he could have borrowed a heavier cloak – Cecily might have been able to arrange it – but he didn’t want to draw attention to his predicament. Indeed, he was under orders not to. They all were. Some Spaniards were owing money here, there and everywhere, and were merely keeping up appearances until they could settle their debts.

  Despite the return of the Kitsons, he’d managed to keep his room. At least there was that. No one had troubled him for it, which he suspected was Cecily’s doing: she’d found him the room, and perhaps she’d kept it for him, either by keeping quiet or by arguing his case. It was something else for which he was grateful to her, and he was careful to savour the privilege despite the chill, for as long as he could. Which wasn’t very long. He’d seen no fireplaces in any of the smaller rooms, and his was no exception. Firewood in England was in short supply, apparently, even for families like the Kitsons. So he’d sit in his stone-cold room, dressed in all his clothes – every last article of clothing that had come to England with him – and wrapped in his blankets, working on designs and calculations for as long as he could bare hi
s hands. Then he’d wrap his hands, too, in his blanket and sit for a little longer, gazing from the window. And then he’d have to give up and head for the kitchen, do his best to look sociable. The servants congregated there and tolerated his presence even if they didn’t invite him to join them in playing cards. Cecily was often there and always smiled at him in greeting, but from across the room.

  He was increasingly bothered by a tooth. Only a matter of time, now, before he would have to afford the barber-surgeon. He hadn’t mentioned it in his letters to Leonor: it was a tooth, that was all. He hated how it laid him low. How are you? he asked Leonor in his letters. It was something he’d rarely asked her in person, because he never got an answer, not a real one. I’m fine, Rafael, but said pointedly, the implication being, Why? Why are you asking me? What is it, exactly, that you want to know?

  It was his brother, Pedro, who’d be asking her, reading the letter aloud for her. Pedro would have to write her replies, too, and Rafael wondered if that was why he hadn’t heard from her.

  Mid-morning on this particular Sunday, he glimpsed from his room more people than usual down in the lane. Scraping some ice off his window, he watched them all going in the same direction, brisk and taciturn. Something was going on. Something important, by the looks of it. Children were being led by the hand, and people who were less able than others were being helped along. He expected it to peter out, whatever it was, but instead, while he watched, it gained momentum. A crowd, it became: a small crowd. He made a snap decision to investigate, and was buoyed up by it: into his cloak and down the stairs in a blur of steps.

  For once, he hadn’t anticipated the cold and the sting of it up his nose was a shock, throwing tears into his eyes. The attention of the crowd was on its destination and he slipped in, unnoticed. He moved fast to shake off the bone-crushing chill. No clues as to where they were headed; he was listening hard, but these people knew where they were going and had no need to discuss it. Just the occasional, hoarse, cold-hollowed chiding to a child: Come on, keep moving. The English not gossiping, for once, and sober, too: nothing from them but their raucous sniffs and chest-cracking coughs. Occasionally, Rafael saw that he himself was seen – Spaniard – but the glances barely touched him: observed, he was, but considered irrelevant. Being inconspicuous in England was more than he could ever hope for, but he’d gladly settle for being unworthy of a second glance.

  He was quite a way down Cheapside – every breath still sorely cold, the cold delving into his bad tooth – when he realised: St Paul’s was where they were headed. Of course: he should have guessed. Something was going on at St Paul’s, some preaching at Paul’s Cross: that was all this was. It happened, he knew, on Sundays, this preaching outside St Paul’s to hundreds of Londoners, although he was surprised that so many were attending on a day as cold as this. Glad to give up on his little adventure, he half-turned – but the crowd had built behind him and he saw there was no way back.

  No way forward, either, because everyone was coming to a standstill. Rafael was nowhere near the cathedral yard. As soon as he stopped walking, the chill claimed the soles of his feet, his toes. The rest of him was faring better from being hemmed in, but there was the stench of so many people and he barely dared breathe, afraid that he’d retch. He tipped back his head for air. No sky, no sky at all: just cloud. Cecily had said something, the previous day: too cold for snow. Could it possibly be too cold for snow? She’d sounded as if she knew what she was talking about, but how could it be? But, then, he knew nothing about cold, about snow.

  How long was he going to be stuck here? His stomach whimpered – he cringed – and someone’s answered, then someone else’s. The frozen insides of his ears felt as if they were splitting, and the pain stabbed again into the unsettled tooth. Suddenly, though, something was happening: a stirring in the crowd ahead and instantly all around him, but for a breath or two he didn’t get it, couldn’t grasp it. Then he did, just in time – they were kneeling. Gathering themselves to get to their knees down in the ice-splintered mud, each and every one of them. He hurried to do the same. Around him, eyes were closed and hands clasped. Absolution: they were being absolved. The bishop, way ahead at St Paul’s, was granting them absolution.

  A few days ago, England had officially been returned to Rome and here were the queen’s subjects asking for forgiveness for ever having strayed. In the past – if Rafael was to believe what he’d heard – some of these people had made their protest by hurling dead dogs into churches: that was how low they’d sunk. Now, they’d come to the cathedral in their hundreds – thousands, even, perhaps – to offer themselves up. The end of twenty years of strife: that’s how they intended it, he saw from those composed, closed-eyed faces, and he knew he should feel moved, but he felt uneasy. It wasn’t that he doubted the crowd’s sincerity. It was the sincerity that was the problem. The solemnity. Not English. The silence of a crowd, a kneeling crowd, Rafael knew only too well from Spain, where the Inquisition had been the teacher of it.

  The queen had dissolved the Church of England, finally succeeding in having her father’s Act repealed. Word was that she’d cried with relief there on her throne. No tears when she’d been declared queen, nor when she’d been crowned; but ending the Church of England, she’d let the tears come and hadn’t wiped them away. For this, she’d told her noblemen – and only this – she’d become queen. For this, she’d stayed in England and not run to Spain, for all those desolate, dangerous years. For this, God had preserved her and made sure she’d triumphed. This: the righting of a terrible wrong, the undoing of the actions of a man who seemed to have gone mad and damned his people. She’d saved them. It was done. With God’s will, she’d managed it.

  Her men had been moved to see her in tears; moved in fact to line up, later, every last nobleman in the land, each with a torch, and bear their long banner of flame from Westminster to Whitehall. There, they’d knelt to beg her forgiveness for ever having gone along with the Reformation. Which of course she granted without hesitation, not being a woman for grudges and being keen to believe the best of people. And here, a few days later, England’s people were doing the same, doing their own version: coming to St Paul’s and kneeling in the streets. As if, Rafael thought, that would be all it would take. Perhaps it would.

  December the third was Francisco’s birthday, his fourth, and the sky itself bestowed what would have been the best possible birthday present if only he’d been there to see it: snow. As he woke, Rafael knew that something had befallen the world. The silence beyond his window had a thoroughness to it and his room was faintly but evenly illuminated. Outside, everything had turned clean white as if a spell had been cast. He ached to have Francisco beside him to see it; imagined him spellbound, first, then avid and already halfway to the door on his way downstairs. Come here, little man, let’s get you properly dressed up. Rafael had resolved not to do the usual on his son’s birthday, but to mark it somehow – go somewhere, do something – and now the problem was solved: he’d take a walk in the snow.

  The sound and sensation of each footfall was utterly new to him, though he imagined walking across some kinds of sand might be similar. The cold was there but didn’t attack him as the wind often did; it had lain down and rolled over, exposing its soft, spectacular underside. Every branch, every twig – the smallest thing, a nailhead on the gate, a knot in the grain of the gatepost – was edged with snow. Everywhere, it had done its delicate work. But the day was busy doing its work too and already there was an unevenness of cover, itself glorious, complex and intriguing. This is for you, Francisco, Rafael kept thinking, looking around. Who else would it be for, on Francisco’s birthday?

  But Francisco wasn’t here to receive it and its extraordinary presence made much of his absence. Rafael was getting tired, having to tense every step against slipping, and, tired, he was getting cold. He gave up and headed back to the Kitsons’, to the kitchen and – he hoped – a warm drink.

  Huddled in a corner with the cup of sp
iced milk that one of the kitchen boys had been so kind as to fetch for him, he was aware that no one there knew it was his little boy’s birthday. Not even Cecily, who was elsewhere. In that respect, Rafael had his son all to himself. He wondered what Leonor was planning for Francisco on this special day, all being well. All being well. Even if all was well, Francisco would be lost to him, he feared, in that he’d have forgotten him, by now. Oh, he’d remember the name – Daddy – and he’d remember that there had been a daddy, someone who’d been Daddy, but nothing more specific, Rafael suspected. ‘Daddy’ would be referred to, plenty, he imagined, today – Daddy’ll be thinking of you on your birthday – but he doubted that would make him any more real to Francisco. Sitting in the Kitson kitchen, he burned to insist on his reality to Francisco: I’m here; here I am; here. But here would mean nothing to Francisco.

  Rafael’s own birthday was eleven days later and he self-consciously abandoned it. Slipping free of it, was how he chose to think of it.

  Christmas came and passed with Rafael ill in bed. For a day and a night of which he was only dimly aware, fever shook him like a dog shakes its prey. His skin felt blistered; the touch of the bedclothes hurt him. I’m dying, I’m going to die, here, so far from home, but he didn’t feel how he might have expected to feel: no rage, nor any yearning. So this is how it ends, was all he had the strength to think. He accepted it. Had to. He’d been writing a letter home and he hoped someone would forward it. That was all, really, that he wanted. He wasn’t up to wanting anything more.