The Queen of Subtleties Read online

  Actually, I don’t know whether that’s close to the truth or couldn’t be further from it, and my own bafflement makes me laugh. Richard gives me what I think is called a long look; I’m aware of it even though I’ve turned away. I did see, though, that he wasn’t entirely unamused.

  Mark sidles in but stays close to the door, leans back against the wall; hoping, I imagine, to be inconspicuous. Summertime has barely touched him, he’s as pale as ever, but the heat in here is bringing a glow to his face. ‘Well,’ he says to me, ‘I’ve caught up with you.’

  Does he mean that one of us has been remiss? Which of us, though? It can’t have been me: I can’t rove around inside the various palaces, looking for him. I find myself stating the obvious: ‘We’ve been on progress.’ But has he? Has he been on progress, for the whole time? Has he been in all the places I’ve been, these past three or four weeks? Nonsuch, yes: we did meet up at Nonsuch. But the others? Does the king always take all his musicians with him? If not all, does he take his favourites?

  ‘I’ve been lucky enough to have a couple of quick breaks,’ he says.

  ‘For us, it’s been relentless. Poor Joseph—our pack-man: all this to pack up, every few days.’ I’m babbling, but it’s also true: I do feel for Joseph. It’s bad enough for him in the winters, moving us between the major palaces every few weeks, but at least those kitchens are basically equipped. These moves to the smaller houses, the hunting lodges, require us to take everything, every last pan and spoon. ‘And lately, he’s had to deal with all these subtleties, in pieces; packing them so carefully into chests.’

  I don’t understand it: every previous summer, there’ve been occasions when we’ve been paid our retainers and told to stay behind in whichever palace we’re in while it’s being cleaned. Time off is welcome, of course, but I can never help thinking of the hard work going on around us: Mr Wilkinson, in his trademark red coat, cleaning the kitchen drains. Worse, beneath us: Poor Mr Long and his poor boys, the gong scourers, digging down alongside the latrine pits, removing bricks and climbing in to take away the mess and scrub the shafts and walls and floors.

  Whether or not Richard and I go on progress depends, presumably, on the hospitality offered to the king. Perhaps, sometimes, it’d be a snub to take us. Perhaps sometimes a snub not to. I don’t know the niceties, but someone does. It’s the Knight Harbinger’s job to know if we’re going or not, to arrange accommodation for us if we need it. We simply follow the orders that filter down. But this summer has been different. No niceties. Everywhere the king has gone, we’ve gone, too. Our only orders have been to produce more, and bigger, and better.

  I try to be positive. ‘Nonsuch, though: that was lovely, wasn’t it.’ Brand new Nonsuch.

  ‘Queen Anne’s, now, of course,’ he says. ‘Given to her by the king.’

  I don’t care whose it is. ‘Not the house, particularly; but the orchards. I don’t suppose you went into the orchards? Then you’ll not have seen these.’ I take one from the basket and approach him, offering it up for inspection. He brushes a fingertip over the small fruit; it stirs on my palm.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks. ‘Some kind of baby peach? A funny, little…smooth, little…egg-yolk-coloured peach?’ He gives up with a half-laugh, but remains intrigued.

  ‘It’s an apricot. Mr Harris—the king’s fruiterer—brought a cutting back from abroad, a couple of years ago, and he’s been nursing it at Nonsuch. And here we are.’

  Despite the note of triumph, I suddenly feel silly. Because it’s nothing, really, is it. It’s a fruit; it’s a bit like a peach. I’ve been carried away by all the excitement: Mr Harris’s, and then my own and Richard’s. Why on earth would Mark be interested? And yet. It also is something, isn’t it? It is something: it’s new, it’s alive, and we’ve never seen it before, and isn’t that something?

  He’s asking, ‘What are you going to do with it?’ He’s watchful as I replace it with the others.

  ‘Same as I do with every other fruit. Same as I’m doing over there with the peaches. Cook them. Preserve them. Cook a very thick jam, cut it into pieces, stamp each piece and dust it with sugar.’

  ‘No one’ll eat them fresh?’

  I’m back to the peaches; my knife-blade drops through slick flesh. ‘Fresh fruit’s indigestible, Mark.’ He should know that; should look after himself. ‘It stews in your stomach.’ No wonder he looks so pale.

  ‘Seems a shame, though. To cook them.’ I can barely hear him over the raps of my knife. ‘To mush them up. When they’re so beautiful.’

  A glance, and there they are: nestled in the bowl, but each one also very itself. Staring me down. Looking either helpless, or supremely confident; I can’t decide which. ‘But they have to be eaten. That’s what they’re for.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you can model them in sugar. That way, you can keep them intact.’

  On the shelves above me are box-loads of lemons and oranges that Richard and I have cast and coloured for the coming feast. Point taken: I know very well that fruits aren’t just for eating, but also for looking at. Of course I do. Much of my time is taken with preserving them or faking them in sugar and marchepane. I can’t have him thinking that I don’t find the apricots beautiful. The first one I ever saw was sunset-coloured; it was bowed by its cleft, and the skin was a blur however sharply I focused.

  ‘Simple pleasures,’ he says, ‘in these difficult times. These dark times.’

  I could ignore that; I could let it pass in respectful silence. Could I? No. No, of course not. He’s right: if it isn’t acknowledged—what’s happened—then it waits to be acknowledged. My problem is with Richard: I really don’t wish to discuss it with or in front of Richard, who’s been so very keen to discuss it with me. Keen to subject me to gossip, to make me hear the details. I don’t even want to think about it. There’s no point; there’s nothing I can do. Except think about it. And I can’t bear to think about it. Mark and I didn’t talk about it at Nonsuch; we could’ve done—everyone else was—but we didn’t. By mutual consent, I presumed. Because what would we have said? If we weren’t going to talk about it like everyone else was—the gossip, the details—then what would we have said? We’d have ended up saying something pointless like, The Tyburn executions—what an awful business! But now something more has happened—it’s happened to Bishop Fisher—and something will have to be said. What, though?

  I say, ‘She put him up to it.’ Well, it’s the truth.

  ‘Not true, Lucy.’ He was ready for me, his response immediate. His head is tilted to one side, appraising me. ‘It’s the king who signs.’

  ‘Yes, I do know who signs death warrants. As I say, she put him up to it.’ Actually, I can’t quite believe what I’ve said. Oh, I believe in what I’ve said; just can’t believe that I said it, and like that. To Mark.

  Richard downs tools: the whispered clink of some utensil.

  ‘Lucy…’ Mark looks pained, now; the tilted-head coolness is gone.

  ‘He wouldn’t have done it, otherwise, would he. A traitor’s death for Bishop Fisher? Maybe—maybe—the Tyburn men were traitors. Everyone says they were bookish, religious men, but maybe they did deserve to be hanged, drawn and quartered in front of that audience of male Boleyns and Boleyn-friends. If anyone ever does deserve to be butchered.’

  Richard says, ‘Lucy…’ warning me that, in theory, I could join them for saying so.

  ‘But Bishop Fisher, Mark? Because he wouldn’t sign a piece of paper? Wouldn’t sign his support for Princess Elizabeth as heir, rather than Princess Mary? No protest. No incitement to others. Just a missing signature from an old man. A man of the Church. And there’s Sir Thomas More.’

  ‘Sir Thomas isn’t—’

  ‘He’ll go the same way, he’ll have his trial but he’ll go the same way.’

  ‘Lucy…’ Richard, again, and still I don’t look at him. It’s Mark I’m looking at; pale-faced Mark.

  ‘And all this from a king known all over the world for his lov
e of debate, his love of thinkers and writers? A big-hearted man. Huge-spirited. Generous to a fault. Would he order the butchering of an old bishop who declined to sign a piece of paper?’

  Mark is still back against the wall but no longer leaning. Standing to attention. Expressionless, as far as I can tell. I had no idea I was so angry. No, that’s untrue. I had no idea that I could go on and on, like this, at someone. But, then, it isn’t ‘someone’, is it; it’s Mark. Thank goodness it’s Mark. Thank goodness for Mark.

  ‘It’s not a piece of paper.’ He’s still expressionless; or, the expression is one of patience. ‘You know that.’

  Yes, I do know. Of course I do. It was stupid of me to say so. So, why did I? Because I wish it was? Because a piece of paper really would be inconsequential and none of this horribleness would be happening.

  He says, ‘There’s a lot that’s done in her name. Others want something done, for their own reasons, and she gets the blame. Look how she gets the blame for what’s happening to the religious houses. But that’s never been what she’s wanted. She’s for reform. She’s made a point of visiting nuns, talking to them—’

  ‘Exactly: she makes a point of it.’ Dear Mark, so keen to think the best. ‘She likes show, Mark; she’s good at it.’ Here I am, suddenly cynical. Is this how Richard has always felt, dealing with me?

  But Mark laughs, or almost: exasperation, half-amused. ‘She doesn’t care about appearances. I’ve never met anyone who cares less about impressing people—’ He halts; splays his hands. ‘Except you.’

  Me?

  Me?

  Don’t I? Well, I suppose I don’t. But who is there to impress?

  ‘She’s a principled woman,’ he says, subdued. Back against that wall. ‘A woman of very strong faith.’

  Oh, all this talk of faith. As if it’s enough. What about behaving as a Christian? ‘She didn’t plead for them, did she.’ I say it to the pile of peach slices, perhaps because I don’t quite want to say it. Perhaps because if he doesn’t want to hear me say it, then he needn’t. ‘Maybe she didn’t want those men to be ripped up at Tyburn, but she didn’t plead for them.’

  ‘How do we know? Maybe she did. She probably did.’

  ‘What about that priest?’ I can’t leave it; and, worse, turn to confront him again. ‘That priest she was asked to plead for—’

  ‘Which priest?’

  ‘And she refused, said, “There are enough priests already”.’ I don’t know which priest; Richard told me. ‘What kind of woman could say that?’

  ‘A misquoted one.’ He folds his arms, but suddenly he unfolds them and is coming towards me. ‘Do you really think anyone would say that?’

  Suddenly, I feel stupid.

  ‘Lucy…’ like a confidence, ‘have you ever met her?’ He rests lightly against my workbench but inclines towards me, looks closely at me. I do some savage work on a peach, but give him his reponse, a shake of my head.

  ‘Well, she’s…full of life. She says things, yes; doesn’t stop to think. But that’s just it: she’s not calculating. Those Tyburn men…’ The mere mention of the word, Tyburn, brings in its wake a respectful pause. ‘Those men were of no consequence to her. She already has what she wants. They didn’t like it, but that doesn’t matter to her. She wouldn’t need them butchered.’ He dips to try to catch my eye; I glimpse a strained smile. ‘Remember that motto of hers? Ainsi sera, groigne qui groigne?’

  Yes. It caused quite a stir. Or so Richard told me.

  He translates: ‘“It’s going to happen, whether they like it or not.” Or—’ his tone warmer still, ‘“Tough”, you might say.’

  What I want to say is, I hate it, Mark; I hate what’s happening. Life used to be good, or at least nothing much, but now look. It’s frightening, it’s vicious.

  He’s saying, ‘She bears grudges, yes: we all know that, we’ve all seen that.’ He’s thinking of Cardinal Wolsey; he was a member of the cardinal’s household and he’s seen what Anne Boleyn can do to a man she dislikes. ‘She…sees people off. But not like that.’ Not like Tyburn. ‘That’s not her style. She’s, well, she’s hot-headed, not cold-hearted.’ He’s pleased with that one: there’s a grace-note of satisfaction to it.

  And it’s a good place to stop this. We do need to stop. Why did we ever start? What has it—she—to do with us? His grave little face, so obliging. He’s too nice, that’s his problem; that’ll be his problem, if he’s not careful.

  ‘You put up a good defence of her.’ I’m not being snide; he knows I mean it. ‘You really like her, don’t you.’

  ‘Like her?’ It’s the only time today when I’ve seen him thrown. He’s amused, though, too. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Well, on that, we can agree to differ.’ I hand him a knife. If he’s staying, he can make himself useful.

  This time, I’ve sent him away; had to. I have ten spice plates to load. ‘Later?’ I suggested; an explanatory sweep of my hand over the stacked plates, the sacks of spices.

  He winced. ‘Can’t. Playing.’

  Of course: playing at the banquet for which we’re preparing. Of course he won’t be around, later, because he’ll be there.

  Richard’s unhelpful comment was, ‘Oh, they’ll be pretty early to bed, judging by what she’s loading onto those plates.’ Neither Mark nor I gave any indication of having heard. Figs, almonds, aniseed: they warm the blood, I’d been taught; and warm blood it had remained, for me, until Richard took it upon himself to elaborate. I rather wish he hadn’t.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ was all Mark said, bowing out, with his smile.

  Tomorrow, then. Lately, he’s been coming by every few days. What does the Sergeant Porter think, on his rounds? Seeing Mark loping across the yard or bounding up our stairs; hearing the laughter from our window, sometimes hearing the lute. The Sergeant Porter, checking that all’s well. Well, it is. Why shouldn’t we have music? It’s summer. We’re working hard. The Sergeant Porter—and anyone else, for that matter—can think what he likes. Mark and I have fun, and fun’s important, or so everyone’s always saying, here. Not that we have their kind of fun, the kind that’s suspiciously keen to declare itself as such. Ours is quieter and all our own. Better, I’ll bet. Genuine. Mark is good company; I love his company, and he does seem to like mine. We understand each other, he and I. There’ve been no more disagreements; the air is well and truly cleared.

  I’m tired. Choosing to work late is an option—avoiding the heat of these last few days by napping for a couple of hours, or, once, retreating with Mark to the shade of the riverbank trees—but there’s no slack in the mornings. Sir Alexander is on rota as our Chief Clerk of the Spicery—four weeks down, two to go—and he’s a particularly early bird, here before eight every day so that he can be over at the Greencloth Office well before nine, presenting his figures. This morning felt particularly chaotic. Him, quibbling over whether it was three cinnamon quills or four that we used, yesterday. The little groom from the chandlery, also early, ferreting around for our candle stubs and having the cheek to say to Stephen, ‘We’re not made of tallow, you know’. And Kit turning up with apologies for being unwell—it was a hangover, clearly—then leaving again before I had a chance to ask more. It’s left me with a headache.

  Richard’s keeping his own hours, too. No complaints from me, even though I’ve had to vouch for him on a couple of occasions when the Clerks have come checking on attendance. He works very hard; but then he’s gone, and it’s for four, five, six hours at a stretch before he joins me again. Who knows what he’s up to. Last night, when I went down into the yard for some air and to look up into the hazy sky—a dab of moon, a floury thumbprint of a moon—I spotted Stephen sitting with his kitchen-lad friends on some steps, playing cards. A year ago, it’d have been Richard I’d have seen. Now, he seems to have moved on, somewhere. He looks thinner, if that’s possible, but very well. His cheekbones are gilded, even faintly freckled. He has some new clothes.

  ‘New doublet?’ I said, the other day, w
hen he dropped by on his way to wherever he goes.

  He twirled, then allowed, ‘Well…’

  Secondhand, then. Whatever. I didn’t actually mean new; whoever has new clothes? But still.

  ‘Aren’t I gorgeous?’ he asked, and we laughed, he and I, but it was true, he was; is.

  I asked, ‘Where’s the money coming from?’ although it wasn’t really a question; more of an exclamation.

  His response was an airy, ‘Oh, who needs money.’ Then he said, ‘You should treat yourself, you know.’

  He used to get on at me about my clothes—or lack of them—but hadn’t said much for a while. He used to tell me that Cardinal Wolsey’s cook wore silk and velvet damask; obviously he’d heard this, once, and it’d made quite an impression on him. I used to say, So? The cardinal’s cook was a man; men make more fuss about their dress.

  This time, I said, ‘I don’t need any new clothes. No one ever sees me.’

  ‘Well, they should.’ He was grinning. ‘You’re so pretty, Lucy!’ He sounded delighted.

  ‘Are you drunk?’

  ‘Drunk!’ Derisively, although happily. ‘You need some lace. What if the galleon trip happens again?’

  The invitation to the Venetian galleon, sugar-loaded, confectionery-loaded, in the Southampton docks. An evening of tastings, in the company of the king. ‘I have my nice gown.’

  ‘It’s old,’ he said.

  ‘I’m old,’ I laughed.

  ‘You don’t look a day over twenty-five. Your pockets crammed with acorns.’

  I hadn’t heard that one for years: an acorn in the pocket to keep a woman looking young. ‘I’m eleven years over twenty-five, Richard.’ And I’m not pretty. My sisters were pretty. My half-sisters. I don’t know what my mother looked like, but my sisters looked like theirs.

  This has been a summer of banquets. More so than usual. None of them unmanageable, though. Nothing like the one at Greenwich, in my first year here, in honour of the French ambassador, for which I had to load sixty spice plates. Sixty! Plates of syrup-doused ginger, of sugar-coated almonds, of marchepane-filled dates. A banqueting house had been erected by the river, the guests to be invited there for confectionery after the main feast. I saw inside it. Sir Henry Guildford—who was responsible for organizing it all, being Master of Revels—took me to it while it was being built. He was probably aiming to impress upon me what efforts would be required of me. He succeeded. The building had been designed by Mr Holbein. The ceiling was painted and gilded with the constellations and zodiac signs. The floor was covered in dark green silk embroidered with gold lilies. In the middle of the room was a white marble fountain. To flank that fountain I made a sugar hawthorn tree, to represent England, and a mulberry to represent France. For the tables I made sugar chessboards and pieces, sugar cheeseboards and cheeses.