VIII Read Free

painted hangings on the walls. I have pushed all thoughts of eerie faces from my mind. I wouldlike something to drink. The only thing making me feel uncomfortable is the fact that my grandmother is here. She must have set off from The Coldharbour too: how she got here first, though, I have no idea.
    Servants are rushing about, carrying candles, piles of linen, trestle tables and benches. My grandmother stands in the middle of all this commotion, her yellowish face edged by a white wimple, her bony hands resting on her plain black gown. She dresses like a nun, but you do not forget for a moment she is the mother of the king. She has a manner you could graze yourself on.
    I know that I must not show my grandmother how much she scares me. She’s like my father: she will kick a dog if it whimpers; if you show fear, she’ll look at you as if you’re a piece of maggoty meat. Tudors aren’t afraid. It’s my mother’s family that are weak and tearful and full of foolish feeling. I’ve heard my grandmother say that my mother’s parents married for love. She says it like she’s picking up a dirty, stinking rag. I think it means: no wonder your mother is so soft, no wonder she hugs you and kisses you and treats you like a baby.
    My mother gathers me in now against her skirts. She says, “Have you heard any news, ma’am? Are the rebels at the City gates? At the bridge? Are they south of the river or north?”
    “They are not at the gates,” says my grandmother. “The report that they were so close to London has turned out to be a false alarm. We have been informed that they are still thirty miles away.” A passing pageboy is holding down the top of a huge pile of napkins with his chin. In one smooth movement she stops him, whisks the top cloth off the pile, yanks his arms out in front of him and cuffs him across the head.
    I wince, as if she’s hit me too.
    As the boy rushes past, his eyes brimming, she adds,“Lord Daubeney is encamped with a force on Hounslow Heath to hold the rebels back from the City.”
    “How many men in Daubeney’s force?”
    “Eight thousand.”
    I feel my mother’s hand tighten on my shoulder. She says, “The last estimate I heard, the rebels had nearly twice that number.”
    “Our scouts have been reporting desertions. And, in any case, the King will bring his force to join Daubeney.” My grandmother says this as if my father only has to turn up to be sure of winning any battle. Is it true? I could well believe it. My father is a fearless warrior.
    “The Earls of Oxford and Suffolk have mustered good numbers too,” my grandmother says. “Daubeney simply needs to hold out until they arrive.”
    “And… there’s been no report of—” My mother hesitates. “No report from the Kent coast?”
    “Of a landing?” My grandmother smiles thinly. “Nothing yet. But if the rebels have a plan to take London by storming the bridge, that person will most likely sail up the Thames and assault the City from the water, don’t you think?”
    I know who my grandmother means when she says ‘ that person ’. It’s a man who wants to push my father off the throne and be king instead. Sometimes people call him ‘the Pretender’. He’s been talked about for as long as I can remember: how he moves from country to country, from court to court of the kings who are my father’s enemies, getting money from them and trying to build an army so he can invade England. I imagine him like an ogre, striding across kingdoms with a few giant steps – stump, stump, stump . He’s had coins minted threatening my father, with a quote from the Bible stamped on them: “Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.”
    Now, after years of waiting, they say this man – the Pretender – is coming for real. The rebel army closing in on London isn’t his – it’s a band of Cornishmen, rebelling against taxes. But this is the Pretender’s chance: while the country’s in chaos he’s going to invade.