by Donna Hosie
I heard Marlon’s footsteps hurrying toward us.
“He needs to be under cover. The sun will roast him alive,” Marlon said worriedly.
I placed my hand on Alex’s forehead. He was definitely feeling much warmer than before.
“As soon as we get to Greenwich, we’ll need to dress the bandages around his leg again,” I said. “But I’m really concerned about the cuts on his back.”
“You are concerned they will cause him to take a fever?”
I nodded. “I know you have other duties, Marlon, but could you—”
“I will not leave his side, Charles of Cleves,” replied the yeoman. “I have friends in the guard. Thomas Ladman, for one. He will cover for me. Sir, if it is not too forward of me…I know you wish to keep Alexander’s malady a secret, but is it not time that your father, the duke, was told of his son’s ill health?”
“I have sent word,” I lied. That was the second time I’d told that lie. The first was to Cromwell, who hadn’t believed me for a second.
I thought again to Alex’s description of his attack. Who he thought he’d seen and heard. What he’d smelled. I looked again at his back, and then, suddenly—
Piermont.
The name chimed like an alarm bell in my head.
Alex thought it was Aramis who’d been in the room with him as he was whipped, but his wounds, and the torturous element of the attack, had Piermont written all over them.
How old had I been when I saw Jack McConnell struck through the eye with an arrow at The 48?
Nine. I was nine years old when it happened, because I remembered showing Alice where Alex and my new rooms were before the lesson. We were on the archery grounds outside the ten-story dormitory, and I was pointing to my window on the ninth floor. Nine, just like me, I’d told her. That was the last time either of us smiled for weeks.
We were told it was Jack’s fault. He moved during Piermont’s demonstration. He’d been shaking with fear. We all knew not to show fear in front of Piermont.
I could still remember Piermont pulling the arrow out of Jack’s face, eyeball and all. There was a sucking sound like a wet kiss. I remember thinking his eyeball was big—way bigger than the eyeball of a nine-year-old should be. It took up a quarter of his face.
Or at least, that was what I remembered in my nightmares in the weeks that followed. It was hard to separate them from reality.
The night of Jack’s death, the entire class had to attend an Extraordinary Imperative: a one-off because of what had transpired earlier that day. It wasn’t a game. Imperatives were statutory. Everything at The 48 was.
The exam was a single question. A memory test. We had to remember the color of Jack’s iris. Despite the horror, what information had we remembered about the “little details”? This was important, Piermont explained, because it was the little details that would keep us alive as Assets.
Jack’s eyes were blue with black flecks. Anyone who failed to recall that had to stand outside in the pitch dark while Piermont shot an arrow through an orange placed on their head.
I got it right.
Alex got it wrong.
When he came back inside, with orange pulp dripping down his ashen face, the first thing he did was go shower.
He didn’t speak for twenty-four hours.
* * *
—
“What are you thinking about?” asked Alex. His voice was lower, almost as if he were forcing the words out from deeper inside. I looked up and I realized Marlon had left us.
“Jack McConnell,” I said.
“Jack McConnell, or Piermont?”
“They’re inextricably linked,” I replied quietly.
“Well, that’s the damned truth.”
“Alex,” I whispered. “You said someone smelled like mint. What if it was him? Piermont?”
“Did I say that?”
“You can’t remember?”
“I can’t remember anything about the attack anymore. Just people yelling about rewriting or…something.”
“Do you remember them asking you questions? I’m thinking about your injuries. And what you said about being strung up. The bag over your head. It’s so brutal, Alex, what happened to you. I admit, it’s not hugely creative, but if an Asset was involved…well, Piermont would be the first to resort to torture to try to get what he wanted.”
Across the deck, Marlon was loosening a coil of thick rope and singing to himself. The oarsmen were laughing and calling across the water. I peered over the side of the barge. We were moving toward a small wooden jetty on the bank.
“I think we’re here,” I said.
Alex grabbed at my leg. It was the nearest body part to him.
“We’ll talk more when we’re in our lodgings,” I replied, kneeling down by my brother’s pale, sweating face.
“We’re running out of time,” groaned my brother.
“That’s not your concern. You just concentrate on getting well. You know the signs of infection. You have to tell me right away. I’ll get you the best help possible while we’re here, I promise.”
* * *
—
But by the time we got Alex to our new lodgings in the palace at Greenwich, he was starting to lose consciousness.
* * *
—
26 20:42:18
Ticktock.
* * *
—
26 17:02:41
Ticktock.
* * *
—
26 08:31:29
Ticktock.
* * *
—
In the end, I didn’t have to request an audience with the king. I was summoned to see him the next day. It was the twenty-third of April, 1536.
I hadn’t slept and had barely eaten. The thought of leaving Alex’s side made me feel ill. I had stripped his back of bandages to get air to the wounds, but the deepest cut, which was at least six inches long, was weeping with pus, and the flayed edges were red and inflamed. And now, without a doubt, he was running a fever.
Marlon and Thomas Ladman, who’d been taking turns to help me look after him, had to team up to force me to wash and put on clean clothes.
“You cannot refuse a summons from the king,” said Thomas. “Charles, go to him, and I will send word if Alexander’s condition worsens.”
“I cannot leave my brother.”
“You cannot refuse the king.”
“I’m not leaving my brother.”
“You have no influence over your brother’s health whether you are here or not,” replied Thomas harshly. “Yet if you displease the king, and refuse to attend him when commanded, it will result in a worse state of affairs for your health than that of your brother.”
“He is beloved by you, I understand that,” said Marlon gently. “But you do Lord Alexander no good by weeping over him. I have been in the guard almost half of my life. No one says no to the king and lives to tell the tale.”
It occurred to me just then that I had spent my entire life saying yes to people. I was conditioned to do what I was told. I didn’t know any other way. And even with my brother hovering on the precipice of death, I could feel myself being pulled in the direction of obedience.
And I hated myself for it.
“Do not allow anyone other than Alice—if she ever arrives here—into this room,” I said. “And if you see my father, the Duke of Cleves, or another man—a large man with many scars—anywhere near this room…you do whatever it takes to keep them away from Alexander.”
“You wish to keep the duke away?” asked Thomas.
“Everyone who isn’t me, you, or Alice stays away from my brother,” I reiterated.
“We understand,” replied Thomas, and he pulled out an ivory-handled knife and placed it on the table next to the bed. “I too have a fat
her who has failed me.”
I leaned down and kissed my brother on the crown of his head. His face was half buried in his pillow. I couldn’t remember ever doing that before, but it felt oddly natural.
“Don’t you leave me,” I whispered. “Don’t you leave me ever again.”
But I wasn’t sure he heard me.
* * *
—
Greenwich reminded me of Hampton Court, only bigger. No wonder each palace had its own staff and resources. The frequency with which Henry bounced from one court to another would have made it impossible for a single staff to continually pack and unpack. This time, the king had moved to Greenwich because he wanted to joust. It would soon be May Day, and that was the tradition.
The poor starved while the rich played their games, I thought grimly. That was the timeline that needed to be rewritten.
I hurried through the corridors, hoping I was heading in the right direction. How was anyone supposed to find anything in a palace that was the size of a city? When I spotted Anne Boleyn walking with two male courtiers, I veered outside and across a courtyard, making a mental note that Alice was likely here now. And that was when I heard Henry’s booming voice tearing apart some poor soul. I stepped back inside and followed the vibrations that were juddering the frail windowpanes around me until I reached a sitting room where the king was perched, looking furious.
“Cleves, damn you!” yelled the king the second he saw me. “I called for you hours ago.”
“My apologies, Your Grace,” I said, bowing. “I was—”
“Your excuses bore me,” boomed the king, and I saw several courtiers wince, although not Cromwell, who was as still as a statue next to him. “When I want you, you bloody well appear.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” I moved to the king’s side, next to Cromwell.
The king was red in the face, and his left leg, which was clad in white stockings, was severely swollen. There was an unpleasant stench, like rotting food, coming from his body, and not even the very obvious smell of lavender from an open pot could disguise it.
Several other courtiers approached the king with matters of state, but from the way the king was fidgeting in his chair, he didn’t want to sit and listen anymore.
Someone clapped their hands and several musicians entered the room. I shifted my position and exhaled loudly. Was this why I had been dragged away from my brother—to listen to music? I realized, just then, that I hadn’t given a single thought to Jane Seymour—and why I’d needed an audience in the first place.
“When we are dismissed, you will come with me,” whispered Cromwell, barely moving his lips.
“Why?” I asked, my stomach filling with dread.
But Cromwell merely folded his hands in front of his body and began relaying to the king various details of the joust that would be taking place the next day.
Eventually the music stopped and the roomful of people was dismissed. No one remained with the king except for several older men who I suspected were healers of the court.
“What are they doing?” I asked Cromwell as we made it into the corridor.
“A very noble occupation” was Cromwell’s reply.
“What was that smell?”
“Something you would be wise never to mention again.”
He didn’t have to tell me. I already knew but was curious whether Cromwell would speak of it.
The king was quite literally rotting on the throne of England.
Cromwell led me to his chambers, which were larger and grander than the ones at Hampton Court and Windsor Castle. There were large paintings on the wall—and to my delight, I recognized one of Cromwell himself by Hans Holbein that also hung in the Louvre. If the court stayed in Greenwich for the remainder of our assignment, then Holbein’s painting of Cromwell was another way we could get back home.
Grinch would enjoy this room, I thought, gazing around—seeing history being painted as a true landscape instead of just being written—but then, Grinch had probably seen works of art actually being created during her life as a time assassin.
“You seem distracted,” said Cromwell, moving a thick pile of parchment from his desk to a shelf filled with books.
“I’m just thinking.”
“You do a great deal of that.”
“Is it a crime?” I asked.
“It is inadvisable to allow others to realize you’re thinking,” said Cromwell, handing me a small scroll. “Always remain impassive, even when planning. Your face betrays you, Charles of Cleves.”
I tried to relax my facial muscles.
“What’s this?” I asked, casually waving the scroll.
“I am trusting you, Charles,” replied Cromwell. “Yet know that the reason for that trust is not because I like you. It is because you have not been at the court long enough to be in a position to betray me. And your brother’s confinement is extra surety.”
“Did you attack my brother?” I asked suddenly.
“I did not.”
“Do you know who did?”
“Your brother was found outside the castle walls at Windsor. It was my men who brought him inside.”
“And they left him?”
“Your brother’s fate is not my primary concern at present,” replied Cromwell.
“And what is?” I snapped.
“That scroll in your hand,” said Cromwell, breaking the seal so that it unrolled. “You see a list of names?”
I nodded, trying to decipher Cromwell’s slanting prose.
Mark Smeaton
Henry Norrys
Francys Weston
Wyllyam Brereton
Thomas Wyatt
Rychard Page
George Boleyn
Charles Cleves
The first seven names, I knew from my history Imperatives, were men who would soon be accused of having committed treason by having sexual relations with the wife of the king.
But my studies had not prepared me to see my name on that list too.
Lady Margaret. You are alone!”
“Yes, milord. May I come in?”
“Of course, child.” Cromwell held the door for me himself and waved away his attending squire. “I beg you sit, Lady Margaret. You seem troubled. Would you like some wine?”
I didn’t drink wine; even the slightest amount pained my head. Yet I needed courage. I was in the lair of the beast.
“A drop, milord. Thank you.”
“How are you faring, Lady Margaret? I understand that your union with the Earl of Moray is imminent. My congratulations would be forthcoming, and yet I see unhappiness in your countenance. You can tell me anything, you know that. With your father often away from the court…I am the eyes, ears, and even the voice of His Grace. If I can assist in any way, I am more than happy to do so for one as fair as yourself.”
Perhaps Lord Cromwell was going to make this easy for me.
“It is the queen, milord,” I said. “I am so very fearful.”
“Fearful for the queen?”
“For myself. Of condemnation. For perceived…perceived deviations from the righteous path He leads us down.”
“You fear for the queen’s soul?”
“No, milord. Again, for mine. I cannot…”
“Speak to me, child. You should not be burdened with another’s devilry.”
“I have seen things…heard things.”
“You can give me names?”
“Yes. For a price.”
“And what is that?”
“Could a different match be made for me? One that would still strengthen ties between His Grace’s court and another? Perchance with a house abroad? Alexander of Cleves…”
“Consider it done.”
“You do not wish to know why?”
“Child, do you think you a
re the first lady of the court to desire a life away? I have made it happen. And I have undone a life secured as well.”
A piece of parchment slid across the table. The quill scratched at the surface as my trembling hands wrote down name after name, pausing only briefly before writing down the last.
“The last name…it is insurance only,” I explained.
“I understand.”
“I will not get Alexander of Cleves without the will of the brother, you see. But his name is to be used as leverage only.”
“For both of us.”
“When will you be able to guarantee my future?”
“Soon. You are under my protection now, and I will not forget your assistance, Lady Margaret.”
* * *
—
I played the conversation with Cromwell over and over in my head for the rest of the day. But I gave little thought to what I’d actually done. I was a player in the biggest game of all now, and I could not lose.
What is this?” I demanded. “Tell me who wrote this list!”
“The first joust of the May Day celebrations will take place tomorrow, Charles,” replied Cromwell. “The king will be told of the queen’s treasonous dalliances during this time. Your name is on this list to ensure your obedience.”
“You’re going to offer me up as a sacrifice? Why? I’ve done nothing wrong. I barely speak to the queen.”
“You are hiding something. I want to know what.”
I could hear the echo of my heart in my ears: pushing, pulsing, pressing.
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“Where is your father, the Duke of Cleves? What is the maid to you—I have seen her in your company more than is proper. What are your true intentions as to Lady Jane—you are in her company far too often too. Those are just a few of the many questions I want answers to.”
