Unicorn's Blood

by Patricia Finney

  Carey gave Thomasina the candle and pushed the two truckle-beds with their helpless passengers so they wheeled down the Privy Gallery into the men-at-arms’ path.

  “Get in. Now. I’ll hold them,” he told her.

  Thomasina nodded. She knew the door would be bolted from the inside. She banged on it with her small fist and shouted, “Lady Bedford, let me in, quickly, let me in . . .”

  Down the Privy Gallery shadows leapt. The two truckle-beds trundled to a stop and one fell over, dropping its gentleman on the floor with a despairing muffled wail. The men-at-arms swung their halberds, Carey danced between them, sword out poignard out and cross, deflecting one, dodging the other.

  “Let me in!” Thomasina’s voice rose to a shriek over the yelping of the dogs. “Let me in or the Queen will DIE . . .”

  Where the Privy Gallery joined with the Stone Gallery, Heron and Selby looked anxiously into the darkness, not quite able to make out what was going on. They had been given strict orders by Carey not to interfere with any fighting they saw but to concentrate on stopping anyone else coming through from the Presence Chamber.

  Carey was ducking and weaving, using his weapons defensively, always aiming to be farther up the Privy Chamber, farther away from the Queen’s bedroom door. Sooner or later, Thomasina thought, her guts twisted with fear, one of them will understand what he is at and come back this way. Please, God, let the door open . . .

  Carey kicked one of the men-at-arms in the balls and missed by a hair’s breadth having his head cut off by the swishing halberd blade of the other. The man he had kicked sank slowly to his knees, supported by his halberd-staff, gripping on to it while his face worked, like a knight of old at prayer.

  Thomasina lifted her fist to bang again, and the refocused her mind to accept that the door was open a crack and a woman’s face was looking out, wild under its curling papers and skewed nightcap.

  “Oh, my lady Bedford,” she said. “Please, please, let me in. I must see the Queen.”

  “What in the name of God is going on? Who is that down the gallery?”

  “It’s Robin Carey, ma’am, your youngest brother.” They were both shouting over the noise of the dogs.

  “Why is he fighting the Queen’s Guard?”

  “To give me time to see Her Majesty. Please let me in, please. You can arrest me later, you can send me to the Tower later, or beat me or whatever you like; but please, you must let me in, I must speak to her . . .”

  The words were tumbling out without any conscious thought from Thomasina, who was also wondering what was making her face so wet.

  The Countess of Bedford’s eyes narrowed. She was the most intelligent of the Queen’s women, in many ways very like her, and had served her for decades.

  “Come in,” she said, and opened the door.

  Thomasina rushed through the door, shut it and bolted it again, then tried to get her breath so she could greet the Queen properly.

  An extraordinary sight met her eyes. The Queen was standing up by her bed, short grey-and-red hair standing on end, wearing only her smock and the most ferocious expression Thomasina had ever seen on her face. In her fist was a short jewelled dagger. Between her and the door stood Alicia, the maid of honour who now slept in her bed with her, shivering with fright, holding a goblet in each hand. Lady Bedford had her eating knife out. Felipe and Eric were guarding the Queen too, yapping and growling, their ridiculous hackles up, while Francis lunged in and out from behind a bedcurtain.

  It was like a scene at the playhouse. For a moment Thomasina simply stood and gaped as she realised that though they knew nothing of the art, all of those in the Queen’s chamber had been willing to fight for her, women and dogs alike. It was both pathetic and magnificent and it made Thomasina’s throat swell with pride for them.

  At last Felipe recognised Thomasina and stopped growling, began wagging his tail. Eric continued until Alicia dropped her goblet-weaponry and picked him up.

  It was the Queen who spoke first.

  “What is the meaning of this, Mistress Thomasina?” Her voice was dry and cold and betraying not the smallest trace of fear. She looked more like an old she-wolf at bay than a woman.

  Thomasina instantly went down on her knees and gulped hard before she could answer.

  “It is the Book of the Unicorn, Your Majesty. I came to tell you of it.”

  “That you had failed?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Davison has it. Is this not failure?”

  “No, Your Majesty. Not if he does not have all of it.”

  She could not say more because she was sure that none of the women had been told what was really going on. But the Queen understood. She sat down suddenly on the edge of the bed and let her jewelled dagger fall on the embroidered coverlet.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. As sure as I can be without seeing it.”

  The Queen looked away from Thomasina, at the shuttered windows. Her face seemed so naked without makeup, the fine dry wrinkled skin defenceless to hide that there were thoughts beneath it. What those thoughts might be, however, was much harder to say. The room’s fire had burned low, and its light distorted rather than revealed.

  “Alicia,” she said to the pale-blonde girl who was busy quietening the dogs, “go and make up the fire, and then pour wine for myself and Mistress Thomasina. It is well, my lady Bedford. This is good news to us.”

  The women exchanged glances and relaxed.

  “But my brother, ma’am . . .” said Lady Bedford.

  “Brother?”

  “Robin Carey, Your Majesty,” said Thomasina. “He helped me get past Davison’s men in the Privy Gallery. He’s fighting them now.”

  “What? And why could you not simply come to me?”

  “They are saying I am a traitor, Your Majesty, and have lost your favour, and I heard there was a warrant out for me.”

  “Good God,” said the Queen sharply, then lapsed into silence.

  From beyond the door came the sound of falling furniture, a metallic clatter and a dull thud, followed by secondary repeated thuds.

  The Queen slipped her narrow shoulders into a fur-lined dressing-gown of pink velvet, wrapped it tight.

  “Open the door,” she snapped at Lady Bedford, who instantly shot the bolt and opened it.

  The Queen marched out into the Privy Gallery, following self-importantly by her three dogs.

  Carey had been overborne by the men-at-arms, helped by one of the gentlemen whom he had not tied up securely enough, and was currently being held by two of them while the other punched him.

  “Stop that disgraceful behaviour AT ONCE!” roared the Queen, standing four-square with her hands on her hips, the very ghost of King Henry and also every other mother in the world. Selby and Heron stopped their creeping up on them and stood staring at her in horror.

  The fighters stopped and turned to her, beginning to look sheepish.

  Released from their hold, Carey sank gratefully to his knees, put his hands over his belly and wheezed gently with pain.

  AT that moment, in a thunder of the Privy Chamber doors slamming open, a herd of men-at-arms and gentlemen came running in various states of undress and waving and wild variety of weapons. At a single look from the Queen they stopped dead where they were, causing the men at the back to bump into each other and some of them to fall over. All of them stared at her, seeing not so much what she was, which was an old woman in her pink velvet dressing-gown unpainted and undefended by clothes, but what they saw in her, which was their most dread and Sovereign Lady.

  “As you can see,” said the Queen in the voice she used to speak to all of the tilt-yard during a tourney, “we are in excellent health and there is no assassin. We thank you for your valiant loyalty in coming to our aid but you may all now return to your beds.”

  Some of the men-at-arms muttered and one of the bolder gentlemen stepped forward to ask if the Queen required anything.

  The Queen
stared at him. “We require nothing of you, my lord of Oxford, and we forgive you your naked blade in the presence of the Sovereign since it was drawn for our defence. Now please leave us.”

  Muttering and buzzing between themselves, the rescue party dispersed. The Queen turned her attention on the still-frozen tableau father up the Privy Gallery.

  “How dare you presume to beat one of our gentlemen,” said the Queen. “If he requires punishment, we shall do it ourself.”

  Carey lifted his head and managed to combine his expression of slowly ebbing pain with a quizzical look.

  The Queen returned it steadily and without the least sympathy.

  “Mr Carey,” she said.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” he croaked, still breathless.

  “Are you well?”

  “Er . . . yes, Your Majesty.” It depended on your definition of the word “well,” but he was certainly better than he had any right to expect, seeing that he was neither dead nor bleeding.

  “Pick up your sword, come and guard my bedchamber for me,” said the Queen.

  Carey set one foot on the floor and lifted himself up with great difficulty, slightly bent in the middle. He managed to pick up his sword as well, and the long thin duelling poignard which had cost him twenty pounds, returned it to the sheath at the small of his back and staggered gently to where the Queen was standing, trying to look alert and useful, then went down on one knee to her. Eric put his paws on Carey’s leg and wagged delightedly at him and Carey absent-mindedly patted his hairy head.

  The two men-at-arms and the gentleman who had escaped Carey’s bonds stood and stared at this strangely smaller but unreduced Queen in pink velvet and sable fur.

  “You,” she said to the men-at-arms. “Go back to your posts and allow no one to pass. You . . .” she said to Selby and Heron. “Who the devil are you?” she demanded when she didn’t recognise them immediately.

  “Your Majesty,” murmured Carey indistinctly, “my father’s men, John Selby and Archibald Heron.”

  “Hmf. Very well. You are both now temporarily appointed to my guard. If anyone tries to enter the Privy Gallery from the Privy Chamber, kill them.”

  Both of them ducked their heads clumsily.

  “Ay, ma’am, we’ll dae a better job on it than the puir wee mannikins ye had before.”

  “What?” said the Queen. “What is he saying, Robin?”

  Carey translated.

  “Ah. Hmm. Thank you. Do so.”

  The Queen looked with extreme disfavour on the gentleman who had managed to struggle free of Carey’s curtain cords.

  “Mr Pearce,” she said, “you may fetch me some wine from the Withdrawing Chamber.” She glanced at the still more unfortunate courtier whose knots had been better tied, who was still feebly struggling to get free. “As for you, Mr Williams, you may stay as you are to teach you not to drink so much before you go to sleep. What if these had been Spaniards, eh?”

  Carey hid a smile. Mr Williams looked as if he wanted to cry.

  After Pearce had brought her the flagon of wine from the buffet in the Withdrawing Room and given it to Thomasina from his knees, the Queen swept back into her bedchamber, followed by Thomasina and the dogs. After the bolts had gone home, Carey gently shoved the empty truckle-bed back against her chamber door, and sat on it with his sword across his knees. He hoped very much he would have to do no more than look threatening for the rest of the night.

  LXXVIII

  A LARGE SATURNINE GENTLEMAN came to the Court laundry that day and spent an hour discussing with Mrs Twiste the cost of having his master’s shirts laundered by her, when his noble master came to Court. He went on a tour of inspection with Mrs Twiste through all the washing-rooms and the drying-rooms, being stared at and curtseyed to by the hurrying multiplicity of women and girls in that place, to his considerable enjoyment.

  Becket’s little reconnaissance took place in the morning, while Mary was on her rounds collecting night-soil. Davison and his men arrived in the afternoon, missing him by only half an hour, and found her bag of money in its barrel, which was not so clever a hiding place as she thought. That told them they had literally and metaphorically struck gold. Only half of it found its way onto Davison’s desk, however, since Munday found it first.

  Meanwhile, it was given out that the Queen was sick of a megrim and pains in her stomach and had not gone to Divine Service at all that day. Once more the Court buzzed with rumours about her health and the disturbance in the Privy Gallery the night before. These tales were simply a garnish upon the existing state of confusion and tension at Court, through which Davison passed on occasion, in a hurry to go somewhere else, blandly neither confirming nor denying anything.

  Where was Mary? In a boozing ken, naturally, by Charing Cross, celebrating my cleverness and her good fortune that at last she had gotten a dowry to save Pentecost. Each horn-cup she drank was certainly the last, her farewell to dissipation, and each pipe she smoked was the same. God have mercy, how we fool ourselves and lie to ourselves in the dream-world of Time. Without a shred of doubt Mary would have drunk and smoked Pentecost’s dowry, just as she had every other penny I earned her.

  Where was Simon Ames? Unnecessary to describe it, since we have flown there once before in our sieves, to watch Becket enjoying the hospitality of the Tower. Did you think they would not put him to the question? Lord, what naivety. But if you thought he would be an easy man to crack, well, there again you display your naivety, for such little outsiders as he is are often made of tougher and more obdurate wood than big brawlers like Becket. And Simon knows the inquisitor’s game better than any other of their victims, for he had played it once himself, from the other side.

  However, his knowledge was no good to him, for they had no need to take him into the basement of the White Tower. It was his body betrayed him, not his tongue. He awoke from his faint in the Lanthorn Tower, feeling feverish and his shoulder alight with pain. By mid-morning he was raving, and although much of it was in Portuguese which neither Munday nor Ramme understood, they had already picked out the name of Mistress Thomasina, and Davison had widened his search to include her.

  All the time that his family were trying to help him, Simon lay tossing and burning in a small cell of the Tower while Munday sat with him to try and make out what he said. By evening they had become so frightened he might die, they called a surgeon themselves, who reopened the wound, cleaned it, cauterised it and bound it up again. Simon was sick near to death and said no more that night, while Thomasina talked and plotted with the Queen, nor the next day, when his fever began to rise again.

  As sunset of that damp day slightly coloured the sky over St James’s Park and the Spring Garden and the old lazar-house, Mary heaved herself off the bench in the boozing ken and staggered to the door. From north beyond the old cross of Queen Eleanor, white with pigeon dirt, came the crying of the Court falcons in the Royal Mews, and the neighing and stamping of the horses in the stables there as they waited to be fed.

  She belched, waited for the fire to pass, and began ambling down Whitehall singing as she went. She washed her face in a bucket from the well there, seeing me reflected in it and avoiding my gaze, and made a detour around the stocks where some footpad was having his face turned to pulp by the stones of the London street-children.

  Perhaps she threw a couple of stones at the man for fun, but no doubt she missed, since it was hard for her to choose which of the two twin sets of stocks to aim at. That could not dent her mood, for she was happy as a lark that evening, sloshing with aqua vitae and the satisfaction of getting Pentecost’s dowry.

  And so she passed into the queuing area of the Court gate, where the petitioners wait to be searched and show their expensive letters of introduction to Her Majesty’s Yeomen Guards, before being allowed to pass through Holbein’s Gate or under the Court gate itself. There were only a few people waiting, since the word had gone round that Her Majesty was indisposed and so not to be glimpsed in her Presence Chamber or
walking in procession to chapel. No doubt the more desperate of the Court suitors envied Mary as she went boldly to the gate and was nodded through by a yeoman who had absolutely no desire to search her odorous velvets. Perhaps she was singing some hey nonny nonsense while the gate guards looked disgustedly at her, and she passed on, swinging her soiled apron and far worse kirtle, already a living ghost among the trim and beautiful courtiers. Yes, the Queen had given her the decent livery of twelve yards of worsted for to make her a better kirtle and she had drunk it as fast as she could.

  Mary passed between two buildings to go round the back of the palace kitchens and through the woodyard. Now it happens that for a man to enter the Court of Whitehall is very much harder than for a wagon or a witch. The Queen will not allow Newcastle coal in the Court fireplaces because it is dirty and she does not like the smell. But the cords and cords of wood that the Court burns cannot pass through either Holbein or the Court gates. Instead they are brought by ox-carts between the buildings of the old St Katherine’s Hermitage, past the kilns of Scotland Yard and into the woodyard through a passage way by the river. Occasionally a cart will fall into the river, or be said to in the Board of Greencloth accounts.

  So Mary passed through the woodyard where they were unloading and stacking under canvas yet another load of faggots, not noticing how familiar were the looks of a particular heavy-set black-haired man driving the wagon in his shirt-sleeves. She went to the main door of Mrs Twiste’s laundry, where Thomasina had seen the courtiers’ shirts being sorted and coded so long before.

  The place seemed oddly subdued. Mary came in through the door and headed for the lobby where the children and their mothers eat the apples they often roast in the boiling fires at the end of the day. Nobody was there. When she turned at booted feet behind her, there were two gentlemen, one short and plump in grey worsted, one tall and elegant in red velvet.

  “Stop!” said the tall one, Mr Ramme, of course.

  “Wha’?” drooled her purse-mouth.

  “You are arrested in the name of Her Majesty the Queen . . .”