8. Anna, Queen of Britain

A NNA , Q UEEN OF B RITAIN Bath, Somerset, the same day

H ER THOUGHTS WOULD NOT be still. They mocked her body's lack of movement as she sat back in her chair, her feet raised on a cushioned footstool for the comfort of her legs. A week of travel had increased their swelling, and a painful ulcer had erupted on the inner side of her left ankle. Her doctor had wrapped both her legs in plasters mixed with rose oil, so the scent of roses filled the chamber, offering a sense of peace.

But Anna's thoughts were active.

She'd heard nothing from Sir William, and the silence set her nerves on edge, because she knew firsthand how very ruthless James could be when he was trying to protect his reputation.

Anna's fingers found an errant thread that hung loose on her gown's embroidery. She pulled at it, unthinking, and a tiny section of a flowered vine unravelled, lifting from the fabric as though it had never been there. It was futile wishing years could be that easy to unravel. Wishing time could be turned back with such a simple act as pulling on a thread.

And yet her mind turned backwards anyway, three years and a few months to that cold Christmas court at Thetford, when she'd sought out James in private, in his study.

It was evening. He'd been reading.

Without setting down his book, he asked, ‘What is it?'

Anna had made very sure the door was closed. ‘I come to speak with you about Lord Balmerino.'

James sighed. He laid his book aside. ‘What of him?'

‘He's been sentenced,' Anna said, ‘to die a traitor's death.'

‘The courts decide his punishment.'

‘At your persuasion.'

It had been a great embarrassment to James, this whole affair. A friendly letter to the Pope, sent years ago and signed by James, before he was made King of England. Having lately surfaced, it caused difficulties, and the blame had fallen squarely on the Scottish nobleman Lord Balmerino.

Anna held in her frustration. ‘He is innocent.'

‘He has confessed.'

‘At your suggestion. James, you know you signed that letter.'

James raised his eyebrows. ‘If I did, I could hardly admit to it. Not since Guy Fawkes and his conspirators set fire to any chance I had of showing tolerance to Catholics.' As though certain she would understand, he added, ‘Balmerino is a loyal man.'

‘And loyalty must have a price, is that it? You would watch him die a brutal death, you'd let him hang and then be taken down and drawn and quartered in his blood upon the gallows, just to spare your reputation?'

He looked back at her, unmoved.

Anna controlled her breath, and caught the taut reins of her temper. ‘It would be unfortunate if people were to learn about the letters that you had me write on your behalf to Rome, before we came to England.' She met James's gaze. ‘Those people might begin to see a pattern in your contact with the Pope.'

His gaze grew narrow. ‘Anna. Have a care. I will not stand for threats.'

‘And I'll not stand and watch you kill a man who's never done you harm. Where is your conscience? Do you even have one anymore?' she asked him. ‘Did you ever?'

‘Anna.' He paused then, and his tone changed in the way a room's light altered when the sky was filled with shifting clouds. Idly, he asked, ‘If you believe I'm so unprincipled, why don't you live in fear of me? A little poison in a cup,'tis such a simple thing.'

She told herself it was a test, and not a threat.

‘Because,' she said, ‘apart from any love you may still feel for me, my brother is the King of Denmark, and you would not have him as your enemy.'

She turned her back to him, and made to leave the room.

He said, ‘I do love ye.'

‘Yes, so you often say. I'd rather you did show it.' Anna reached the door, and turned. ‘Lord Balmerino keeps his life,' she told him, ‘or believe me, James, I will make very certain that the whole world knows he's innocent.'

Her hands shook very slightly as she closed the door behind her. She walked past the guards in the gallery outside the study and into the small chamber just beyond, which was deserted. Or so she thought.

Until she saw Henry, sprawled in a chair in the corner, a book in his hand. He glanced up as she entered. He was nearly sixteen then. Already a young man, with eyes that missed little.

He studied her. ‘You've been with Father.' Then he smiled. ‘Will I have to play peacemaker between you?'

Anna shook her head. ‘'Tis not your place to mend our quarrels. They will pass.' A little poison in a cup… She pushed the thought aside, and looked more closely at the book Henry was reading, recognizing it as that which he had carried with him since his childhood.

With indulgence, she remarked, ‘You like that book.'

‘Yes, very much.'

‘I read it also, when I lived in Denmark.'

Henry seemed surprised by this. He asked her, ‘Did you like it?'

Anna said, ‘Yes, very much.' On the table at her side, a row of candles had been set alight to cast their dancing shadows on the wall. ‘Some parts I still remember. Like the part about the candle flame that does not lose its brilliance till the moment it's extinguished, and how, like that candle, we all carry flames of truth within us, and of justice, which should only be extinguished by our deaths. Yet, see how easily a candle is put out.' She took the pewter snuffer in her hand and killed a flame. ‘And so it is with truth, and justice,' Anna said. ‘Especially with justice.'

Henry watched her, saying nothing, as though knowing there was more behind her quiet words than she could say. She would not tell him what the king had done. There would be time enough for him to learn that side of James, though she suspected Henry had already glimpsed it.

She only told him, ‘You must always let those flames shine brightly, Henry, for as long as you do live. More brightly still when you are king.'

‘I promise you,' said Henry, very solemnly, ‘my flames will burn so brightly that the blind will see them. And, if God allows me, they will burn beyond my death.'

The small, embroidered vine upon her gown was nearly all unravelled. Anna stilled her fingers. Smoothed the fabric.

Time was in its place.

Lord Balmerino had not died.

And only weeks ago, a blind man on the river steps at Whitehall had repeated Henry's words to her – the words that none but she and Henry had been in the room to hear – and told her, I do bear a message from the prince, your son. He bids you speak to David .

Anna had said nothing of the old man in her letter to Sir David Moray, only told him it was vital that they meet, if he could do it safely.

Now, she could do nothing more than hope her letter found Sir David before James's Messenger.