Chapter Eighteen

 

But such discourses as mine, which only call past evils to mind and give warning of what may follow, leave nothing in them that is so absurd that they may not be used at any time, for they can only be unpleasant to those who are resolved to run headlong the contrary way;

Utopia by Thomas More (translated by H. Morley)

 

They travelled on the river, sailing upstream under the bridge and past Bridewell, past all the places Susanna had come to know and grow familiar with these last months.

Durham House stood proud and regal on the right bank, with high, crenulated walls and a tower on the downstream side.

The barge angled towards it, and Susanna noticed steep stairs cut into the bank which led from the river through an arched entrance. As they bumped to a stop, one of Kilburne’s men leapt off to tie them to the small pier.

Susanna gathered her things, but Harry insisted on taking them from her, and she accepted Kilburne’s offered hand as she stepped off the gently swaying boat.

The sun winked off the window at the top of the tower to her right, and Susanna lifted her gaze to it.

She thought she saw someone standing there, looking down at them.

“The little prince only has an hour to spare between his midday meal and his lessons.” Kilburne led her up the stairs, which were well-kept, scraped clean of moss and slime, and through an archway into a small hall.

A servant was waiting for them, and led the way up two flights of stairs to a large room on the top floor overlooking the Thames.

A small boy, with light hair and blue, blue eyes, stared at them from the centre of the room. He was sitting alone at a table, with the remains of a meal before him, and two servants waited on either side to take his plates.

“Your Highness.” Susanna was not sure of the proper address for the King’s bastard son. She dipped in curtsy.

She wondered if a six year old would feel insulted by an improper address.

He inclined his head, and pushed away his plate. “Are you the reason I cannot go out and play with my bow?” He eyed her with dislike.

“The King wishes me to paint you, Your Highness, so he has a picture of you always to hand. But I do not see why I cannot sit quietly by and draw my sketches while you practice.”

“You mean I can play with my bow?” He frowned.

“Today I need to sketch you, rough drawings that I can use later when I paint you. I can do that while I watch you practice your bow, just as well as if you were sitting still for me.”

“That is good.” The child stood, and seemed at last to notice Harry, Kilburne and the three guards he’d brought with him. “Why do you have so many guards about you?”

Susanna turned to Kilburne and raised an eyebrow. “To keep me safe.”

Henry Fitzroy laughed. “Well, you will be perfectly safe here. I have guards everywhere.” He clapped his hands. “Bring me my bow, let us not waste time before my lessons.”

A man came through the far door of the room, a frown on his face. He stopped short when he saw her and her entourage. “Mistress Horenbout?”

She nodded.

“Good day to you, I’m Richard Croke, the prince’s tutor. Did you not want him to sit for you?”

“He would rather play with his bows in his free time, sir, and I can sketch him just as well doing that. I have no doubt his expression will be happier than if I make him sit still for an hour.”

Croke looked at her sharply. “That is well thought of you, mistress. To be sure, I wondered how you would keep him still for an hour, anyway.”

“Will you fetch my bow?” Henry asked him.

“I will.” Croke smiled, and Susanna saw there was a genuine affection between them.

When he had the bow, and a quiver of arrows, Croke led them all down the stairs and into a garden that ran beside the river, but was walled off from it, with a stone wall at least 10 feet high. Trees grew along it, and they muted the sounds of the river and the calls of the boatmen, so Susanna could imagine they were not in the city at all, but some far country estate.

There were flower beds and a herb garden, as well as a beautiful stretch of lawn, on which sat a large hay bale with a target made of cloth pinned to it.

The prince ran to where a line of white stones had been laid, and stood behind them. He turned impatiently, hopping from one foot to the other in excitement.

Susanna found a seat on one of the extra bales of hay lying to one side, and got out her charcoal and parchment, and her pressing board. Kilburne stood, almost apologetically, behind her, and Harry stood beside him. Two guards with two very different agendas.

Susanna tried to forget they were there.

Henry Fitzroy’s excitement and eagerness leapt out at her, and she moved her charcoal in sweeping lines, caught in the thrill of the first mark on a fresh page, as she always was.

It was like fine wine was to some men, or food to a sophisticated palate. She lived for the moment her charcoal or her brush touched the white of a blank surface. With infinite possibilities and endless ways to create beauty before her, she moved the charcoal just so to capture the joy she saw before her.

“What have you drawn?” Henry stopped before her, and Susanna turned the parchment round so he could see.

It was rough, the work of a few minutes, but it captured his excitement, the way he moved. He clapped his hands, delighted.

“That is me.”

“Aye. You may have one of the sketches I do today. You can pick the one you like best when I am done.”

“I didn’t know women could paint and draw.” He looked from the sketch to her.

“Well.” Susanna looked across at Croke, but he was busy fussing with the target. “Do women have eyes and hands?”

“Yes.” He giggled.

Behind her, she sensed Kilburne’s gaze on her.

“And do they have fingers?”

He nodded, laughing.

“Well then they can paint and sketch. But a lot of women aren’t taught how. I was lucky. My father is a famous painter. And he taught me. And then, like all painters, I needed time and the right materials to practice. And my father saw I could be useful for his work, and he gave me the time and all the brushes and charcoals and paints I needed. I didn’t have to help my mother with the cooking and cleaning, I could paint all day.”

“Just like I have to practice my bow?”

She nodded. “Just like that.”

“But women can’t shoot bows.” Henry frowned. He looked up at Kilburne. “Can they?”

Kilburne seemed at a loss for words.

Susanna gave him a quick look over her shoulder. He gazed back at her, bemused.

“I thought we already agreed women have hands and eyes.” She smiled as she turned back to Henry.

But his expression was mulish, and he did not like the turn of her logic. “Maybe you need more than hands and eyes for bow shooting. Something only men have.”

Harry snickered and Susanna wagered Kilburne was smiling.

She said nothing, and at that moment, Croke called to Henry that they were ready for him, and he spun around, and ran happily to take his bow.

“You draw better than anyone I have ever seen,” Kilburne said, suddenly, from behind. “Man or woman.”

She twisted on the bale to face him and he fidgeted in place. “I saw the writ you finished for the King, lying on your desk, and I understand why he wishes you to work them for him. Your skill reflects well upon him. No person receiving such a letter could fail to understand the King of England is the greatest sovereign in the world.”

She was touched by his words. They were honest, and heartfelt, and without warning, she felt the sting of tears. She opened her eyes wider, refusing to let them fall, and nodded to him. Turned away.

“My thanks, Captain. You make a pretty compliment.”

“It’s no compliment. It’s the bare truth.” Harry’s voice was rough, as if he’d gone too long without speaking. She shot him a look but he would not meet her eyes.

He had never spoken of her work, and she had always wondered what he thought of it.

She faced the little prince again and watched as one of the guards helped him fit his arrow, with Croke looking on with a smile, and took another piece of parchment from her satchel.

Perhaps, if she drew his son well enough, the King would find her indispensable.