The King’s Witches, page 11
After prayer, it is time for the marital act.
James has already got us into a routine so rigid that you could set a clock by it. First, we lie in bed and talk. He frets about the Catholics, for there are conspirators everywhere in Scotland. He fears God’s wrath; he frets about the fire and brimstone he faces if he incurs God’s fury and fails to govern Scotland well, for as he has been appointed by God Himself as king, with the honour of serving the Lord, so comes the threat of eternal damnation if he does not. If he picks the wrong wife, for example, he says, looking at me with his pale-brown eyes. And then, of course, he frets about the witches.
It is quite terrifying, all of this, in bed, but I believe it means James is confiding in me, for that is what Mama said he must feel he’s able to do, if I am ever to become his wife.
Next James takes two confections from a silver tray and hands one to me. He has a nightly habit of sucking on a rosewater sweet, which he calls a scorchet, for its medicinal benefits. They are made by a sugar-man in the Canongate, and James brought a box with him on orders from his physician. We take them with the last of our wine.
After we have taken our scorchets he moves towards me awkwardly, the pillows creaking under his shoulder.
He smells of patchouli. I yearn for cedar so hard that I ache. I hate the way he touches me. I want to push him away. His manner with me, when we are intimate, is strange. It is not like Henry, who was entirely full of longing when we kissed by the lake. James is mechanical, like a clockwork doll that was once brought to Kronborg by a travelling showman and moved surely but stiffly through a simple dance, as if it were on strings. And so, I suppose, we are both mechanical, moving through the motions of intimacy that we’ve both been instructed in over the years, by courtiers set with the task of ensuring we produce a royal lineage. Like a court dance, like a slow pavane or sometimes a rapid galliard, but never anything out of step or from the heart. I can do it – that’s what I tell myself, fighting the urge of nausea, the stench of his wine-breath, the stab of pain below. This is the thing you were born to do.
But it is not just me who is uncomfortable. I think James is telling himself the same. I think he suffers it as I do.
Afterwards he mutters words of prayer. I lie back and think of Scotland.
I have been allowed to continue my lessons with Henry. It keeps me out of the way whilst James meets his men and strategizes over plots and organizes our arrival procession, which must be as ostentatious as possible. But we no longer walk, unescorted, to the lake.
‘We can’t,’ Henry says, knowing by the way I am looking at him over our books that I am desperate for us to go. Desperate for us to be alone, and for me to rest my head on his chest and let him envelop me in love and warmth. We are sitting in the study, stifling from the log fire, and neither of us can concentrate on the collection of English poetry he has brought down from the bookcase.
‘But it’s our last day in Ánslo. Can we not say our goodbyes to the hytte?’
‘If we go out there, alone, then I will want to hold you in my arms, and if we are caught, I will be drowned in the lake and you banished to Hellebæk Abbey.’
Instead he calls for akvavit, and reads some of the poetry aloud to me.
Outside, servants are heaving the last of our crates onto carts bound for the port. Inside, the wood crackles in the grate. All is unsettled. Outside, sails are being unfurled and ropes tested for the final time. Inside, Henry finishes reading and puts down his book.
‘Your handfasting is the talk of the courtiers,’ he says. ‘They are keeping watch so they know when to look out for signs of a pregnancy. And I will not ask you about your time with him – not about the details. But I do need to know whether you feel bonded to him.’ Henry looks as edgy as I have ever seen him, worrying at a flaw in the cover of the book with his finger.
‘There is nothing much to say of the details,’ I tell him. ‘There are barely any details. It is perfunctory.’
He sips his drink. His face looks drawn.
‘Have you been dwelling on it?’ I ask.
‘It’s the fact that you have no choice,’ he says. ‘It makes me sick to my stomach. I have never thought about it before, in all the marriages at court.’
I start to feel the rush of horror that I have been holding back. I have been doing such a job of keeping it at bay, but it was always going to come out eventually. My pulse races and I feel hot, but I can’t leave the room because they would notice how upset I am, and anyway I don’t want to leave Henry.
He stands up and opens a window, letting the air trickle in. He sits back down and clutches my hand across the table.
‘I would embrace you, but someone might walk in,’ he says.
Our hands clasp each other on top of the book of poems. Henry’s grasp is firm, his hand large and reassuring.
‘Is it unbearable?’ he asks.
‘It is our duty,’ I whisper.
‘Have you thought any more about what I suggested?’ he says. ‘That you should try to fail your marriage trial?’
I think about it constantly. But it is one thing to imagine something and another to take the risk.
‘I have thought about resisting him,’ I tell Henry. ‘But I’m frightened of what James might do. And I’m frightened you might change your mind about me, and then where would I be?’
Henry squeezes my hands.
‘I would never leave you,’ he says. ‘When we get to Scotland you must find a way of deterring the king, lessening his interest in you.’
‘He hardly has any passion for me,’ I say.
Henry nods. ‘Then we must find a way of gently spoiling this union, so that it ends with no blame on either side and you can walk free to be with me.’
‘I can’t imagine how we might possibly do that. I’m not very cunning, or artful,’ I say.
‘And that is why I love you,’ he replies. ‘But this is a task so delicate it needs all our conviction and prayer. Or even magic.’
‘Don’t say that,’ I say, shuddering at all the talk of sorcery I have been hearing. ‘You will tempt the Devil.’
Henry lets go of my hands, just in time, for Kirsten walks in without knocking. Although our hands have separated, our tension is obvious.
‘This lesson has overrun,’ she says. ‘It’s time for you to come and get ready for luncheon.’
Then she stops, almost sniffing the air, blinking once, twice, as if she is trying to get the sense of something that lingers, as though she has caught the scent of our passion. Her eyes flick between Henry and me. Her lips knit into a tight little purse.
‘Come, Anna,’ she continues. ‘We must dress you for your final luncheon in Ánslo with your beloved betrothed.’
November 1589
From Hans Hansen, Chief Assessor
of the Court of Copenhagen
To Dr Neils Hemmingsen
In response to your enquiry for further information about our Highly Unusual Court Case in Copenhagen. Here are the details for you to pass on to His Majesty King James of Scotland, in order that he has a full account of the case:
The prisoner Ane Koldings is a woman of around fifty years of age, of average height and build and with grey-to-brown hair. She has the strength of a beast and has to be held in chains. She is known, locally, as the Mother of the Devil and has been accused of witchcraft three times previously, although nothing came before our court on those matters.
On this most recent occasion she was accused of creating weather magic that caused the sinking of a fishing vessel off the coast, as part of a personal vendetta against the boat’s owner, who is also her neighbour, Captain Jacob Oxe. There has been a long-running argument between them over land ownership.
She has confessed, under examination, that she is a witch who raised weather magic against Captain Oxe’s boat. She is prone to prolonged outbursts of nonsense-speak and, since her conviction, refuses to use the slop pail given to her. She has, in short, been a most impossible woman.
Mistress Koldings was apprehended in Copenhagen in July and has been sentenced to death by fire, the sentence to be carried out on the first of next month to allow for preparations to be made. But we can delay the execution if His Majesty the King of Scotland wants us to examine Mistress Koldings on any suspicion of further sorcery.
I must advise you that she needed much interrogation before she confessed, and torture methods had to be deployed. She is, as I have said, a most impossible woman.
November 1589
From His High and Mighty King James
the Sixth of Scotland, at Ánslo
To Mr Hans Hansen, Chief Assessor of the Court of Copenhagen
Sir – I write to you in haste on the matter of Mistress Ane Koldings, indicted on charges of weather witchcraft.
My advisors have reason to believe she may have knowledge of, or have been directly involved in, an attempt to raise a storm to sink the Danish royal fleet, causing it to abort its journey in September.
I understand from your letter to Dr Hemmingsen that Mistress Koldings is to be examined on these matters. I am writing to tell you to keep me informed, by letter, of her confessions. There may have been another witch in her acquaintance, a woman by the name of Doritte Olsen, lately executed for weather sorcery at Kronborg Castle. I am keenly interested in seeing whether there is a wider plot afoot.
I am bound to return to Scotland within the coming days, as I cannot remain away from court any longer, but I have instructed Dr Hemmingsen to travel to Copenhagen and oversee the examinations and then report to me.
In the name of Almighty God,
James VI
November 1589
From King James the Sixth of Scotland,
in Ánslo
To Douglas Murray of Kirkbrae, at Holyroodhouse
D – A brief note to let you know that all is well, and we begin our return voyage in the coming days.
I cannot wait to leave this dark part of the world. I had thought Scandinavia to be a land of scholars and kirk men, but some of its secrets are ungodly.
Anna of Denmark is a fair match. You will see for yourself that she is intelligent and eager to learn, and pleasant company. She will need the guiding hand of our court, of course, but I believe she has potential. I fear I am not enough of a force against the Devil. I need the sanctity of marriage and a wife to strengthen me. I hope that we will, in time, find love and affection in our union.
Oh, Douglas, how I miss you and wish it was you in my chamber. It aches that you can never be betrothed to me, but that is the pain we must endure.
In great anticipation of our next meeting and your counsel,
J
Chapter Nineteen
KIRSTEN
The King’s Wark, Leith Port
December 1589
Finally, we have disembarked, but into a wicked Scots winter. Wind and hail and darkness even worse than the weather we fought at sea. I have made up my mind that I will never set foot on a ship again. The fear that disaster is never more than a gust or a wave away is one I never want to repeat. But I have arrived, thank God. I am here. Washed up like a broken crab. They led us off the ship, on a wooden walkway lined with Turkish carpet, through shrill crowds and cannon salutes. Past trumpeters and violin players and kettle drummers who beat a rowdy march for hours, before descending into bawdy songs.
There was nothing stately or dignified about it.
Now I can do what I came here to do, with not a moment to lose.
Leith is as I remember it. But the port is bigger and busier, and we are being kept in rooms at the King’s Wark for several days, ahead of our formal procession up to Holyroodhouse, although the caw of the Scots tongue rising from the harbour is so familiar I feel that this is my homecoming. This morning, as the sun rose, I stood at the window and watched crates of wool and coal and fish being hauled onto ships, and crates of wine and pottery and cloth being unloaded. Stray cats and dogs sniff at piles of sacks. Masts tower over it all, set with foreign flags.
We will make a formal entry procession into Edinburgh town, with Anna riding in a solid-silver carriage. There will be pageants and performances and feasts. All the households of the Canongate have been told to send their best table linens to Holyroodhouse for our banquets. I have barely had a minute, what with all the hanging and airing of gowns and consulting the goldsmith and the Scottish royal jeweller.
And underneath the jewels and the silver, the royal betrothal is weak.
I have tried to spend time with Anna, but she slipped about the Gideon like a freshly caught fish. When she was not in prayer, or with James, I could barely find her. Sometimes I would catch the tail of her skirts whispering up a set of stairs. Or the faint lilt of her laugh. I suspect she has an infatuation with Henry Roxburgh, and he with her. Their language lessons continued, and seemed to take longer and longer each day.
And if I am right, she is playing a most dangerous game.
‘Remember you’re still on trial,’ I told her, finding Anna standing at the prow one morning, letting her cape fall below her shoulders, despite the unbearable cold. Despite the sailors being in full view.
‘What do you mean?’ she snapped. She has never snapped at me before. Never dared. The wind whipped her hair. She bit her red lips and tilted her head back, jaw clenched, daring me to question her further.
‘You’ve become a woman now,’ I said, as delicately as I could. ‘It has, perhaps, emboldened you. But you are being watched. The Scots are judging your every move. They are still deciding if you are worthy of the king.’
‘Perhaps I am also deciding if a royal marriage is what I want,’ she replied.
I hid my shock by putting my hand on the rail and looking out to the horizon. ‘Oh, shall you go back to Kronborg and pack a chest of your plainest clothes for Hellebæk Abbey?’
‘I am never going to Hellebæk Abbey,’ she said. ‘I have decided that.’
‘So you have decided you have options. Whilst the Scots construct platforms for your procession, and practise their dances and songs and send their best fattened livestock for our feasts, you are deciding whether you will be their queen.’
She flinched at that. I took my eye off the horizon and looked at her.
‘When I was a young woman, about your age,’ I told her, ‘I met a charming gentleman who told me all sorts of tall tales, and I believed him.’
Her face grew serious. ‘Go on.’
‘I never usually talk about these matters,’ I said. ‘It’s an undignified habit, to reminisce and ruminate over old matters of the heart. But I will tell you this. There are men who will fall in love with women at the drop of a hat. And then, when they have got what they want – whatever that is – they will fall out of love the next day, as if nothing had ever happened between them at all. And their promises and kisses and admiration simply disappear as they move on to their next conquest. Why, Anna, the air of the whole world is full of the ghosts of the promises of handsome young men. Your betrothed, King James, is not one of those men. He is a man of God, of honour and decency. He may not be the man of your dreams. You may never fall in love with him. He may never fall truly and deeply in love with you. But he is your best chance of making something magnificent of yourself.’
She nodded, then pulled her cape about her shoulders again.
‘Perhaps,’ she said.
‘I will leave you here to think upon these matters,’ I told her. ‘But I expect you back in your cabin before too long. I don’t want you getting waylaid by any of the other passengers. Particularly by Lord Henry. It would be unseemly for you to be caught chattering together outside your lessons.’
And sure enough, just as I spoke, the very man himself appeared. Almost as though they had arranged to be on the prow at exactly the same time. When he saw me, Henry stood, awkwardly, waiting for me to leave.
‘Kirsten,’ Anna said, as I was curtseying my leave to her, ‘the gentleman you mentioned. The one you met when you were a young woman. The one with the promises. Did he break your heart?’
I straightened up and took a deep breath.
‘It is undignified to talk of such matters,’ I replied.
After we landed, the Scots, including Henry, went straight up to Holyroodhouse to get back to the business matters they’d neglected these last weeks. We remain at King’s Wark for the next day or so, as they ready the carriages and assemble the courtiers. The procession will last all day. We will be showered with confections and will watch masques and wave until our arms ache. All the girls of Leith and Edinburgh and the Canongate will wish they were royal, envying us, blissfully ignorant of the sacrifices we have to make.
I am hoping the palace is vast enough so that we Danes can live our own lives and mingle with the Scots as infrequently as possible.
If there is anything between her and Henry Roxburgh, he will tire of her when he realizes he cannot have her in any meaningful way.
At least that is what I hope.
Anna bled this morning, perfectly on time too, which means no royal child this month.
‘Arrange linens for Her Royal Highness,’ I tell the maid, Hanne, and she scuttles off to find where such things have been packed. She will be back in ten minutes, empty-handed, and it will become my problem to search them out, but until then I will relax, sitting on a chair by the window, and breathe freely at the relief I feel that I am here.
As I sit, pulling a blanket over my knees, another maid knocks and delivers a note. If she is surprised that I have received a letter, then she does her best to conceal it. I thank her and do not open it until she has closed the door and I am sure she is not lingering outside:
Kirsten,
I hope this letter gets to you. The things you warn of sound terrifying enough, but there is no hint of it here in Scotland. We are safe enough. This is a civilized country. You fret too much. Enjoy your return. It has been a long time coming. Come and visit when you can.
