The Other Henry VIII

Belladonna

Clara fled. As soon as news of the poisoning began to circulate, she saddled her horse and fled. A little way behind her galloped Lady Susanna Gill, the only one of her ladies to wake early enough to follow. Raindrops purled like tears in the jolting folds of her crimson gown and ermine-trimmed mantle. Streaking down her cheeks to mask the real ones which had already made their glistening marks there. Dewy ground undulated beneath Mercy's thundering hooves, stretching out as far as the eye could see until it rose up ahead to kiss the stormy sky. At the peak, if she recalled correctly, one could behold the whole of London in miniature. Laid flat before her, a breathing, bustling, sprawling map of life. A city brimming with people that she would never meet.

The Queen of England was dying. Even Lumley, speaking in the mildest, vaguest terms he could muster, could not hide the fact. And this was not a tragic, inexplicable miscarriage like those which had plagued Clara's poor mother; no, this was attempted murder. Early birds at court had gaped in horror as servants marched through the halls, bearing bundle after bundle of blood-stained linen until one could not help wondering how the Queen still lived. The image scalded the backs of Clara's eyes, branding itself a place in excruciating fashion beside the candlelit chaos of last night. She would never be rid of it for the rest of her life.

All those times she had she had gazed up at the ceiling and beseeched God to punish her father — she remembered every second. She remembered every prick of scorn, every pang of loneliness, and how they had thrust those scathing curses from her lips until she could not draw them back. Revenge had seemed the ultimate prize. To see him hurt as he had hurt England, that would secure her peace of mind, surely? If he could feel even a fraction of the pain endured by those who had died screaming on his bonfire, then surely it would be justified? And God had answered her prayers but by snuffing the life of an innocent child and possibly its mother also. In short, this whole ordeal was her fault. Suddenly she could not bear to behold the city in all its muck and glory, the people whom she had failed. Swallowing her tainted thoughts, she tugged the reins towards her belly with one milky-white hand, and Mercy veered left towards the woods.

Something about riding beneath a vast, moulting canopy of a dozen dozen trees soothed Clara's seething wet skin like bathing in nectar itself. She and Susanna trotted side-by-side along the dirt path in meditative silence. Decaying leaves disintegrated beneath slow, tired hooves. Her sodden skirts swung at Mercy's sides, dark, heavy and dripping with water. Clara did not know where they were going. She had never ventured this far out, but in a way that made it exciting. All she desired now was to lose herself in the verdant arms of a forest which had stood for hundreds of years before she walked the earth, and would continue to do so long after she was gone.

"Susanna..." she began haltingly, Mercy's reins falling loose in her grip, "Do you think I am a bad person?"
"Why would you think that, My Lady?" replied Susanna in a calm voice. The shape of her long, aquiline nose was just visible, protruding from the folds of her black hooded cloak. She was perhaps the lady-in-waiting with which the Princess spent the least time alone, yet somehow such familiarity resided in the air between them.
"Well, I... I assure myself I have good intentions... that everything I do is for the benefit of those or that which I love. But that is not entirely true, is it? Sometimes I just... I lash out, when it is all too much for me to bear, because I... I feel that God has forsaken me. And perhaps he has. Perhaps that is why my country falls to sin. I know it is a lot to ask of you, but... do you think he has done so as retribution for my own sins?"

"I would not wish to speculate," said Susanna, though she gave the sense that the phrase had been spoken for the simple purpose of being polite, "But I believe that every child of God is born with the right to be brusque or brash or furious at some point in their lives. Our lives are far from perfect, so it is senseless to expect us to behave otherwise." She glanced at her lap, as if to stop herself from going too far. "If you do not mind me saying... I believe there is a certain privilege to being constantly selfless."
Clara raised her eyebrows in surprise. It was rare enough to hear anyone at the English court speak their mind sincerely, let alone someone other than Leia or Lizzie, but the intrigue thrilled her too much to dwell long. "You do?"