The Other Henry VIII

Dead Men's Shoes

As she withdrew from the tent, Clara's hand lingered upon the edge of the canvas. Only for a moment, only enough to witness the Duke of Buckingham sink into his chair with an anguished sigh, but the image stuck fast. He had borne the same features as her James, gazed at her imploringly through the same eyes, moved with the same limbs that were just a touch too long — and yet, they did not quite add up as they used to. There was something deflated about him now. The boyish, carefree daring for which she had so admired him, for which she had loved him, was gone. She missed it. Perhaps he did too. Clara turned and obscured her face with the hood of her cloak for good measure. Few here would recognise her, but she liked to make certain. "Farewell, Joseph," she bade softly, and began to walk.

Several people were milling about the camp. Serving boys perhaps, she decided, or else entertainment for the men. This would, for many, be their last night on earth, so for once she did not blame them. One, a hooded figure hovering by the tent across from Buckingham's, nearly made Clara halt in her tracks. Had they been watching? It hardly mattered, she reminded herself. No-one could think her a princess from all the way over there, dressed as she was — they probably assumed she was a servant or some girl Joseph had sent for, however much the idea sickened her. They would not suspect a thing.

Nevertheless, Clara quickened her pace. She expelled those silly, wistful thoughts from her mind, hoping to enjoy but a single minute of triumph, only to find them replaced by Edmund instead, and how he must be languishing in that cold, gloomy ditch somewhere waiting for her. Dear Edmund, who always tried to keep her safe, even at his own expense. Arriving at the edge of the woods, she lifted her kirtle and broke into a sprint. Improper in a public setting, certainly, but there was no-one to scorn her now. The wool fabric bunched in her clammy fists, fallow-brown as the withered foliage over which she leapt. Clara did not trip once. She had her girlhood in the country to thank for that. Joseph taught her how to run over the undergrowth with swift, careful feet, how to keep track of one's route when everything looked the same, and now she could do it even in the dark.

By the time she reached the pit, her body was quivering with heat from exertion and, she suspected, the beginnings of pride. Remarkably, her clothing was mostly intact; the same could not be said for her delicate princess' shoes. Edmund must have turned his head, for his fair hair gleamed in the moonlight like a veil of pearls. Clara could contain herself no longer. She told him the news which had been scorching a hole at the pit of her stomach thus far, emphatically, fervently, much like Lizzie when she had unearthed some sordid secret. Oddly enough, Edmund did not seem so enthusiastic. He murmured something she guessed to be, "Good," and repeated it, as though he was not quite sure the first time.
His meagre utterance aroused Clara's indignation in a way she did not recognise. "Good?" she echoed, allowing him opportunity for correction.
"Yes, good," he replied glibly, "Well done."

Something ignited deep in Clara's belly, vast and menacing. It rose within her like a snake, uncoiling bit by bit, slippery to the touch yet it gripped her tight. How dare he, it hissed. You infiltrated an enemy camp without detection and swayed one of England's mightiest nobles into turning cloaks. He should be knelt before you kissing the ground you walk upon. Clara gulped. She could not say that, not to Edmund, she did not think that, not at all... No, she must set her mind to other matters. This victory must crouch in wait for now. She could not let it go to her head. But why should your vanity not be satiated? You did something truly great. This kingdom would be safe and prosperous if you were at its helm.

Shuddering as if to relieve herself of such thoughts, she forced herself to consider how best to rescue Edmund — hoisting him up, perhaps? A rope would be extremely useful in this situation, but then she was not predisposed to carrying that sort of item with her. There was only one thing for it. Clara bent down and raised the hem of her kirtle, noting in her periphery that he had averted his eyes already, to reveal the plentiful white linen of her petticoat. Perfect.