The Other Henry VIII

Flesh and Blood

24 February 1532
"Try easing it in slower," said Lizzie rather impatiently, leaning over her sister's shoulder. "Make sure you push the needle through just at the edge there. No, closer in! Not there! Try to —" She groaned as Clara's stitching came undone in a tangle of knotted threads as fine as plant roots. "Oh, look what you've done! You shall have to start all over again now."
As a matter of fact, Clara felt far more inclined to hurl her embroidery at the floor and march off in a huff. However, she managed to collect herself and replied mildly, "I suppose I shall, though there is little use in it. I never seemed to have the knack for sewing, and I doubt there is much I can do to change that now."

She, her sisters and their ladies were seated in a lopsided circle around the fire in their presence chamber, occupying themselves with all manners of darning and needlework. Three days had passed since her father's departure for war, swimming past Clara like silver fish in a river: too swift and slippery for her to grab hold long enough to ask them to wait. In all honesty, she felt more than a little useless just hovering around the palace searching for pastimes while her countrymen fought for their lives. The others appeared placid, unruffled, even contented by the unfamiliar silence which had taken hold of Hampton Court — except Lizzie, who could never be placid if she tried. But Clara could not stand being so far away from such a crucial, violent point in England's history. It filled her fingers with jitters and boiled her blood within her veins.

"I am sure that is not true, My Lady," consoled the Duchess of Buckingham, glancing up from a neatly-stitched linen smock in her lap
"You flatter me, Mary," she replied, "But we must all come to terms with our shortcomings sooner or later." The words tumbled out heavier than she had intended. Fortunately, no-one seemed to notice.
"Clara," said Eleanor solemnly from the window, "There's a rider down there in the courtyard. Do you suppose he has a letter for us?"
Every head in the room snapped to attention. Young Lady Audrey, skipping to her feet with Flavia squirming in her arms, piped up, "Shall I go, My Lady?"
"No, do not trouble yourself." Clara set her fraying embroidery aside; she was fighting a lost cause on that front, at any rate.

By the time she returned, her fingers were trembling so much she could scarcely keep hold of the letter. Could it be the battle had been won? That the war was over in a trice and they could all go back to how it was? Lingering by the doorway so as to avoid the watchful gaze of her ladies, Clara slid her thumb under the blood-red seal and felt it give way in a satisfying snap. She paused — the crest was not her father's, nor Leia's. She traced the tiny wax depressions with her fingertip, trying to pinpoint which family used an owl with what appeared to be ivy in its beak, before curiosity got the better of her and the broken seal fell to the ground as she began to read.

"What is the news?" asked Lizzie keenly when her sister re-entered the chamber, clutching the unfolded letter by her side. "Has Papa triumphed yet?"
"What of my husband?" chimed in Mary.
"And my husband? Is he well?"
"Will they return soon?"
"How heavy are our losses?"
"Has he injured himself?"
"Does it say if —"

"A moment of calm please, ladies," replied Clara over the deluge of hopeful questions. She tried to speak as evenly and impassively as possible, but the entire room fell silent upon hearing the gravity of her tone. Even Lizzie sank back into her seat, quite enraptured. Clara inhaled deeply. "The letter is from Ed- I mean to say the Duke of Wiltshire. He writes that His Majesty's forces were victorious at Wanstead —" Before she could finish, the ladies erupted into jubilant chatter, which only made the rest of her sentence more difficult to share. "— But it was a trap. A diversion, if you will. While Norfolk drew our men north, another company were able to close in to the west and will descend upon London in a matter of hours."

Clara felt the atmosphere cool around her almost immediately. In the corner, Lady Oxford dropped her needle with a faint clatter; Lady Audrey clapped her hands to her mouth; Lillian Lloyd's eyes widened in dismay; Mary of Buckingham began to tug anxiously at the smock. Even Susanna's neck tightened, despite her rigid expression. And they were all staring at her, Clara realised. Pleading for answers, searching for leadership in the eldest remaining royal in the palace. They knew, just as well as she did, that they could not defend Hampton Court. There were but a handful of young men left behind from the battle for protection, alongside but a dozen aged guards with scarcely the strength to wielded a sword — and yet they all looked to her as though she would be their salvation, as though she were not just another terrified young woman wondering if her life was about to turn upside down. So Clara did not apprise them of the fact.