The Other Henry VIII

Portrait of a Man

"Clara? Clara? Can you hear me?"

She could hear him, but it was awfully faint, as though they were both underwater.

"Clara? Clara?"

If only he would be patient. Her eyes refused to open just yet.

"God, Clara, please wake up. Please —"

Very well, it seemed impertinent to deny him his wishes. With an almighty cough, so violent and guttural she thought her chest might burst open, Clara lurched into consciousness, only to find herself engulfed by a pair of strong — if slightly damp — arms.
"Oh thank the Lord," breathed Edmund Westover, clasping her to his chest if to anchor her firmly in this reality forever. "Dear God, I shall never lose faith in you again."
Everything was coming into focus now, but Clara spurned it like a false lover. She did not want this world, this life, not without him. She shut her eyes again and buried them in his embrace. Her voice, when it came, was hoarse and thready. "I... severely... doubt that."

And for a minute, just one paltry minute of euphoria, they held each other. The rowboat, dark with water and blood, lurched about them like an unruly child, but it mattered not, because for that single minute, all that lived in Clara's world was her and Edmund and the trickle of water from his river-soaked shirt.

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Lizzie had been running a long time. In truth, she feared it had been around in circles, for these gloomy woods were scarcely navigable even for one such as her. But now she could see lights through the trees, warm and beautiful and full, some in the sky and some on their way. Lanterns.

As luck most certainly did not have it, she emerged on the opposite side of the moat. At least there were few boats on this side – no-one to see her skulk like a shade along the shadowy banks. Either that woman had vanished into thin air or she had simply scurried off home, for Lizzie had seen no sign of her for the better part of fifteen minutes.

The torchlit lawn in her sights, she followed the curve of the moat with heavy, aching feet. There was a boat near the bank not far ahead — perhaps they would ferry her across? Exhausted, hot and dishevelled, a cold bath had never appeared more heavenly — yet never had her thrill-swollen heart beaten faster. Nights like this almost made all that ghastly primping and preening worthwhile.

But as she made her approach, Lizzie's ears began to throb with blood. It was all coming into focus now. Their lantern, yet to be released, exuded a dim orange glow. Too weak to illuminate everything, perhaps, but certainly enough to see what was unfolding before her: a silhouette, not unlike the one she had been in pursuit of, rising above two huddled figures at the other end with an oar clutched in her quivering grip. Then Lizzie did the only thing her worn-out mind could think of.

She jumped.

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"Who is she?" asked Lizzie, slackening her grip as Edmund took control. Despite the considerable volume of blood streaming from her shoulder, the woman struggled fiercely in his arms like a wildcat. "Why does she —?"
"It matters not," croaked Clara tersely. Arms outstretched for balance, she took a long, tentative stride across the boat towards where Prince Christian lay crumpled and lifeless. Still breathing, thank the Lord. She listened to his chest, trying to ignore the rock of the boat around her.
"But how did she —?"
"Hush, Lizzie! If you wish to be useful, run for help." She did not hasten to add 'before we cause an international disaster'.

Help came. God knows where they had been for the past half hour, but they came and took the prince and the woman away. They tried to take her too, but she would not let them.