The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [71]

The room was silent. I could feel the queen and Budge watching, waiting. Concentrate. What did Howard want? Henrietta. No – that I would not do. And he didn’t want her, not really. He just wanted to make her life as wretched as possible. He wanted to torture her for making that one terrible mistake of loving him, a very long time ago.

And then I knew the answer. There was one very simple way to satisfy Howard. It would cost the queen nothing. But poor Henrietta… It would cost her everything.

I wouldn’t say it. I wouldn’t ruin a woman’s life solely to save my own. I would conjure something better. Something kinder.

‘His son.’ The words slid from my tongue and the betrayal was done.

A look of puzzlement crossed the queen’s plump face. And then she understood. Already her clever mind was turning, turning.

‘Henry Howard was on the boat last night.’

She grunted. ‘Henry. I remember the child. A sweet, foolish thing. What age is he now, Budge? Fourteen? Fifteen?’

‘Twenty-one, ma’am,’ Budge replied softly. His expression was sombre, all the play and mischief drained from his face.

‘Twenty-one.’ And now she too seemed to have caught the melancholy mood. She reached for a sugared almond.

‘He was very drunk,’ I said. ‘Asleep under the table most of the night, and vomiting the rest of it. Forgive me, ma’am…’

She waved away the apology.

‘…Howard takes great pleasure in corrupting the boy. Henry doesn’t have his father’s cruelty-’

‘-Not yet. Hard liquor makes a hard man.’

True enough in most cases. But I had to believe Henry had enough of Henrietta’s sweet temperament to counteract Howard’s influence. There must be hope in all this. After all, I had spent the last few years drinking and whoring and gaming like a fiend, and my own heart had emerged intact. Hadn’t it?

‘Howard is determined to turn Henry against his mother. He has convinced Henry that she’s a whore.’

‘That must have taken considerable effort,’ the queen said, rattling the sugared almond against her teeth.

‘He wants revenge upon Mrs Howard. He wants her to suffer. More than anything. He would not refuse three thousand pounds a year, of course… but it is his hatred of his wife that propels him.’ I stopped, unwilling to speak further.

The queen continued to suck her confection, snick, snick, snick against the top of her mouth. She glanced at Budge, raised an eyebrow. ‘Mr Hawkins has dragged a sacrificial calf into the room. But he does not have the courage to slit her throat.’ She played with a diamond ring on her little finger. ‘Why, Mr Hawkins – would you have me wield the knife for you? Are you afraid to look in the poor, trembling calf’s eyes? Are you worried her blood will spoil your clothes…?’

My mouth was dry. The queen spoke the truth, and I was sickened by it. I had condemned both Henry and his mother tonight in this room. I had ruined both their lives to save my own. Not to say the words now, at the end, was mere cowardice. ‘Mrs Howard must write to her son. In detail. She must tell Henry that everything his father claims of her is true.’

The queen slid her gaze from mine, thinking. ‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘Howard will like that. He always enjoyed humiliating his wife.’ And to her credit, she looked disgusted. ‘Is it enough? No,’ she answered herself. ‘Continue, sir.’

Somehow, I forced the words from my lips. ‘She must promise never to contact her son – to relinquish all claims upon him.’

‘Your Majesty,’ Budge interrupted. ‘I doubt she will agree to that. She fights a case at present in secret. She is seeking a legal separation from Howard.’

My heart sank. The Howards had lived apart for many years, but to pursue an official, legally binding separation – it was almost unprecedented. For a judge even to consider the case, there must have been the most devastating evidence of Howard’s cruelty. And here I was, delivering Henry into that monster’s hands for ever.

The queen was looking away into the fire with a soft expression. ‘We will give him his son. And the letter. And twelve hundred a year. Control, humiliation and a fat fee. It will suffice. In return he will not fight the separation. Yes. I believe this will work. Blackmail would have enraged Howard. He might have lashed out in spite. This way, he will believe he has won. He will like that.’ Her lips pressed into a tight line. ‘Men do.’

Aye, he will believe he’s won. Because he has. I cleared my throat. ‘Should we not consult with Mrs Howard, ma’am?’

‘With Mistress Switzerland?’ The queen fanned herself slowly. ‘What might she possibly contribute to the matter? She is neutral in all things.’

‘Not on this matter, surely, Your Majesty?’ I pressed. I owed Henrietta this much at least. ‘Not over her only child? She might prefer to leave the court? Should she not be granted the choice…’ I stopped abruptly. The queen’s cheeks had tinged bright pink.

‘Choice? No indeed, Mr Hawkins. Howard is my servant. She will do precisely as she is told.’

There was a long, angry silence. There was something deeper here – old wounds of betrayal. Henrietta had been the queen’s servant long before she became the king’s mistress. They had been allies and confidantes once, when they were young women. When the queen was still the Princess of Wales, just a few years married. Still beautiful and still adored, by all accounts.