VIII (17 page)

“Enemy troops are assembling some distance to
the south, sir, near Enguingate. It looks to me like an attempt to resupply the city.” Sir John Neville’s hair is standing up in spikes; he has his helmet, just now pulled off, under one arm; with the other he holds the reins of his horse, which is stamping and shifting beneath him.

“Then for God’s sake let’s stop them,” I say. “The city will hold out indefinitely if supplies continue to get through.”

It is dawn. After ten days’ march, we have reached the city of Thérouanne, to which the foreward and rearward of my army have spent the past month laying siege. A well-fortified French stronghold, it sits on the north bank of the river Lys six miles upstream from Aire. Emperor Maximilian has made a strong case to me for its capture.

Now my bodyguard of mounted archers parts to let Francis Bryan ride in; I give him permission to speak. “A messenger’s just arrived, Your Grace, from the Earl of Essex and Sir John Peachy. They took a prisoner three miles south of here –
he says the French will come in from the north and south simultaneously.”

“They’ll distract our troops on the north side – and make a quick dash in with the food on the south. That makes sense,” says Brandon beside me, his horse’s harness jingling as it tosses its head. “They will think the south wall is still unguarded.”

I nod, looking down from the hill we stand on, to where long columns of men, horses and wagons are snaking slowly across the river. “Then we have the advantage of surprise.”

Until our arrival with the last section of the army, my troops have not been able to encircle Thérouanne completely – and so the French have continued to resupply the city. Now my section – the middle ward – must move to the south of the city to complete the stranglehold; this means taking sixteen thousand men and all our wagons, tents, artillery and ordnance across the river, which skirts the southern wall of the city.

With timber brought from England the carpenters have spent the night constructing five bridges; now, in the hazy light of dawn, the army is making its crossing.

I turn to Bryan. “Instruct the troops on the north side to prepare themselves for battle. Rhys ap Thomas can take a detachment of cavalry forward to engage the French first. He may be able to hold them off entirely.”

As Bryan leaves, my bodyguard closes round me and we ride down to cross the river.

Once across the water, the wagons and provisions establish themselves in defensive order out of range of the guns on the city walls; the fighting men move south to face the plain where the French will have to make their approach. It is bordered by a forest on one side and a ridge of hills on the other.

I instruct the gunner commanders. “Use the ridge there.
I want a row of the lighter guns to give cover as I send scouts forward.”

“Sir.”

I place a bank of archers where they can cover the plain, too. Shielded behind a hedge, they take up position, planting their arrows point-down in the ground in front of them. I ride up to Compton and say, “You and I can take the cavalry forward first, infantry following.”

Compton hesitates, then says, “Sir, please stay back. The Council won’t countenance you riding out in the first wave.”

“The Council be damned. I am here to lead my men.”

Brandon, who has heard, turns his horse to approach closer, and says in a low voice, “Hal, the French are only trying to bring supplies in. If you go down in the first push, for the sake of a side of bacon…”

I stare at him. “Christ, have you been listening to Fox?”

He makes a movement that, if it weren’t for his armour, might be a shrug. “This isn’t Agincourt. But something else might be. Stick around for it.”

In the distance I can see splashes of blue and gold now against the brown-green fields. It is the French cavalry, riding towards our lines.

I look back at Brandon and, beyond him, to where the arms of England billow in the breeze, held high by Harry Guildford, to whom I’ve given the job of standard-bearer. “If I’m sitting out, then so are you,” I say. Then I turn my horse and ride away.

From the safety of high ground, with Brandon beside me, I survey the mass of waiting troops: the mounted knights at the front; behind them infantrymen hidden beneath a forest of pikes and bills, the vicious spikes glinting silver. A dull thick heat is gathering; inside my helmet, sweat trickles down my temples.

On the ridge to my left a flag drops and the guns fire across the plain. The French cavalry, weighed down by large saddle bags – no doubt the food for the city – have stopped some distance from our lines; it’s clear they haven’t been expecting to meet such a large body of troops in their path.

Hesitating, they are now sitting ducks; a cloud of arrows streaks up from behind the hedge. A hundred feet up, the chisel-tipped points turn and plunge towards the French. Arrows whistle and sing; horses scream and whinny as the missiles find their targets.

The French riders turn and begin to retreat, but they run straight into the next line of their countrymen coming on from behind. And, at that moment, my cavalrymen spur their horses into a headlong charge.

The ground, churned by hooves, is muddy; in the melee men and animals slip and are trampled. There is shouting, metallic clanking, and the strange piercing shrieks of horses overcome with pain and fear. It is thrilling; it is like a vast, vicious tiltyard.

Brandon points with a metal paw. “My God, the French are throwing down their weapons! Look! They can’t retreat fast enough!”

I can see in his eyes exactly what I feel: it’s unbearable to watch.

“Coming, then?” I say, and I see him grin.

We slap our visors down and I signal to the captain of my guard. Then I draw my sword and spur my horse to gallop full pelt down the ridge. I yell to Brandon, though he’ll never hear – with my visor down, it’s like yelling in a bucket:

“Who says, eh? Who says this isn’t Agincourt?”

We pelt down the passageway, hand in hand.
Catherine is half-running, skittering in soft pink slippers, her free hand supporting the curve of her belly. I’m striding, dressed all in silver cloth today, my sword wagging at my hip.

Forest animals on tapestries bob and ripple as we pass; the dark wooden panelling is carved into trees and fruit; the light sconces jut like branches from the walls, golden flame-leaves flickering.

We reach the double doors of the Council Chamber; I punch them open. Faces turn: a row down each side of the long table. Bony hands lie on the board, flat and dry, some stained with ink; none with blisters from handling swords or lances. There’s a shuffle and a scraping of chairs. Gingerly the noblemen and bishops lower themselves and kneel; they look like wizened children, barely able to see over the table top.

“Well? Didn’t I tell you it would be a triumph?” I say to my Council. “Get up off your knees, all of you, for God’s
sake. Sit. I have called you together so that you can offer me your congratulations.”

I draw up a chair for Catherine and stand behind her, my hands on her shoulders.

One councillor has creaked to his feet. “We offer our heartfelt congratulations, Your Grace. And to you, dear Queen, on your most blessed impending event – you carry the hope of the nation within you.” Catherine nods, placing her hands contentedly on her stomach. “But most of all, sir, we give fervent thanks to Almighty God that you are returned to us safely.”

“I would like less opposition next time,” I say as he sits down. “I would like less scepticism. Consider, gentlemen: you advised against this glorious expedition.”

“And would do so again,” says another voice.

It’s Archbishop Warham. I stare at him. “An
obstinate
sceptic! Do you put no value on what we have achieved?”

He’s remained sitting; he looks down at his hands, which twitch a little as they lie on the table. “If you will forgive my plain speaking, Your Grace,” he says, “in my view the expedition has not been a great success.”

“I would be interested to hear you define your terms.” I swipe a lavender sprig from a vase and sit, twirling it in my fingers. “I have entirely destroyed one of the best-fortified towns in France; I have captured and occupied another. I have won a glorious victory – to rival Agincourt. And I have brought back as my prisoners some of the leading noblemen of the French Court. What more, Warham, do you want?”

“Indeed, Your Grace, but in doing all this you have spent enough to fill a well of gold.” His doleful gaze lifts to me. “To what purpose? One French dog-hole is destroyed, another has become an outpost that will eat up money and men. What use to England is a single landlocked city
surrounded by French territory?” He shakes his head slowly. “It will cost a fortune to maintain; it will cost a fortune to defend. It gives us nothing: nothing strategically, nothing commercially. The only person it benefits is the Emperor.”

A murmur goes round the table. I wonder if someone will stop him, argue the point – but he goes on uninterrupted, “Did you never wonder why Emperor Maximilian advised you to destroy Thérouanne and capture Tournai? They are strategically important in relation to
his
territories, not yours; it is mightily convenient to him that they are out of French hands. You paid for the enterprise; you even paid him to fight for you. I am sorry to say it, sir, but he has won this round of the game hands down.”

I am sitting entirely unmoving now, staring at the archbishop. There is a burning in my stomach. I say quietly, “I am on the brink of conquest.”

He does not reply. I crumple the lavender in my fingers and rise. “Do you think because I have brought the army home that I have finished? The job is only half done. The troops are back because summer is over – the campaigning season is over. But we will return next year.” My fists are on the table; I am leaning towards him.

Behind me, Catherine says to Warham mildly, “My father, King Ferdinand, has realised how foolish he was in not taking part in the invasion. He has already indicated he wants to join with England next year.”

I have not taken my eyes from the old man’s face. “So. Next summer I will return to France with a larger force and in alliance with both Emperor Maximilian and King Ferdinand of Spain. There is no way France will be able to withstand the onslaught. I shall be crowned at Paris before the year is out.” I smile, but not amiably. “I wonder, sir, if you will live to see it? Let us hope so. You can apologise to me then.

“In the meantime, gentlemen, those among you of a less pessimistic disposition have much work to do. We must prepare to rule France.”

“And perhaps my sister’s son could stand as
godfather?” Catherine shifts to face me, her hair fanning out across the pillow; here, with the bedcurtains shut, it’s like a little private world of our own.

The only light comes from a candle burning just above us in its niche on the carved headboard. In the golden glow it casts, Catherine’s cheeks look creamy, her eyes darker than usual and shining. I put my hand under the covers and lay it on her belly; I like to feel the child moving. She says, “Where do you think we should have him brought up?”

“Half here, half in France. The people must know him in all his territories – not feel he is a foreigner.”

“I meant which house! Perhaps, Eltham or Richmond… Oh, don’t send him away too young, will you?”

I smile and prop myself up on my elbow. “I see how it’s going to be. He’ll have you twisted round his little finger.”

“Absolutely,” says Catherine. “In Spain they say the English
hate their children; beat them too much, and pack them off to live in other men’s houses.”

“Do they? Funny, that. In England we say that the Spaniards are thieves, the Germans are tipplers, the French unchaste, the Scots perfidious, the Danes bloodthirsty…”

A fine linen pillow hits me full in the face. I grab it from her. “What? Isn’t that right? Maybe the
Spaniards
are tipplers, the
Germans
unchaste—”

We’re both laughing now – well, she’s growling and laughing, and trying to tug the pillow back out of my grasp. Suddenly she stops with a small gasp, and rolls away from me.

“What?” I say. She doesn’t move. I can only see a jumble of nightdress and bedclothes and hair. “Don’t sulk.”

“No, it’s not that.” She’s curled up; her voice is muffled.

“What, then?”

“Hal.” She turns and looks at me bleakly. “I’m bleeding.”

“Benedixit, deditque discipulis suis, dicens:
Accipite, et bibite ex eo omnes, hic est enim calix Sanguinis mei…
”

He blessed it, and gave it to His disciples, saying: Take and drink ye all of this, for this is the chalice of my blood…

Beyond the small grille-window of the partition, the priest’s voice rises and falls in its familiar pattern, intoning the words of the morning Mass. I’m in my private closet, the one adjoining my Privy Chamber. Beside me, Wolsey sits making rapid notes in the margin of a dispatch. There’s a pile of discarded papers at my feet.

Wolsey says, “How is the Queen?”

“Fine.”

Stupid answer. She’s not fine at all. She lost the child – a boy. They said the half-grown thing was formed enough that you could see its face. But her body is healing. And I have next season’s invasion of France to think about.

“Remind me of the original proposal.”

“Sir?”

“The treaty with Spain. Come on, I want to go hunting as soon as Mass is over.”

Wolsey nods. “It is proposed that King Ferdinand will invade Guyenne or Aquitaine—”

“Before next June.”

“Yes. With fifteen thousand foot soldiers, one and a half thousand heavy-armed cavalry, one and a half thousand light-armed cavalry and twenty-five pieces of artillery. Of which twelve will be large, and thirteen small.”

He’s reeling this off without reference to notes. His memory, I reflect – not for the first time – is prodigious. I say, “And all land he takes will be handed over to us.”

“Exactly.”

“Money?”

“You contribute twenty thousand gold crowns a month, from the point when he starts fighting.”

“Meanwhile, we invade Picardy or Normandy – also before June – and each of us puts a fleet to sea before the end of April.”

“Yes.”

“My God, he ought to be happy with that. It’s more than generous. What’s his problem?”

Wolsey raises his eyebrows, inhaling deeply. “He wants to enlist six thousand German mercenaries, and asks that you bear the cost of their transport and, before the beginning of June, send a year’s pay for them, at twenty thousand crowns per month.”

“As a lump sum? That’s outrageous.” I think for a moment. “Could we do it?”

“We’d need to raise a tax. Sir—” Wolsey gestures towards my kneeling desk, which stands in front of the grille-window.

I kneel in silence while the priest takes communion. Then I cross myself and stand up. “What else?”

Wolsey draws a paper out of the stack beside him. “Just one more thing. Our agents in Rome report that, now that the Pope wants everyone’s hands free for a crusade against the Turk, His Holiness plans to ask you to renounce your claim to France.”

“When I’m just about to conquer it? The answer is no.”

“And, in return for this, he will,” he reads from the document, “‘let the King of England have the rule of Scotland, which belongs to his one-year-old nephew.”

“Interesting…”

“Indeed.” His eyes flick up to me. “But there is something further you should know. It has been reported that your sister, the Queen of Scots, will agree to this, because she expects her son to inherit England in due course.”

I stare at Wolsey. He is talking about my sister Meg; she married the King of Scotland soon after our mother died. I say, “She expects
what
?”

“I quote: ‘Since the King of England has no children, his nephew will be next in line to succeed.’”

“
Yet
. I have no children
yet
, Meg. Give me that.”

I read the dispatch. It reports that the general view is that this latest miscarriage proves that Catherine is unable to carry a healthy child who will live, so there is no prospect of an heir.

The room is still, as I scan the paper a second time; next door the priest’s voice drones on.

I take a breath – shake my head. I feel winded. “This is ridiculous. There is time.”

“Of course there is.”

The paper crumples in my hand; I throw it to the floor. “There is time.”