VIII (19 page)

The sunshine on the water dazzles; reflections
dance on the inner wall of the fountain, back and forth, back and forth – rippling, repetitive, like my thoughts.

“There is a message from the Queen, sir.”

“Later.”

My hands are on the saddle. I swing myself up, turn the horse towards the gateway, and canter out of the courtyard. My company of young men follows.

We head towards the hunting park. Despite the early hour the day is already bright and hot; the air quivers in the distance above dry fields. The colours are garish: burning blue, lush green and gold.

Another winter has passed, and a spring. There is something pressing on me. An emptiness that expands to fill everything until I cannot breathe.

At night I hardly sleep, by day the thoughts in my head run at double speed, while everything
out there
in the world seems slow and stupid, and strangely distant. When people speak to me it feels as if I am underwater.

“The beaters have been out since early, sir,” says Norris, as if from far away. “We will have good sport.”

“How many horses stationed for me?”

“Ten, sir.”

It is the same today as every day: we leave early, we stay out until dark. The horses tire before I do – I need eight or ten a day. Wyatt complains I turn hunting into a martyrdom. It is simply that he cannot keep up with me.

When we reach the forest the relief is intense. The rustling glades refresh me like water. The horses tread through sweet woodruff and violets, sorrel and cranesbill. Creepers swarm up trunks; ferns hold out their many-fingered hands. Dappled light flickers as the wind moves the tops of the trees. On the bark of one tree I see the deep grooves of heavy scratch marks, made by great talons or claws.

Time seems to pass in an instant. Now there is sweat running into my eyes. My breathing is loud and harsh. I am suddenly aware of the horse’s exhaustion – yet it seems only moments since we started the chase.

Occasionally, at times like this, I will see something strange: a waking dream. Sometimes it is a dark-haired girl riding ahead. The sun glints off her – white and gold – as if she is wearing armour. Sometimes it is the serpent that I saw once, years ago, in a dream.

Today it is a white hart. Automatically, I draw an arrow from my quiver, loose the reins to nock it and shoot from horseback. One fluid movement – smooth and quick.

For a moment as the arrow flies, the hart seems to be a fair-haired youth, running. I blink and the creature is the hart again, the arrow dodged, his back legs kicking up as he jumps a fallen tree.

They are nothing, these visions. It is just that I cannot sleep.

When I get back, Wolsey is waiting for me.
It is very late.

He is in my chamber, sitting by the fire, hefty and solid as a piece of furniture.

The curtains are drawn against the dark sky. His shadow lengthens toweringly upon them as he gets up: a fat man with a thin shadow.

I slump into a chair, call for wine. “What are you doing here? I thought you were busy banging heads together in pursuit of your peace treaty. Sit down, for God’s sake.”

“Something has occurred to me. An idea.”

“Don’t tell me – an alliance with the Turks because it is cheaper than a crusade? Heaven save us from your
ideas
. Talking of which, at what point are we going to break off my daughter’s betrothal? We can’t have that French brat in line to be king of England.”

There is a short silence; Wolsey is looking at me placidly. I see my knee juddering and still it.

Wolsey says, “Do you sleep?”

“Like a log.” I drain my glass and hold it out to the shadows, where the servants lurk. “Another.”

I drain that too.

“Stop,” says Wolsey gently. “
Stop
.” He waves his hand; the servants melt away. The door clicks shut softly behind them.

I fix him with a look that would fry a lesser man. He simply blinks at me.

A spasm in my chest: something cold is coiled around my heart, squeezing. I get up and take a turn about the room. My whole body aches, but I can’t relax. “It seems unfathomable how I have got to this point. How
you
have got me to this point. Empire and sons? What a joke. The eleventh year of my glorious reign and what do I have? A treaty with France and a daughter.”

“Perhaps God gives you what you want, but not in the way you expect.”

“Christ, don’t give me a priest’s answer! I am looking over the brink into…”

“Into what?”

“A void. Absolute nothingness.”

“Your Grace. May I tell you my idea?”

“If it’s quick.”

“The Emperor is in trouble. He needs help – quite desperately, I believe – to crush the rebellions in Spain. He has no money left.”

The man carrying the title of ‘Emperor’ these days is no longer Maximilian, the most unreliable man in Christendom, as Fox once called him.
He
sleeps – reliably dead – in his grave, while the young kings of France and Spain have fought a crippling financial war to win his imperial crown. It came down, in the end, to threats and bribes. And, at the
cost of one million gold florins, King Charles of Spain won.

So, Charles now has to his name Spain, Burgundy, the Netherlands, Germany, Austria, some Italian states, parts of the New World… and no money.
Perhaps God gives you what you want, but not in the way you expect
.

Wolsey says, “It occurs to me there is a prize to be won here. Greater than we could ever have anticipated.”

“Don’t pause for dramatic effect. I’m not a congregation. Get on with it.”

“You give Charles the ships and money he needs for Spain. In return, you demand a joint invasion of France, and his hand in marriage for your daughter.”

I stop. I am at the far end of the room. Absently, I reach out and touch the tapestry-covered wall in front of me: David’s crown, rendered in gold thread, glinting in the candlelight.

Behind me, Wolsey rises from his chair. “See: you conquer France. Princess Mary, as Charles’s wife, becomes an empress. She will have a son, your grandson – shall we say he is called Henry? This grandson will rule not only all the lands Charles rules now – numerous as they are – but France and England too. His empire will be on a scale unknown since Caesar’s time.”

I lean my forehead on the wall.

“It makes
sense
of what has happened,” says Wolsey. “If you had a son, the empire could never be so vast. This way, your grandson will establish a new world order. There will be no one to challenge him.”

My eyes are shut; I take a deep breath. Some terrible creature releases its coils from my heart and slinks away.

“Who knows?” says Wolsey, at my shoulder now. “Charles may die young. Then you will rule this new empire as regent until your grandson comes of age.”

The greatest empire in the world.

Yes. This makes sense of it all. Doesn’t it?

The most powerful young man in Christendom
has not waited in his chambers – he bounds down the grand stairs to greet us, passing lines of guards in their best new liveries, passing trumpeters at the great doorway, who are now confused about whether or when to play. He is a vision in gold damask and red satin – with spindly limbs, all knees and elbows, and such an outsized jaw it could do service as a spade.

I cross the courtyard, arms extended. My bear hug closes on air – Emperor Charles V has dropped onto one knee on the flagstones and snatched off his bonnet.

“Honoured Father,” he says in French, and I look down at his dark head, as his neatly cut hair swings forward, momentarily concealing the colossal jaw.

Through Catherine I am his uncle, but I’m not old enough to be his father – still, this is like a pack dog deferring to its leader. All at once, I am in a marvellous mood. I raise the youth by the shoulders, embrace him and pound him on the back. Winded, he smiles at me awkwardly. But he is not long on his
large, narrow feet. He and Catherine kneel to one another at the same moment – and laugh, and embrace where they are. “I can see my sister in your eyes,” she says. As she clasps his hands, an embroidered loop on her sleeve catches on a cluster of his doublet’s pearls; laughing again, they disentangle themselves. He helps her up. Tears are coursing down her face; she is smiling and smiling.

The trumpeters take a decision: a blast echoes round the courtyard as I lead him inside. Through the padding at his shoulder, I feel him start.

We are at Dover Castle, my grey-stone fortress overlooking the Channel. Out in the deep water Charles’s ships are lying at anchor, with flags, banners and streamers fluttering from every line of rigging and, flying highest, his imperial standard, the black two-headed eagle, splayed like a butchered pheasant on rich cloth of gold.

Our talk takes place across an intimate lunch – larks and quails set out on gold platters, on a table of marble inlay – and, as the small bones crack, so, just as easily, are the agreements reached. I will supply cash and ships to crush the Spanish rebellion. Charles will supply himself – as husband for my daughter Mary, whom we will withdraw from the French marriage – plus forty thousand troops for our joint invasion of France. Both of us will swear before God not to recall our army or fleet until each recovers what belongs to him.

So. There will be no end to the war until I am king of France.

Charles’s manner is earnest and diffident, his speech slow, broken by long pauses for thought. But eating is his greatest struggle. Due to his deformed jaw, chewing is difficult; he has to mop up spittle with his napkin. It is not pretty – and yet, the more awkward he seems, the more I find I warm to him.

Dabbing with a cloth at my own mouth I say, “The King of France, as you know only too well, cherishes his ambitions in Italy. It seems to me you can encourage him to overreach himself there…”

Charles’s dark eyes slide up to mine as, with both hands, he lifts his cup. He takes a sip, then says, “Providing the perfect opportunity for our invasion, in his absence?”

“Exactly.”

He wipes his mouth again. The napkin, removed, reveals a slow smile. “What a wonderful idea.”

Look at him. This boy who rules vast territories. So simple. So pliable. I see with delight what God has put into my hand.

The sword gleams in the torchlight. When I grasp
the hilt and lift it, the balance is perfect. The blade is tapered to an elegant point, bringing its centre of gravity close enough to the hilt to allow me to slice the air with just a turn of the wrist. And so fast that it makes an eerie little singing sound. I run my thumb along the edge – it is properly blunted, as a tournament sword must be.

Still gripping it, I jump up on an arrow chest. In front of me in this, the largest of the arming pavilions in the Greenwich tiltyard, a crowd of knights are talking, drinking and laughing, swapping boasts and private challenges. They’re bareheaded – some balding, some bearded, some so young they’re barely out of boyhood. Edges of breastplates gleam beneath the zinging colours of their tabards; at their hips hang scabbards covered in velvet and jewels – casings for swords as insanely expensive as mine.

I touch Compton’s shoulder with my blade and he calls for quiet. There’s shuffling and clanking, and faces turn to me.

“God knows, my lords, it has been a long wait. But this New Year we are on the brink of glorious victory.”

Emperor Charles has taken my advice, as I knew he would. He has lured the King of France to cross the Alps.

I say, “We have all heard reports of the French king’s foolhardy campaign in Italy. Who but a madman would make his soldiers spend the winter in the open field? They are weakened and disease-ridden. And France is weakened by the absence of its king and its finest troops.

“In short, the French are terrified we will attack.”

There are muttered comments. A bearded figure at the front – who is still, after all these years, built like a tree trunk – says, “Is this your best New Year’s present?”

“I did like your gold plates, Brandon, but I think this inches ahead.” Those within earshot laugh.

I raise my voice again. “So, gentlemen – I am watching closely. This is not simply a tournament. This is preparation for France. The Emperor only awaits my word and together we will launch our invasion. I have not yet decided who will fill the key command positions. Show me today how you deserve them.” I shoot my sword into its scabbard. “Let’s go.”

Outside the pavilion lies the vast, wind-whipped tiltyard. We mount our horses, put on helmets, with visors raised, and set off in procession around the arena.

It is one of those winter days that never seems to get properly light; the sky has a dim leaden glow, and around the tiltyard’s perimeter, torches are burning, even though it is the middle of the day. Beyond them, ruddy with cold, float the faces of the spectators, who are packed together on the benches of the grandstands, wrapped in furs or woollen cloaks, keeping warm with stamping and chanting, and burning their fingers and mouths on roasted chestnuts sold in twists of paper.

At one end of the tiltyard stands a huge mock castle –
The Castle of Loyalty
– its turrets rising fifty feet from the sandy floor. The battlements are lined with boys from the chapel choir, posing as ladies in gowns and long wigs. As my horse approaches I can see that chestnut shells are being lobbed at them from the stands; they duck below the parapet to retrieve them and chuck them back. Above them, real ladies – Catherine’s maids of honour – stand on each turrettop. Most are waving in response to shouts from the crowd, or struggling with veils flapping in their faces. One, however, is looking at me.

I return her stare with interest. It’s not that she is beautiful; Catherine has other maids of honour who are prettier. But she seems somehow compelling, significant: it’s as if I have been told something about her, though I can’t remember what, or as if I have seen her in a dream.

Her dress is white and gold, like the others’ – but on her, it puts me in mind of armour. Her hair – what little of it shows beneath her hood – is dark. She stands very erect, seemingly untouched by the wind. And her eyes… Even across this space I can see there is something commanding in that black gaze.

But the moment passes: I turn my horse, ready to head back up the other side of the tilt. I put those dark eyes out of my mind.

First event: an assault on the castle. Francis Bryan and Tom Wyatt have volunteered to defend the west face of the fortress against my team of four, which is made up – besides myself – of George Boleyn, Henry Norris and an athletic young courtier named Edward Seymour.

The north and south sides of the castle are bounded by a deep ditch – but not the west side. Here there is only the rampart: nine feet of packed earth, its surface smooth,
without handhold or foothold. At the top, behind a fence made of wooden stakes, Bryan and Wyatt are waiting.

We are armed – ready. The trumpets blow and we speed into the attack, yelling, swiping and stabbing at the two men with our long-handled pikes.

It is fiendishly difficult to fight men above you. You must direct the power of your blows upwards; you will find your arms, neck and lungs are quickly in distress.

Nevertheless, we go at it hard. I can see that Seymour, beside me, is eager to impress. We are both tall, with a good reach; there is lashing, striking and clanking as we engage the pikes that jab and slash at us from above.

Up there on the bank, Bryan’s lean figure is busy and flashy as a theatrical, while Wyatt is a confident heavyweight. He changes weapons: his sword’s edge may be blunted, but still, one horizontal swipe is enough to splinter the shaft of Norris’s pike.

Norris calls for a replacement weapon and we fight on. I swap pike for sword and manage to scramble some way up the bank, but Wyatt beats me back with a few smart blows. Seymour, following in my scraped and smeary footprints, returns just as quickly.

Drenched in sweat already, my chest heaving for breath, I back up and run at the mud bank again. Planting my feet wide apart as I run to combat the steep incline, I get close enough to the top this time to fight hand to hand, but can’t get my balance. My free hand flails for the fence; I can’t reach it. I’m forced back.

I call my team to regroup a little way from the bank. Quick conference; hard to speak between gasping breaths. I give instructions: fresh assault, new tactic.

Boleyn doesn’t have Seymour’s height but he’s belligerent, like a tough little dog. He and Seymour now attack from the
ground with their pikes so vigorously that Bryan and Wyatt can scarcely look over the fence.

Meanwhile, Henry Norris and I, under cover of this assault, use our swords to dig holes in the bank to make footholds for climbing.

It works. I climb, and manage to grab hold of one of the palings of the fence before I can be beaten down. Holding on, I fight hand to hand with Wyatt, all the time being supported from below by the blows of my comrades’ pikes. One of my best strikes leaves Wyatt’s shoulder-armour half hanging off.

By now Norris has made it up his scooped footholds too. The fight is fierce; Bryan and Wyatt must combat two of us at the fence, and the two others making their way up. At last, Seymour and Boleyn get close enough behind to help Norris and me climb over the palings and, with a trumpet blast and deafening cheers from the crowd, the herald declares the battle ended.

We walk unsteadily back to the pavilions, panting and exhausted, bruised and muddied, leaving the earth rampart pitted with digging and smeared with scrambling footmarks. As he unbuckles his helmet and wrenches it off, I see Wyatt looking back and up – up to the castle turrets.

That reminds me.

“Compton, who’s that girl?”

He’s holding open the flap of my private tent, hand out ready to take my helmet. He looks the way I’m pointing. “Mary Talbot, sir.”

“No, next to her. The one on the right.”

He pays more attention. “That’s Thomas Boleyn’s daughter. The younger one. Lady Anne.”

Oh, yes. So I have seen her before. Thomas Boleyn’s children have all been at Court for some time. She’s just one more among the many offspring of my friends. I watch her:
she’s no longer turned my way, but the strange feeling lingers. A sense of recognition. Why haven’t I felt it until now?

Trumpets blast. The first men are coming out for the tourney. I take a final glance around the arena. Away to the side, Catherine sits in her canopied viewing gallery. After so many pregnancies, she is a rounder figure now than she once was – solid as a pudding, her expression benign.

I pass into my tent.