VIII (9 page)

“Get him!”

The water arcs through the air and descends in a splatter, with glorious accuracy, on the head of Harry Guildford.

Francis Bryan plunges the nozzle of the bellows into the bucket again, pumping the handles furiously.

Guildford is sitting, blindfolded, on the wooden horse mounted on a wheeled trolley that we’ve been using for jousting training. Compton and Brandon, who have hold of the ropes attached to the front of the trolley, have been pulling him as fast as they can round the hall, while Bryan and I try to drench him with water missiles.

Bryan has taken the bellows from the fireplace. I am making do with cups and jugs from the kitchens.

Guildford’s got a lance in his right hand with which he is trying to take his revenge – a huge great long thing, one of the training lances with replaceable end-sections. It is – as I know from experience now – heavy, and hard to balance even when you can see what you’re doing. Since he can’t, the lance
is making extravagantly wild sweeps and several times almost topples him off his mount all by itself.

Now Brandon, who’s dropped his rope, empties a full bucket of water over Guildford’s head from behind, and dodges out of the way as Guildford sends the lance swooping about in reply. Guildford’s gulping and roaring, purple in the face, with his wet shirt stuck to his back like a milk-skin. The rest of us are shrieking with laughter.

The next moment Guildford thwacks Bryan an almighty blow on his bottom.

“He can see! He can see!” yells Bryan.

“WHAT IN GOD’S NAME IS GOING ON HERE?”

The voice is a roar. We stop and turn as one, all except Guildford, who – startled into a final loss of balance – slides sedately off the horse, and lands in a heap on the floor.

The chamberlain of the household here at Eltham Palace, a white-haired man with a long furred gown and a fine sense of his own importance, is standing in the doorway at the far end of the hall, eyes wide and cheeks puffing as he surveys the room.

“Look at the floor! Mother of God, look at the
hangings
! What on earth has possessed you, gentlemen?”

We are wet, panting, hiccupping. I double up to get my breath back, my hands on my knees. Looking between my legs I can see Bryan, behind me, calculating the trajectory needed to aim the bellows at the chamberlain.

“Get up, boy!”

Brandon has seen fit to join Guildford on the floor; he is flat on his back, presenting the soles of his very wet shoes to the old man.

“Do I have to point out that you are not supposed to bring that wooden horse into the house?” says the chamberlain, his voice quieter now but quivering with rage. “In fact, I would
like to know whether Master Simpson has given you permission to use it at all. Well?”

Not as such, is the answer, though no one offers it.

The chamberlain flaps his arms. “Away with you – all of you! Go up to your chambers! Do not think you will get away with this! There will be consequences! And you are not exempt, my Lord Prince! Your father will hear about this!”

We file past the chamberlain, attempting to look contrite, as he calls household servants to fetch mops and cloths. As soon as we make it to the stairs, we’re laughing again, running and jostling up the steps and scuffling along the passageway to my rooms.

Bryan stops off for his lute, Compton instructs a pageboy to run and find dry shirts, and Brandon sends for jugs of ale, which he persuades his favourite serving girl to bring up the back stairs without alerting the chamberlain. Then we pile into my bedchamber.

Bryan sweeps aside a scatter of chessmen and lies full length on one of the window seats.

Brandon sits down on the other window seat, springs up, shoves aside a comb and a tennis racquet, and sits down again. “Hal, does no one ever tidy up here? Your gentlemen are neglecting their duties.”

“On account of how he keeps us jousting and fighting all day,” says Guildford from inside his shirt, which a page is helping him to strip off.

It turns into a pleasant enough evening. Bryan, from his horizontal position, sings us a song with lute accompaniment. I discuss armour with the newly shirted Guildford, whose father and older brother are in charge of the Royal Armoury. I fancy designing my own jousting armour, but I can’t see my father agreeing to pay for it. Brandon and Compton, meanwhile, play a ridiculously competitive game of shuffleboard.

Later, I grab the lute from Bryan and start on a madrigal that I love, and the boys join in with the other voice parts, with varying degrees of success.

At the end Brandon clears his throat. “I usually don’t sing except to impress girls.”

“Know some deaf ones then, do you?” says Bryan. Brandon picks up a shuttlecock and throws it at him.

Deftly dodging it, Bryan gets up and pulls a card table towards him. “Hal, come and lose some money to me, would you? I could do with a new pair of boots.”

“Oh, aim a little higher. What about a horse?” says Brandon. “Or a house? Come to think of it, count me in. I could do with both.”

“I haven’t lost to you, Charles, in a month,” I say, putting down the lute and walking over, “and I don’t intend to start now.”

“Only because you ply me with drink while we’re playing,” Brandon says, pulling a mournful face.

I grin and hitch the stool under me.

“Primero?” says Bryan, hands poised with the pack, ready to deal.

I nod.

“For serious money?”

I laugh. “What else?”

Two hours later I’ve won a fair amount of cash, and Brandon has downed a large quantity of ale. On account of having lost a forfeit, he is currently kneeling on the bed pretending to be my Spanish sister Catherine, who for the past three months has been presiding over her married household at Ludlow, along with my brother. Bryan is taking the role of Arthur, which is all the funnier because he is so much smaller than Brandon.

My bed is a sight to behold: it has a crimson cloth-of-gold
canopy and striped curtains made of purple and yellow silk. Brandon has grabbed the curtains in a fistful under his chin and has poked his head between them; it looks like a puppet show. Now he’s squawking (in an attempt at a Spanish accent), “Oh Arthur! Be gentle with me!”

Bryan can mimic Arthur’s drawl perfectly. “Be patient, sweetheart, while I fetch my books. I’m sure there is a diagram of the female body somewhere…”

Guildford and I are laughing uproariously. Compton seems to have disappeared.

Brandon’s body is entirely hidden by the bed-curtains. As Bryan approaches, riffling through a copy of some book he’s grabbed from my cupboard, the blade of Brandon’s dagger appears, poking out between the curtains some way below his face.

Bryan looks up from the book, and gasps. “But, my love, I thought you were a woman!”

“Did your book not tell you, sir? This is what women’s parts are like.” Brandon bats his eyelashes. “Where can I put it, sir? Do we not fit together?”

Guildford falls off his chair, and carries on laughing on the floor.

“Hal…”

“What?”

It’s Compton, evidently returning from a conversation in the outer chamber. He says, “Master Denys is here to see you.”

“Oh, God.” Hugh Denys is one of my father’s most trusted servants. “Let him come in.” I look round at my companions. “Behave yourselves, boys – try to look respectable.” Bryan salutes, ironically, and Brandon hauls himself off the bed, sheathing his dagger. I’m wondering what message my father could possibly have sent… And Lord knows what the
chamberlain will have reported already to Denys downstairs. As the door opens, I turn and say, “Please tell the King we’ll pay for the damage to the hall floor, won’t we…”

I trail off. Hugh Denys has entered, still in his mudspattered riding boots and cloak; he’s clearly ridden hard. As he straightens from his bow, his gaze flicks round the disordered room, then back to me. He looks exhausted. “No, my Lord Prince. It’s not about any…” His eyes shut for a moment. “…floor. It’s news from Ludlow.”

Ludlow. I attempt to think. What could possibly be the news from there?

“Ah,” I say suddenly, spreading my arms in a grand gesture, “Princess Catherine is with child, is that it? Already? Hang out the bunting, my redundancy is complete.”

Denys frowns, puzzled. “No, sir. It’s your brother, sir. I’m afraid…” He hesitates, turning his hat in his hands. “I don’t know whether word reached here of his fever, but, well… it pains me more than I can express to bring you this news, sir. Prince Arthur is dead.”

I stare at him. Denys has an oddly crooked nose – I’ve never noticed it before. Was he born like that, I wonder, or did he have an accident in his youth? And it really is quite strange because I thought he said, just now, that my brother is dead.

Suddenly the room tilts, and the ground swings up to where the wall should be. Something hits me hard on the side of the face.

The next minute – or later, I’m not sure – I hear voices nearby.

“Steady—”

“Lift him—”

“Mind your shoes – he’s going to be sick.”

“There, sir…”

“He’s shivering – get a blanket.”

“It’s the shock of it – the grief.”

But even as they ease me into a chair, fold a blanket around me and place a basin in my lap – a basin into which I stare, dazed and stupid, as if an explanation will appear there… even now I know it’s not grief.

It’s not grief at all.

I’m sitting at the window, reading from the
Book of Psalms, translating from the Latin as I go. The April sunlight streams in on me, and the gilded, painted borders of the page dance; I run my finger along under the words to stop them jiggling.

The Lord is on my side; I will not fear: what can man do unto me?

At my feet, my dog Angwen twitches and whines; she is asleep, basking in the warm light, and seems to be dreaming of chasing rabbits.

The Lord taketh my part with them that help me: therefore shall I look in triumph upon them that hate me
.

My finger pauses; I am awed by how the words seem written just for me.

This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvellous in our eyes.

Three days have passed since I heard the news of Arthur’s death. I’ve hardly slept.

I will be king.

This phrase repeats in my head, over and over. It gives me a thrill that is half like fear, that squeezes my guts and sets my heart racing.

I will be king.

When I’m alone I say it, experimentally, out loud. While sharpening a pen… drawing a bow… buckling a dog’s collar. As if the object will respond.

I hold my hand up to the light, and see the flesh between my fingers glow orange-red, and I think: when I am king, when I am anointed with the holy oil at my coronation, this flesh will become sanctified. Every inch of me will be infused with the Holy Spirit – how will that
feel
?

Meanwhile, I can’t seem to summon up any pity for Arthur. I try to picture him in his last hours, weak with fever, but the image won’t come. Lying awake at night, I am afraid he will haunt me, his thin white shape rising from the foot of the bed, pointing a ghostly finger, accusing me of callousness. But he doesn’t appear. And in the morning what surprises me is how right it seems that he is gone and that I, now, am standing in his place.

But then, haven’t I known for years?

York will be king
.

And how did the other prophecy go?

Oh blessed ruler… you are the one so welcome that many acts will smooth your way…

I wrote them down, those prophecies, the same day I heard them in the Tower – or rather, I scribbled the bits I could remember – and kept the paper tucked carefully in the back of a book. The stories of King Arthur – I think that was the one.

Getting up now, I leave the Psalms lying open on the table and cross to the cupboard where I keep my books. Angwen, who has woken up, scrambles to follow me, and stands
beating her tail enthusiastically against my leg as I look along the shelves.

I’m still looking when there’s a knock at the door and Compton appears.

“My lord, Her Grace the Queen has arrived from Greenwich.”

It’s unexpected, and there’s no time to prepare – before I’ve even pushed the leaves of the cupboard door shut my mother is sweeping into the room and Compton has hold of Angwen’s collar; he bows himself and the dog out, to leave us alone.

The door clicks shut. My mother and I look at one another. And I realise it hasn’t occurred to me until this moment to wonder how she feels.

No need to wonder – it’s all too obvious. She looks like a paper doll in a downpour. She’s not crying, she’s entirely controlled – standing there, taking off her gloves – but her skin is so pale it’s almost translucent and her eyes look huge, damp and red-rimmed, the shadows beneath them mauve and blue.

What was I expecting,
congratulations
?

I approach my mother and kneel, as I always do after a time apart; she raises me and hugs me. The hug feels too tight; she holds me a fraction too long.

Then she puts me away from her and studies my face. “Compton tells me you’re not sleeping, my love.”

I nod, feeling agitated; I can’t think what to say.

“I know you were never close, you and… Arthur.” She says his name so softly it is almost a whisper. “How could you be, living apart all this time? But, knowing that, I wasn’t sure how much it would affect you… now…”

She strokes my hair. “Forgive me, sweetheart, I can see the pain in your face. It does you credit – you have a loving heart. But remember, Hal, we must not grieve too much. We may
incur God’s wrath if we do not submit ourselves humbly to His will.” Her eyes are swimming. She blinks and two fat droplets spill down her cheeks. “And that is what it is, you know – God’s will – that Arthur should be taken – from us – so young…”

She crumples me against her because she’s crying properly now, making no noise, just shuddering and shuddering. I cling to her, my arms round her waist, urgently wanting her to stop. But then I realise something awful. Something obvious, too – it’s as if a flash of lightning has shown me a thing hidden in the corner of the room, something that’s been there
all along
– how stupid have I been not to notice it before?

The awful, obvious thing is this: it’s no accident that Arthur has died; it is not by chance that the prophecy is coming true. That is not, after all, how prophecies work. God has killed my brother
for me
. And I have done this to my mother. It is my fault.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” my mother says, taking my hands from round her waist and turning away. She produces a handkerchief from a small bag at her belt and presses it firmly to each eye in turn. In the sunlight from the window, the wisps of hair escaping from her hood look golden and fragile.

I stand utterly still. I have an awful, hollow, winded feeling in my stomach – as if I have done something terrible, and it is too late to undo it.

“Ah, good boy.” My mother moves to the table by the window and rests her fingers on the page of Psalms. She takes a deep, steadying breath, and lets it out gingerly. She says, “I have been finding comfort in scripture too.”

I can’t reply. My eyes follow her as she walks about the room, minutely adjusting the position of objects, straightening them, lining them up – a box of hawks’ hoods,
a pen-and-ink holder, a writing slate.

Without looking at me she says, “Your father doesn’t want to make changes to your household immediately. You will, of course, become Prince of Wales instead of Duke of York – but exactly when, I don’t know. He may well assign you another tutor. And at some point he will bring you to Court to live with us, but not just yet.”

In the silence she looks up – I’m expected to say something. I swallow hard. “I will do whatever he wishes.”

She smiles, her face full of sympathy, then walks back to the window, where she gazes out at the sunny gardens, tapping her fingers on the sill. “He cried, you know,” she says. “Your father. I have never seen him cry before. And he came to me to do it.” There’s a note of defiance in her voice. She’s thinking of my grandmother, I suppose – that the King didn’t go to
her
. I try to picture my father weeping with anyone. I can’t.

My mother says, “Don’t expect too much of him, will you? Not at first. He – he had high hopes for Arthur. He saw so much of himself in him. And all that meticulous planning, all those years of training…” She breaks off, gives a little shake of her head. “But we must deal with reality – it is fruitless to dwell on what might have been.”

Then she turns and stretches out her hands towards me. “We are so fortunate, so blessed to have another son.”

“I will be good,” I say fervently. “I will be so good, Mama, I will work hard, I will please God, I will—”

“It’s all right, my love,” she says. “I know you will.” And she half-turns to the window again, and says in a light tone – matter-of-fact, “Anyway, as I said to your father – we are both young. God willing, we can have more children.”

She doesn’t mean children, she means sons. To secure the succession.

“But you don’t need more.” I move towards her.
See me
, I think.
See me. Standing, solid, before you. Here I am, Mother. Turn back and see me properly
.

It’s as if she’s heard me, because she does turns back. She reaches out, black sleeve trailing, a long finger uncurling, and smoothes a lock of hair away from my brow. “Ah, but sweetheart,” she says quietly, “which of us knows the date of our death?”

My mother spends the whole day here at Eltham, listening to my sisters read, attending chapel with the three of us, and then inspecting my school work and Mary’s sewing while Meg plays us a few sombre tunes on the virginals. Before nightfall, she rides the five miles back to Greenwich and I am left trembling with some dark feeling that I can’t understand.

After supper I return to my room in search of that book I was looking for earlier – the King Arthur stories. At first, scanning the shelves, I fear it’s at Greenwich or Richmond – I have book collections in all three places – but at last I see it, tucked at the end of the lowest shelf. I hook a finger behind the top of the spine and pull it out. The cover is blue velvet, embroidered with gold and silver flowers, and fastened with silver clasps – inside, the pages are handwritten in black and red ink, the illustrations individually painted.

In the very act of turning to the back of the book I imagine finding nothing – the paper vanished – and my heart starts thudding. But then I see it: a single sheet, folded several times.

I take the paper, smooth it out and, moving closer to the candlelight, I frown over the words, which are written very small (as if, I suppose, that would keep them more private) in
my best childish handwriting:

The one who has been prophesied will come, full of power, full of good devotion and good love. Oh blessed ruler, I find that you are the one so welcome that many acts will smooth your way. You will extend your wings in every place; your glory will live down the ages
.

And, beneath this, I’ve written the other prophecy:

York will be king
.

So, you weigh it in the scales, don’t you: a good thing against a bad, to see if the good thing is worth the trouble. And this is what must be weighed against my brother’s death and my mother’s grief: my glory.

It
will
be worth it. I will show her. She will see me become the greatest king of England that has ever lived.