VIII

  The sunshine is eye-watering, glinting off trumpets and gilded armour, off swords and shields and cloth-of-gold surcoats. Drifts of blossom from the orchard at the tiltyard’s western boundary flutter on the warm spring breeze and land: a stray petal here on a herald’s crimson cap, there on a horse’s braided mane; a sprinkling of pink and white against the wooden fencing of the arena’s perimeter. The sky is a dazzling blue, the only clouds high thin streaks of translucent white.

  We are celebrating May Day but I am not competing; instead I have arrived on my white charger as king not knight, have taken a turn about the tiltyard to the cheers of the crowd and a trumpet fanfare, and have retired into the building known as the Tiltyard Towers, to enjoy my role as spectator.

  Emerging now from the spiral staircase into the viewing gallery, I come round a corner and take a sharp breath: she is there, Anne, perfectly dressed in cloth of gold and bright green satin, jewels winking in the sunlight at every available edging of cloth, at her ears, fingers and at her throat; but none of them as bright as her sharp dark eyes upon me.

  I smile. I touch my lips to her hand and watch as an expression of relief and gratification floods her face. She sees only my perfect shell; she thinks her charm has soothed me.

  The viewing gallery is a loggia – open to the air on the tiltyard side. We sit in full view of the crowd. Anne’s brother George, armed and mounted for the joust, stops his horse below us and, in the language of chivalry, asks her humbly for a favour. I watch as she leans forward and drops a gold-trimmed handkerchief onto the ground. George sends a page to retrieve it, and twists it round the fabric band on his helmet.

  The tournament begins. The sand is churned by hooves, by falling men, by lances cast aside and pages running. It is raked and churned again. Norris’s horse refuses to run; I lend him mine, and the crowd roars its approval.

  As two new riders line up and gesture for their lances, a letter is passed to me. I break the seal – stamped with Cromwell’s crest – and read.

  Down in the yard, there is a crescendo of yelling as the horses thunder in, and a booming crack as a lance makes contact and splinters. The hit rider, bouncing like a rag doll in the saddle, slumps down towards his stirrups as his grooms run forward.

  I refold the letter and rise. I do not look at Anne. I speak to no one as I leave.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ XVII ♦ ♦ ♦

  “She has had lovers. Many. Norris among them. And… and her own…”

  I look down at my hands – at the brooch I’m turning compulsively in my fingers. I can’t speak the words.

  Jane is sitting to my right, halfway across the room. Meek on a low stool; plain as a mouse, even in the new clothes I’ve given her. Softly, she says, “Yes?”

  I take a shuddering breath. “Brother. Her own brother.”

  “George?”

  “George, yes, George. She’s only got one. Christ!” I lean my elbows on the chair-arms; press my forehead to my fists. “She plotted with them to murder me. If Cromwell hadn’t found out in time I would be in my grave by now.”

  Jane whispers, “No.”

  My eyes snap open. She adds hastily, “Forgive me, sir, if I can scarcely believe it.”

  I raise my head and look at her. I can find nothing snide, nothing calculating in her face. I say, “Evil is shocking to the godly, Jane. Your innocent mind could never conceive of the depravities these people have committed.”

  Looking down again, I open my hand; the brooch has dug red grooves into my palm. It is decorated with five diamonds and five rubies; above the rubies gold letters spell out Tristis Victima – ‘Sad Victim’. I ordered it some weeks ago for a masque: I was playing the part of someone struck with the dart of love – now it seems all too appropriate in a different way. I sling it onto the table beside me; it sits spinning on the polished wood.

  Jane says, “What will happen to them, sir?”

  I push myself out of the chair. “They are in the Tower.”

  “The Queen too?”

  “Of course.” Near the window, on another table, there is a pair of virginals. I lift the lid and play a few notes. “It is out of my hands.”

  For a long while after this I stand motionless, looking towards the window. We are at Chelsea, at Thomas More’s old house on the river. It is a convenient place for Jane to lodge in – for now. The garden is well tended and, as the late afternoon shadows creep and lengthen over its herb beds, scents drift through the open window. Somewhere in the distance a dog barks. I hear a soft rustle of skirts. Gentle, tentative fingers touch my sleeve. “Sir?”

  I take the fingers and kiss them. Quietly I say, “You can’t imagine, Jane, what it is to come so close to evil. To have the Devil so near that he almost…” I shut my eyes – shake my head.

  Wherrymen are shouting on the river. Somewhere down in the servants’ quarters, a door bangs. In the aviary below the window, a nightingale begins to sing.

  “I thank God for my narrow escape, Jane,” I say. “I thank God for granting me life.” I smile at her: at the grave little concerned face. “Life to share with you.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ XVIII ♦ ♦ ♦

  My dearest Jane –

  They tell me that the execution has been set for tomorrow. In the afternoon, about three o’clock, I should be able to send you a messenger with the good news that it has been done. Then I will come to you myself by river and we shall be betrothed the next morning. It will be the happiest day of my life.

  H. R.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ XIX ♦ ♦ ♦

  Seventeen months later

  I am holding a boy-child again. And his strange, serious eyes are looking into mine. He is swaddled. Just a tuft of hair peeks out at the centre of his forehead. The hair is my colour. He is my son. Edward.

  The cloth he is wrapped in is gold, my clothes are gold, the altar-cloth before me here in the chapel is gold. Gilded angels look down on me from the gold-starred ceiling; icons covered in gold-leaf shimmer in the light of a forest of wax tapers.

  It is evening. The chapel is quiet and still. I have come here for a private moment of thanksgiving – with only my gentlemen for company.

  The baby purses his tiny lips, and makes a gurgling sound in his throat. His brow furrows – wrinkled as a walnut – and blurs as I begin to weep; great blotting droplets which darken the brilliant colours of his wrappings.

  Almighty Father, humbly I thank You for giving me strength to endure my sufferings.

  Through them, like Christ, I have brought salvation to my people.

  Here is that salvation: here is peace and prosperity, lying in my arms. Here is the glorious future of my bloodline. My triumph.

  To be on my knees like this is an agony; my leg is bad again. I indicate that I wish to rise – my gentlemen hurry forward on either side, steadying my elbows, their hands on my back, enabling me to straighten, slowly, while still carrying the child.

  The men stay with me, supporting me, as I turn and walk from the altar.

  Outside the chapel door, one of my favourite young Privy Chamber attendants is waiting.

  “Yes, Tom?” I say, pausing by him.

  Tom Culpeper straightens from his bow. He is a pretty youth, with a hard edge of ambition in his eyes that the ladies do not spot. I, however, see it and like it; he is from no great family – he relies solely on his king to get what he wants. Which is as it should be. He says, “I have news from the Queen’s physicians, Your Majesty.”

  From Jane’s apartments, just a courtyard away.

  “Well?”

  Culpeper steps close and says in a low voice, “Sir, they report that Her Majesty’s condition is worsening. Her fever is high and getting higher. Her confessor is in attendance.”

  I nod, and move off along the passageway, in the direction of my own apartments. Culpeper breaks into a trot to catch up. “Your Majesty?”

  I stop.

  “Forgive me, sir, but I am instructed to ask what your plans might be for going hunting at Esher. Will
you delay here another day, sir?”

  “If the Queen is better tomorrow morning, I shall leave for Esher immediately.”

  “And…” The young man hesitates. “… if she is no better, sir?”

  The birthing chamber turned sick room… the thought of such a place fills me with an ancient dread. I cannot be waiting for news. I cannot be waiting for Compton to come.

  I glance at Culpeper. He is not Compton. Compton has been dead these half dozen years or more, carried off by the sweating sickness one summer. I miss him and yet… With new men like Culpeper, I am free of the past.

  Culpeper is waiting for my response. I say, “Let them tell the Queen I am still here. If she asks for me, let them say that I am coming – that I am delayed in some meeting; they can make up a reason. But I cannot wait. Whatever happens, I leave for Esher tomorrow.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  In the event, she does not ask for me, and no one has to lie. Near midnight that night, before I have had the chance to leave Hampton Court, Jane takes leave of it herself. At the other side of the palace, I am woken to receive the news.

  PART FIVE:

  Weighed in the Balances

  ♦ ♦ ♦ I ♦ ♦ ♦

  “There has been a wax doll found – a baby. It was half-buried in a churchyard, here in London. With two pins stuck through it.”

  The face of Sir William Sidney, chamberlain of my son’s household, pales behind his beard. “God preserve the Prince!”

  I incline my head in agreement. I’m standing next to a table covered in a mess of papers, remnants of drinks and candle ends. It has been a bad night. I am still in my dressing robe.

  I say, “So… you see the seriousness of your task. Though Edward – though my son is a gift from God for my consolation, and for the comfort of the whole realm; though he is the guarantee of peace and of the continuation of my blessed dynasty—” I take a steadying breath, “and though he is a defenceless infant barely a year old, yet still there are people out there – astonishingly – who wish him dead.”

  Outside, under a grey sky, the rain is driving sideways across the courtyard. It is as light as it will ever be this morning; the candles are still lit.

  “You already check his food.” I begin to paw my way through the pile of papers on the table, letting them slip to the floor as I discard them. “Double-check it. Triple-check it. Not a single substance must pass his lips that has not been tested in large quantities.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where did I put the list?”

  From the shadows behind me, Cromwell starts forward. “Sir?”

  “The list. I made a list, damn it… in the night.” I step back and flap a hand towards the pile. “Find it.”

  Cromwell leafs through the papers quickly; pulls one out; hands it to me.

  As I take it, I feel something move in my mind. I am experiencing it more and more these days. It is as if there is something else that looks out through my eyes – some other being. I think that perhaps it is God. I scan my scrawled writing and glance up at Sidney. “All right: no page or servantboy must be allowed to set foot in the household. Not one. They can’t be sufficiently trusted. And they carry infection.”

  Sidney nods.

  I look at the list again. “No person below the rank of knight is to enter Edward’s presence.”

  “A formal document will be issued, containing all these points,” Cromwell puts in.

  I pace, haltingly, on the carpet before the window, holding the list in front of me. “Next: no one – no one – is to touch Edward, no one is to so much as kiss his hand, unless they have had my express permission to do so. And – even if I have given permission, either you or Lady Bryan must be in attendance when the contact occurs.”

  Turning, I stop to consider Sidney. Grey-bearded but still strong, he is an experienced military commander. But is he enough to protect Edward? How can anyone be enough?

  I limp over to him. “You answer for the safety of my son. With your life.”

  Sidney meets my look, standing to attention. “Yes, sir.”

  At that instant pain strikes up through my leg. Beside me there’s a chair; I grip its back.

  I manage to say, “Cromwell will give you the list of other measures.”

  “I will fulfil every one with the utmost diligence.”

  “Yes… you will.”

  Sidney bows and exits; unseen behind me, Cromwell must have indicated that he should go.

  Cromwell says, “Shall I call the doctor, sir?”

  I shake my head, breathing heavily. “Passing now.”

  The wave of pain subsides; I stay leaning on the chair for a moment, enjoying the relief. Then I move over to the long table, where a new map of the south coast’s defences is laid out. Looking at it, I say, “It was wrapped in a winding cloth, this – this wax thing?”

  “Yes. Apparently. Would you like it fetched for you to view?”

  I shudder. “No.”

  The map shows all the places an enemy fleet might land; every sandy bay is drawn, every inlet, every fort and town and cliff-top beacon. I have been annotating it myself – showing where I want new, better fortifications. The threat of attack is now greater than ever: the Pope has declared that I am no longer the rightful king of England. Even now his envoys are exhorting the Emperor and the King of France to deprive me of my throne.

  “Look, I can build all this,” I say, indicating the map. “I can design the best gun towers this country has ever seen. I can buy the heaviest guns. I can smash every nation the Pope urges to invade us, but…” I turn to Cromwell. “But what I fear – what makes me wake in a sweat at two in the morning – is some godforsaken carpenter sticking pins into a wax doll in Smithfield.”

  Cromwell looks back at me, pasty-faced, his eyes baggy and red-rimmed; he looks as if he’s at his desk every night until two in the morning. Which he probably is. But there’s something else in his eyes: a glint that is not the glint of a penpusher.

  He says, “That carpenter is not sticking pins into anything now, I can assure you, sir. His hands are…” He flexes own fingers thoughtfully, “not as useful to him as they were. I supervised his interrogation myself.”

  “Give me the list of staff for Edward’s household.”

  Cromwell sorts quickly through his papers, and hands one to me.

  I look down the names. “How can I tell that one of this lot isn’t doing the same? These women who are his rockers – I know, they all… they all have spotless reputations, they’ve all been thoroughly checked – but how can I know… These men,” I jab my finger at the list, “these Gentlemen of the Bedchamber. How can I be certain of their loyalty? How can I know their secret intentions?”

  “Each person has been selected with the utmost care.”

  I sling the list aside and take hold of Cromwell’s face. He smells of clean linen and tooth-soap. Not the blood and fear of the interrogation room. I say, “The Devil’s disguises are the best. I want to see – I want to see in here,” I touch his forehead. “And in here.” I prod his chest.

  I let go of Cromwell and turn away. “Some old hag’s got a doll of me with a pin through its leg, that’s for sure.”

  “It’s all superstition, sir,” says Cromwell evenly. “It is unpleasant to think of, but a doll can have no effect – other than to point us the right way to find a traitor.”

  I take the list and drop it on top of Cromwell’s pile of papers. “Check them out again. All of them.”

  “Yes, sir.” He shuffles the papers deftly. “If I could just ask Your Majesty about a couple of other things? The munitions ordered from Antwerp—”

  “The thing that astonishes me,” I interrupt, pacing again, “is that however much God does to show that I am the vicar of Christ for my people, that I am the channel for divine grace in this country, a number of my miserable subjects will work against me. What was that report from… was it Kent?… the idiot who said, ‘If the King knew every man’s thought, it woul
d make his heart quake’ – was that it?”

  “The man was in Cranbrook, in Kent,” says Cromwell. “His name is Skarborow. He is in custody. Regretting his words.”

  “God has blessed me with a son and shown that what I am doing pleases him. They have only to obey. Is that really so hard? God speaks to me. Not to them. To me.”

  The room is still. The wind sounds down the chimney, a low eerie note. I realize that I have been shouting.

  After a moment Cromwell says, “Alongside measures for the Prince’s security, it would be wise to speed negotiations for a new marriage, sir. All loyal subjects long for the birth of a Duke of York.”

  I let out a breath. Then I flop into a chair and prop my bad leg on a nearby chest. “What have the French said? Will they bring the princesses to Calais for me to view?”

  “They say they are not willing to parade them like horses at market.”

  “Sod them.” I pick up a candle-end and lob it into the fire. “Always an insult. The sodding French arrogance.”

  Cromwell perches his bulk on a stool close by me, his elbows on his knees. “I have, though, received the report from Dr Peter about the Duke of Cleves’ sister.”

  “All right,” I say. “Tell me.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ II ♦ ♦ ♦

  I can ride again. The roads are murder: the mud is frost-hardened and rutted worse than a ploughed field. But I can ride again. The wind on my face, the movement of the horse – even the cold drizzle needling my eyes – is pleasurable for a man who has been lame half the winter.

  We number six, my party: six gentlemen in matching multi-coloured cloaks, travelling incognito into Kent. Despite the roads, despite the weather, we make good progress from Greenwich, down the great Roman thoroughfare of Watling Street, towards Rochester.

  Cromwell has arranged a marriage for me. I am riding to meet my bride. She is the Duke of Cleves’ sister – the Lady Anna – and she is resting in Rochester after her Channel crossing. She expects to meet me at Blackheath in a few days’ time, from where I will lead her into London, to receive the City’s welcome.