VIII (13 page)

“I require and charge you both, as ye will
answer at the dreadful day of judgement when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it. For be ye well assured, that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God’s Word doth allow are not joined together by God; neither is their matrimony lawful.”

The chapel settles into a comfortable silence, broken only by a muffled snort as one of the witnesses stifles a sneeze. There is nothing to say. Wolsey was right, there was no problem: the Pope did grant a dispensation. Not in time for the betrothal – which went ahead anyway – but in plenty of time for this, our wedding.

Stealing a sidelong glance at Catherine now, I catch the outline of her profile, clear against the busy background of carvings and gildings. I’ve hardly seen her in recent months: today she looks thinner and paler than I remember, and
I have heard rumours that neither my father nor hers is providing enough money for her household. I wish I could remedy that, but I can’t. I am thirteen, which is too young, my father calculates, to be a husband yet in anything but name. So, after this ceremony, we will go our separate ways – to live, for now, as we did before: Catherine at Durham House and me at my father’s side, wherever he happens to be.

I turn to the front again. On the floor, around the edges of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s robes, patterns of leaf shadows and bright sunlight move on the coloured tiles. Against my leg I can feel the stiff gold fabric of Catherine’s hooped skirt. My hand is supporting hers; her fingers feel soft and dry, the frill of her cuff lying against my thumb. I wonder if she is thinking of that other wedding day, when she married my brother. She must be.

A ring appears on a velvet cushion. I take it and look down at Catherine’s hand. The nails are very short – she’s bitten them right to the quick.

I pass the ring onto her thumb saying, “In the name of the Father,” then onto her index finger, “And of the Son,” then her middle finger, “And of the Holy Ghost” – at which the blue eyes flick up to me and she smiles; a small, secret smile. And finally the ring reaches its home, sliding over the knuckle of her fourth finger, “Amen.”

“What about the nights?”

“Oh yes, they’re working nights,” Harry Guildford says. “Don’t worry, it’ll get done in time. But the bill for candles will be enormous.”

We’re in the largest of my private rooms at Richmond, planning the tournament that will mark my fourteenth birthday – my coming of age. Guildford, who has developed a passion for the mechanics of these displays, is bringing me up to date with the progress made both by his father and brother, who run the Royal Armoury, and by the Office of Revels, which is in charge of making the costumes and pageant-cars.

I say, “Show me the vehicle that’ll hold the animals.”

My feet have been propped up on the end of a nearby bench. I swing them down and lean forward as Guildford hands me the design. It’s a large plan, meticulous and detailed, complete with measurements and labels to indicate building materials.

The contraption for the animals is an enclosed pageantcar, set on pivoting wheels, to be drawn by two horses dressed to resemble lions, in shaggy cloths and headpieces. The outside of the car, according to the plan, will be made to look like a mountain, topped with trees and bushes and craggy rocks.

“We’ll have a girl sitting on here, a real one,” Guildford points to a boulder, “but these deer will be artificial.
Papier-mâché
on wire frames, painted and dressed in fabric.”

“And the live animals in here?” I point to the middle of the mountain.

“Yes, two compartments inside, one for the buck and the other – here – for the two greyhounds.”

Charles Brandon peers over my shoulder. “The dogs’ll go mad – they’ll be able to smell the buck in the next compartment.”

“All the better,” says Guildford. “When we open the trap they’ll come out at a roaring pace.”

“Make sure the division inside is strong, though,” says the muffled voice of Francis Bryan, who is lounging on a daybed on the other side of the room with his hat over his face. “Otherwise you’ll open the door and find two dogs having an early meal.”

I hand the plan back to Guildford. “Once they’ve chased it round the hall and made the kill, I want the buck’s head cut off and presented to my father.” I think he’ll like that.

Guildford makes a note in his pocket book as I cross to the table and pull a pile of papers towards me – sketches for the suits of armour. I leaf through them. Then again, more carefully. Green and white chequered, red striped with gold, all green, all red…

“Where’s mine? The black one – black all over – where is it?”

Guildford, still scribbling, says, “But, sir, you are not allowed to take part.”

I turn to him. “
What?
”

“Express orders of the King. I thought…” He looks up – and swallows. “… you knew.”

There’s a silence; everyone’s looking at me. Even Bryan’s emerged from under his hat. I fling down the papers and stride out.

My father’s face is stony.

I am holding myself in check, my hands clenching and unclenching by my sides. I say, “Please, sir. I have faithfully performed every task you have set me: hours with the account books, endless meetings, endless lessons. This is the one thing I
want
to do. And I have the skill, I have worked hard…”

“No.”

I take a breath – try another tack. “To sit on the sidelines will be a humiliation. All the boys I train with are taking part. And what is jousting, if not preparation for war? One day I shall be their king. One day I shall lead them into battle—”

“Pray you won’t have to.”

“God may call me to lead them into battle,” I say steadily, “just as you fought, sir, in your youth – and have fought many times since.”

My father sighs impatiently and puts down his quill. “But I had no choice. When I was young I was on the run, fighting
for my life. Since then I have fought for my crown and the peace of my realm. This, for you, is a
game
.”

We’re in a small chamber where the window is shaded by a red hanging, lending the whole space an infernal glow. It’s warm, but still my father, sitting at his desk, has a fur-lined robe wrapped tight about him. Behind him on the floor stand rows of chests, strapped and locked. Before him on the table sit bunches of keys, alongside neat sheaves of papers, ledger books in meticulously squared-off stacks, and small chests with neatly ordered drawers of whetstones and penknives, quills and small silver pots of ink.

I am standing stiffly before the desk, like a soldier reporting to his commanding officer. I say, “Not just a game, sir. My ambition, when I am king, is to reclaim the French crown. The conquests of Henry V—”

“Came to nothing!” interrupts my father, banging the desk with his hand. “Worse than nothing – disaster! Henry V’s military ambitions killed him – when his son and heir was still a baby. The result? France was lost. England descended into civil war.” He leans forward, looking at me intently. “Secure the succession or, no matter what your achievements, your legacy will be a
catastrophe
. This is why, incidentally,

I don’t want you skewered on the sports field. Do you see?” He tilts his head and speaks slowly, as if explaining to an idiot. “I – am – securing – the – succession.”

There’s a silence. A breeze stirs the red curtain. Tentatively, I say, “I feel sure there will be no disaster for me, sir. I am convinced…” I hesitate; I am loath to share this secret with my father.

“Convinced of what?” he snaps, alert and motionless like a bird, his beady eyes fixed on me.

I take a deep breath. “That I am destined to restore
England’s glory, sir. And I believe this means winning back the French crown. I must be trained for battle—”

A shout of laughter echoes round the room. “My God!” my father exclaims. “You don’t change, do you? My son: the thoughtless oaf with the terrifying sense of entitlement. Showy, too. You’ve always fancied yourself a hero, but you have no idea what it means.”

“And you
do
?” I snap. “Your heroics are ancient history. Look at you now! Permanently bent over your desk like a clerk! Obsessed with nothing but money!”

There is a silence. I am panting, trembling. My father regards me coldly.

He says, “I could have you flogged for what you’ve just said. I would like to – you deserve it. But… I will treat this little outburst as an opportunity for you to
learn
.” He rests back in his chair and opens his hands. “Why this scorn for administrative work? Is it not
manly
enough for you? Do you think that if you ride around on a horse, brandishing your sword, the country will somehow magically run itself? And that the money to pay for your conquering armies can be plucked from the trees like fruit?

“What about taxation, trade, justice? What about the administration of estates, the security of our borders, feuds between families that have money and men enough to start a war on their own? You have spent all this time, as you say,
faithfully performing every task I set
. Were you asleep while you did it? Did you not notice that being a ‘clerk’ is how I exercise
power
?” He opens his eyes wide, in mock-innocence. “If you think you know a better way, please share it with me.”

I feel sick, but something in me knows I can’t turn back. I say, my voice quavering, “I believe England needs a lionhearted leader. Someone to dazzle the people – someone for them to look up to. Your tasks have taught me a great deal,
but some of what I have seen I… I cannot think is for the best.” I daren’t look at my father: I’m shaking, and I have to focus my eyes on the wall above his head as I press on. “The noble families of England must be allowed their pride and honour, sir. They must exercise their rightful power as your loyal servants, not be bent constantly under the weight of debts, loaded with trumped-up fines they have done nothing to deserve. When… when I am king I will uphold true justice. I will reward courage and valour. I will pursue virtue, glory and immortality.” I come to a stop, feeling drained, and wait for the explosion.

The explosion doesn’t come. When my father speaks it is with scorn, but his voice is quiet. “It sounds so pretty, doesn’t it?” Slowly, he stands up and limps around the desk towards me. He says, “Do you honestly think your mightiest subjects will serve you out of
love
? Think of the last four kings before me. Three of them died violently and the fourth spent years fighting for his crown.” One thin hand reaches out and squeezes my arm. “Henry. As king you will be surrounded by people in thrall to their own ambition and greed. Trust none of them. Every day is a trial of strength. Not of your stupid sword-arm, idiot; your strength here.” He jabs my forehead. “And here.” He prods my chest.

For a moment he looks at me searchingly, then turns away. Near the fireplace there’s a small table on which stand a lidded jug and cups; he crosses to it and pours himself a drink.

“You want to be admired?” he says. “I have found that it is far better to be feared. So how do you suppose I achieve that? I cannot keep a knife to the throat of every ambitious duke or earl. Yet I need them to work loyally for me when they are hundreds of miles away, defending our northern border, keeping the peace in Wales…”

He knocks the drink back; wipes his mouth. “Debt to the crown keeps them on a nice short lead, like a dog. Step one foot out of line and,” putting the cup down, he makes a sharp gesture, as if he is yanking a chain, “the debt is called in and they are ruined. Without money, they cannot pay for their guards and their troops and their castles. And so, they cannot challenge me. In fear of this, I find they serve me well.”

I watch as my father walks back to his desk; his fingers drift lovingly over his papers. He says, “The battle for control of England is fought as much
here
as on the battlefield. So – I suggest that you leave off dreaming quite so much of jousting, and spend more time instead with the account books.” Sitting in his chair again, he picks up his quill. “I will make a note to increase the time you spend on administrative matters.”

“And if I agree to that,” I say, “will you let me take part in this one tournament? Please? It is all arranged. My performance will do you honour – you’ll see. It is, after all, my coming of age.”

My father raises his eyes to the ceiling, pretending to consider. “Um…” Then his usual contemptuous expression returns. “No. And that is my final answer. You can enjoy the tournament as a spectator. You can sit next to me.”

Exhausted and angry, I don’t know what to do except bow and make for the door.

My father says, “Oh, one more thing.”

I stop – turn.

He’s back to checking the ledger. His eyesight has weakened recently; he bends low over the book – so low his nose almost scrapes it, along with his pen. With only the briefest of glances up at me he says, “You will reject your marriage to Princess Catherine. It can be undone perfectly straightforwardly if you make a formal declaration before
you come of age.”

I stare at him. “No.”

The pen pauses; my father lifts his head. “I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t want to.”

“What you want or don’t want has no relevance. Marriages are a matter of diplomatic strategy. The alliance with Spain is not as useful as it was. Still…” He frowns absently at the window, considering. “I think we won’t declare the rejection publicly for now. Just have the document signed and witnessed, and then we can keep it in reserve and see which way the tide runs.” He dips his pen in ink again and bends over the book.

I think of Catherine; I think of my mother, saying,
Do you like her?
I think of the person I want to be – the person I feel God has called me to be: golden, upstanding, chivalrous, devout. I say, “It would be dishonourable.”

“Dishonourable?”
My father slaps his hand on the desk. “This is the difference between you and Arthur: you have no understanding of reality… Oh, to live in a simple world! A world of fairytale ideals!” He jabs his quill at me. “You’re
dreaming
. Open your eyes. Foreign rulers twist and turn every day of their lives – they promise to be your undying friend, and at the same time they make deals behind your back with your enemies. You cannot cling to some childish view of honour; you will be taken for a fool.”

“I like Catherine,” I say doggedly. “I need her.”

My father flings down his pen, digs his hands into his grey hair and growls in frustration. “For the love of Christ, have you been listening to
a single
word
I’ve said? You are revealing nothing, boy, but the depths of your own inadequacy, which, God knows, I have been made bitterly aware of already. You
need
her? Then that is an added reason for her to be sent
away. You must learn to need no one. You must be prepared to strike off your right hand if it is for the good of England.”

“I see you doing nothing that goes against
your
own inclinations. Sir.”

“You imagine no decision I take is hard?” He stares at me, then scrapes back his chair and bolts out of it. “I take hard decisions every day.”

I manage not to flinch as he approaches. I say, “To fine a duke you don’t like and clink the coins into those chests over there?”

He is looking at me intently. He whispers, “I had to execute a man she believed might be her brother.”

“She?” But I know who he means. My mother. And that man, the Pretender…

My father’s eyes are unfocussed, as if memories are replaying themselves in his mind. He says, “The Spanish demanded it. They refused to consider letting Catherine leave Spain unless, they said, not a drop of doubtful royal blood remained in England. This man had been in prison for years – I’d taken care that the Queen never saw him. But she had been hoping all along it was her brother… I knew that. And still I had him killed. To make an alliance England needed.”

He rubs his face. “It half-killed
her
too. It weakened her health. Perhaps if I had not done it, she might be…” His voice tails off. He looks at me – and his expression hardens. “Do you think I don’t live with this every day? I am strong—” Raising a white-knuckled fist he thumps himself on the chest. Then he leers at me, savage and close. “Could you do it? Are you
heroic
enough?”

He is close enough that I can see the texture of his skin, the individual dots of stubble, the greyish tinge to his pallor, the hairs protruding from his nostrils. His lips are dry, flecked
with white spittle at the corners; his breath is sour. Sinews at his neck stand out like ropes. The gnarled, scarred hands are ink-stained. Here is the sanctified flesh of a king: ideals lost, soiled by struggle, decayed into a manipulative, frail sinner.

I have never before felt so clean and shining. Righteousness fills me to the skin. And righteous anger too: why have I been blaming myself for my mother’s death? Here is the sorry creature who made calculations with my mother’s happiness – weighed it on the scales, counted up the cost on his grubby abacus.
Thou art weighed in the balances, Father,
I say to myself,
and art found wanting
. Disgust rises in my throat like bile.

Confident and powerful, my voice no longer wavers: “It is God’s will that Catherine should be my wife.”

“Is it?” My father limps back to his desk. His tone is sardonic. “Well… it is
my
will that she should not.” He leans on his hands as he lowers himself to sit. “You will reject the marriage. I command it. Or your life will become extremely unpleasant. Don’t push me to devise ways to make you suffer. But be assured – I will devise them if necessary.” He pulls papers towards him, dips his pen. “Now get out.”

I slam the door behind me, startling the servants and guards standing outside. As I walk through the chamber beyond, I think:
I only have to wait, Father. You are an old man
.