VIII (20 page)

The door shuts. I don’t even bother to look up.

“If you’re feeling better it’s because you’ve stopped taking all those bloody medicines,” I say, reaching for my gilt compasses and taking a measurement on the drawing in front of me. “I knew you had too many.”

I can feel Wolsey smiling. “And good morning to you, Your Grace. I am perfectly recovered, thank you. It was just a little fever. It didn’t stop me working.” To prove it – as I see when I do look up – he’s carrying a hefty sheaf of papers.

I am in my private library at Greenwich, in the tower closest to the river. Cold, lemony sunlight shines flat across my desk, where large plans are spread out – for siege engines, and guns, and armour. My own designs.

“I want to speak to someone from the armoury.”

“I’ll arrange it.” Wolsey sorts through his papers, and brings one to me. “May I? There really aren’t too many this morning.” He slides it in front of me. “This is the money for the repairs at Tunbridge and Penshurst.”

I sign, and go back to my drawing. A mortar and a large-bore cannon, which I want cast in bronze. I say, “George Boleyn’s sister – the younger one. Wasn’t she supposed to be married into Ireland?” I’m sketching details for the decorative engraving, now – roses, lions, dragons. “I half remember giving consent to a match.”

“With the Earl of Ormonde’s son.” Wolsey brings another document; waits – then lays it down. “The wardship of the Cluny boy.”

I sign. “And it hasn’t happened because…?”

“Sir?”

“The marriage.”

“Oh, the usual – the families can’t agree terms.” Wolsey returns to his papers, which lie on a nearby table; I sit back and watch him. He is huge, and impressive in red. The hem of his robe lifts an inch as he leans over the table – I see the backs of his wide velvet shoes and his ankles, puffy in white silk. A wrestler in velvet shoes and silk hose. He says, “Harry Percy has been showing interest in her, too – and he’s a much better catch. She no doubt fancies being Countess of Northumberland.”

“That’s ridiculous. She’s not the right rank for Percy.” I reach for a knife and cut a few shavings from my red ochre pencil. Then I test the line it draws. “And there’s a wife already picked out for him, in any case.”

“Yes, the Talbot girl. He doesn’t like her.”

“Since when did that count for anything?”

Wolsey laughs.

A gilded leather box on my desk holds drawers filled with silver boxes of ink, pairs of scissors, penknives and small whetstones to sharpen them, a tiny mirror, hawks’ hoods, odd keys and the occasional jewel. I sort through looking for the narrowest-nibbed pen; find it, dip it in ink and bend over the drawing again.

As I draw, I say, “Whatever there is between Percy and Boleyn’s sister, make sure it’s broken off, will you?”  

“With pleasure, sir.”  

There’s a tap at the door. Wolsey moves to answer it – has a brief, murmured conversation with someone outside and comes back into the room, holding a letter. I lean back in my chair and stretch, turn my head, move my shoulders, look up at the ceiling – at the antique mermaids fashioned in painted leather mâché, their cheeks rouged as brightly as an actor’s.  

“My God, half an hour doing anything at a desk and I’ve had enough. How on earth do you manage more?”  

“I am constantly inspired by devotion to my master.” Wolsey’s grinning. He holds out the letter.  

“What’s this, then?”  

“Sir, I believe it’s news from Italy.”  

Catherine’s at prayer when I burst in: a stout bundle of ornate clothes, kneeling at the altar in the far corner of her bedchamber. She starts, crosses herself hastily, and stands up.  

I’m across the carpet in two strides – I see her flinch minutely as I reach for her. What is she expecting? Whatever it is, what she gets is a picking up and a whirling round. She shrieks and loses a slipper, which goes spinning into a corner.  

“By Saint Mary! Hal! What is it?”  

I set her down, her bell-skirt swinging. I put my hands on her shoulders. It takes an effort to speak steadily. “There’s been a battle in Italy – at Pavia. Your nephew…
our
nephew, Charles… God has given him such a victory over the French, Catherine! Thousands of them dead and King Francis captured. In imperial hands. Right now.”

There is silence – a delicious silence. She’s not even breathing. Then her hands reach for the soft green hangings at the bedpost beside her; she hides her face in them and weeps.

“Read it to her!” I tell Wolsey, who’s come in behind me, brandishing the letter. “Read the bit about Francis stuck under a horse!” I laugh and clutch his arm, then bound back to Catherine and turn her gently in to my shoulder. “Listen to this.”

She leans against me as Wolsey reads:
“…The French were attacked where they camped in the great hunting park outside the city walls. As the battle raged, the thick forest hampered the movements of their cavalry. By eight o’clock the Emperor’s pikemen and arquebusiers were closing in from all sides. The French king fought on, but his horse was killed beneath him, and fell upon him, injuring him and pinning him to the ground. As he lay, Spanish troops plucked the plumes from his very helmet. He was taken prisoner and carried from the field—”

“Might he die from his injuries?” I say to Wolsey. “Huh? Do you think?”

“God willing!”

“We’ll pray for it! Won’t we? But he might as well be dead for all the use he’ll be to his country when we invade. Charles from the south; us from the north.” I can’t stand still; I detach myself from Catherine and pace about. “Christ, this is it! This is perfect! At last, at
last
!”

I open the windows – all of them; unlatching and pushing on casement after casement. It has rained, and the wind that blows in from the river is strong and fresh, whipping the last droplets from the creepers on the walls outside. Past the river I see a clear expanse of country and, beyond it, sunshine breaking on the hills.

I can breathe again.

I turn back to the room. Compared to the brightness outside, the light is soft and green, as if we’re under a canopy of trees. Wolsey stands like a red-robed Merlin, his hands tucked into his sleeves. Catherine’s tears have stopped; her face is shining as she looks at me.

I go to her and take her hand. It is soft and pudgy, these days, like a child’s. I rub the back of it gently as I say to Wolsey, “We must mount the invasion as soon as possible. All ships in our ports, of whatever nationality – have them detained for use as transport. And dismiss the French ambassador. We need to send to Flanders to buy horses, too. But most of all we need money – fast.”

“My last calculation was eight hundred thousand pounds, sir. Parliament will hate it.”

“Then to hell with Parliament! Find another way.”

“Of course. Nothing can possibly prevent the invasion now.”

“Go on, then. Go and start work on it.”

“Your Grace.” Wolsey bows and leaves the room.

Catherine is still looking at me – and it’s a look to bask in.
This
is why I married her: she has brought me Emperor Charles. She has brought me this moment.

I kiss her. I have not kissed her on the mouth for years.

It is wet and red and weeping fluid. It is on the
side of my left leg – a three-inch gash where I fell from my horse in the hunting park here at Windsor yesterday and ripped my flesh open on a piece of splintered wood. The leg is bound now and propped up on a stool; but I have been watching a spreading stain seep through the bandages while the ambassador talks.

Now I interrupt him, “Commander, with all
due
respect…” which, if he looks into my eyes, he will see is very little, “what the hell are you talking about?”

Commander Peñalosa clears his throat and starts again. “His Imperial Majesty requests that you send the Princess Mary to Spain without delay, along with her dowry.”

“You’ve said that already. What I’m asking for is an explanation.” Peñalosa blinks at me. I am clicking the underside of my rings on the chair-arm. “Look. We have an agreement. A treaty. Remember? Which states that I am to send my daughter to Spain in three years’ time at the very
earliest. Not now. She is only nine, for Christ’s sake. The Emperor cannot take her to his bed…”

“He would not think of such a thing of course, Your Grace.”

“I’m glad to hear that, at least. So. I send her in three years, with her dowry, yes, but
minus
the loans I have already given to your master. Not the full amount. Let alone the full amount
plus
another six hundred thousand ducats. It is… well, many different words spring to mind but, shall we say,
astonishing
that the Emperor should demand this. And I am under no obligation to pay.”

Peñalosa, an experienced military man, keeps twitching his fingers to the place where his sword-hilt should be. I get the feeling he would rather be on a battlefield at this moment, engaged in the straightforward business of killing – or being killed. He says, “Your Grace, the money is not demanded as an obligation, but as the kind of help a father gives to a son.”

“I have given your master a great deal of fatherly help already. Without it, he would not still have control of Spain.”

“His Imperial Majesty is constantly aware of all you have done for him and is full of gratitude. He sees this request now as a very moderate sum…” At this Wolsey, who is leaning on the fireplace, yelps, but the Spaniard ploughs on, raising his voice a little, “considering that every penny of it will be spent on a war which will benefit England… and, moreover, that when Your Grace has claimed the crown of France, your wealth will be greatly increased.”

“Yes, it will.
When
I am king of France. But now, I am not king of France. Now, I cannot pay. It is hard enough to raise money to put my own troops in the field.” I take a deep breath; I attempt pleasantness. “Commander. I understand – the Emperor would like to try and squeeze me for more money. Perhaps he thinks I am a soft touch. Please tell him, it was a nice try.”

“That is not his view—”

“Whatever. The answer is no. Let us move on.” I smile, and Peñalosa winces. I say, “The Emperor and I have a solemn, binding agreement to invade France together. An agreement sworn in the chapel here at this very castle. This man,” I point to Wolsey, “saw us do it. At the altar. It would not only be against God to break that agreement. It would be – frankly – madness, considering that your master now holds the King of France prisoner.” I regard Peñalosa narrowly. “Unless, of course, there is something you are not telling me.”

“I am being entirely open with you, sir. But the request for money cannot, I’m afraid, be put to one side.”

“So you are saying that if I do not pay, the Emperor will not invade France? Is that it?”

“The war in Italy has been ruinously expensive, sir. He simply lacks the funds. If you refuse to help, sir, his only course of action would be to make another marriage immediately, with another princess who would bring him a large dowry.”

Oh God.

“I cannot believe your master would…”

I stop, remembering the huge jaw, the slow look. Did I misjudge him? Did that simple mask conceal – Christ! –
cunning
? All at once I feel exhausted. I rub my eyes. “Is he thinking of anyone in particular?”

“The Princess of Portugal, sir, would bring with her a good sum of money. And she is of childbearing age.”

“And if he marries her, we invade France straight away, do we?”

“Well, sir, in point of fact…” Colour mounts to Peñalosa’s face; he rearranges himself, tugging his cuffs, shifting his stance, and then launches in, talking fast. “In point of fact, the Emperor, my master, in order to satisfy his own conscience
and the wish of his subjects, has sent certain worthy personages to the French king to enquire whether he is willing to return – of his own free will, and without compulsion – those lands which he holds unjustly and by usurpation from my master and from… from you, sir. Until he has an answer on this point, my master cannot say how and where the war is to commence – that being the reason why he has not yet written to Your Grace announcing his intentions. However, I have no doubt that, a definite answer being obtained, the Emperor will not fail to acquaint both Your Grace and the Cardinal with his plans.”

The man finishes triumphantly, and looks sick.

There is a moment of silence.

I say, “How kind of him.”

The room is full of shadows. My leg wound is throbbing.

“Leave us now.”

“Sir, what shall I report as your answer?”

I look at him. “Leave. Us.”

Commander Peñalosa cannot retreat fast enough. The door shuts behind him; Wolsey and I are alone.

Outside, it is a dismal summer day, grey and squally. A tendril of creeper scratches the window with each gust of wind – a high-pitched, grating sound.

Still leaning on the fireplace, Wolsey says, “The Emperor knows, of course, that his demands are preposterous. They are designed to be refused. This is his way of pulling out of the treaty.”

“There will be no invasion, then.”

He doesn’t need to answer.

“And no marriage.”

I am sitting perfectly still, but something moves. It feels as if I am inhabited by things that shift and crawl inside me. I say, “I don’t understand.”

Wolsey stares into the fire. “The Emperor finds himself in a position of strength,” he says. “He has routed the French. He has their king as his prisoner. He calculates that he no longer needs us. Why should he, now, help you become king of France? Or wait to take a wife until Princess Mary comes of age? As the man said, his parliament is urging him to marry now and produce an heir—”

“No. I don’t understand,” I say, “how you could have got it so wrong.”

He turns to look at me. “Your Grace—”

“You told me: this makes sense of what has happened. You told me: God gives me what I want. Not in the way I expect, perhaps, but he gives it to me nonetheless. So. What is God giving me now? Another ally who has betrayed me. And

a minister who has failed me. Not
another
minister – the same one. Who, it seems, fails me again… and again… and again.” I get up, with some difficulty, and walk away from Wolsey, to the window. The courtyard below looks grim and unlovely, the water-spewing creatures on the fountain grotesque. I lean my forehead against the cold glass.

“Your Grace,” says Wolsey again, but I don’t turn. “Sir, to deal with foreign rulers is to deal with lies and deceits. All the time. A French king, a Spanish emperor – any one of them – will swear he is your friend, while in truth he has his own agenda that he is pursuing, mercilessly, behind your back. It is,” he sighs deeply, “the way the world works. The key is to recognise that, accept it, and keep moving. Keep stepping lightly as the squares on the chequerboard shift beneath your feet.”

He’s at the window now, looking down at the courtyard too. I roll my forehead on the glass, so I can look at him. “What is your agenda?”

“Sir?”

I straighten up. “Well, as you say, a man will swear he is your friend, while in truth…” I slap the sill, with some violence. “It’s the way the world works.”

“I was talking of foreign rulers.”

“Really? You see, I am asking myself why you were so keen to sell this alliance to me. Were you working with the Emperor? What was it
for
? So that he would deliver you the papacy and you would deliver him your king, on a platter…”

“No, sir – as you see, I am not Pope…”

“—to be humiliated, to be laughed at, to be used, when the need arose, and then cast off, like so much baggage.”

Wolsey is very still, looking at me. He says, “Your success is my success. Everything I have, I have from you.”

Silence.

“Your Grace, we need only a new strategy. Listen. We can make a league with the French. Not with the King, I mean with the government left behind in Paris. If Princess Mary marries the Dauphin, I’m certain they will have the boy crowned king. King Francis isn’t popular – they won’t give a shilling for his ransom. Then you can rule as regent until the boy comes of age.”

I step towards him; we are toe to toe. I say, “I have had enough of your ideas. They are nothing. They are—” I blow in his face, “hot air.”

I turn away. “I find that I cannot rely on anyone but myself.”

“You can rely on me, Your Grace. Just give me a little time to arrange things. I will find a way…”

I am at the door. I don’t look back.