VIII (15 page)

The embroidery on the cushion presses dints
into my forehead. My breath, with nowhere to go, blows hot against my cheeks. I am lying on my face. My arms are spread wide, in the shape of a cross. The singing of the choir echoes up to the stone vaulting. And the Holy Ghost is descending from heaven and infusing me with divine grace. Right now.

Above me, the space is huge – an expanse of empty air, where drifts of incense float through beams of coloured light. The windows are bright as candied fruit, the great stone columns of the nave solid as the trunks of giant trees. The whole cathedral seems to me a golden cavernous glade.

It is Midsummer’s Day. Catherine, my wife of two weeks – my
proper
wife, this time – is kneeling behind me, shining in white damask cloth-of-gold. We are here at Westminster Abbey for our anointing and coronation. Here, in the very same place where Henry V was crowned.

At last the singing stops. Silence. There is shuffling to my
right. Coughing. Somewhere distant, a low murmuring rumble. I get up, light-headed, and walk forward a short way, to face the Archbishop of Canterbury, William Warham. A team of bishops step up to unlace my shirt. I can feel the nervousness rising off them like steam. Then they fall back, job done, and I kneel.

Warham takes the eagle-shaped golden flask and anoints me with holy oil – on my hands, on my chest, on my back and head. The liquid is cold. I feel a streak of it running down between my shoulder blades. The Abbot of Westminster, moving awkwardly in his stiff robes, dabs me dry – the cloth he uses, blotched now with patches of God’s grace, will be burned later; a stray trace of holy oil at large in the world is a dangerous thing.

It can transform a man into a divine creature.

Later, no longer merely a seventeen-year-old youth myself, but a holy creature, an anointed king, a god-on-earth, I sit on my throne on the specially built stage before the altar. They have dressed me now in layer after layer of robes, the outer ones reaching to my feet, heavy with jewels and gold. They have brought me spurs blessed on the altar, and the ceremonial sword with which I am charged to defend the Church. On my head they have placed the ancient crown of St Edward, its jewels representing the graces God has today bestowed upon me, by which I am to rule: wisdom, understanding, counsel, strength, cunning, pity and fear.

Remade now as king, I lead Catherine back down the nave, through a crush of my gorgeously dressed subjects: the dukes and duchesses, the earls and countesses, the barons and lords and the merely rich. In my heavy robes and heavier crown it is a slow walk, steady and swinging, like in a dream.

Nearing the end of the nave we can hear the cathedral
bells booming far above us. Then the great west doors open like the side of a mountain and we step out into summer sunlight and a wall of sound.

The air reverberates with the pealing of the bells, echoing weirdly so that the sound seems to come from the houses opposite. Caps hurtle, spinning, into the air above a sea of faces that fills the cathedral yard. The people are clapping and yelling, chanting my name. I raise one hand to them, grinning; the cheer becomes deafening.

Then I turn to my wife, this beautiful vision in white and gold, her shining auburn hair hanging loose, her crown – with its delicate spikes of fleur-de-lys – choked with sapphires and rubies and clusters of pearls. Her dress is embroidered with our emblems: my Tudor rose and her own pomegranate, a symbol of fertility. She is smiling. Her fingers lie softly on my outstretched, gloved right hand; I lift them to my lips. Her nails, I notice, are no longer bitten.

My grandmother, attending the coronation in robes almost as sumptuous as ours, mutters darkly that some adversity will follow. It does – for her. The celebration banquet leaves her with agonising stomach gripes; five days later she is dead.

“The Abbot of Fécamp, Your Grace,” announces
Compton. “Envoy of His Most Christian Majesty, King Louis of France.”

I have been examining a miniature siege engine carved out of wood – a scale model made from my own design – holding it up between thumb and forefinger; I spy the ambassador through it: a portly figure in a black cassock, waiting beyond the open doors of the Presence Chamber.

Handing the model to Harry Guildford, I turn and bound up the steps to my canopied dais and relax back into my gold-fringed chair.

It is sunny outside; the windows are thrown open and dust motes are swirling in the golden sunbeams. Out beyond the gardens, distant calls can be heard from the river as the ferrymen ply their trade to Lambeth and back. Around me, my friends – in expensive new clothes – are mingling with my councillors, some of whom (though not all) are my father’s men, Bishop Fox and Archbishop Warham among them.

The Abbot of Fécamp, envoy of the King of France, approaches. He is a fat man; he waddles up, and halts some distance from the bottom step of the dais, his eyes sliding from the canopy to somewhere in the region of my shoes. His attempts to bend at the waist in an elaborate bow are effortful. A sphere finds it hard to know the spot at which to fold itself.

I watch him, my hands dangling, weighted with rings, over the velvet arms of my chair. I chose a large diamond today, and three rubies.

Dabbing at his face with a lace handkerchief, the abbot spends some time congratulating me on my accession to the throne. It is a pretty enough speech, to which, at a nod from me, Bishop Fox replies in elegant French.

“Your Grace,” says the abbot, then, “I have come to confirm the peace between England and France, in response to Your Grace’s letter to my master. He was delighted by your request for a renewal of the peace treaty between our countries. This treaty was, I know, cherished by your illustrious father.”

I stare at him, unblinking. Alarmed, he makes a little moue. Then, less certainly, he begins to speak again.

I interrupt him. “No, no, no. Wait. I thought—” I shake my head and waggle a finger energetically in my ear. “I thought I heard you say
my
request to renew the peace.”

“I did.” The abbot clears his throat. “I did say that, Your Grace.”

“But I didn’t make that request.” I look round at my councillors. “Did I?”

“My master the King of France received your letter, sir—” says the abbot.

I am still looking at my councillors. “But why on earth should
I
ask the King of France for peace? He daren’t look me in the face, let alone make war on me!”

There’s an awkward pause. Fox steps up to me and says quietly, “A letter was written. By the Council – on your behalf.” He bends close to me and adds in an undertone, “Continuation of the peace is very desirable, Your Grace. While you consolidate your position and, um, decide on the direction you wish policy to take.”

“Show me.”

“Sir?”

“Show me this letter
my
Council wrote to France
on my behalf
.”

Fox turns to his assistant, Wolsey. “Bring a copy of the letter.”

Wolsey produces a rolled-up paper from his voluminous sleeve and hands it to Fox – who hands it to me. I read it and rise from my chair.

“My lord Abbot,” I say to the envoy. “I hope you will pardon my councillors. There has been some misunderstanding. It will be put right immediately.”

I tear the paper, over and over and over. Then I release two fistfuls of pieces out of the window.

The birdcage is hung in the window embrasure,
attached by a hook to the wall; inside it a nightingale sits on its perch, regarding me beadily. I flick my finger against the bars, and it flutters around the cage.

“I’m not a child!” I say, walking to the table. “My councillors think if they provide me with enough toys and idle amusements, I’ll not notice while they run the country.”

I pick up a box and open it. Inside are three silver balls; I stir them round with my finger – they chime.

Catherine looks up from her sewing. “How was the tiltyard, by the way?”

“Oh, Thomas Boleyn broke three lances. And Brandon fell off.” I pick up another box, open it, and angle it towards her, with a questioning look.

“Adders’ tongues set in gold and silver,” she says. “From my sister. Listen, Hal, you are the king. You have the power to order things as you want them.”

“Do I? It feels like I can’t bloody well do anything without
ratification in triplicate – sending documents off to Fox for this seal, to Warham for that seal; they delay it if they don’t like it – they send a grant back and tell me I am being too generous to my friends… They wouldn’t have dared do that to my father.”

I take a shuttlecock, bounce it off the wall and catch it again. Several masks, with and without beards, lie on a bench. Discarded caps, their feathers askew, are on a table beside them. I say, “What chance do I have of getting them to agree to an invasion of France if they won’t even let me give the presents I want?
You
know what France means to me.”

It’s my path to glory and immortality: the creation of an Anglo-French empire. I will rule from London and Paris. I will be the father of a great dynasty of emperors.

Catherine nods. “Empire and sons. The sons being my part of the job.”

“At which you seem to be doing very well.” I walk to her, grinning, and she lays down her sewing. We join hands, lacing fingers, and I lean down to kiss her.

“It’s early days,” she says with a small frown of reprimand. “I’m not certain. So, anyway – tell Fox and Warham that you plan to invade France.”

I straighten. “I’ve tried.
Too risky! Too expensive!
Mother of God, they’re old men, that’s what it is. They’re looking forward to dying in bed.”

“Well, at least you can be sure of Spain’s support. I should have said – I’ve had another letter from my father.”

I pull up a stool and sit beside Catherine as she produces a letter from her purse and unfolds it. “Christ,” I say. “I never imagined I’d have to plan a war behind the backs of half my Council… What’s he say?”

Catherine traces her finger along her father’s handwriting, translating as she reads. “Let your councillors renew the peace
treaty with France in your name. For now. It will provide you with good cover whilst preparations for an invasion are made.”

I groan. “It feels grubby, humiliating…”

Catherine looks up from the letter. “But think: you need to order artillery from Flanders. And ships must be built. It all takes time. Your destiny will come – but sometimes patience is called for.” She puts a hand on her stomach. “I am impatient too.”

I smile at her. Our heads are close together and one of my arms encircles her waist; with my other hand I point to a line of writing.

“What’s this part?”

“Um… he says it’s as well to be secret, and that when you and he are writing to one another about France, it should be in cipher. Above all, the French must not suspect that the kings of England and Spain are planning to invade.”

She puts the letter down in her lap and looks at me. “He is your family now, Hal. He will be a good father to you, I know it.”

There’s a clatter from the doorway. Francis Bryan is standing on the threshold beside Thomas Boleyn. They are oddly close together.

Catherine’s already risen to go. I put out my hand. “Stay.”

“Your Grace…” Bryan makes a face at me, silently signalling.

“There’s nothing that can’t be said in front of the Queen.” What trouble now? I think.

“It’s just—” Bryan and Boleyn step apart, revealing the soles of a pair of shoes, which – as they come into the room – I see are attached to sturdy legs, a drooping gown, a horizontal bulky body three feet off the ground and, at the head end, a grinning Charles Brandon and a sweating and puffing Harry Guildford.

I get up to investigate. “My God!” I laugh, and turn to Catherine. “It’s Fox’s man.” I call, “What on earth are they doing to you, sir?”

Boleyn, affecting outrage, says, “This priest won twenty pounds off Bryan at primero last night—”

“Not a crime. Congratulate him.”

Guildford obliges, looking down. “Congratulations.”

“But now we’ve just found him in the Watching Chamber cheating the pageboys out of their pennies,” says Bryan.

“Not
cheating
,” comes a good-natured voice from beyond the large stomach. “I would say… beguiling.”

“We thought we’d take him in hand,” says Brandon. “Bring him to you, you know, hanging like a trussed boar. As punishment.”

“Very well, then, let me talk to this beast.” I signal that they should set their captive upright.

The round face of Thomas Wolsey, the priest who is Fox’s assistant, emerges as they do so, flushed but unperturbed. He straightens his robes. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I was only whiling away the time. Hours spent in the outer chamber waiting for an audience can be… well, tedious.” He grimaces apologetically. “And the pageboys implored me to show them my sleight of hand.”

I raise my eyebrows, inviting a demonstration. Wolsey steps towards Brandon, hitching back his sleeve, and raises his hand, apparently reaching behind Brandon’s ear. “It seems to them like magic,” Wolsey says. “They are so very eager.” He draws his hand back – revealing in his fingers a shiny half-crown coin. He sighs. “And dim.”

For a moment there’s silence, and a look of concern crosses Wolsey’s face. Then I let out a bark of laughter. “I like this man!” I motion to him to come and sit with me. “Do you drink spiced wine?”

Wolsey nods and smiles, folding the coin into Brandon’s hand and patting it absently. “I’m afraid so, sir.”

“They tell me I must spend more time at my desk,” I say.

“On the contrary, I recommend less time.”

I’m doing target practice with darts; the board, circular and edged in green velvet embroidered with gold, is mounted on a frame several feet away. Wolsey is watching, sipping his wine. My friends are playing, variously, chess and a yellow and blue instrument that produces a tune if you turn a handle.

I tap the darts on my fingers. “You mock me.”

“Sir – how would I dare? I mean it. You simply need an able instrument to carry out your instructions; to do the desk work for you.”

“And you are proposing yourself.” I throw now, lining up and releasing the tiny arrows in quick succession –
thud, thud, thud
. Then I walk forward and collect them from the board.

As I come back, Wolsey inclines his head. “I would maintain a constant flow of information to Your Grace, and every decision would be yours – of course… Why should your time be taken up with the mundane details of the execution of your plans? I know how quick your mind is. Simply tell me what you want achieved…” He drains his glass. “And I will achieve it. Try me.”

I throw again. “But the seals – the sending every instruction back and forth, to Fox, to Warham—”

“Is not necessary. You can do things by direct decree. Just state that your instruction will take immediate effect, by royal command.”

I look at him. “They didn’t tell me I could do that.”

His gaze is steady and serious. “No, I know.”

The end of a bawdy song drifts to us from the far side of the room – Bryan has worked Wolsey’s name into the lyrics.

“The cheek!” he exclaims, spinning round. “And me a man of the Church, too!” He sets down his cup and launches himself across the room and into a verse of his own, working Bryan, Brandon and Boleyn’s names into the rhyme and beating time on their heads with the ends of his stole.

By the time he’s done, I’m spluttering with laughter and clapping. I say, “For a large man a little past the first bloom of youth, you have wondrous energy.”

“For an old fat man, you mean, sir!” He laughs – a wonderful belly laugh – and walks back to me. “You will not see me flag in your service. Ever.” He is suddenly earnest, intensely so. “Let me show you what you can do.”

As my friends carry on with their music – a little more dignified now – I beckon Wolsey to the large bay window. Within its alcove we can talk more privately. Outside the sky is a cloudless blue; clear bright sunlight streams in, creating dazzling reflections on the surfaces of a curious object that stands in the middle of the space.

It is a box, on long metal feet, the sides of which are made of glass, for the better viewing of the treasures inside. The lid, also glass, is made in two halves like doors, their frames garnished with pearls and gold thread. It’s a wedding present – I forget from whom.

Idly, I fiddle with the lid’s catch and say, “Then give me your advice on this: I want to invade France. A number of my most senior councillors oppose me.” I fold back the leaves of the lid. Inside is an agate dragon standing on a black crystal rock beside a white crystal mountain; I peer at the beast and trace a finger along its smooth back. “They tell me war is too expensive, too dangerous as I have no heir—”

“That last will soon be remedied, God willing,” Wolsey
says. He considers for a moment. “If one can avoid seeming to make an unprovoked attack on France—”

“Unprovoked? When the French king withholds land that is rightfully mine?”

“Indeed, I agree, Your Grace, but not all foreign rulers would see it that way. It would be better to have some additional reason for invading. So that those who are keen to stir up trouble for England cannot use it as a pretext for their own attack.” He dips his head to peer through the glass at the dragon. “But there are ways… France, as you know, has been at war with the Republic of Venice, urged on by the Pope.”

I nod. “The Republic is on its knees.” Inside the box, the white crystal mountain has a flat top, into which a square shape has been cut – presumably it is some sort of door that opens.

“May I make a prediction?” says Wolsey. “The French king and His Holiness, once they achieve their victory, will fall out over the division of the Venetian spoils. Then Pope Julius will turn his ire upon France. That is your opportunity. When he calls for a Holy League of nations to wage war on France, you can say: oh, I am loath to go to war… but since Mother Church calls me, I am duty-bound to obey…” He pulls an exaggeratedly solemn face – then his eyes flash gleefully. “You can march into France under the banner of the Pope. It will be a
crusade
.”

I am flicking my nail against the edge of the mountain-top door, but it won’t budge.

“Forgive me, sir, but I believe this opens on a spring.” Wolsey dips his large hand into the box and pulls out a tiny pin from the mountainside. The door on the top, instead of opening, spins, and a St George in silver armour pops up, standing on an enamelled green hillock and brandishing a sword.

Wolsey grins at me. “Clever, isn’t it?”