VIII (16 page)

The child – my son – is brought to me within an
hour of his birth.

It is the darkest part of the night: the first hours of the new year. I have been sitting up with Compton, playing chess by firelight, wrapped in my sable cloak.

I get up when the women enter. They curtsey low and pass him to me: I don’t know how to hold him. He is swaddled tightly; he lies on my palms like a prize fish.

Two puffy eyes open and he looks at me with a slow dark look. He blinks; he tries to turn his head. I have the women unwrap him in the warmth of the fire. He lies on the fur mantle they spread for him – uncrying, his tiny hands curled shut, his legs like a frog’s. His cheek is downy to the touch, and the size of a doll’s.

“Look, Compton,” I say. “Proof of God’s favour – right there, lying on a rug.”

“Such a fine child, sir. The hope of the whole nation.”

It feels like standing on a ridge and looking down across
a bright plain: my great future, laid out before me. Away to the right, a battlefield, where I will win great victories; to the left, a venerable cathedral, where I will be crowned king of France. And directly ahead, a youth in armour: this boy.

Empire and sons.

The narrow slit is all I have to see through:
a thin horizontal slice of colour in the black interior of my helmet.

My head can’t turn; the helmet is riveted to my cuirass, to save my neck from taking the impact of a blow.

I transfer the reins into my left hand and hold out my right, blindly, for the lance, as the horse steps and shifts beneath me. Out of my vision, two grooms bring the lance to me, upright, and place the great, weighty hilt of it in my hand. I feel for the balance of the thing and rest the end on my thigh.

My blood is pumping at double speed. The barrier is in my sight. I catch a glimpse of the armoured horse and rider at the other end. I am on a good alignment to run. My horse stirs eagerly. The trumpet signals the start.

Now
.

It is February: bitingly cold. The tiltyard is packed. Hearts are in mouths to see whether the King can give blows and receive them without harm.

I use the hardest technique: riding in with the lance upright; dropping it at the last moment to its target.

It strikes. There’s a jolt; unbearable pressure against my grip; then all at once release, and a great crack as the wood of the lance shatters. Splinters fly and the crowd yells its delight. My horse slows as it reaches the end of the tiltyard, and I bring it into a turn. I drop my broken lance; signal for another.

I run and run, until the horse is exhausted. I am hit, repeatedly, but never unseated. I break seven lances. The people see that, by the aid of God, I am in no danger.

At one end of the tilt is my pavilion: blue and gold and topped with a white hart holding a standard. While the others run their courses, Compton helps me out of my armour and into a close-fitting coat of cloth of gold.

I emerge again on a grey horse now; the cloth covering its flanks is blue velvet, decorated with beaten gold hearts and initials – mine and Catherine’s.

She is watching from a viewing gallery. I halt the horse directly before her, unsheathe my dagger and, reaching down, slice a gold heart from the cloth.

Dismounting, I hand the reins to a groom. Then I climb the face of the gallery, finding footholds on carved rows of portcullises and painted roses. I swing my leg to sit astride the sill as Catherine gives me her hand, laughing. “There are steps, you know, at the back.”

“It’s more interesting this way. I’ve brought you a present.” I give her the golden heart. And kiss her, which sets the crowd yelling and whooping again.

The next moment, I’ve jumped down to the sandy floor and am back on my horse. I spur it into a thundering circuit of the tilt, and make it leap and prance for the crowd, and lift its hooves to drum on the wooden barrier with a noise like
a volley of gunshots.

I laugh, exhilarated. No other knight can approach even half my skill. I am first among warriors, first among men. I only wish I were in France right now, on the battlefield. But it will come. I can do anything. I am bigger than this tiltyard, bigger than this city and all the creatures in it. I hold them in my palm. I am England.

In the pavilion afterwards, I’m dazed. Ordinary things seem strange – ludicrous. I’m thirsty, but how can I need to do something so mundane as take a cup in my hand and drink? How can I need to eat and shit and sleep like ordinary men? My heart is hammering so hard I feel it might burst. I need another challenge. I’m sweating.

“Fetch some more beer.”

Compton goes to do it; the tent flap closes behind him.

I can’t sit; I have to pace. Turning to put down my cup, my eye is drawn to the shadows beyond the table. There is a figure on the floor, huddled against the fabric wall. Its back is to me. Its straw-coloured hair curls over its collar.

Instantly I am drenched in cold. It is him. The ghost or vision or whatever devilish thing it is that I have seen before. He has not appeared to me for some time – not since my father’s death. But now he is back.

This time he looks taller, older – no longer a boy, but a young man like me. Still, in my mind I cannot call him anything else but
the boy
. As I stare, he turns to face me, rolling his head against the cloth wall as if it were solid brick and he were leaning on it. He looks fit, healthy, his clothes – a doublet and hose such as a gentleman’s servant might wear – are plain but clean. His face, though, is horrible. Mouth gaping, dribbling, he is crying from his deeply shadowed eyes. I can see the glisten of wet eyeballs and of fat, rolling tears. He makes no attempt to hide his shame or to wipe the
snot and spittle from his face.

Rage seizes me. I throw my cup. Solid though he looks, it passes straight through him, hits the fabric wall and drops, leaving the cloth rippling.

He is still crying. I throw the jug too, though I know it’s useless, and the balled-up tablecloth; I pull off my surcoat and throw that. I am in a frenzy. I think:
Why has he come to me now?
This tournament is the celebration of the birth of my son and heir: why must he poison my moment of triumph? Is he jealous? Is he the ghost of my murdered uncle, one of those boys killed in the Tower, tortured by the sight of me leading the life he should have had? Is he weeping in rage?

If he is, I have no sympathy. I wish him in hell, where he belongs. I tell him so – can he hear me? God only knows – then I rip aside the tent flap and stumble out into the cold of the yard.

Seeing the boy leaves me with a feeling of
inexplicable dread. A few days later, looking back, that dread seems like a premonition. I have been visited by calamity. My infant son is dead.

I sit, staring out of the window. I don’t recall when I last moved. It is raining. I am watching the rain.

“After all,” says Wolsey quietly, standing somewhere behind me. “Your incomparable mother lost three.”

Outside, black branches drip and, as a bird takes flight, a remnant of grey slush slides and splatters to the ground. The wind whirls, blowing raindrops hard against the glass.

“And you are young. There will be—”

“Others. I know.”

But fifty-two days, as I have discovered, is enough to become attached to a child.

He died very quietly, they said. Not much fussing and fretting. I would have liked to hold him, but I do not admit this. I comfort Catherine and talk robustly of our future.
Then I come and sit, and watch the rain. I feel hollow, as if I have been carrying my son inside me – as if he filled every inch of me – and now he is gone. In the space he has left there is a dark feeling, dark as the black branches.

I say to Wolsey, “I have a task for you.”

“Sir?”

“You will get my Council to consent to a campaign in France.”

“Ah. Yes.”

“As you predicted, the French king and the Pope are no longer allies. Rome will support us.”

“Indeed, Pope Julius will be delighted.” Wolsey pauses. “Your Council less so. But I can bring them round.”

“The Spanish king is ready to invade in the south. We will open a second front in the north-east,” I say. “And I will lead our troops myself.”

“Now,
that
the Council will certainly oppose. Without…” He hesitates. “Sir, without an heir, they will argue that the danger to the nation is too great.”

The raindrops on the windowpanes collect, shimmering, and run. “Tell me what you want achieved, you said.” My voice is quiet, and absolutely stony. “So I am telling you.”

The whole ship vibrates as the cannon fire; I can
feel it in the rail I’m gripping – I can feel it through the soles of my boots.

Gun-smoke drifts sideways in the evening sunlight. To the starboard side, the fortress town of Calais is sliding into view, the outline of its cathedral showing above the high walls, proud against the skyline. The cannon on board our ship – and those on the rest of the fleet – fire booming salvo after booming salvo, answered by the guns on the walls of the town.

We’re pounding nothing but our ears: it’s a celebratory display, as I arrive with my fleet at this English city on the northernmost tip of France, the last remnant of what used to be our vast territories on this continent. Eighty years ago, Henry V’s son was crowned king of France, but since then the crown and the land has been lost in war and only Calais and the surrounding area remains in English hands. Now I am here to rectify that injustice: I am here to win back France.

The guns are so loud, I can’t help laughing. “It sounds like the end of the world!”

Beside me, Wolsey smiles. He is still a little green, and has only just emerged from his cabin. “Compton’s offering odds that they can hear it at Dover,” he says.

To Bishop Fox, who stands beyond him, I say, “This man has the constitution of an ox. But no sea legs.” I clasp Wolsey round the shoulders. “Remind me not to make you an admiral.”

Brandon appears at my other side to survey the flotilla of small boats, decorated with flags and overladen with waving people, which are weaving their way out of the harbour to meet us. Slanting sunlight shines off Brandon’s breastplate and gauntlets and picks out the ridiculously large rubies on his sword hilt. “Ever get the feeling the Almighty’s smiling on you?” he says. “Someone should tell the King of Spain he jumped the wrong way.”

“He’ll realise soon enough.”

Three months ago I lost Catherine’s father as my ally: he double-crossed me and made peace with France. So much for being a good father to me. But I don’t need him; Wolsey has proved as adept at finding replacement allies as he is at producing coins from Brandon’s ears. He has delivered me, instead, the mighty Emperor Maximilian as my fighting partner. Maximilian rules a sizeable chunk of middle Europe; he is a powerful ally.

Fox’s thoughts have turned to Maximilian too. “The Emperor is said to be the most unreliable man in Christendom, sir. We must watch him at every turn.”

I smile at Fox. “I rely on you to foresee all difficulties.”

Nothing can dent my mood. I have been lost in the planning of this campaign for so many happy days at Greenwich – kneeling over huge charts spread out on the floor of my
chamber: marching formations and plans of camp; designs of pavilions and of new types of siege engine.

Now at last we are here. Yesterday, they say, there was terrible rain in the Channel; today we have had a perfect passage in glorious sunshine. I have stood on deck throughout, the salt wind in my face, flags fluttering above me: the Papal banner alongside the lions of England.

I’m even
wearing
a miracle, for goodness’ sake: a suit of armour that’s easy to walk in. It has a thousand joints that move as I do, every which way. Over it there’s a tabard of white cloth of gold with the red cross of St George the Dragonslayer on my chest.

And best of all, back in England, Catherine has a new child in her belly. God smiles indeed. This time, it will be a boy who lives.

On my first night in the field there is a
downpour. As darkness falls and the trumpets sound for the watch-sentries to take up their positions, teams of pavilioners are still struggling to stem leaks in the officers’ tents.

One of my largest pavilions – the walls six foot high and double-layered – is up and secure, but still I can’t relax. I call for a horse to be saddled up and, wrapping myself in a hooded cloak, I set out for a tour of the camp. Just like Henry V: on the rain-soaked night before the Battle of Agincourt, he toured his camp to raise the morale of his troops. I have brought my
History of Henry V
– the translation I made myself – packed in one of my trunks. I intend to keep it to hand.

The rain has extinguished campfires; the dark is inky, the tents looming hulks with the occasional glow of a light within. In front of me, the lantern-bearers squelch through the mud and step low, suddenly, as a foot goes into a water-filled rut. Rain drips off the front of my hood; my legs are soaked already and the damp is seeping through the thick lining of my gloves.

The camp is pitched to a design I perfected myself: a square plan, with two main ‘streets’ dividing it, each thirty paces wide, intersecting in the middle in a cross. It is a little city, and the largest tents have signs outside like taverns; they swing and creak in the wind and provide running points for water. ‘The Chalice’ is home to the chaplains, ‘The Gauntlet’ to the master of the armoury. ‘The Beds’ is where the surgeons are bedding down, and one of Wolsey’s collection of pavilions goes by the name of ‘The Inflamed House’ – which is a stretch for any place in this weather.

Further towards the camp’s perimeter, ordinary men are huddled in the rain, getting rest as best they can. Some are sitting wrapped in small sheets of canvas, like old women in shawls. Others have collected branches and made rudimentary huts. Pale faces appear as I pass.

“I am in the same condition as you, tonight, comrades!” I call to them.

A moment’s hesitation; realisation; then they scramble out and stand to attention.

I stop in front of a man who has emerged from a
well-constructed
shelter. “Your officers would do well to take advice from you, my friend – you are expert, I see, at shifting for yourself in any weather.”

“It’s all in knowing how to make your hut, sir,” he says. “I’m snug as a small pig in there, sir.”

“Good man. And you?”

His neighbour is squeezing a woollen cap nervously in his hands, sending a fair trickle of water, unnoticed, onto his feet. “An Englishman is not afraid of the damp, sir.”

I ride on, my horse stepping carefully through the mud. At the outer edge of the camp, wagons are stationed in a protective circle, interspersed with artillery. The soldier guarding the nearest wagon kneels as I approach. I jump
down from my horse and squelch over to him.

“Get up, man. You’re wet enough as it is. What’s in these wagons?”

“These, Your Grace? Bows and bowstrings, sheaves of arrows, demi-lances and whole spears. Oh, and stakes to drive into the ground in front of the archers.”

“For the French cavalry to skewer themselves on.”

The man grins. “That’s it, sir.”

I make my way to the nearest gun carriage. “This is called an organ, isn’t it?”

The man guarding it opens his mouth; then, finding no words come out, nods.

It is a many-barrelled piece, for firing grape shot through a breach in a city wall, or at a body of troops.

“And this?”

“The bombard, Your Grace, sir,” says another man. He holds up several layers of canvas for me to see.

I run my hand over the smooth metal of the cannon. The bore is enormous; looking down it by lantern-light is like peering into a cave. “How much gunpowder for this monster?”

“Eighty pounds to charge it, sir.”

“Your skill,” I say, looking round at them, “is worth more than the whole Jewel House to me.”

The same Jewel House that, incidentally, I have brought with me: a fortune in jewels and ornaments housed in a
well-guarded
tent called The Flagon, several hundred yards away. I will need it when I play host to Emperor Maximilian – I am determined to make an impression.

When I return to the centre of the camp, they have finished putting up my timber house, which has travelled from England in sections that pack flat into carts. The place has two rooms, lantern-horn windows, and fireplaces and
chimneys. Its outside is painted like brickwork, and the inside is hung with golden tapestry. My bed is full size, carved and gilded, and hung round with cloth-of-gold curtains.

Compton helps me out of my wet clothes and into a nightgown that has been warming by the fire. I climb into bed and he pulls the hangings closed. Even in the dark, the gold threads glow.

Strangely, the bed starts to trundle. It seems to be on wheels.

I dream that I am in a fountain made of russet satin, curiously decorated with snakes, modelled in paper and painted; around me eight gargoyles are spewing cloth-of-silver water from their mouths. I am trying not to laugh. Not that anyone could see it, beneath my helmet – but sitting in my armour like this, with the lower edge of my cuirass pressing into my thighs, laughter is painful.

Brandon is in a litter somewhere behind me, and is, I know, wishing he had drunk slightly less wine. As we are drawn round the tiltyard, the crowd cheers and there’s a thunder of stamping on the wooden boards of the grandstand.

With a great noise of trumpets, my fountain stops in front of one of the many triumphs of Harry Guildford’s carpentry team. It’s a huge fortress: entirely black, with
The Dolorous Castle
written above it in silver, on a painted wooden board cut to look like a waving pennant. Standing high on the battlements there’s a knight in coal-black armour, with black ostrich plumes sprouting from his helmet. Though the visor is down, concealing his face, I have a nagging feeling I should know who he is. I just can’t for the life of me remember.