VIII (27 page)

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.

“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 would 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.”

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.

It is just that I cannot wait that long.

“What was it Fitzwilliam said?” I ask Anthony Browne, my Master of the Horse, as our horses pick their way side by side over a particularly muddy stretch of road. “About her looks?”

Browne pushes his hood back; the drizzle has stopped. It is New Year’s morning and, though his face is more than usually pale after last night’s Court celebrations, under his cloak he is dressed as meticulously as ever. He is a man who takes notice of appearances. I wonder if he will have to give up any of his jewelled buttons or gold lace-ends; a good deal of money was lost at the gaming tables last night.

“He certainly praised the lady’s beauty, sir,” Browne says now, flicking a wet leaf off his sleeve. “Though, I regret, I don’t remember the exact words. He had more to say, I think, about the card games he taught her while they were waiting for a fair wind at Calais.”

“Someone said that, in beauty, she outshines the Duchess of Milan ‘as the golden sun outshines the silver moon’. Was that Ambassador Mont?”

“The Duchess of
Milan
…” Tom Culpeper whistles. He is riding at my other side with a hopeful sprig of mistletoe attached to the hood of his cloak.

I laugh and reach out to dig him in the ribs with my riding crop. The Duchess of Milan, a very young widow, was another marriageable candidate on the list Cromwell compiled for me. I had her portrait taken – and I have kept it, just for its decorative value. Which is high: the Duchess is sixteen, dimpled and breathtaking. Anyone outshining that must be practically an angel.

Approaching Rochester, we find the city looking far from celestial. The city walls and rooftops huddle grey under a grey sky, while the damp finger of the cathedral spire stirs the low-hanging clouds above.

We dip through the shadows of the city’s north-east gate and emerge into the cobbled streets beyond. Doorways are hung with holly and yew, small boys run past with pies for the cook shop, and shabby loiterers call out New Year greetings, as they might to any group of well-heeled gentlemen from whom they have hope of a penny. I pull my hood low over my face and leave it to my companions to dish out coins.

Our destination is the bishop’s palace, not far from the cathedral. Browne rides ahead to warn the bishop’s staff that a party of the King’s men approaches. My presence is not announced; I want to surprise my bride.

Back at Greenwich now, had I stayed, I would be leaning against the cupboard in my Presence Chamber as my courtiers queued up to present me with their New Year’s gifts: jewels and gold plate, clocks and curiosities. As it is, I am making my own way to the best gift of all.

“Ready, sir?”

Our horses have halted, stamping and snorting, just inside the Palace’s main gate, and Browne comes forward to tell me he has forewarned the staff. The lady remains in delicious ignorance.

“Keep your cloaks on, gentlemen. No clues,” I say and dismount, with Browne’s help. “Where is she, then?”

“In an upper chamber at the back, sir,” he says, pointing across the courtyard. “She’s watching a bull-baiting in the yard beyond.”

“Ah, hence the racket.” Barks and shouts are carrying clearly through the cold air. I turn to Browne. “Right. Go to her. Say her New Year’s gift from the King has arrived. I’ll follow.”

Browne strides ahead to the entrance to the main staircase: an imposing arched doorway in one corner of the courtyard.
Energised, despite the long ride, I follow him quickly. I even manage to take the stairs two at a time.

At the top of the staircase I head past a rank of startled servants, through the great hall and on – following the billowing shape of Browne’s parti-coloured cloak – to the Palace’s best suite of private rooms. My heart is pounding and I feel flushed; my pulse seems to beat in my face.

Reaching the lady’s chamber door, I meet Browne coming out. “She will receive the gift,” he says, and grins.

“How is she?” I ask, gripping his sleeve. “Is she stunning?”

A ghost of pain seems to cross Browne’s face – no doubt because I am crushing some very fine gold-thread embroidery. I release his sleeve. “No, don’t tell me. I’ll see for myself.”

We enter as a pack, my men and I, our matching cloaks giving no clue to our – to my – true identity. The chamber air hits us: a warm fug of cinnamon and cloves. It is a comfortable if old-fashioned room, with antique tapestries on the walls and the Bishop’s coat of arms carved monumentally large above the fireplace.

Straight ahead, there’s a figure at the window.

Good God, the German fashions are strange. The lady’s wearing a high-necked dress and a peculiar wide bonnet that makes her head look like a coal bucket. I can tell from her bearing she’s alarmed to see so many men burst into her chamber. A lifetime ago I used to play this trick on Catherine, dressed as Robin Hood or a Turkish sultan. Her astonishment, I thought at the time, was very pretty.

“Greetings, Lady Anna,” I say, removing my cap with a flourish and walking forward. “The King has sent you this token.” I work a ring off my little finger and hold it out to her.

Lady Anna of Cleves is not dimpled; she is not breathtaking. Hers is a long-nosed face – though not, I think,
without potential. My enthusiasm is running, after all, at full gallop; I cannot pull up now.

“Good day, my lord,” she says in a thick accent, laying out each word carefully. “I… thank… His Majesty.”

As she reaches to take the ring, I catch hold of her hand and raise it to my lips; then, with a quick tug, pull her in for a kiss on the cheek.

Ladies of the English Court greet such games with giggles and teasing looks, with delight and pretty blushes. Lady Anna gasps and jerks her head away. Below the long nose, her mouth is twisted with disgust.

For a moment, we are frozen. It is an ugly pose. My neck is still stretched forward, my head still inclined for the kiss, meeting nothing but empty air.

Then I release her hand and she moves away swiftly, brushing her palms down her skirts and saying something in her own grating language to a lady-servant standing in the corner, who shrugs at her mistress and shoots me a scandalised look.

My bride then resumes her stance at the window. Resolutely staring out, willing me to leave. In the yard below, the tormented bull bellows and I hear the scrape of its chain against the ground. The bulldogs are barking; I wonder, distractedly, whether one of them has already sunk its teeth into the bull’s snout.

Thinking this, I am still watching her. My heart is still beating as fast as when I climbed the stairs, as fast as when I grabbed Browne’s sleeve outside the door. But all the hope and excitement I had then has shrivelled.

I turn. My men, still in their damp-stained cloaks and muddy boots, avert their gaze, each one finding sudden interest in his gloves, the floor, or the weave of the wall-hangings.

I push past them out of the room.