VIII

the arena’s perimeter. The sky is a dazzling blue, the only clouds high thin streaks of translucent white.
    We are celebrating May Day but I am not competing; instead I have arrived on my white charger as king not knight, have taken a turn about the tiltyard to the cheers of the crowd and a trumpet fanfare, and have retired into the building known as the Tiltyard Towers, to enjoy my role as spectator.
    Emerging now from the spiral staircase into the viewing gallery, I come round a corner and take a sharp breath: she is there, Anne, perfectly dressed in cloth of gold and bright green satin, jewels winking in the sunlight at every available edging of cloth, at her ears, fingers and at her throat; but none of them as bright as her sharp dark eyes upon me.
    I smile. I touch my lips to her hand and watch as an expression of relief and gratification floods her face. She sees only my perfect shell; she thinks her charm has soothed me.
    The viewing gallery is a loggia – open to the air on the tiltyard side. We sit in full view of the crowd. Anne’s brother George, armed and mounted for the joust, stops his horse below us and, in the language of chivalry, asks her humbly for a favour. I watch as she leans forward and drops a gold-trimmed handkerchief onto the ground. George sends a page to retrieve it, and twists it round the fabric band on his helmet.
    The tournament begins. The sand is churned by hooves, by falling men, by lances cast aside and pages running. It is raked and churned again. Norris’s horse refuses to run; I lend him mine, and the crowd roars its approval.
    As two new riders line up and gesture for their lances, a letter is passed to me. I break the seal – stamped with Cromwell’s crest – and read.
    Down in the yard, there is a crescendo of yelling as the horses thunder in, and a booming crack as a lance makes contact and splinters. The hit rider, bouncing like a rag doll in the saddle, slumps down towards his stirrups as his grooms run forward.
    I refold the letter and rise. I do not look at Anne. I speak to no one as I leave.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  XVII   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    “She has had lovers. Many. Norris among them. And… and her own…”
    I look down at my hands – at the brooch I’m turning compulsively in my fingers. I can’t speak the words.
    Jane is sitting to my right, halfway across the room. Meek on a low stool; plain as a mouse, even in the new clothes I’ve given her. Softly, she says, “Yes?”
    I take a shuddering breath. “ Brother . Her own brother.”
    “ George ?”
    “George, yes, George. She’s only got one. Christ!” I lean my elbows on the chair-arms; press my forehead to my fists. “She plotted with them to murder me. If Cromwell hadn’t found out in time I would be in my grave by now.”
    Jane whispers, “No.”
    My eyes snap open. She adds hastily, “Forgive me, sir, if I can scarcely believe it.”
    I raise my head and look at her. I can find nothing snide, nothing calculating in her face. I say, “Evil is shocking to the godly, Jane. Your innocent mind could never conceive of the depravities these people have committed.”
    Looking down again, I open my hand; the brooch has dug red grooves into my palm. It is decorated with five diamonds and five rubies; above the rubies gold letters spell out Tristis Victima – ‘Sad Victim’. I ordered it some weeks ago for a masque: I was playing the part of someone struck with the dart of love – now it seems all too appropriate in a different way. I sling it onto the table beside me; it sits spinning on the polished wood.
    Jane says, “What will happen to them, sir?”
    I push myself out of the chair. “They are in the Tower.”
    “The Queen too?”
    “Of course.” Near the window, on another table, there is a pair of virginals. I lift the lid and play a few notes. “It is out of my hands.”
    For a long while after this I stand motionless, looking towards the window. We are at Chelsea, at Thomas More’s old house on the river. It is a convenient place for Jane to lodge in – for now. The garden is well tended and, as the late afternoon shadows creep and lengthen over its herb beds, scents drift through the open window. Somewhere in the distance a dog barks. I hear a soft rustle of skirts. Gentle, tentative fingers touch my sleeve. “Sir?”
    I take the fingers and kiss them. Quietly I say, “You can’t imagine, Jane, what it is to come so close to evil. To have the Devil so near that he