VIII

♦
     
     
    “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