VIII

slightly away from his sides. He’s wearing glossy red gloves. Intermittently, the gloves drip.
    “Sir?” says a voice – Denny’s. Miles away.
    Those are no gloves. The boy’s hands are the red of a butcher’s hands, a surgeon’s hands. The hands of an executioner who has delved deep into the belly of his victim. The spots of red on the floor are merging into small pools.
    My heart is pounding. I struggle to rise – the boy watches the attempt.
    “I thought I was rid of you,” I say to him. “You showed me the evil and I destroyed it. I have my son now.” At last I’m on my feet, twisted awkwardly to keep the weight off my maimed leg, one hand gripping the chair-back. “Why the—” I point to his hands. “Why the blood?”
    “Sir, what is it?” “Sir?” Kate and Denny’s voices now, together.
    The boy says nothing. His pose is tranquil, as if he has stood there for an hour, and intends to remain there an hour more. But there is something horrifying in his look: his stare has such intensity – a kind of fury of interest.
    “Speak, damn you!” I start forward across the circle. “You were right. She was the Devil’s creature. So I destroyed her and I got my son. What evil are you here to show me now? Will there be a death? Surely not Edward, please! God would not allow it… Or is it evil in someone’s heart? I am constantly watchful. I continue to do God’s work. But now your… your appearance frightens me – the blood…”
    He does not blink; I cannot bear that he does not blink. His hair is moving a little, as if in a draught I cannot feel.
    Panic constricts my throat. I croak, “What do you want from me? Who are you ?”
    I’m aware of a shifting at the edges of my vision. In the circle around me there is fear – and embarrassment. Behind me Denny says, “The King is tired. He has overexerted himself today.” There’s a clatter and shuffle as people rise, eager to leave.
    “Stay!” I put out my hand, still staring at the boy. They sit again.
    No movement but the stirring of his hair. No reaction but the continued ferocious determination of his gaze.
    And then his voice speaks, as if whispering in my ear.
    Whom do I resemble?
    Hair the colour of straw. Hollow, haunted eyes. A livid pallor on the young-old face. I say, “No one. Evil. Death.”
    Now there’s movement in the face at last. He smiles, and his greyish teeth seem longer and sharper than before.
    Try again. Whom do I resemble?
    I stare at him. I am loath to admit what I am thinking. “My family. My mother ’s family. One of her brothers? I said once before I thought you were a ghost. But what does it matter? A devil can take any shape.”
    No. You are close. But not close enough.
    I am close indeed. An arm’s reach away, now. He looks so real. I can see every pore of his sallow skin, every strand of hair against the blue of the curtain behind him. I cannot bear it. I stagger forward, yelling, “Who is it this time? What evil stalks me? Tell me! ”
    I reach out, grabbing for his scrawny neck. My hand closes on something too soft – fine blue taffeta. The curtain. I wrench it aside.
    I find myself looking into the boy’s eyes: amused, savage, triumphant.
    But the eyes are in my face. It is a mirror.
    My forehead crashes into the glass. With a crack the mirror splinters into a fan of jagged pieces. Sections of a queasy, jarred room. Sections of a face – my own – that do not fit together. The eyes are mine again, but one is closer than the other, grotesquely unaligned.
    “Call the King’s physician.”
    “Get off me!”
    “Sir, you are bleeding.”
    Slowly, I lumber round to face the room. Since when did my body become a ship that is so hard to turn? I am breathing heavily. Terror has opened like a pit at my feet. I sway and stagger back to catch my balance.
    A circle of faces, staring at me – afraid. Among them, Kate’s. I see that in her alarm she has clutched Culpeper’s hand. Her fear is so innocent, like a child’s in a thunderstorm.
    There is blood trickling into my left eye. I wipe it with the back of my hand and hold the hand out to her. Almost reluctantly, she rises and comes to me.
    “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” I murmur. “It’s those damned medicines they give me. They bring strange daydreams. But, as you see, the dreams pass in a moment.” She’s looking at the floor now. I tilt her chin up; I manage to smile. For a brief moment I have the strange sensation that something else