VIII

is looking out through my eyes, smiling at her too. I say, “There is nothing to fear.”

 
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    But there is something to fear. I fear to look in the mirror, in case I see his eyes in mine. I fear an empty room, an unturned corner, the slightest sound whose source is not instantly clear.
    The boy’s appearance is an omen. I do not know what is coming, only that something is. And so I fear not just him, but everyone – men close at hand, men far away. A face in the crowd – any face. Disease.
    I am diseased – dis-eased. On edge: I cannot sleep. And yet, for the hours in the day when I am with Kate, for the hours in the day when I am without pain, I think I am the happiest I have ever been. It is a strange, contradictory existence.
    As summer approaches, I plan a progress: I will take Kate and my Court to the third of my kingdom that I have never seen: to the North. To those benighted shires where the most brutish of my subjects still cling to the lies peddled by the bishop of Rome – the one they call Pope – and where the weeds of rebellion spring up year after year, and must be hacked down in cold blood. These northern men have never seen the magnificence of their king, nor his might. A thousand soldiers will accompany me – it will be a show of strength.
    But as I turn to the North I must watch my back, too: in London, the Tower must be cleared of prisoners before we go, to alleviate the risk of unrest in my absence – for who knows what form the evil will take this time. I insist that the job be done thoroughly: even the elderly Countess of Salisbury, my daughter Mary’s erstwhile governess, is hustled out one windy morning to the block. Her Popeloving sons intrigue against me in their exile, abroad. I cannot be too careful.
    And so, in July I set off – with my Queen and Court, with my soldiers, with five thousand fine horses and two hundred tents and pavilions. It is unseasonably wet, and the carts and wagons of our vast baggage train founder in the flooded and muddy roads. But at last we make it: to Lincoln and Pontefract, to Hull and York.
    We wear cloth of gold, my simple-hearted, loving little Kate and I, our outfits embroidered with each other’s initials. In the cathedrals, we have incense swung and prayers said over us, calling on God to grant us long life and many children. My subjects kneel to me in their hundreds, cheer for me in their thousands. But I am scanning the crowds, always – scanning the faces for signs of ill intent.
    As the days of the progress pass into weeks, however, my agitation begins to ease. I begin to settle more fully into my happiness. I begin to look forward to the birth of the Duke of York – for surely Kate will give me a son soon.
    At the end of October we return, in easy stages, to Hampton Court. I order a thanksgiving to be held in the chapel there for the joy Kate has brought me. I attend it on All Saints’ Day, and hear Mass in public beneath the blazing blue and gold of the ceiling. Gilded angels hang above me, stars twinkle in the manmade firmament, and my motto declaring my divine right to rule, written in gold, stripes the sky like the tail of a comet.
    The next day is the Feast of All Souls. I go to Mass again, but more privately this time: in my closet on the chapel’s balcony. Entering it, I see my familiar cushions and prayer books, my spectacles resting as always on a folded silk handkerchief – plus something unusual.
    There is a letter on my chair.
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    “This is a lie.” The door to my closet bangs against the wall as I come out. I’m holding the letter. “This is an evil lie. Bring me the person who cooked up this filth.”
    Half a dozen of my gentlemen are standing in the passageway, rigid with alarm. No one moves.
    “Christ! Jesus Christ !” I crumple the letter and throw it, hard, down the passageway. I grab the nearest man by the doublet. It’s Denny. “I. Am. Happy. With. Her. You understand?” I shove him aside; Denny staggers.
    The letter contains accusations against Kate. That her innocence is a pretence. That she had lovers before we were married – several. But more than this. Much more. That, on the progress just completed, in Lincoln and Pontefract and York, she and Tom Culpeper met by night while I slept in my apartments.
    Tom Culpeper? That pretty, roguish boy? I can believe he is a fool, but he is no traitor. His accuser must be a jilted woman, or a