VIII

scratch of the pen and a repetitive tapping as the weighted hem of a curtain, lifted by the breeze, scrapes against the edge of a table. I know that if I were to go to the window, I would see him, somewhere outside, watching.
    Kathryn puts down the pen and looks at me, considering. “Later, sir, if you are not too tired, might you like to watch Prince Edward in the tiltyard? You expressed an interest…? He has been working hard. And your daughters are keen to accompany you, if you wish it.”
    I close my eyes. “They’re both here, are they? I thought Mary was at Hunsdon.”
    “She was, sir. But she arrived here yesterday.”
    I don’t reply. After a moment Kathryn adds, “You are blessed with such loving children, sir. They are all eager to have the honour of seeing you.”
    Beside my daybed stands a silver pan in which perfume is being heated. Gusts of rose-scent drift to me with each gentle inrush of air from the window. They cover, mostly, the smell of my ulcerated leg.
    The tiltyard does not see much of me these days. I grunt, and indicate the book with my hand – Kathryn resumes reading.
    ♦   ♦   ♦
     
    I go as far as the orchard in my carrying chair, my feet supported on its footstools, four gentlemen bearing the weight, one at each corner.
    I don’t, though, want my son to see me in it; I have the men put me down well before the tiltyard gate and I walk the rest of the way, my arm through Kathryn’s, my other hand grasping my black and silver stick. The sun is warm; by the time I reach the gate I am sweating.
    There is hardly a breath of wind – the flags at the top of the tiltyard towers droop against their poles. In the sandy space before the building, they have put up an open-fronted pavilion to provide some shade. Two figures start forward from it to greet me: dark shapes gliding across the dusty ground.
    “Your daughters, sir,” Kathryn murmurs. I set off towards them.
    Walking takes all my concentration. I do not see that I am upon them now; that they have halted in front of me and dropped into curtsies, their heads bowed. I stop, my breathing harsh in my own ears. I swallow. I say, “You may both rise.” I hold out my hand to each in turn for them to kiss.
    Mary is dressed in black today, Elizabeth in red. Elizabeth is only ten – or is it eleven? I forget. Whatever she is, she is disconcerting; watchful like her mother, and precociously self-possessed. Despite the heat of the day, her long, pale fingers feel cold as they touch me; I withdraw my hand quickly.
    Mary – bony, sallow Mary; where did the pretty little scrap of a child go? – is, by contrast, disconcerting only in her continued presence. Being well into her twenties, she should have been married off long ago. But her status as the product of an invalid marriage has proved a… well, a cause for uncertainty, shall we say, among the royal bridegrooms of Europe.
    Now, as she straightens and releases my hand, her birdsharp eyes are checking for the smallest sign of approval or dissatisfaction. At least she is eager to please, these days. That, in itself, pleases me.
    My daughters step back to either side, revealing a smaller figure some way off, just now breaking free of a cluster of gentlemen-servants: a perfect knight in miniature, hurrying towards me, the sunlight catching blindingly on the surface of his gilded armour.
    Edward – already, at seven, the most significant person in Christendom, who will be, when I am gone, the greatest king to walk this earth since the days of Solomon and David – stops in front of me, biting his lip, and kneels.
    I ruffle the red-gold hair, then raise him up and pinch his cheeks – pinch some colour into them. “My jewel. My boy.”
    He smiles, pleased and a little awkward. “It is an honour to see you, sir.”
    I turn him to face the girls, holding him in front of me by the shoulders. I say, “Kneel to him. Both of you. One day you may have to beg him for your lives if you have displeased him. Eh, Edward?”
    “Yes, Father,” he says, as Mary and Elizabeth each obediently pay him homage. “I will always be merciful to my sisters.”
    “Promise nothing, Edward.” I bend to whisper in his ear. “Trust no one.”
    The boy, for a moment, looks profoundly uncomfortable. I pat his shoulder, my rings clinking on the metal. “Well then, son. Show me what you can do.”
    I retreat to the shade of the pavilion. I think I glimpse a figure in the shadows of its farthest corner;