VIII

packed streets.
    In Cheapside – an impressive street of goldsmiths’ shops – we’re faced with God the Father, plus warbling angels and a variety of wise men and prophets.
    “You need to understand,” I say, “they’ve dressed up the person playing God to look like my father.”
    “It’s a fair likeness,” says Catherine. “Why so many more guards here?”
    I look about. Yeomen of the Guard, plus huge numbers of liveried servants are ranged in every window, on every rooftop, and are standing several deep in the street around us. This amount of security can only mean one thing.
    “Ah,” I say. “I think God himself is watching.”
    Catherine follows my gaze. There’s a merchant’s house to our right; behind one of its diamond-paned windows I think I’ve glimpsed a face. My father no doubt planned this as a secret visit, but Catherine bows her head in that direction anyway. I do the same.
    She looks back to the pageant. Another man dressed as a bishop is already several verses into his speech. “Any help you can give me with this one?”
    I listen. “Um… To save us all from our sins, God made a marriage between the divine and the human by sending Christ to live among us… He’s saying the King of Heaven is like an earthly king who prepares a wedding for his son. No prizes for guessing which earthly king.”
    “So – your father is God and your brother is Christ. Who, then, are you?” She looks at me, eyes twinkling. “The Holy Ghost?”
    I smile, though not especially happily. “I am no one in particular.”
    “Oh, I can’t believe that,” says Catherine. “And the people clearly don’t think so. Listen to them.”
    The chanting has begun again. Some people are calling my name, some hers, some shouting out “God save the King!” and flinging their caps into the air, causing occasional struggles in the crush when the wrong people catch them.
    As we move on, I say, “No, it’s true. I’m just a fill-in, for when my brother isn’t here. You’ll meet him in a minute – when we get to St Paul’s.”
    “What’s he like?”
    “Oh…” I’m suddenly at a loss. “Very accomplished. You’ll find he’s, um, taller – well, not taller than me, actually. Older, though – yes. And more, er…”
    Catherine smiles. “I’m teasing you. We’ve met already. He and your father came and inspected me on my way up from Plymouth.”
    “Ah, I see.” To check for warts, I want to say. But don’t.
    We ride into St Paul’s churchyard. The bells are ringing and the booming sound echoes across the open space of the yard, rebounding off the buildings. Near the west front of the cathedral is the Bishop’s Palace, and before that a crowd of courtiers stands waiting. Catherine leans towards me to speak – it’s hard to hear anything over the bells. “The King wanted to reassure himself that I wasn’t ugly, I think.”
    “Yes,” I say automatically. “I mean, no .”
    She laughs. “In my country, you know, a bride never shows herself to the groom or his family before the wedding day. But your father insisted. He said he would storm into my bedchamber if necessary.”
    “Honestly?”
    As the procession halts, she smiles, biting her lip, and nods. “He suspected, I’m sure, that I had something to hide.”
    Wooden blocks of steps are brought so that we can dismount. I’m first to the ground. Catherine takes my outstretched hand as she steps down from her mule.
    “ He might have been suspicious,” I say, “but I was hopeful. That you would be ugly.”
    Her eyes widen. “I could take offence at that! Why did you think so? Because all Spaniards must be ugly? I’ve been told the English think badly of foreigners.”
    I escort her towards the palace. Walking side by side, I realise quite how small she is; she’s six years older than me, but still we’re eye to eye. I say, “No. It’s just that it would give me some small happiness if my elder brother didn’t have all the best things. There, now you know how ungenerous I am.”
    Catherine laughs again. “I’ll be glad to have you as my brother when I’m married! I had sisters at home – and I used to have a brother too. We always talked to one another – really talked – and laughed and joked and argued. You’re the first English person I’ve had a proper conversation with. Everyone else has been really polite, but so… formal. Some people in Spain say the English are cold, and I was starting to believe