VIII

“Master Denys is here to see you.”
    “Oh, God.” Hugh Denys is one of my father’s most trusted servants. “Let him come in.” I look round at my companions. “Behave yourselves, boys – try to look respectable.” Bryan salutes, ironically, and Brandon hauls himself off the bed, sheathing his dagger. I’m wondering what message my father could possibly have sent… And Lord knows what the chamberlain will have reported already to Denys downstairs. As the door opens, I turn and say, “Please tell the King we’ll pay for the damage to the hall floor, won’t we…”
    I trail off. Hugh Denys has entered, still in his mudspattered riding boots and cloak; he’s clearly ridden hard. As he straightens from his bow, his gaze flicks round the disordered room, then back to me. He looks exhausted. “No, my Lord Prince. It’s not about any…” His eyes shut for a moment. “…floor. It’s news from Ludlow.”
    Ludlow. I attempt to think. What could possibly be the news from there?
    “Ah,” I say suddenly, spreading my arms in a grand gesture, “Princess Catherine is with child, is that it? Already? Hang out the bunting, my redundancy is complete.”
    Denys frowns, puzzled. “No, sir. It’s your brother, sir. I’m afraid…” He hesitates, turning his hat in his hands. “I don’t know whether word reached here of his fever, but, well… it pains me more than I can express to bring you this news, sir. Prince Arthur is dead.”
    I stare at him. Denys has an oddly crooked nose – I’ve never noticed it before. Was he born like that, I wonder, or did he have an accident in his youth? And it really is quite strange because I thought he said, just now, that my brother is dead.
    Suddenly the room tilts, and the ground swings up to where the wall should be. Something hits me hard on the side of the face.
    The next minute – or later, I’m not sure – I hear voices nearby.
    “Steady—”
    “Lift him—”
    “Mind your shoes – he’s going to be sick.”
    “There, sir…”
    “He’s shivering – get a blanket.”
    “It’s the shock of it – the grief.”
    But even as they ease me into a chair, fold a blanket around me and place a basin in my lap – a basin into which I stare, dazed and stupid, as if an explanation will appear there… even now I know it’s not grief.
    It’s not grief at all.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  VIII   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    I’m sitting at the window, reading from the Book of Psalms, translating from the Latin as I go. The April sunlight streams in on me, and the gilded, painted borders of the page dance; I run my finger along under the words to stop them jiggling.
    The Lord is on my side; I will not fear: what can man do unto me?
    At my feet, my dog Angwen twitches and whines; she is asleep, basking in the warm light, and seems to be dreaming of chasing rabbits.
    The Lord taketh my part with them that help me: therefore shall I look in triumph upon them that hate me .
    My finger pauses; I am awed by how the words seem written just for me.
    This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvellous in our eyes.
    Three days have passed since I heard the news of Arthur’s death. I’ve hardly slept.
    I will be king.
    This phrase repeats in my head, over and over. It gives me a thrill that is half like fear, that squeezes my guts and sets my heart racing.
    I will be king.
    When I’m alone I say it, experimentally, out loud. While sharpening a pen… drawing a bow… buckling a dog’s collar. As if the object will respond.
    I hold my hand up to the light, and see the flesh between my fingers glow orange-red, and I think: when I am king, when I am anointed with the holy oil at my coronation, this flesh will become sanctified. Every inch of me will be infused with the Holy Spirit – how will that feel ?
    Meanwhile, I can’t seem to summon up any pity for Arthur. I try to picture him in his last hours, weak with fever, but the image won’t come. Lying awake at night, I am afraid he will haunt me, his thin white shape rising from the foot of the bed, pointing a ghostly finger, accusing me of callousness. But he doesn’t appear. And in the morning what surprises me is how right it seems that he is gone and that I, now, am standing in his place.
    But then, haven’t I known for years?
    York will be king .
    And how did the other prophecy go?
    Oh blessed ruler… you are the one so welcome that many acts will smooth your way…
    I wrote them down, those prophecies, the same day I