VIII

heard them in the Tower – or rather, I scribbled the bits I could remember – and kept the paper tucked carefully in the back of a book. The stories of King Arthur – I think that was the one.
    Getting up now, I leave the Psalms lying open on the table and cross to the cupboard where I keep my books. Angwen, who has woken up, scrambles to follow me, and stands beating her tail enthusiastically against my leg as I look along the shelves.
    I’m still looking when there’s a knock at the door and Compton appears.
    “My lord, Her Grace the Queen has arrived from Greenwich.”
    It’s unexpected, and there’s no time to prepare – before I’ve even pushed the leaves of the cupboard door shut my mother is sweeping into the room and Compton has hold of Angwen’s collar; he bows himself and the dog out, to leave us alone.
    The door clicks shut. My mother and I look at one another. And I realise it hasn’t occurred to me until this moment to wonder how she feels.
    No need to wonder – it’s all too obvious. She looks like a paper doll in a downpour. She’s not crying, she’s entirely controlled – standing there, taking off her gloves – but her skin is so pale it’s almost translucent and her eyes look huge, damp and red-rimmed, the shadows beneath them mauve and blue.
    What was I expecting, congratulations ?
    I approach my mother and kneel, as I always do after a time apart; she raises me and hugs me. The hug feels too tight; she holds me a fraction too long.
    Then she puts me away from her and studies my face. “Compton tells me you’re not sleeping, my love.”
    I nod, feeling agitated; I can’t think what to say.
    “I know you were never close, you and… Arthur.” She says his name so softly it is almost a whisper. “How could you be, living apart all this time? But, knowing that, I wasn’t sure how much it would affect you… now…”
    She strokes my hair. “Forgive me, sweetheart, I can see the pain in your face. It does you credit – you have a loving heart. But remember, Hal, we must not grieve too much. We may incur God’s wrath if we do not submit ourselves humbly to His will.” Her eyes are swimming. She blinks and two fat droplets spill down her cheeks. “And that is what it is, you know – God’s will – that Arthur should be taken – from us – so young…”
    She crumples me against her because she’s crying properly now, making no noise, just shuddering and shuddering. I cling to her, my arms round her waist, urgently wanting her to stop. But then I realise something awful. Something obvious, too – it’s as if a flash of lightning has shown me a thing hidden in the corner of the room, something that’s been there all along – how stupid have I been not to notice it before?
    The awful, obvious thing is this: it’s no accident that Arthur has died; it is not by chance that the prophecy is coming true. That is not, after all, how prophecies work. God has killed my brother for me . And I have done this to my mother. It is my fault.
    “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” my mother says, taking my hands from round her waist and turning away. She produces a handkerchief from a small bag at her belt and presses it firmly to each eye in turn. In the sunlight from the window, the wisps of hair escaping from her hood look golden and fragile.
    I stand utterly still. I have an awful, hollow, winded feeling in my stomach – as if I have done something terrible, and it is too late to undo it.
    “Ah, good boy.” My mother moves to the table by the window and rests her fingers on the page of Psalms. She takes a deep, steadying breath, and lets it out gingerly. She says, “I have been finding comfort in scripture too.”
    I can’t reply. My eyes follow her as she walks about the room, minutely adjusting the position of objects, straightening them, lining them up – a box of hawks’ hoods, a pen-and-ink holder, a writing slate.
    Without looking at me she says, “Your father doesn’t want to make changes to your household immediately. You will, of course, become Prince of Wales instead of Duke of York – but exactly when, I don’t know. He may well assign you another tutor. And at some point he will bring you to Court to live with us, but not just yet.”
    In the silence she looks up – I’m expected to say something. I swallow hard. “I will do whatever he wishes.”
    She smiles, her face full of sympathy, then walks back to the window, where she gazes out at the sunny