VIII

gardens, tapping her fingers on the sill. “He cried, you know,” she says. “Your father. I have never seen him cry before. And he came to me to do it.” There’s a note of defiance in her voice. She’s thinking of my grandmother, I suppose – that the King didn’t go to her . I try to picture my father weeping with anyone. I can’t.
    My mother says, “Don’t expect too much of him, will you? Not at first. He – he had high hopes for Arthur. He saw so much of himself in him. And all that meticulous planning, all those years of training…” She breaks off, gives a little shake of her head. “But we must deal with reality – it is fruitless to dwell on what might have been.”
    Then she turns and stretches out her hands towards me. “We are so fortunate, so blessed to have another son.”
    “I will be good,” I say fervently. “I will be so good, Mama, I will work hard, I will please God, I will—”
    “It’s all right, my love,” she says. “I know you will.” And she half-turns to the window again, and says in a light tone – matter-of-fact, “Anyway, as I said to your father – we are both young. God willing, we can have more children.”
    She doesn’t mean children, she means sons. To secure the succession.
    “But you don’t need more.” I move towards her. See me , I think. See me. Standing, solid, before you. Here I am, Mother. Turn back and see me properly .
    It’s as if she’s heard me, because she does turns back. She reaches out, black sleeve trailing, a long finger uncurling, and smoothes a lock of hair away from my brow. “Ah, but sweetheart,” she says quietly, “which of us knows the date of our death?”
    ♦   ♦   ♦
     
    My mother spends the whole day here at Eltham, listening to my sisters read, attending chapel with the three of us, and then inspecting my school work and Mary’s sewing while Meg plays us a few sombre tunes on the virginals. Before nightfall, she rides the five miles back to Greenwich and I am left trembling with some dark feeling that I can’t understand.
    After supper I return to my room in search of that book I was looking for earlier – the King Arthur stories. At first, scanning the shelves, I fear it’s at Greenwich or Richmond – I have book collections in all three places – but at last I see it, tucked at the end of the lowest shelf. I hook a finger behind the top of the spine and pull it out. The cover is blue velvet, embroidered with gold and silver flowers, and fastened with silver clasps – inside, the pages are handwritten in black and red ink, the illustrations individually painted.
    In the very act of turning to the back of the book I imagine finding nothing – the paper vanished – and my heart starts thudding. But then I see it: a single sheet, folded several times.
    I take the paper, smooth it out and, moving closer to the candlelight, I frown over the words, which are written very small (as if, I suppose, that would keep them more private) in my best childish handwriting:
    The one who has been prophesied will come, full of power, full of good devotion and good love. Oh blessed ruler, I find that you are the one so welcome that many acts will smooth your way. You will extend your wings in every place; your glory will live down the ages .
    And, beneath this, I’ve written the other prophecy:
    York will be king .
    So, you weigh it in the scales, don’t you: a good thing against a bad, to see if the good thing is worth the trouble. And this is what must be weighed against my brother’s death and my mother’s grief: my glory.
    It will be worth it. I will show her. She will see me become the greatest king of England that has ever lived.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  IX   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    I can’t wait to see my father. As the days pass, I expect the summons with growing impatience, while a mixture of triumph and guilt fills me with an uncomfortable, fretful energy. I’m hardly able to bear sitting at my studies, even though I’m determined to work harder than ever. I can’t sit down at all without my fingers tapping, my knees juddering. It’s much easier to keep moving, from the moment I wake up until it’s time for bed again. Hunting, hawking, sword or jousting practice, playing tennis or music, even card and dice games with my friends: I must be occupied, occupied, occupied.
    And all the time, my anticipation grows. Always, my father’s behaviour towards me has been defined by my position in the family.