VIII

Compton and Guildford are waiting for me in the anteroom outside. I keep walking, on into the Presence Chamber; they fall into step beside me.
    “You all right, sir?” says Compton.
    “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”
    Beyond the Presence Chamber lies the Great Watching Chamber, where guards with sharply polished halberds stand in lines along the walls. There we meet the King’s mother, coming the other way.
    There is nothing to distinguish my grandmother in mourning from my grandmother at the height of happiness. She is dressed entirely in black, except for the white wimple around her head and throat, and her face seems to be carved from wood – grim and gnarled. As I greet her, she surveys me with something that looks very like loathing. With my solid build and my red-gold hair she sees me, I know, as entirely of my mother’s family; and now for her it must seem, I suppose, as if the other side has triumphed – the louche ones, the ill-disciplined wastrels.
    One bony hand stretches towards me and fingers the stuff of my doublet at the shoulder, as if feeling my quality. “Well, well,” she says, “and what can we make of you, boy?” She does not sound hopeful.
    “I am willing to learn, ma’am.”
    No reply. She sweeps past me, flicking the train of her black dress out of the way as though to brush against me would pollute it. Behind me, boots and weapons clatter as the guards at the door to the Presence Chamber stand to attention to let her through. Then the door shuts behind her with a thick boom.
    We walk down the grand spiral staircase and then, taking a short cut to the watergate, we head past some of the service rooms for the royal lodgings: the King’s wardrobe and his private kitchen. From the latter I hear a raised voice – someone is being scolded – and as we pass a serving hatch, I turn my head. I catch a glimpse of a scene, partly obscured by Guildford beside me and framed by the oblong opening in the wall. We walk on so fast that I don’t register what I saw until we are halfway down the passageway. I hesitate, wanting to go back and look again, but I can think of no good explanation to give my companions. I walk on, the image lingering in my mind, though it was ordinary enough.
    It was a boy my age, doubled over in pain. I couldn’t see his eyes. But his hair was the colour of straw.

 
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    When we reach the watergate we find the bargemen aren’t ready; they hadn’t expected me to set off home so soon. Neither had I. Although it’s still sunny, a hovering cloud is providing a short, sharp shower, so while Compton stays to chivvy the bargemen, I take shelter in the palace with Guildford. I am troubled by the glimpse of the boy: it’s as if I recognise him, as if I know him from somewhere. He seems significant. But how can he be?
    I want to avoid the royal lodgings, so I head across the moat to the gardens, where a newly built gallery provides some cover. At ground level, the gallery is an open arcade. Above that there’s a long enclosed room, attached to the palace at one end and the nearby friary church at the other, and lit by a series of huge mullioned windows on both sides. Wanting to be alone, I leave Guildford propping up one of the open arches and climb the stairs to the first floor by myself.
    I open the gallery door, hear music coming from inside, and hasten to shut it again. But I’ve been seen and a voice calls out in French, “Don’t run away.”
    The music has stopped. I put my head round the door.
    Princess Catherine, my brother’s widow, is sitting at a table beneath one of the windows, her fingers poised over a virginals keyboard. Beyond her the gallery stretches on into the distance, sparsely furnished – a corridor of light. Catherine smiles, drops her hands in her lap and tips her head to one side. “Won’t you talk to me? I don’t see many people these days.”
    My heart sinks – I am not in the mood for conversation. Catherine’s duenna – her governess – a fearsome-looking Spanish lady, has risen from her chair some distance away and is glaring at me. I don’t know whether she is more offended by my presence or the suggestion that I might not stay.
    Feeling trapped, and annoyed, I bow to each of them. The duenna sits down again and begins to stab at some embroidery with her needle.
    I say to Catherine, “I’m sorry, ma’am – don’t let me disturb you. I didn’t realise you were here.”
    “You