VIII

muffled; I’m speaking into the keyboard.
    “Of course. I miss my mother very much.”
    “Will it be soon?”
    “The timing is up to the King, your father. I am an English subject now.”
    I look up – someone has knocked at the door. It’s Compton, telling me my barge is ready to take me downriver. We will pick up horses at Greenwich and from there ride the rest of the way to Eltham.
    I kiss Catherine’s hand when I take my leave. I don’t suppose I’ll see her again.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  XI   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    “He saw it – with his own eyes. The bodies of the French lying in piles higher than a man. The English soldiers climbed on top of them to carry on fighting!” I’m delighted, almost laughing – thrilled at the astonishing, against-the-odds victory won by a small band of Englishmen almost a hundred years ago.
    At the other side of the room my mother, who has been at best only half-listening, says, “God bestows victory upon whom He chooses.”
    Pray to be chosen, then. God’s favour certainly rested with Henry V of England that day he won the battle at Agincourt. This book, which I’m translating from Latin into English (an exercise set by my tutor) was written by a man who was there. He says Henry had six thousand men against an army of sixty thousand French. But, he says, it was impossible for misfortune to befall Henry, because Henry’s faith in God was so sublime.
    My mother says, “Hal, you don’t have to study so long.”
    “I know.” I sit back, one knee juddering, and hold my pen to the light to see if the nib needs re-cutting. I think: I, too, must have a faith so sublime that no misfortune can befall me .
    My mother is sitting with an apothecary’s book open on the table in front of her, turning the large, crisp pages carefully, running a finger down them. I wonder what she’s looking for. Something to do with her pregnancy, I suppose.
    Without lifting her head, she says, “Why don’t you take the dogs out – go and hunt a hare in the woods?”
    “Yes, I already did, before breakfast.”
    “You are so diligent, sweetheart. I only worry that you push yourself too hard.”
    Not hard enough. I want to be sublime not just in faith, but in everything. Though, sitting with my mother now, there’s one imperfection I can’t seem to correct: irritation at her pregnant state. I’m uncomfortable just being in the same room as her these days. I don’t like to see the loosened lacing on her dress. I don’t like to catch sight of her hand softly rubbing her swollen belly. I shall be a glorious king, like Henry V – no backup heir is needed. So why must she complicate matters by bringing a new brother into my world?
    I shake myself, push a hand back through my hair, bend over the next paragraph of Latin. “Those lands Henry V conquered,” I say, “they’re rightfully ours. Why hasn’t Father taken them back? And the crown of France, too – since Edward III’s time it should have belonged to the king of England. Why hasn’t Father pressed his claim?”
    “You need peace at home before you can think of conquest,” my mother says, still turning pages. “Though your father did lead an army to France the year you were born. He got good money out of that, I remember – the French paid a lot to secure a truce. But it’s taken all his effort, all his resources, to establish himself as king here, and to make sure there is a secure realm to hand on to you.” She looks up. “I’ve been meaning to ask – what do you think of Catherine?”
    “What do you mean ‘think of her’?” I write a couple more words, chewing my lip. “I don’t think of her. Isn’t she back in Spain now?”
    “Well, no, actually,” my mother says, her eyes on her book. “Your father doesn’t want to have to pay back the dowry – he and the Spanish are wrangling about it. I’ve been thinking perhaps there’s no need to pay it back. The alliance would still be useful.”
    My knee stops juddering.
    “Though—” She frowns into the middle distance, one finger marking her place. “I suppose marrying your brother’s widow is not…”
    “Allowed?” I suggest, staring at her. “In the eyes of the Church she’s my sister. No one’s allowed to marry their sister, surely?”
    My mother smiles. “Not ideal , I was going to say. But there’d be no problem as long as the Pope granted you a dispensation – which I expect he would. Do you like her?” She raises her eyebrows in