VIII

us too.
    She smiles cheerfully. I smile back, wearing a perfect shell. But inside I am nursing a sullen fury, which sits in my stomach like a stone. I think: My mother believes she knows me, but she doesn’t. She has no idea what it’s like to be in here, looking out through my eyes .
    On the jetty, my father is waiting; he will accompany her as far as the entrance to her chambers, though even he is not allowed inside. Behind him, musicians on the escort barges saw thinly at their instruments, battling the wind. A huge red wooden dragon at the prow of the royal barge dips as my father steps stiffly down into the hull. He turns back to offer my mother his hand, to steady her as she steps aboard, and then leads her to her seat under the royal canopy.
    Somewhere beneath my mother’s gown, Meg told me, is a holy relic: a girdle that belonged to the Virgin Mary and has miraculous powers for relieving the travails of childbirth. And somewhere beneath that girdle, lying smug in his place of safety: the child.
    I don’t want to see the boat leave. I turn away, and find my grandmother watching me oddly. Walking past, I snarl at her; just a sound in my throat, like a dog.

 
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    Our shoes squeak on the floor as we circle one another, breathing hard.
    Guildford lunges and grabs my shirt-front. I seize his hand, twist, and ram his elbow-joint the wrong way.
    “Jesus!” shrieks Guildford.
    “Headbutt him Guildford, go on!” yells Simpson, my swordmaster.
    “Am I allowed to?” Guildford pants, his eyes watering at the pain.
    “Yes!” shouts Simpson.
    “No!” I yell at the same time.
    Guildford does it anyway. But I dodge and send him sprawling onto the floor. He rolls to his feet, wiping his mouth and laughing. Guildford’s tough. Blows bounce off him like hailstones off a roof.
    He goes for me again, a fist aiming at my face.
    “Wait!” Simpson steps forward. He’s a bald, red-cheeked man with calves that bulge like the fat legs of a fine table. He fought in my father’s army at Bosworth and at Deptford Bridge. He knows all the elegant moves – and all the rough and mean ones, too.
    “Now look, sir,” he says to me, “when he’s approached you side-on like this, just step in behind him – pass your arm in front – and heave him backwards over your leg.”
    I try it. Guildford hits the painted plaster floor with an almighty thump.
    “Yes! And now he’s down, stamp on his knee!”
    “Hey, sir!” Guildford protests.
    I put my foot on Guildford, and bounce a little of my weight on it, taunting. He grabs my leg, tries to sweep me off balance…
    “Aargh!”
    I hop, flounder, and fall heavily on top of him. We disentangle ourselves, laughing again, and when I get up I find Compton’s standing by the rack that holds the quarterstaffs, waiting to speak to me.
    “Sir. A messenger’s come from the Tower.” He’s holding a paper – I suppose it’ll be my mother’s official announcement. The wording’s the same every time – the clerks write it out beforehand: It has pleased Almighty God, in His infinite mercy and grace, to send unto us good speed in the deliverance and bringing forth of…
    I say, “Is he born, then?”
    “ She is born, sir. See, here – it says the Queen has been delivered of a princess.”
    A princess – a girl! I grab the paper. This is wonderful news. Girls count for nothing – useful for a marriage alliance, that’s all. This little scrap of flesh will be no threat to me.
    I hook my arm round Guildford’s neck – show him the paper. “We must celebrate!” I say. “Simpson, come and have a cup of wine with us—”
    Compton puts his hand on my shirtsleeve. “But I need to tell you: your mother is unwell.”
    “Seriously?”
    He dips his head towards me and says in a low voice, “Don’t worry unduly. I’m told it’s happened before, other times she’s given birth. I just thought you should know.”
    I release Guildford and say to Compton, “I want to see her.”
    “You know the rules, Hal. They won’t let you in.”
    He’s right. I’m silent for a moment. “What can I do, then?”
    “Beat Guildford to a pulp? It passes the time.” Compton grins, hoping to cheer me. When he sees it won’t work, he adds soberly, “I don’t know, sir. Wait. Pray?”

 
♦  ♦  ♦  XIV   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    I do pray – for hours. Here at Greenwich, where I’ve been since my mother left for the Tower (my