VIII

it.”
    “It is . Arthur died because God chose me to be king. And Arthur’s death was the reason my mother had another child. So she died because of me.”
    “Even if that’s true, it’s not your fault . You didn’t ask to be chosen.”
    I stare at the ground. “God tests His chosen ones – He finds out if they are worthy by sending them trials. It’s all over the Bible: Job, Abraham, Joseph—”
    “And Christ.”
    “Exactly.” I nod. “And now me, too. My mother dying is my trial. I have to prove I can take it. I just need…” I look up at Catherine. “I suppose the plan is for you to leave soon. If you tell me you agree, I can speak to the King. Is the dowry sorted out?”
    “Hal…” She looks distressed. “He’s made enquiries about marrying me himself.”
    “What?”
    “He’s going to write to my mother.”
    A gull wheels over the river, squawking. I feel suddenly that I am adrift at sea, entirely alone.
    “What an honour – congratulations,” I say briskly. “And I’ll have you as my stepmother instead of my wife. Another trial.”
    “Not everything’s about you, you know.”
    Oh, but it is. She doesn’t understand. It’s a burden I have to bear. I am carrying everything. The enormity of it is terrifying. I lie awake at night, pinned to the bed, spinning in the blackness, dizzy with it.
    She says, “I’m… frightened.”
    I almost haven’t heard her. I look at her, trying to take in the words. I think of my father being ceremonially brought to the marriage bed by his attendants, as Arthur was – and of her lying there, waiting for him, in the place my mother has vacated so recently that the imprint of her body could almost still be warm. I think of Catherine’s auburn hair fanning out across the pillow, her soft smooth face…
    “You’ll cope,” I say, and walk away to examine a sundial.
    “Don’t be like that.”
    I turn back and face her. “The Lord is a just and merciful God, who allows no one to be tried beyond his strength,” I say. “St Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, chapter ten, verse fifteen.”
    I’m crying. I can feel the tears streaming down my face. Dripping – like the fountain beasts’ water – off my chin.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  XVII   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    As the door shuts, my father is laughing – expansive, warm, his arm around my shoulders.
    The envoys left behind us in the Presence Chamber – a couple of effortfully charming Venetians – probably think the door shuts out all sound. In fact, the laughter ceases the instant the door closes. And the arm drops from my shoulders, too; my father walks ahead of me through the small vestibule and into his Privy Chamber. I follow. It’s a different world here – quiet, secret, with just a few servants moving unobtrusively to anticipate my father’s demands.
    At last my father has summoned me to live at Court – now I am to be always at his side, learning how to be king from his example. I am waiting for it to be announced that he will marry Catherine. I can only think that the delay is for propriety’s sake; the arrangements must be in place – she has not gone back to Spain, after all.
    “Get me something to eat.” He’s slung off his hat, and is vigorously scratching his scalp as he sits down, the oiled grey hair swinging by his cheeks. No smiles now. He glances back, rakes me with a dead look. “You need to put in some more hours with the accounts today.”
    The food comes; his men know what he likes: a leg of meat, a puddle of sauce to dip it in. He sits on a stool to eat, his elbows on his knees, plate in his hand, like a soldier in camp. It’s a wonder he can still chew meat – his teeth are few, these days, and blackish. Watching him eat, I think of Catherine.
    I’m determined to say something, though my heart’s hammering. I grip a chair-back, pressing the metal studs so hard my fingertips turn white. “She’s your daughter,” I say. “In God’s eyes.”
    “What? What’s the boy talking about?” My father doesn’t look at me; it’s an aside to the room. He spits out a gob of gristle, flicks his eyes up to Bishop Fox who’s come, followed by his assistant, into the room behind me. “Explain to him, will you, Fox?” My father jabs a chicken leg in my direction. “I haven’t the patience.”
    Fox steers me to stand by the window. “I’m sorry sir,” he says gently. “What is it that concerns you?”
    “It doesn’t matter.”
    “The Spanish