VIII

girl,” comes my father’s voice from the other side of the room. “It’s the bloody Spanish girl he’s going on about. Tell him.”
    Fox’s normally creased brow creases even further. He says, “Your father, sir, in his great wisdom, has seen the advantage of maintaining the alliance with Spain. It has therefore been agreed with Their Catholic Majesties the King and Queen of Spain that you will marry Princess Catherine. We are arranging for the formal betrothal to take place in the Bishop of Salisbury’s London palace. It’s on Fleet Street – between St Bride’s and Whitefriars – do you know it? It has crenellations. No matter. You will of course be notified of the date, when it is fixed – it will be within a day or two of the signature of the formal marriage treaty—”
    “Me?” I feel breathless, giddy. I scrunch my eyes shut. How can everything have changed so suddenly to fit my purposes?
    I open my eyes again to find Fox studying my face in concern. I say, “But I thought the King himself was going to…” I tip my head in my father’s direction.
    The bishop looks uncomfortable, rubs his long nose. “Oh. Ah. Yes. Her mother would not agree – said the mere mention of it offended her ears. Your father will look for a wife elsewhere. Of course, there is the matter of it being,” he waves his hand, “between the two of you also…”
    “Incestuous?” I suggest. I remember pointing it out to my mother. “In marrying my brother she became my sister, and I am not allowed to marry my sister?”
    Fox nods, wags a finger in the air. “That’s it. But we have applied to the Pope for a dispensation.”
    Fox’s assistant, a large man called Wolsey, steps forward smoothly. “Our contacts in Rome indicate there should be no problem, my lord,” he says.
    I blink at him.
    Acts will smooth your way…
    A picture comes into my mind: grasses in a meadow bending themselves before me, anticipating the path my feet are to tread.
    What does it feel like, to be chosen? I ask myself, as if someone else were enquiring. My God, if I were not the chosen one, I should want to know! It feels like blazing sunshine – inside . It feels like galloping across smooth ground. Sure, certain. Knowing that nothing can make me stumble.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  XVIII   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    “I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgement when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it. For be ye well assured, that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God’s Word doth allow are not joined together by God; neither is their matrimony lawful.”
    The chapel settles into a comfortable silence, broken only by a muffled snort as one of the witnesses stifles a sneeze. There is nothing to say. Wolsey was right, there was no problem: the Pope did grant a dispensation. Not in time for the betrothal – which went ahead anyway – but in plenty of time for this, our wedding.
    Stealing a sidelong glance at Catherine now, I catch the outline of her profile, clear against the busy background of carvings and gildings. I’ve hardly seen her in recent months: today she looks thinner and paler than I remember, and I have heard rumours that neither my father nor hers is providing enough money for her household. I wish I could remedy that, but I can’t. I am thirteen, which is too young, my father calculates, to be a husband yet in anything but name. So, after this ceremony, we will go our separate ways – to live, for now, as we did before: Catherine at Durham House and me at my father’s side, wherever he happens to be.
    I turn to the front again. On the floor, around the edges of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s robes, patterns of leaf shadows and bright sunlight move on the coloured tiles. Against my leg I can feel the stiff gold fabric of Catherine’s hooped skirt. My hand is supporting hers; her fingers feel soft and dry, the frill of her cuff lying against my thumb. I wonder if she is thinking of that other wedding day, when she married my brother. She must be.
    A ring appears on a velvet cushion. I take it and look down at Catherine’s hand. The nails are very short – she’s bitten them right to the quick.
    I pass the ring onto her thumb saying, “In the name of the Father,” then onto her index finger, “And of the Son,” then her middle finger,