VIII

“And of the Holy Ghost” – at which the blue eyes flick up to me and she smiles; a small, secret smile. And finally the ring reaches its home, sliding over the knuckle of her fourth finger, “Amen.”

 
♦  ♦  ♦  XIX   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    “What about the nights?”
    “Oh yes, they’re working nights,” Harry Guildford says. “Don’t worry, it’ll get done in time. But the bill for candles will be enormous.”
    We’re in the largest of my private rooms at Richmond, planning the tournament that will mark my fourteenth birthday – my coming of age. Guildford, who has developed a passion for the mechanics of these displays, is bringing me up to date with the progress made both by his father and brother, who run the Royal Armoury, and by the Office of Revels, which is in charge of making the costumes and pageant-cars.
    I say, “Show me the vehicle that’ll hold the animals.”
    My feet have been propped up on the end of a nearby bench. I swing them down and lean forward as Guildford hands me the design. It’s a large plan, meticulous and detailed, complete with measurements and labels to indicate building materials.
    The contraption for the animals is an enclosed pageantcar, set on pivoting wheels, to be drawn by two horses dressed to resemble lions, in shaggy cloths and headpieces. The outside of the car, according to the plan, will be made to look like a mountain, topped with trees and bushes and craggy rocks.
    “We’ll have a girl sitting on here, a real one,” Guildford points to a boulder, “but these deer will be artificial. Papier-mâché on wire frames, painted and dressed in fabric.”
    “And the live animals in here?” I point to the middle of the mountain.
    “Yes, two compartments inside, one for the buck and the other – here – for the two greyhounds.”
    Charles Brandon peers over my shoulder. “The dogs’ll go mad – they’ll be able to smell the buck in the next compartment.”
    “All the better,” says Guildford. “When we open the trap they’ll come out at a roaring pace.”
    “Make sure the division inside is strong, though,” says the muffled voice of Francis Bryan, who is lounging on a daybed on the other side of the room with his hat over his face. “Otherwise you’ll open the door and find two dogs having an early meal.”
    I hand the plan back to Guildford. “Once they’ve chased it round the hall and made the kill, I want the buck’s head cut off and presented to my father.” I think he’ll like that.
    Guildford makes a note in his pocket book as I cross to the table and pull a pile of papers towards me – sketches for the suits of armour. I leaf through them. Then again, more carefully. Green and white chequered, red striped with gold, all green, all red…
    “Where’s mine? The black one – black all over – where is it?”
    Guildford, still scribbling, says, “But, sir, you are not allowed to take part.”
    I turn to him. “ What? ”
    “Express orders of the King. I thought…” He looks up – and swallows. “… you knew.”
    There’s a silence; everyone’s looking at me. Even Bryan’s emerged from under his hat. I fling down the papers and stride out.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  XX   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    My father’s face is stony.
    I am holding myself in check, my hands clenching and unclenching by my sides. I say, “Please, sir. I have faithfully performed every task you have set me: hours with the account books, endless meetings, endless lessons. This is the one thing I want to do. And I have the skill, I have worked hard…”
    “No.”
    I take a breath – try another tack. “To sit on the sidelines will be a humiliation. All the boys I train with are taking part. And what is jousting, if not preparation for war? One day I shall be their king. One day I shall lead them into battle—”
    “Pray you won’t have to.”
    “God may call me to lead them into battle,” I say steadily, “just as you fought, sir, in your youth – and have fought many times since.”
    My father sighs impatiently and puts down his quill. “But I had no choice. When I was young I was on the run, fighting for my life. Since then I have fought for my crown and the peace of my realm. This, for you, is a game .”
    We’re in a small chamber where the window is shaded by a red hanging, lending the whole space an infernal glow. It’s warm, but still my father, sitting at his desk, has a fur-lined robe wrapped tight about him. Behind