VIII

surrounded by people in thrall to their own ambition and greed. Trust none of them. Every day is a trial of strength. Not of your stupid sword-arm, idiot; your strength here.” He jabs my forehead. “And here.” He prods my chest.
    For a moment he looks at me searchingly, then turns away. Near the fireplace there’s a small table on which stand a lidded jug and cups; he crosses to it and pours himself a drink.
    “You want to be admired?” he says. “I have found that it is far better to be feared. So how do you suppose I achieve that? I cannot keep a knife to the throat of every ambitious duke or earl. Yet I need them to work loyally for me when they are hundreds of miles away, defending our northern border, keeping the peace in Wales…”
    He knocks the drink back; wipes his mouth. “Debt to the crown keeps them on a nice short lead, like a dog. Step one foot out of line and,” putting the cup down, he makes a sharp gesture, as if he is yanking a chain, “the debt is called in and they are ruined. Without money, they cannot pay for their guards and their troops and their castles. And so, they cannot challenge me. In fear of this, I find they serve me well.”
    I watch as my father walks back to his desk; his fingers drift lovingly over his papers. He says, “The battle for control of England is fought as much here as on the battlefield. So – I suggest that you leave off dreaming quite so much of jousting, and spend more time instead with the account books.” Sitting in his chair again, he picks up his quill. “I will make a note to increase the time you spend on administrative matters.”
    “And if I agree to that,” I say, “will you let me take part in this one tournament? Please? It is all arranged. My performance will do you honour – you’ll see. It is, after all, my coming of age.”
    My father raises his eyes to the ceiling, pretending to consider. “Um…” Then his usual contemptuous expression returns. “No. And that is my final answer. You can enjoy the tournament as a spectator. You can sit next to me.”
    Exhausted and angry, I don’t know what to do except bow and make for the door.
    My father says, “Oh, one more thing.”
    I stop – turn.
    He’s back to checking the ledger. His eyesight has weakened recently; he bends low over the book – so low his nose almost scrapes it, along with his pen. With only the briefest of glances up at me he says, “You will reject your marriage to Princess Catherine. It can be undone perfectly straightforwardly if you make a formal declaration before you come of age.”
    I stare at him. “No.”
    The pen pauses; my father lifts his head. “I beg your pardon?”
    “I don’t want to.”
    “What you want or don’t want has no relevance. Marriages are a matter of diplomatic strategy. The alliance with Spain is not as useful as it was. Still…” He frowns absently at the window, considering. “I think we won’t declare the rejection publicly for now. Just have the document signed and witnessed, and then we can keep it in reserve and see which way the tide runs.” He dips his pen in ink again and bends over the book.
    I think of Catherine; I think of my mother, saying, Do you like her? I think of the person I want to be – the person I feel God has called me to be: golden, upstanding, chivalrous, devout. I say, “It would be dishonourable.”
    “Dishonourable?” My father slaps his hand on the desk. “This is the difference between you and Arthur: you have no understanding of reality… Oh, to live in a simple world! A world of fairytale ideals!” He jabs his quill at me. “You’re dreaming . Open your eyes. Foreign rulers twist and turn every day of their lives – they promise to be your undying friend, and at the same time they make deals behind your back with your enemies. You cannot cling to some childish view of honour; you will be taken for a fool.”
    “I like Catherine,” I say doggedly. “I need her.”
    My father flings down his pen, digs his hands into his grey hair and growls in frustration. “For the love of Christ, have you been listening to a single word I’ve said? You are revealing nothing, boy, but the depths of your own inadequacy, which, God knows, I have been made bitterly aware of already. You need her? Then that is an added reason for her to be sent away. You must learn to need no one. You must be prepared to strike off your right hand if it is for the good of England.”
    “I see you doing nothing