VIII

– they’re stuffed full of coins.”
    We’ve come to a row of arched openings in the passageway wall, not on the side that looks out across the courtyard, but on the other side, the internal side. They give a view down into the cavernous space of the great hall.
    We stop beside the arches and I lean on one of the sills. Below me, the hall is empty – a great, still space, with bright sunbeams slanting down from the high windows and, between them, a world of thin grey shadows.
    At intervals along the walls stand the dark shapes of statues: kings and heroes frozen in action – trampling a dragon, holding aloft a sword, standing triumphant over an enemy bound in chains.
    Directly beneath us it’s the great Greek warrior Achilles; opposite – in the centre of the far wall – there’s a figure in full armour, brandishing a two-handed sword. It is supposed to be my father.
    I nod to it. “He doesn’t look like that any more.”
    Catherine follows my gaze. “I haven’t seen him in months.”
    “He’s grey. And coughing. He’s lost weight. He’s…” I hesitate. Last week, a man in the City had his ears sliced off for suggesting my father was dying.
    Catherine presses her fingertips to the velvet-covered sill, neatly, side by side, as if playing a chord on a keyboard. I notice that her nails are still bitten. She whispers, “Change is coming.”
    “Yes.”
    I turn and lean back against the edge.
    Out of the corner of my eye I can see her regarding me for a long moment. Then she looks out at the hall again. “You can’t blame him for not matching up to you,” she says. “You will eclipse him. The prophecy – I haven’t forgotten.”
    I turn to face the same way as Catherine, leaning my elbows on the sill. “I ask myself every day: what does it mean, what do I have to do, what do I have to be, to be this perfect king?”
    “And what do you answer?”
    “See that one, there?” I point to a statue diagonally to our right: a man in a suit of mail, with a crown on his helmet. “It’s Henry V. Came to the throne in his twenties, already battle-scarred – he’d taken a crossbow-bolt full in the face at sixteen, and was disfigured, but you’ll notice the sculptor hasn’t included that part.”
    “I can’t see from here.”
    “Take it from me. He hasn’t.” I glance at her, then look back at the statue. “He conquered France – made an Anglo-French empire. He’s my hero. But – he died leaving one newborn son, whom he hadn’t even seen. What followed? Civil war and chaos – and France slipped through our fingers. The son grew up to be king, but he was a disaster. He was murdered in the end.”
    I point across to the left, where there’s a statue of a young man fighting a lion. “And there, look: Alexander the Great – created one of the largest empires in ancient times…”
    “… but died leaving only one baby son not yet even born,” continues Catherine. “Result: civil war and chaos, and the son was murdered at the age of thirteen.”
    “Exactly.” I grin, impressed she knows so much. “So. I know how to do better. To be a great king, I have to achieve two things.” I hold up my hand to count them off. “One: build an empire. That means taking back France – the crown is rightfully ours. And two: have sons to carry on my legacy. Strong sons, grown to manhood before I die.” I meet her eyes; she’s looking at me levelly. There’s no scorn, no scepticism in her face. It’s as if she believes in me.
    For a moment we’re just looking at one another. Then I say, “Did they even bother to tell you?”
    “What?”
    “That my father made me reject our marriage?”
    “No. But I heard – eventually.” Catherine looks down at her hands. Then she turns to me, her face full of determination. “Don’t pity me. Please – that’s the one thing I couldn’t bear. All I need is money for my passage home.”

 
♦  ♦  ♦  XXIII   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    The following winter an anonymous note is nailed up on a church door in the City of London. It’s a translated quotation from the Bible, from St Paul’s letter to the Romans, chapter thirteen:
    The night is past and the day is come nigh.
Let us therefore cast away the deeds of darkness,
and let us put on the armour of light.
     
    Beside it is a drawing of a tall, powerfully built youth seated on a warhorse, with a crown on his head.
    I am tall and powerfully built; I am seventeen years old.
    From my closet on the