VIII

beyond the open doors of the Presence Chamber.
    Handing the model to Harry Guildford, I turn and bound up the steps to my canopied dais and relax back into my gold-fringed chair.
    It is sunny outside; the windows are thrown open and dust motes are swirling in the golden sunbeams. Out beyond the gardens, distant calls can be heard from the river as the ferrymen ply their trade to Lambeth and back. Around me, my friends – in expensive new clothes – are mingling with my councillors, some of whom (though not all) are my father’s men, Bishop Fox and Archbishop Warham among them.
    The Abbot of Fécamp, envoy of the King of France, approaches. He is a fat man; he waddles up, and halts some distance from the bottom step of the dais, his eyes sliding from the canopy to somewhere in the region of my shoes. His attempts to bend at the waist in an elaborate bow are effortful. A sphere finds it hard to know the spot at which to fold itself.
    I watch him, my hands dangling, weighted with rings, over the velvet arms of my chair. I chose a large diamond today, and three rubies.
    Dabbing at his face with a lace handkerchief, the abbot spends some time congratulating me on my accession to the throne. It is a pretty enough speech, to which, at a nod from me, Bishop Fox replies in elegant French.
    “Your Grace,” says the abbot, then, “I have come to confirm the peace between England and France, in response to Your Grace’s letter to my master. He was delighted by your request for a renewal of the peace treaty between our countries. This treaty was, I know, cherished by your illustrious father.”
    I stare at him, unblinking. Alarmed, he makes a little moue. Then, less certainly, he begins to speak again.
    I interrupt him. “No, no, no. Wait. I thought—” I shake my head and waggle a finger energetically in my ear. “I thought I heard you say my request to renew the peace.”
    “I did.” The abbot clears his throat. “I did say that, Your Grace.”
    “But I didn’t make that request.” I look round at my councillors. “Did I?”
    “My master the King of France received your letter, sir—” says the abbot.
    I am still looking at my councillors. “But why on earth should I ask the King of France for peace? He daren’t look me in the face, let alone make war on me!”
    There’s an awkward pause. Fox steps up to me and says quietly, “A letter was written. By the Council – on your behalf.” He bends close to me and adds in an undertone, “Continuation of the peace is very desirable, Your Grace. While you consolidate your position and, um, decide on the direction you wish policy to take.”
    “Show me.”
    “Sir?”
    “Show me this letter my Council wrote to France on my behalf .”
    Fox turns to his assistant, Wolsey. “Bring a copy of the letter.”
    Wolsey produces a rolled-up paper from his voluminous sleeve and hands it to Fox – who hands it to me. I read it and rise from my chair.
    “My lord Abbot,” I say to the envoy. “I hope you will pardon my councillors. There has been some misunderstanding. It will be put right immediately.”
    I tear the paper, over and over and over. Then I release two fistfuls of pieces out of the window.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  III   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    The birdcage is hung in the window embrasure, attached by a hook to the wall; inside it a nightingale sits on its perch, regarding me beadily. I flick my finger against the bars, and it flutters around the cage.
    “I’m not a child!” I say, walking to the table. “My councillors think if they provide me with enough toys and idle amusements, I’ll not notice while they run the country.”
    I pick up a box and open it. Inside are three silver balls; I stir them round with my finger – they chime.
    Catherine looks up from her sewing. “How was the tiltyard, by the way?”
    “Oh, Thomas Boleyn broke three lances. And Brandon fell off.” I pick up another box, open it, and angle it towards her, with a questioning look.
    “Adders’ tongues set in gold and silver,” she says. “From my sister. Listen, Hal, you are the king. You have the power to order things as you want them.”
    “Do I? It feels like I can’t bloody well do anything without ratification in triplicate – sending documents off to Fox for this seal, to Warham for that seal; they delay it if they don’t like it – they send a grant back and tell me I am being too generous to my friends… They wouldn’t have dared do that to my