VIII

looks at me sharply. For a moment she seems to hesitate, then she comes over and takes my hand. She says, “You’ve heard of the man they call the Pretender?”
    I nod.
    “Well, he claims he is my brother: Richard, Duke of York.”
    “But I’m Duke of York!”
    “Exactly – so you are. It’s the title given to the king’s second son. When I was a child, my father was king, so the younger of my two brothers was made Duke of York. And your father is king now, so you – as his second son – are Duke of York too.”
    “You mean there are two of us with the same title?”
    “No, sweetheart. My brothers died years ago. This man, the Pretender, is telling lies. He isn’t my brother, and he has no right to any title.”
    I’m sitting on a wooden chest. She sinks down next to me and sighs, putting my hand back in my lap and patting it. “But your grandmother… is worried I might not believe that. She thinks I’m hoping my brother is still alive. She thinks I’m hoping the Pretender really is him. And that I might want him to come with an army and take the crown and be king. It’s all completely ridiculous.”
    We’re both quiet for a moment. I drain my cup. I say, “Why doesn’t Grandmama like you?”
    “Oh!” My mother stands up suddenly. She takes my cup and puts it on a nearby table. “She does , she just…” There’s a pause. More quietly she says, “For complicated reasons.” She looks at me. She can see I’m still expectant; bending to hook my hair behind my ear, she whispers, “Because I have more royal blood running in my veins than either she or your father do. She can’t stand that.”
    I stare at her for a moment, my eyes wide.
    I don’t think that’s the reason, though. I think it’s that my mother laughs and makes people happy. When I was younger I thought she might be an angel. She’s certainly the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. I wish she could live all the time at Eltham, with my sisters and me. Every day we could shoot together, and go riding – I’d love that. Instead she has to live at Court with my grandmother who doesn’t like her, and my father who is so serious and scary – it can’t be much fun.
    Our family seems divided: my mother and I are on one side, my father and grandmother and my older brother Arthur are on the other. I can’t think why, but that’s how it’s always been. We even look different: I’m like my mother’s family – all solid and rosy-cheeked, with red-gold hair – while my brother is like my father: dark-haired, and wiry like a whippet.
    My mother is standing near me now, giving instructions to her women. I reach out and slip my hand into hers. When I tug it, she looks down at me and I say, “Don’t worry, Mama. When I am a man, I will look after you.”
    For a moment I think she’s going to laugh. But then she puts her face level with mine and her expression is very serious. “I can see him, you know, Hal – the man you will be one day. I can see him looking out through your eyes.” She hugs me tightly. “May God keep you safe, sweetheart.”
    Later, when I’ve been shown to my own bedchamber, I catch sight of myself in the looking glass. I am big for my age and usually I think I look quite grown up. But today my reflection seems young, and rather scared. I twitch my face – pull it into a confident shape. Then I try to fix in my mind how this feels from the inside. So I can make sure I don’t look scared again.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  III   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    My father is never scared, I’m certain of that. Somewhere out there, right now, he’s marching at the head of his army. His sinewy body is encased in magnificent armour. His broadsword is ready to swing into men’s flesh, to visit God’s anger on those who dare rebel against him. I kneel up on the window seat and try to imagine it.
    It’s not much of a view I’m looking at, though – I can’t even see out of the Tower. The window of my bedchamber looks inwards, onto a courtyard. Even early on a June morning, it’s not cheering. In the shadows, the walls weep damp green streaks. I breathe on the window and start to draw a dragon with my finger.
    Behind me something’s rustling, like a hedgehog in a pile of leaves. It’s my servant, Compton, who’s kneeling on the rush-strewn floor, rummaging in a trunk. He’s already helped me to dress, in an outfit of my own colours as Duke of York: mulberry-red and blue. So: fine white shirt, red doublet