VIII

father.”
    I take a shuttlecock, bounce it off the wall and catch it again. Several masks, with and without beards, lie on a bench. Discarded caps, their feathers askew, are on a table beside them. I say, “What chance do I have of getting them to agree to an invasion of France if they won’t even let me give the presents I want? You know what France means to me.”
    It’s my path to glory and immortality: the creation of an Anglo-French empire. I will rule from London and Paris. I will be the father of a great dynasty of emperors.
    Catherine nods. “Empire and sons. The sons being my part of the job.”
    “At which you seem to be doing very well.” I walk to her, grinning, and she lays down her sewing. We join hands, lacing fingers, and I lean down to kiss her.
    “It’s early days,” she says with a small frown of reprimand. “I’m not certain. So, anyway – tell Fox and Warham that you plan to invade France.”
    I straighten. “I’ve tried. Too risky! Too expensive! Mother of God, they’re old men, that’s what it is. They’re looking forward to dying in bed.”
    “Well, at least you can be sure of Spain’s support. I should have said – I’ve had another letter from my father.”
    I pull up a stool and sit beside Catherine as she produces a letter from her purse and unfolds it. “Christ,” I say. “I never imagined I’d have to plan a war behind the backs of half my Council… What’s he say?”
    Catherine traces her finger along her father’s handwriting, translating as she reads. “Let your councillors renew the peace treaty with France in your name. For now. It will provide you with good cover whilst preparations for an invasion are made.”
    I groan. “It feels grubby, humiliating…”
    Catherine looks up from the letter. “But think: you need to order artillery from Flanders. And ships must be built. It all takes time. Your destiny will come – but sometimes patience is called for.” She puts a hand on her stomach. “I am impatient too.”
    I smile at her. Our heads are close together and one of my arms encircles her waist; with my other hand I point to a line of writing.
    “What’s this part?”
    “Um… he says it’s as well to be secret, and that when you and he are writing to one another about France, it should be in cipher. Above all, the French must not suspect that the kings of England and Spain are planning to invade.”
    She puts the letter down in her lap and looks at me. “He is your family now, Hal. He will be a good father to you, I know it.”
    There’s a clatter from the doorway. Francis Bryan is standing on the threshold beside Thomas Boleyn. They are oddly close together.
    Catherine’s already risen to go. I put out my hand. “Stay.”
    “Your Grace…” Bryan makes a face at me, silently signalling.
    “There’s nothing that can’t be said in front of the Queen.” What trouble now? I think.
    “It’s just—” Bryan and Boleyn step apart, revealing the soles of a pair of shoes, which – as they come into the room – I see are attached to sturdy legs, a drooping gown, a horizontal bulky body three feet off the ground and, at the head end, a grinning Charles Brandon and a sweating and puffing Harry Guildford.
    I get up to investigate. “My God!” I laugh, and turn to Catherine. “It’s Fox’s man.” I call, “What on earth are they doing to you, sir?”
    Boleyn, affecting outrage, says, “This priest won twenty pounds off Bryan at primero last night—”
    “Not a crime. Congratulate him.”
    Guildford obliges, looking down. “Congratulations.”
    “But now we’ve just found him in the Watching Chamber cheating the pageboys out of their pennies,” says Bryan.
    “Not cheating ,” comes a good-natured voice from beyond the large stomach. “I would say… beguiling.”
    “We thought we’d take him in hand,” says Brandon. “Bring him to you, you know, hanging like a trussed boar. As punishment.”
    “Very well, then, let me talk to this beast.” I signal that they should set their captive upright.
    The round face of Thomas Wolsey, the priest who is Fox’s assistant, emerges as they do so, flushed but unperturbed. He straightens his robes. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I was only whiling away the time. Hours spent in the outer chamber waiting for an audience can be… well, tedious.” He grimaces apologetically. “And the pageboys implored me to show them my sleight of hand.”
    I raise my eyebrows, inviting a