VIII

trouble for England cannot use it as a pretext for their own attack.” He dips his head to peer through the glass at the dragon. “But there are ways… France, as you know, has been at war with the Republic of Venice, urged on by the Pope.”
    I nod. “The Republic is on its knees.” Inside the box, the white crystal mountain has a flat top, into which a square shape has been cut – presumably it is some sort of door that opens.
    “May I make a prediction?” says Wolsey. “The French king and His Holiness, once they achieve their victory, will fall out over the division of the Venetian spoils. Then Pope Julius will turn his ire upon France. That is your opportunity. When he calls for a Holy League of nations to wage war on France, you can say: oh, I am loath to go to war… but since Mother Church calls me, I am duty-bound to obey…” He pulls an exaggeratedly solemn face – then his eyes flash gleefully. “You can march into France under the banner of the Pope. It will be a crusade .”
    I am flicking my nail against the edge of the mountain-top door, but it won’t budge.
    “Forgive me, sir, but I believe this opens on a spring.” Wolsey dips his large hand into the box and pulls out a tiny pin from the mountainside. The door on the top, instead of opening, spins, and a St George in silver armour pops up, standing on an enamelled green hillock and brandishing a sword.
    Wolsey grins at me. “Clever, isn’t it?”

 
♦  ♦  ♦  IV   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    The child – my son – is brought to me within an hour of his birth.
    It is the darkest part of the night: the first hours of the new year. I have been sitting up with Compton, playing chess by firelight, wrapped in my sable cloak.
    I get up when the women enter. They curtsey low and pass him to me: I don’t know how to hold him. He is swaddled tightly; he lies on my palms like a prize fish.
    Two puffy eyes open and he looks at me with a slow dark look. He blinks; he tries to turn his head. I have the women unwrap him in the warmth of the fire. He lies on the fur mantle they spread for him – uncrying, his tiny hands curled shut, his legs like a frog’s. His cheek is downy to the touch, and the size of a doll’s.
    “Look, Compton,” I say. “Proof of God’s favour – right there, lying on a rug.”
    “Such a fine child, sir. The hope of the whole nation.”
    It feels like standing on a ridge and looking down across a bright plain: my great future, laid out before me. Away to the right, a battlefield, where I will win great victories; to the left, a venerable cathedral, where I will be crowned king of France. And directly ahead, a youth in armour: this boy.
    Empire and sons.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  V   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    The narrow slit is all I have to see through: a thin horizontal slice of colour in the black interior of my helmet.
    My head can’t turn; the helmet is riveted to my cuirass, to save my neck from taking the impact of a blow.
    I transfer the reins into my left hand and hold out my right, blindly, for the lance, as the horse steps and shifts beneath me. Out of my vision, two grooms bring the lance to me, upright, and place the great, weighty hilt of it in my hand. I feel for the balance of the thing and rest the end on my thigh.
    My blood is pumping at double speed. The barrier is in my sight. I catch a glimpse of the armoured horse and rider at the other end. I am on a good alignment to run. My horse stirs eagerly. The trumpet signals the start.
    Now .
    It is February: bitingly cold. The tiltyard is packed. Hearts are in mouths to see whether the King can give blows and receive them without harm.
    I use the hardest technique: riding in with the lance upright; dropping it at the last moment to its target.
    It strikes. There’s a jolt; unbearable pressure against my grip; then all at once release, and a great crack as the wood of the lance shatters. Splinters fly and the crowd yells its delight. My horse slows as it reaches the end of the tiltyard, and I bring it into a turn. I drop my broken lance; signal for another.
    I run and run, until the horse is exhausted. I am hit, repeatedly, but never unseated. I break seven lances. The people see that, by the aid of God, I am in no danger.
    At one end of the tilt is my pavilion: blue and gold and topped with a white hart holding a standard. While the others run their courses, Compton helps me out of my armour and into a close-fitting coat of cloth of gold.
    I