VIII

emerge again on a grey horse now; the cloth covering its flanks is blue velvet, decorated with beaten gold hearts and initials – mine and Catherine’s.
    She is watching from a viewing gallery. I halt the horse directly before her, unsheathe my dagger and, reaching down, slice a gold heart from the cloth.
    Dismounting, I hand the reins to a groom. Then I climb the face of the gallery, finding footholds on carved rows of portcullises and painted roses. I swing my leg to sit astride the sill as Catherine gives me her hand, laughing. “There are steps, you know, at the back.”
    “It’s more interesting this way. I’ve brought you a present.” I give her the golden heart. And kiss her, which sets the crowd yelling and whooping again.
    The next moment, I’ve jumped down to the sandy floor and am back on my horse. I spur it into a thundering circuit of the tilt, and make it leap and prance for the crowd, and lift its hooves to drum on the wooden barrier with a noise like a volley of gunshots.
    I laugh, exhilarated. No other knight can approach even half my skill. I am first among warriors, first among men. I only wish I were in France right now, on the battlefield. But it will come. I can do anything. I am bigger than this tiltyard, bigger than this city and all the creatures in it. I hold them in my palm. I am England.
    In the pavilion afterwards, I’m dazed. Ordinary things seem strange – ludicrous. I’m thirsty, but how can I need to do something so mundane as take a cup in my hand and drink? How can I need to eat and shit and sleep like ordinary men? My heart is hammering so hard I feel it might burst. I need another challenge. I’m sweating.
    “Fetch some more beer.”
    Compton goes to do it; the tent flap closes behind him.
    I can’t sit; I have to pace. Turning to put down my cup, my eye is drawn to the shadows beyond the table. There is a figure on the floor, huddled against the fabric wall. Its back is to me. Its straw-coloured hair curls over its collar.
    Instantly I am drenched in cold. It is him. The ghost or vision or whatever devilish thing it is that I have seen before. He has not appeared to me for some time – not since my father’s death. But now he is back.
    This time he looks taller, older – no longer a boy, but a young man like me. Still, in my mind I cannot call him anything else but the boy . As I stare, he turns to face me, rolling his head against the cloth wall as if it were solid brick and he were leaning on it. He looks fit, healthy, his clothes – a doublet and hose such as a gentleman’s servant might wear – are plain but clean. His face, though, is horrible. Mouth gaping, dribbling, he is crying from his deeply shadowed eyes. I can see the glisten of wet eyeballs and of fat, rolling tears. He makes no attempt to hide his shame or to wipe the snot and spittle from his face.
    Rage seizes me. I throw my cup. Solid though he looks, it passes straight through him, hits the fabric wall and drops, leaving the cloth rippling.
    He is still crying. I throw the jug too, though I know it’s useless, and the balled-up tablecloth; I pull off my surcoat and throw that. I am in a frenzy. I think: Why has he come to me now? This tournament is the celebration of the birth of my son and heir: why must he poison my moment of triumph? Is he jealous? Is he the ghost of my murdered uncle, one of those boys killed in the Tower, tortured by the sight of me leading the life he should have had? Is he weeping in rage?
    If he is, I have no sympathy. I wish him in hell, where he belongs. I tell him so – can he hear me? God only knows – then I rip aside the tent flap and stumble out into the cold of the yard.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  VI   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    Seeing the boy leaves me with a feeling of inexplicable dread. A few days later, looking back, that dread seems like a premonition. I have been visited by calamity. My infant son is dead.
    I sit, staring out of the window. I don’t recall when I last moved. It is raining. I am watching the rain.
    “After all,” says Wolsey quietly, standing somewhere behind me. “Your incomparable mother lost three.”
    Outside, black branches drip and, as a bird takes flight, a remnant of grey slush slides and splatters to the ground. The wind whirls, blowing raindrops hard against the glass.
    “And you are young. There will be—”
    “Others. I know.”
    But fifty-two days, as I have discovered, is enough to become attached to a child.
    He died