VIII

very quietly, they said. Not much fussing and fretting. I would have liked to hold him, but I do not admit this. I comfort Catherine and talk robustly of our future. Then I come and sit, and watch the rain. I feel hollow, as if I have been carrying my son inside me – as if he filled every inch of me – and now he is gone. In the space he has left there is a dark feeling, dark as the black branches.
    I say to Wolsey, “I have a task for you.”
    “Sir?”
    “You will get my Council to consent to a campaign in France.”
    “Ah. Yes.”
    “As you predicted, the French king and the Pope are no longer allies. Rome will support us.”
    “Indeed, Pope Julius will be delighted.” Wolsey pauses. “Your Council less so. But I can bring them round.”
    “The Spanish king is ready to invade in the south. We will open a second front in the north-east,” I say. “And I will lead our troops myself.”
    “Now, that the Council will certainly oppose. Without…” He hesitates. “Sir, without an heir, they will argue that the danger to the nation is too great.”
    The raindrops on the windowpanes collect, shimmering, and run. “Tell me what you want achieved, you said.” My voice is quiet, and absolutely stony. “So I am telling you.”

 
♦  ♦  ♦  VII   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    The whole ship vibrates as the cannon fire; I can feel it in the rail I’m gripping – I can feel it through the soles of my boots.
    Gun-smoke drifts sideways in the evening sunlight. To the starboard side, the fortress town of Calais is sliding into view, the outline of its cathedral showing above the high walls, proud against the skyline. The cannon on board our ship – and those on the rest of the fleet – fire booming salvo after booming salvo, answered by the guns on the walls of the town.
    We’re pounding nothing but our ears: it’s a celebratory display, as I arrive with my fleet at this English city on the northernmost tip of France, the last remnant of what used to be our vast territories on this continent. Eighty years ago, Henry V’s son was crowned king of France, but since then the crown and the land has been lost in war and only Calais and the surrounding area remains in English hands. Now I am here to rectify that injustice: I am here to win back France.
    The guns are so loud, I can’t help laughing. “It sounds like the end of the world!”
    Beside me, Wolsey smiles. He is still a little green, and has only just emerged from his cabin. “Compton’s offering odds that they can hear it at Dover,” he says.
    To Bishop Fox, who stands beyond him, I say, “This man has the constitution of an ox. But no sea legs.” I clasp Wolsey round the shoulders. “Remind me not to make you an admiral.”
    Brandon appears at my other side to survey the flotilla of small boats, decorated with flags and overladen with waving people, which are weaving their way out of the harbour to meet us. Slanting sunlight shines off Brandon’s breastplate and gauntlets and picks out the ridiculously large rubies on his sword hilt. “Ever get the feeling the Almighty’s smiling on you?” he says. “Someone should tell the King of Spain he jumped the wrong way.”
    “He’ll realise soon enough.”
    Three months ago I lost Catherine’s father as my ally: he double-crossed me and made peace with France. So much for being a good father to me. But I don’t need him; Wolsey has proved as adept at finding replacement allies as he is at producing coins from Brandon’s ears. He has delivered me, instead, the mighty Emperor Maximilian as my fighting partner. Maximilian rules a sizeable chunk of middle Europe; he is a powerful ally.
    Fox’s thoughts have turned to Maximilian too. “The Emperor is said to be the most unreliable man in Christendom, sir. We must watch him at every turn.”
    I smile at Fox. “I rely on you to foresee all difficulties.”
    Nothing can dent my mood. I have been lost in the planning of this campaign for so many happy days at Greenwich – kneeling over huge charts spread out on the floor of my chamber: marching formations and plans of camp; designs of pavilions and of new types of siege engine.
    Now at last we are here. Yesterday, they say, there was terrible rain in the Channel; today we have had a perfect passage in glorious sunshine. I have stood on deck throughout, the salt wind in my face, flags fluttering above me: the Papal banner alongside the lions of England.
    I’m even wearing a miracle, for