VIII

noblemen and bishops lower themselves and kneel; they look like wizened children, barely able to see over the table top.
    “Well? Didn’t I tell you it would be a triumph?” I say to my Council. “Get up off your knees, all of you, for God’s sake. Sit. I have called you together so that you can offer me your congratulations.”
    I draw up a chair for Catherine and stand behind her, my hands on her shoulders.
    One councillor has creaked to his feet. “We offer our heartfelt congratulations, Your Grace. And to you, dear Queen, on your most blessed impending event – you carry the hope of the nation within you.” Catherine nods, placing her hands contentedly on her stomach. “But most of all, sir, we give fervent thanks to Almighty God that you are returned to us safely.”
    “I would like less opposition next time,” I say as he sits down. “I would like less scepticism. Consider, gentlemen: you advised against this glorious expedition.”
    “And would do so again,” says another voice.
    It’s Archbishop Warham. I stare at him. “An obstinate sceptic! Do you put no value on what we have achieved?”
    He’s remained sitting; he looks down at his hands, which twitch a little as they lie on the table. “If you will forgive my plain speaking, Your Grace,” he says, “in my view the expedition has not been a great success.”
    “I would be interested to hear you define your terms.” I swipe a lavender sprig from a vase and sit, twirling it in my fingers. “I have entirely destroyed one of the best-fortified towns in France; I have captured and occupied another. I have won a glorious victory – to rival Agincourt. And I have brought back as my prisoners some of the leading noblemen of the French Court. What more, Warham, do you want?”
    “Indeed, Your Grace, but in doing all this you have spent enough to fill a well of gold.” His doleful gaze lifts to me. “To what purpose? One French dog-hole is destroyed, another has become an outpost that will eat up money and men. What use to England is a single landlocked city surrounded by French territory?” He shakes his head slowly. “It will cost a fortune to maintain; it will cost a fortune to defend. It gives us nothing: nothing strategically, nothing commercially. The only person it benefits is the Emperor.”
    A murmur goes round the table. I wonder if someone will stop him, argue the point – but he goes on uninterrupted, “Did you never wonder why Emperor Maximilian advised you to destroy Thérouanne and capture Tournai? They are strategically important in relation to his territories, not yours; it is mightily convenient to him that they are out of French hands. You paid for the enterprise; you even paid him to fight for you. I am sorry to say it, sir, but he has won this round of the game hands down.”
    I am sitting entirely unmoving now, staring at the archbishop. There is a burning in my stomach. I say quietly, “I am on the brink of conquest.”
    He does not reply. I crumple the lavender in my fingers and rise. “Do you think because I have brought the army home that I have finished? The job is only half done. The troops are back because summer is over – the campaigning season is over. But we will return next year.” My fists are on the table; I am leaning towards him.
    Behind me, Catherine says to Warham mildly, “My father, King Ferdinand, has realised how foolish he was in not taking part in the invasion. He has already indicated he wants to join with England next year.”
    I have not taken my eyes from the old man’s face. “So. Next summer I will return to France with a larger force and in alliance with both Emperor Maximilian and King Ferdinand of Spain. There is no way France will be able to withstand the onslaught. I shall be crowned at Paris before the year is out.” I smile, but not amiably. “I wonder, sir, if you will live to see it? Let us hope so. You can apologise to me then.
    “In the meantime, gentlemen, those among you of a less pessimistic disposition have much work to do. We must prepare to rule France.”

 
♦  ♦  ♦  XI   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    “And perhaps my sister’s son could stand as godfather?” Catherine shifts to face me, her hair fanning out across the pillow; here, with the bedcurtains shut, it’s like a little private world of our own.
    The only light comes from a candle burning just above us in its niche on the carved headboard. In the golden glow it casts, Catherine’s