VIII

cannot tell that she is carrying a new child. It has been a long wait, this time: the first pregnancy in two years. But she has begun to have children who live. First the girl – and now I am certain that she is carrying the boy.
    “The betrothal can take place this autumn, sir,” says Wolsey, suddenly at my shoulder, “but I am stipulating that they must not be married until the Dauphin is fifteen. That gives you plenty of time to change your mind. And, of course, time may change it for you: the Dauphin may not live to be fifteen.”
    He is talking of Mary’s marriage; we are engaged in a dance of negotiations with the new French king. Francis has lately been blessed with a son – this dauphin. So, if Mary marries the boy, my son (the baby Catherine is now carrying) will rule England and my grandson – Mary’s son – will one day rule France. Except, of course, that I will conquer France long before that. There is time, as Wolsey said, to change my mind. For now it is just another finger in the pie.
    “And they’ve agreed, have they? To the delay?”
    Wolsey waves a hand dismissively. “They will.”
    I look at him, expectant.
    “Oh,” he says, “there’ve been lots of ridiculous queries and quibbles. You know the French, they’re incapable of a straightforward yes.”
    I start off down the gravel path towards the house; Wolsey follows. I say, “Queries? About what?”
    “Well… most recently, the validity of your marriage.”
    My pace slows. For a moment I’m silent, then I laugh uproariously. “God, don’t they love to take the piss? Ridiculous. Do they need to see the bloody dispensation?”
    We pass through a door and climb the private stairs that lead to my lodgings. Wolsey says, “Sir, I would like to set a date for Princess Mary’s betrothal ceremony. Would you prefer it to be before the Queen’s confinement – or afterwards, so we know the outcome?”
    Outcome. He means: whether or not the child is a boy. Whether or not it lives.
    Whether or not, if Mary were my only heir, I would want to send her to France.
    “There is no doubt of the outcome.” We reach the head of the stairs and turn left; as I approach the door to a chamber, it is opened for me; the view inside is of a handful of men talking and laughing and lounging on benches. One of the youngest looks pink with annoyance, as if he’s being teased. “We’ll have the ceremony at Greenwich, as soon as it can be arranged. Spare no expense. I want the French dazzled. All right?” I pat Wolsey on his well-padded shoulder and say to the room, “Tennis?”
    “Yup.” Brandon’s already on his feet, reaching for the case of racquets.
    “You’re too slow for me these days, I’ll play with Norris.” I take the case and sling it to Henry Norris, one of my new younger gentlemen of the Privy Chamber, an easy and dependable youth. Brandon is standing astonished, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.
    “I don’t blame you, Brandon, but you do sometimes forget that you’re older than me. You’re, what, nearly thirty-five now? You’ve done well to keep up with me as long as you have.”
    At this there’s general laughter, and a sardonic comment from Bryan’s direction featuring the word ‘grandpa’.
    “And you,” I say. Several men start forward eagerly. I click my fingers. “Damn it, I’ve forgotten your name. Boleyn’s son.”
    A dark-haired youth, the victim of the teasing, steps forward, flushing pink again – but this time with delight. “George, sir.”
    “George, come and run the book.” I grin at Wolsey. “Forgive me, Father. You know I’m just not interested unless there’s money on it.”

 
♦  ♦  ♦  XV   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    “Chances?”
    “Ten to one. Against.”
    It’s November – less than a month since Mary and the French prince were betrothed amid breathtakingly expensive celebrations at Greenwich. The Dauphin, who is not yet even a year old, did not attend in person – instead the Admiral of France, as his stand-in, passed the large diamond ring onto Mary’s finger. Mary herself behaved well, although she became fidgety during the sermon and had to be picked up.
    Since then we’ve stayed on at Greenwich, and tonight Catherine is in labour.
    At one end of the Great Hall Norris has set up an archery target on a wooden frame: in front of it, on a stack of boxes, stands a candle in its holder. We’re laying bets on whether I can put the flame out with a shot.
    Some