VIII

say you don’t need a direct hit to do it; the arrow’s tail feathers make enough wind as they pass. They don’t – I know from experience.
    I’m not just aiming to hit the candle; I’m aiming to hit the wick.
    “Come on, it’s impossible,” George Boleyn shakes his head. “Even if you were sober. Let’s make it interesting. Fifty to one.”
    “One shot only.”
    “Right.”
    We’ve been shooting all night. We’ve been drinking all night too. Chairs, with cloaks slung over them, are ranged haphazardly around the great fireplace; on a long table nearby the cloth is bunched and ruckled, littered with remnants of food and with cups, some upright, some not.
    Now, as I pass the shaft of my arrow under the bowstring and rest its head in position against my knuckle, I am watched by the eager faces of Boleyn, Norris, my cousin the Marquis of Exeter and Thomas Wyatt, the handsome young son of one of my councillors. Compton is there too, but he never looks eager, just amused and watchful.
    I nock and draw.
    I think: Become the arrow. See it hit the target before you’ve even released it . If you can do that, everything else drops away. It’s a beautiful feeling. There’s only the arrow and the target – and they’re not even two separate things any more. Arrow-target. Joined. All one.
    Reflections of firelight and candlelight play in the dark panes of the hall windows. Beyond, under a black, empty sky, the world is crisp, clear and bitterly cold.
    The arrow flies. It hits the wick; the flame goes out.
    “I’m too damned good. Aren’t I?” I beam at George. “Cough up.”
    “Um. I’ll write you a note.”
    “This’ll do.” I take a spare arrow and hook it under the gold chain around his neck, lifting it clear and dropping it into Compton’s outstretched hands. Everyone laughs.
    We send for more drink, and I expound – somewhat woozily – on the relative merits of my son being called Henry, after me, or Edward, after my mother’s father.
    Meanwhile, Wyatt and Boleyn have formed a plan to mark the moment the glad tidings arrive: they’ve ordered up a cask of good wine from the cellars and are even now rolling it, with curses and mishaps, up two ladders.
    Wyatt, a tall youth of usually impressive strength, is now laughing so hard he has to stop and cling to the ladder weakly, leaning his forehead on a rung.
    When he’s recovered himself, he and George hoist the cask up to balance on one of the cross-beams of the hall roof, at the end nearest the main doorway, where they tie it to the corner truss with a messy net of ropes. The cask’s end overhangs
    the beam, with its stopper clearly visible. They’ve adjusted the stopper carefully so that it’s slightly loosened, but not leaking.
    “So, sir,” George explains to me, “the man comes in, gives the news, you shoot off the stopper and we hold him under the waterfall—”
    “ Winefall ,” corrects Wyatt.
    “Mouth open…”
    “He’ll be the first to drink the prince’s health,” says Exeter, looking suddenly solemn. “An honourable dousing.”
    “Don’t worry,” says George. “We’ll give you next turn.” Exeter grins.
    By the time the man arrives, more wine has been downed and the room is very slightly pitching when I walk. I’m wondering what the odds are now of me hitting the cask at all, let alone the stopper.
    “Well, sir, is my son born?” I’ve aimed, drawn the bowstring back. My eyes are on the stopper. Out of the corner of my vision, I can tell by the way they’re standing that Norris and Boleyn have taken the startled man by the elbows and manoeuvred him to stand under the cask – which of course he hasn’t seen. Momentarily, I wonder about the whole cask coming loose from its ropes and landing on the poor sod’s head; the thought makes me laugh and is not helping my aim.
    My arms begin to ache. I realise, abruptly, that the man hasn’t answered. That there is, in fact, a weird silence in the room.
    “Is my son born?” I repeat, my eyes still on the stopper.
    “Your Grace…” begins the man. And hesitates.
    Keeping the bow still full-drawn, I swing my arms down; the arrow is now trained directly on the man’s face. “Is my son born alive ?”
    In the silence I have sobered up in an instant.
    “ Does the child live? ”
    The man’s eyes are swimming. Despite his terror, he cannot hold my gaze. “Saving Your Grace, it… it is a girl. That is to say… was a girl. She lived for a few minutes. Long