VIII

enough to be held, they said.”
    I change my aim fractionally and shoot. Not at the messenger – the man’s legs buckle in relief. Instead, a pane of glass in the window shatters. Shards of painted glass – pomegranate seeds and rose petals, Catherine’s emblem and mine – rain into the black garden.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  XVI   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    The sunshine on the water dazzles; reflections dance on the inner wall of the fountain, back and forth, back and forth – rippling, repetitive, like my thoughts.
    “There is a message from the Queen, sir.”
    “Later.”
    My hands are on the saddle. I swing myself up, turn the horse towards the gateway, and canter out of the courtyard. My company of young men follows.
    We head towards the hunting park. Despite the early hour the day is already bright and hot; the air quivers in the distance above dry fields. The colours are garish: burning blue, lush green and gold.
    Another winter has passed, and a spring. There is something pressing on me. An emptiness that expands to fill everything until I cannot breathe.
    At night I hardly sleep, by day the thoughts in my head run at double speed, while everything out there in the world seems slow and stupid, and strangely distant. When people speak to me it feels as if I am underwater.
    “The beaters have been out since early, sir,” says Norris, as if from far away. “We will have good sport.”
    “How many horses stationed for me?”
    “Ten, sir.”
    It is the same today as every day: we leave early, we stay out until dark. The horses tire before I do – I need eight or ten a day. Wyatt complains I turn hunting into a martyrdom. It is simply that he cannot keep up with me.
    When we reach the forest the relief is intense. The rustling glades refresh me like water. The horses tread through sweet woodruff and violets, sorrel and cranesbill. Creepers swarm up trunks; ferns hold out their many-fingered hands. Dappled light flickers as the wind moves the tops of the trees. On the bark of one tree I see the deep grooves of heavy scratch marks, made by great talons or claws.
    Time seems to pass in an instant. Now there is sweat running into my eyes. My breathing is loud and harsh. I am suddenly aware of the horse’s exhaustion – yet it seems only moments since we started the chase.
    Occasionally, at times like this, I will see something strange: a waking dream. Sometimes it is a dark-haired girl riding ahead. The sun glints off her – white and gold – as if she is wearing armour. Sometimes it is the serpent that I saw once, years ago, in a dream.
    Today it is a white hart. Automatically, I draw an arrow from my quiver, loose the reins to nock it and shoot from horseback. One fluid movement – smooth and quick.
    For a moment as the arrow flies, the hart seems to be a fair-haired youth, running. I blink and the creature is the hart again, the arrow dodged, his back legs kicking up as he jumps a fallen tree.
    They are nothing, these visions. It is just that I cannot sleep.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  XVII   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    When I get back, Wolsey is waiting for me. It is very late.
    He is in my chamber, sitting by the fire, hefty and solid as a piece of furniture.
    The curtains are drawn against the dark sky. His shadow lengthens toweringly upon them as he gets up: a fat man with a thin shadow.
    I slump into a chair, call for wine. “What are you doing here? I thought you were busy banging heads together in pursuit of your peace treaty. Sit down, for God’s sake.”
    “Something has occurred to me. An idea.”
    “Don’t tell me – an alliance with the Turks because it is cheaper than a crusade? Heaven save us from your ideas . Talking of which, at what point are we going to break off my daughter’s betrothal? We can’t have that French brat in line to be king of England.”
    There is a short silence; Wolsey is looking at me placidly. I see my knee juddering and still it.
    Wolsey says, “Do you sleep?”
    “Like a log.” I drain my glass and hold it out to the shadows, where the servants lurk. “Another.”
    I drain that too.
    “Stop,” says Wolsey gently. “ Stop .” He waves his hand; the servants melt away. The door clicks shut softly behind them.
    I fix him with a look that would fry a lesser man. He simply blinks at me.
    A spasm in my chest: something cold is coiled around my heart, squeezing. I get up and take a turn about the room. My whole body aches, but I can’t relax. “It seems