VIII

overlooking the Channel. Out in the deep water Charles’s ships are lying at anchor, with flags, banners and streamers fluttering from every line of rigging and, flying highest, his imperial standard, the black two-headed eagle, splayed like a butchered pheasant on rich cloth of gold.
    Our talk takes place across an intimate lunch – larks and quails set out on gold platters, on a table of marble inlay – and, as the small bones crack, so, just as easily, are the agreements reached. I will supply cash and ships to crush the Spanish rebellion. Charles will supply himself – as husband for my daughter Mary, whom we will withdraw from the French marriage – plus forty thousand troops for our joint invasion of France. Both of us will swear before God not to recall our army or fleet until each recovers what belongs to him.
    So. There will be no end to the war until I am king of France.
    Charles’s manner is earnest and diffident, his speech slow, broken by long pauses for thought. But eating is his greatest struggle. Due to his deformed jaw, chewing is difficult; he has to mop up spittle with his napkin. It is not pretty – and yet, the more awkward he seems, the more I find I warm to him.
    Dabbing with a cloth at my own mouth I say, “The King of France, as you know only too well, cherishes his ambitions in Italy. It seems to me you can encourage him to overreach himself there…”
    Charles’s dark eyes slide up to mine as, with both hands, he lifts his cup. He takes a sip, then says, “Providing the perfect opportunity for our invasion, in his absence?”
    “Exactly.”
    He wipes his mouth again. The napkin, removed, reveals a slow smile. “What a wonderful idea.”
    Look at him. This boy who rules vast territories. So simple. So pliable. I see with delight what God has put into my hand.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  IX   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    The sword gleams in the torchlight. When I grasp the hilt and lift it, the balance is perfect. The blade is tapered to an elegant point, bringing its centre of gravity close enough to the hilt to allow me to slice the air with just a turn of the wrist. And so fast that it makes an eerie little singing sound. I run my thumb along the edge – it is properly blunted, as a tournament sword must be.
    Still gripping it, I jump up on an arrow chest. In front of me in this, the largest of the arming pavilions in the Greenwich tiltyard, a crowd of knights are talking, drinking and laughing, swapping boasts and private challenges. They’re bareheaded – some balding, some bearded, some so young they’re barely out of boyhood. Edges of breastplates gleam beneath the zinging colours of their tabards; at their hips hang scabbards covered in velvet and jewels – casings for swords as insanely expensive as mine.
    I touch Compton’s shoulder with my blade and he calls for quiet. There’s shuffling and clanking, and faces turn to me.
    “God knows, my lords, it has been a long wait. But this New Year we are on the brink of glorious victory.”
    Emperor Charles has taken my advice, as I knew he would. He has lured the King of France to cross the Alps.
    I say, “We have all heard reports of the French king’s foolhardy campaign in Italy. Who but a madman would make his soldiers spend the winter in the open field? They are weakened and disease-ridden. And France is weakened by the absence of its king and its finest troops.
    “In short, the French are terrified we will attack.”
    There are muttered comments. A bearded figure at the front – who is still, after all these years, built like a tree trunk – says, “Is this your best New Year’s present?”
    “I did like your gold plates, Brandon, but I think this inches ahead.” Those within earshot laugh.
    I raise my voice again. “So, gentlemen – I am watching closely. This is not simply a tournament. This is preparation for France. The Emperor only awaits my word and together we will launch our invasion. I have not yet decided who will fill the key command positions. Show me today how you deserve them.” I shoot my sword into its scabbard. “Let’s go.”
    Outside the pavilion lies the vast, wind-whipped tiltyard. We mount our horses, put on helmets, with visors raised, and set off in procession around the arena.
    It is one of those winter days that never seems to get properly light; the sky has a dim leaden glow, and around the tiltyard’s perimeter, torches are burning, even though it is the middle of the day. Beyond