VIII

marries the Dauphin, I’m certain they will have the boy crowned king. King Francis isn’t popular – they won’t give a shilling for his ransom. Then you can rule as regent until the boy comes of age.”
    I step towards him; we are toe to toe. I say, “I have had enough of your ideas. They are nothing. They are—” I blow in his face, “hot air.”
    I turn away. “I find that I cannot rely on anyone but myself.”
    “You can rely on me, Your Grace. Just give me a little time to arrange things. I will find a way…”
    I am at the door. I don’t look back.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  XXII   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    Today I dine in the Presence Chamber, sitting in state, alone at the table, though the room is packed. It is an honour to watch the king eat.
    The scene before me jumps and crackles with colour: the gilded blue of the ceiling; the polished gold of the plates; the crimson silks and purple velvets of the courtiers who stand around me; the yellows and greens of slashed satin and draped cloaks; the jarring glitter of jewels and spangles; the frantic colours of a million threads in the tapestries lining the walls.
    The food appears. Steam rises from the pies as they are slit open like stomachs – curling tendrils of steam that wind their fingers into the air, melting the colours of the scene behind.
    I watch the colours begin to run, to drip, to collect in dark puddles on the floor. And as the colours melt, the people around me seem to exude a rank smell, mingled with sickly gusts of perfume. As they bow I notice the grease of their hair; as their hands move objects on the table, I see flakes of skin fall; I see the yellow rind of their nails, their rheumy eyes, their pox scars. A man leans in to set down a plate and I catch sight of a boil on his neck, only half-concealed by the collar of his shirt.
    My gaze is drawn to the doorway at the far end of the chamber – the doorway to the next public room. The space is packed with people, but for an instant, in that sea of ugly faces, one stands out.
    It is a young man with straw-coloured hair. He is deep in the throng, his body hidden by the bodies in front, but what I can see of him is peculiarly vivid, as if he is somehow closer to me than all the rest: the yellow hair, the darkly shadowed eyes; I can see the texture of his skin – coarse and sallow. He looks ill-fed; his face is angular, more gaunt than I remember. But what is most arresting is the calm, unswerving certainty of his gaze. No crying today. He seems to fix me with a terrifying scrutiny.
    Lurching to my feet, I turn away. I head for the other door; the door to my private apartments. Insects crunch beneath my feet. Something scutters across the floor in front of me and disappears beneath the hangings.
    Away from the crowds, I walk along the gallery, past windows that make a rhythm of shadows on the floor: light, dark, light, dark.
    Outside, the rain is a grey curtain; we are closed in by water. Beyond, unseen, I feel the forest on the march, eating up the open grassland, strangling the clipped gardens.
    Reaching my secret study, I dismiss the servants and sit alone.
    No candles are lit. The panelling is dark, the corners dingy – the shadows reach out, consuming the light; swallowing it whole, like an egg.
    Time passes. Perhaps minutes, or hours.
    I struggle to think. I have no empire, no sons. And now my last hope – that I will be king of France, and that my grandson will be a great emperor after me – is snatched away.
    Yet how can it have come to this? My glorious destiny was foretold in the prophecy: it is God’s will .
    Surely, there can be only one explanation: God is telling me that something is wrong – that something displeases Him. That, until I correct it, my destiny will not be fulfilled.
    What can it be that is wrong?
    I am God’s Chosen. That is the basic fact – irreducible – from which all thinking must begin.
    So, it follows that the thing that displeases God cannot be me.
    Coming from the darkest corner of the room now, I hear a faint scraping and scratching, as if a creature with talons or claws is crouching there. I sense rather than see movement in the pitch black; I detect a shift in the current of air.
    Frightened, I grip the arms of my chair, widening my eyes to stare into the shadows. But I can see nothing there.
    Slowly, in creeping steps of logic, I reason it out: if the thing that displeases God cannot be me, then it must be a thing – or person –