VIII

already consulted her chaplains—” I see Wolsey’s expression. “ secretly . They advise that it is a sin for me to keep Catherine as my wife a moment longer.”
    There is a chair to one side of Wolsey. An embroidered chair, fringed with gold and decorated with his own coat of arms. I sit in it, hook my toe under a page’s stool to drag it towards me and prop my leg on it. I say, “The case is watertight. The Bible clearly states that a man may not marry his brother’s widow. The dispensation originally given was in error – what is written in the Bible is divine law, and the Pope cannot dispense with divine law.”
    I spread my hands – see ? I say, “We can open a private court – you can pronounce judgement within a fortnight. What are you Papal Legate for, after all?”
    Wolsey is looking at my hands, unfocused.
    “I am able to think for myself,” I say – and smile. “You should be proud. Your pupil has come of age at last.”

 
♦  ♦  ♦  IV   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    The key is new and ornate; I have had all the locks changed. I slip it back into the purse at my belt and push the door open.
    “Go on.” I nod to Anne.
    She passes me and enters the small room, stopping in the middle of the floor to turn slowly and look about her.
    It’s one of my most private spaces: a tower room built long ago for my mother. The small lattice windows are painted with her coat of arms. Outside it’s sunny and the coloured glass shines like jewels, but the room is shady and cavelike. Most of the wall space is taken up with cupboards and shelves stuffed with boxes and bags, books and documents.
    In the dim room I see the gleam of Anne’s eyes and her small white teeth as she smiles.
    “Feel free,” I say. “Explore. No secrets.”
    She approaches a wall, trails a finger over a cupboard latch, along a shelf edge. She’s not sure what to open first. Her hand reaches a box, covered in painted decoration. She lifts it down.
    “What’s this?” she says, staring at the contents.
    “A dragon. Dried.”
    “Really?” She studies it with renewed interest, then puts it back.
    She investigates shelves cluttered with astronomical instruments, leather- and velvet-covered boxes and several ornate clocks; cupboards out of which flop drifts of papers; others crowded with chessmen and jewelled hourglasses.
    She loosens the strings of a green sarcenet bag and peers in. “A pair of spurs. Gilt. Old?”
    “Henry V wore them at Agincourt.”
    I’m lounging on a chair, enjoying watching her. I see her open a small box. “Scissors…” she says. And another. “Perfumes?”
    “Probably.” Some of the boxes are so old I’ve forgotten what’s in them.
    Next her fingers light on a flat case, covered in black velvet. She opens it. “Oh. And you.”
    Inside, if I remember, is a carved wooden cameo. Anne considers it, her head on one side. “I think it’s quite like you.”
    She grins at me quickly, then slides it back onto the shelf.
    I say, “You’ll find jewels in there.” Her hand is on another cupboard door.
    She glances at me again then dives in, fishing out boxes lined with small drawers – and in the drawers ropes of pearls, bracelets and brooches, necklaces, loose jewels, trimming for hoods and sleeves.
    “You can have any of them you want.”
    “They’re pretty,” she says at length, putting them back. “But I want Catherine’s jewels.” She shuts the cupboard. “When I’m queen.”
    I watch as she picks up a dog collar. Sometimes she leaves me winded. Before I’ve recovered she says, “So. What’s the news from Wolsey?”
    I push myself up and pretend to look for something on a shelf. “Oh, there’s a – uh, a small delay.”
    “Why?”
    “He says he needs to take advice. It’s all in hand.”
    “Is it?”
    She reaches out and tugs me towards her, by the sleeve; she pulls me very close.
    In the shadows there seems to be something fierce about her, something other-worldly in the silky skin, the long neck, the pointed, elfin face.
    “Are you sure?” she says.
    “About what?” I stroke her cheek. “I’m sure about you.”
    “Sure that it’s all in hand…” She closes her fingers round my wrist. “It’s a failing of mine; I don’t trust others much. I like to know exactly what’s going on…”
    I study her. “But I think you do know… everything. It’s eerie. I think you can read my mind.”
    “Can I?” She smiles. “Yes, maybe…”
    We’re both laughing