VIII

called you unto his eternal glory by Christ Jesus, shall his own self, after ye have suffered a little affliction, make you perfect; shall settle, strengthen and establish you. To him be glory and dominion for ever, and while the world endureth. Amen .”
    “Sir?” At the back of the chapel Norris has put his head around the door: his mild brown eyes are puzzled and concerned. He could hear me outside, no doubt, and must have wondered at me shouting in an empty space.
    I have stopped shouting now. The scraping sound has stopped, too; I know, without looking, that the boy has gone.
    My hands are on the open book; I am breathing hard, as if I have just fought a bout. Why do I suffer this? Is it part of God’s purpose? Does He show me this hideous apparition – this ghost or whatever it may be – to remind me that there is evil in the world that I must fight too?
    I don’t need to look far for it. Plenty of my own subjects wish me ill. There have been predictions – some would call them prophecies, but I do not grace them with that name. A monk declared last year that if I married Anne the dogs would lick my blood as they licked Ahab’s. And a nun who claimed to see visions foretold that I should not remain king one month after the marriage.
    When I hear such things I am ready to lick the blood of the traitors that circulate this filth. But look: the months have passed and none of it has come true. It is more than half a year since Anne and I were married and I am still king.
    As I move among my smiling courtiers these days, though, I wonder: how many in their secret hearts believe I deserve death – for breaking with the Pope, for heresy; how many of them hope my grave is gaping for me even now?
    “Norris,” I say, coming down from the pulpit, “call in all keys – the master keys and the by-keys. And send for my locksmith. I want a new set of locks made. Larger and more complex. More secure. Perhaps I will design them myself.”
    “New locks for the royal apartments, sir?”
    “For all the rooms in the palace, Norris,” I say, passing him. I head towards the spiral staircase that leads back to my apartments. “In every palace.”

 
♦  ♦  ♦  IX   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    The piece Anne’s playing is very difficult. Her fingers move swiftly over the keyboard; her brow is furrowed in concentration.
    I lean across, and play a flourish on the low notes. She slaps me away.
    “You are very irritating,” she says, but her tone is teasing.
    My chair is right beside hers. I put my face close to her ear. “I-love-you-I-love-you-I-love-you.”
    She swats me away like a fly. Grinning, I return my attention to the astrolabe I’m holding. “My wife is so heartless.”
    The astrolabe is a thing of beauty: a gilt brass disc and dial, engraved with sea monsters and signs of the zodiac. It can be used for navigating on board ship, for telling the time day or night, for casting horoscopes and for surveying land. When the new child in Anne’s belly is born, I’ll be able to calculate his natal chart with this thing – for I was right: God has brought the next child, the boy, to us swiftly: the infant Elizabeth is only a few months old and Anne is pregnant again.
    I move the astrolabe’s dial, examining the gradations marked on the rim. I say, “Have you felt him move, yet?”
    “It’s too early.”
    We both return to our preoccupations. Outside, the winter sun is watery and cold, weeping a trickle of light through a dank fog. Here, in my private gallery, torches in sconces on the walls throw patches of flickering orange onto the ceiling. A great fire blazes in the grate, but draughts still swirl at floor-level; my bad leg is propped up to escape them.
    Anne sings a phrase or two as she plays, then breaks off. “If you love me so much… what… then…” She plays a note for each word, “would… you… give up for me?”
    I laugh, still fiddling with the astrolabe. “What have I not given up for you?”
    She turns and looks at me severely; I raise my eyebrows – what ? Then I relent, and play the game; I put down the astrolabe. “All right. My hunting. I would give up the chase.”
    She pretends to consider the offer for a moment – then turns back to playing. “Not enough.”
    “What? That’s huge! All right then… I would give up gambling. Of any kind. No money will be staked by the King on anything ever again.”
    She plays a little more; breaks off; shakes her head.