VIII

you at the butts a few months back,” says Edward Seymour beside him.
    I’m at The More, one of Wolsey’s old houses in Hertfordshire. There’s always good hunting here, and it’s a glorious day outside; we’re ready in our boots and green hunting coats, and Boleyn – who, amongst his other titles, is my Master of the Buckhounds – has assured me that the dogs and their handlers are ready.
    Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I say, “That branch of the moat that lies furthest west – should I have it filled in?”
    “Sir?” Norris looks confused. He’s still troubled by the idea of a combined knife and pistol.
    “The moat here.” Facing Norris, I’m walking backwards. “The branch of it nearest the river. You know? It would make a better run for the hunting if it was filled in, don’t you thi—”
    I cannon straight into someone behind me. I turn to see the top of a gable headdress; it’s one of Anne’s maids of honour, curtseying now, with her head bowed.
    “I – I’m so sorry, Your Majesty,” comes a small voice from under the headdress. In her hands she’s holding a pile of clean linen.
    I regard her for a moment – a moment she evidently finds uncomfortable. Then I say, “You are forgiven. Go on your way.” She scurries off.
    “Seymour, isn’t that one of your sisters?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    I watch her hurried progress down the passageway. “Which one?”
    “Jane, sir.”
    “Does she always shake like that?”
    Seymour begins to apologise; I slap his stomach with the back of my hand. “Don’t worry, man. I like it. It makes a change from what I get from—”
    I stop. In the shadows under the stairs, there is a bundle of clothes. Except it is not a bundle of clothes. It is him – again. Crouching, his bony knees drawn up. The boy.
    What’s shocking this time is how much worse he looks – ravaged, emaciated, sinewy. His clothes are frayed and worn, and hang limply from his thin frame. He is eating like an animal – in front of him on the floor are strewn pieces of a small spare carcass. He is picking at the bones with his fingers, shovelling morsels quickly to his mouth.
    As I watch, he lifts his head to me. I see the wet gleam of his eyes in the gloom. He drops his food and extends his arms, his greasy clawlike fingers reaching out, scratching the air. A voice sounds in my head, insistent and demanding:
    Comfort me .
    The boy’s lips have not moved, but I know the voice is his.
    “Sir?” says Norris beside me. “Are you all right, sir?”
    My heart is hammering; I am sweating. I hardly dare acknowledge it, but with an unsteady hand I point. “Norris, do you see anything?”
    “Where, sir?”
    “There – under the stairs.”
    He goes over – peers into the shadows.
    The boy ignores Norris, stares past him straight at me. Looking half-starved as he does, he should be weak, but I have the feeling that his power is growing; that in his physical deterioration this creature is showing more and more of his devilish nature.
    Comfort me!
    That voice again.
    Norris shakes his head. “What kind of thing am I looking for, sir?”
    “Huh? Nothing. Trick of the light,” I say, holding the boy’s gaze.
    It is an effort to turn away, but I do it. Turn and walk to the door that gives out onto the courtyard. As I am about to reach it – about to escape into the sunshine outside – a clatter of footsteps brings a pageboy, running down the corridor, scrambling to a halt.
    “Your Majesty, I have a message from the Queen.”
    I turn back. From here I cannot see the space under the stairs. Instead I see the pageboy, straightening from his bow. He looks pale, shocked. Behind him I see women coming and going from the direction of Anne’s apartments. Holding linen, like the Seymour girl. Hurrying. Heads bowed. I realise that some of them are crying.
    Around me, my men are waiting – tense for my reaction.
    Disconcerted by the silence, the messenger looks to Norris for instruction – should he go on?
    Norris says gently, “Will you hear it, sir?”
    There’s a pane of glass between me and the world – the pageboy, my men, the whole scene is distant. Here, where I am, there is only me. And the voice:
    Comfort me!
    I say, “What?”
    “The message, sir,” says Norris. “Will you hear it?”
    But I don’t need to hear it. I have seen the crying women; the fresh linen; the shocked messenger. It is too soon for Anne to be delivered of a live child.
    I feel a rising panic: I will