VIII

was playing for me before Audley arrived. I have forgotten to dismiss him; he is looking now as if he would like to melt into the wall-hangings.
    I say, “And it smiles.” The young man smiles automatically, nervously; an instant later his smile vanishes when he realises what I’ve just said.
    “And then it murders you in cold blood the first chance it gets,” I say, turning back to Audley.
    A few minutes later we are walking along a gallery, beneath a ceiling fretted like a gilded cobweb. On the wall, frozen painted figures – Orpheus and the beasts, Death visiting a banquet – glow in the candlelight. The sound of laughter and the scent of spiced fruits drift to us from the rooms ahead. I have an appointment for supper, dancing and a few hands of primero in Anne’s apartments tonight.
    I am saying to Audley, “So, it must be made high treason, punishable by death, not only to wish bodily harm to come to us, but also to deny us any of our titles, or to say or write that we are heretics or tyrants.”
    Audley pulls at his lower lip, thinking as he walks. He says, “This will require a new Act of Treasons.”
    “So speak to—”
    Suddenly: Anne. Standing in the bulge of a bay window, she’s been out of sight as we’ve approached. Now all at once we are upon her; she is talking with her brother George and with Norris – laughing with them. She turns. Her mouth is open; I am too close. She is laughing in my face.
    “—Cromwell,” I finish.
    In the gap between two words – a measure of time no longer than a heartbeat – I have been hit by a stray thought.
    The Devil looks about for hearts to enter, to test me, to smite me. Who will he choose? Those closest to me… Don’t you think?
    I groan.
    “Sir?”
    For a moment I am dazed. I turn to Audley, struggling to remember what I’ve just said. “Um… Speak to Cromwell about it, would you?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Audley leaves and I greet my wife. I watch her speaking; I do not hear what she says. Have I not noticed before how hard, how complaining her mouth is? The long neck seems grotesque; the pale, delicate-jointed fingers adjusting her cuffs are like white spiders’ legs. She is wearing dark fur and black velvet and damask. What did Wolsey call her? A night crow.
    Just a moment ago, the world seemed entirely different. Absently, my hand moves to the crucifix pinned to the front of my doublet.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  XII   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    The quintain is in the shape of a cross, one arm ending in a shield, the other in a hanging weight. The aim is to strike the shield with your lance – as you would your opponent in the tilt – and set the quintain spinning. The trick then is to avoid being struck by the weight as it swings round.
    Today – a December morning – the tiltyard is a vast barren plain of frost-hardened sand. I am here with a dozen others, practising for the New Year tournaments. For me the quintain is a useful warm-up, but no test of my skills. For some of my younger companions, however, it is more of a challenge: a few hard knocks have already been taken, and a few falls endured, by the time I spot a stocky figure walking towards me from the outer courtyard gate. I pull up my horse to wait for him.
    He is dressed in black, his cloak drawn close about him, his sable-lined bonnet pulled down over his ears.
    “Well?” I say when he comes within range.
    Cromwell doesn’t reply until, having bowed, he is standing right by my horse’s nose. He says, “Your Majesty, the doctors fear for the Princess Dowager’s life.”
    I’ve jettisoned my lance already. Now I dismount – without too much difficulty today – and pass the reins to a groom. I say, “How long? Months, weeks, days – what?”
    “Days – weeks at most.”
    “ Yes! ” I fling my head back. The shout floats heavenwards on a cloud of warm breath.
    Cromwell doesn’t react, but others in the tiltyard look my way. I yell to them: “The Princess Dowager is dying! We’ll be free from the danger of war! There’ll be no reason for the Emperor to attack us when she’s gone!”
    Energised, I put my arm around Cromwell’s neck – lead him away from the grooms and other riders. “So much for Catherine. Let the Almighty gather her to His bosom as soon as He likes. I want to talk to you on another subject.” I lower my voice: “I believe I may have had a sign from God, Thomas. About Queen Anne.”
    We reach an empty corner of the yard. I turn to face