Tarbes says, ‘Try to understand this. My king regards James of Scotland as his own son. He will not break a promise that knits our two lands in their ancient amity.’
Castillon urges, ‘Why not consider the Duchess of Vendôme?’
He does not wait for the king, but cuts in: ‘James saw her and did not like her. Why should we?’
The king says, ‘I do not want to take a lady I have not seen. The thing touches me too near.’ He raises a finger, and lays it precisely beneath his collarbone, on the puff of white linen that shows above the buttercup yellow of his jacket. ‘Perhaps she and some other ladies could come to Calais? Then I might make the crossing, and see them for myself.’
‘What?’ Castillon can no longer contain himself. ‘Do you think it is a horse fair? You want us to trot them out like fillies, the noblest dames of France? Perhaps your Majesty would like to mount them too, before making choice?’
He says, solemn, ‘If they are virgins on arrival, we will send them back intact. I swear it.’
‘Excuse,’ Tarbes says curtly. Red in the face, the ambassadors turn aside to mutter to each other. He wishes now that Norfolk were here, to see his show.
The ambassadors turn back. ‘No,’ Tarbes says. ‘No meeting.’
‘A pity,’ he says, ‘since the king and I are going to Calais anyway. From there we will pass to the Emperor’s territory, to meet with Christina and her councillors. We mean to take Lady Mary – and Lady Eliza too, if her keepers do not object to the voyage for her.’
He feels Henry’s gaze swivel to him: will we, do we?
‘Then I wish you joy of the Duchess of Milan,’ Castillon says. ‘I hear she is very much afraid of what awaits her, and is begging the Emperor to marry her anywhere but England. Has your Majesty considered that it might be difficult to find any lady to marry you at all?’
‘Why?’ the king asks.
‘Because you kill your wives.’
‘Take that back,’ he says. He is standing, so are the ambassadors; he thinks, there may be two of you, but I kill giants.
Castillon turns to Henry. His voice shakes. ‘You say your first wife died in the course of nature, but many believe you poisoned her. Your second match was widely deplored, but no one imagined you would end it with a beheading. Now it is said – even by Cremuel, in fact especially by he – that your third wife perished of neglect in her childbed.’
He says, ‘I should not have said that.’
‘No, you should not,’ Henry says mildly. ‘My dear ambassadors, you cannot understand – you do not know our court or our ways – Cremuel worked not a little in the making of my marriage with Jane.The whole realm has reason to be grateful that he did so. Cremuel’s son is married to the queen’s sister. He feels to her as to his own kin. After her death, his shock and sorrow caused him to speak in haste. There was no neglect. How could there be?’
‘Our position is –’ Tarbes begins.
‘Your position is back on the boat,’ he says, ‘unless we hear an abject and prompt apology.’
Henry holds up a hand. ‘Peace. The ambassadors have some right on their side. I have been ill-fated.’ He bows his head, then looks up from under his brows. ‘But I do not lack offers.’
He says, ‘Be assured, gentlemen – we are at a point, with the Duchess of Milan.’
‘At a point?’ Castillon is outraged. ‘Cremuel, why do you not pack your bags and present yourself to the Emperor as his own true servant? You serve him better than you serve the King of England.’
Henry says dryly, ‘I find myself satisfied.’
He says, ‘Even if my king does not take Christina, he will marry into Portugal. And Lady Mary will wed their prince Dom Luis. What could be more pleasant than a double wedding?’
It is hard to know whether the ambassadors are dismissed, or whether they dismiss themselves. But on the threshold, Castillon stops, defiant: ‘My master and the Emperor mean to extend their truce till midsummer. Mary will lose her chance. Dom Luis will marry my master’s daughter – with whom, I tell you, he will be delighted.’
They are gone. The door closes after them. The king says, ‘They should stop trying to frighten me. I have been king nearly thirty years and they should know it does no good.’
They have been speaking French, and continue to do so, as the footsteps fade.
‘So, Cremuel,’ Henry says, ‘I hope you will not run away to Charles, but stay.’
Henry’s eyes are on his portrait of himself, massive, on the wall of the chamber. His own eyes consult the image of his master. ‘What should I want with the Emperor, were he emperor of all the world? Your Majesty is the only prince. The mirror and the light of other kings.’
Henry repeats the phrase, as if cherishing it: the mirror and the light. He says, ‘You know, Crumb, I may from time to time reprove you. I may belittle you. I may even speak roughly.’
He bows.
‘It is for show,’ Henry says. ‘So they think we are divided. But take it in good part. Whatever you hear, at home or abroad, I repose my faith in you.’ He smiles. ‘When one speaks French, one finds oneself saying
