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“You will answer to a heresy charge if you voice such things!” I snapped.

Norfolk looked startled. “I meant no harm, Your Grace. ’Twas but a jest- ”

“A jest in my son’s name! A poor jest indeed!”

The two of them shot each other a look that said, “The King is vexed. Stir him not.” They bowed and took leave. It was a look I was to see more and more often: a look that managed to be both condescending and fearful at the same time.

The end of August was a glorious burst of fulfilment. The harvests were coming in, heavier than any in recent memory. The fruits were so swollen on every tree that their sun-warmed, dusty skins seemed near to oozing. To sink my teeth into a fresh-plucked pear or plum always sent juice spurting all over my mouth. The sun lay warm and golden on my head, and I took it all as an omen, as the hand of God upon me.

September seventh. The wedding day of Charles Brandon and Katherine Willoughby, if all proceeded as planned. That thought cast a pall over the morning as I proceeded to arise, to say my prayers, to begin the day. I prayed for their happiness, but found that it was words only, words without attachment to my heart. Instead of seeing Katherine in her bridal wreath, I saw Mary in her marble tomb. She had been dead just three months to the day.

Hoping to shake off this sadness, which was spreading like a stain across the day, I called for a horse and took a solitary ride toward Eltham Palace. It lay some three miles from Greenwich, farther back from the river, and up on a windy hill, through ancient forests.

How many times had I ridden here as a Prince! Every hundred yards took me back some five or six years, until I was barely ten years old, and still a second son, by the time I stood on Eltham hilltop. How many times had I stood just here, dreaming of the future, watching the Thames shining far away, like a bright ribbon? That boy seemed very close to me now—that lonely, odd little boy-and I longed to reach out and reassure him, say, “It all came right, my lad!”

“Your from Gnce. God had utterly deserted me, then. I had so displeased Him that He would not even speak to me. He had abandoned me to the Devil.

Feeling so drained I could hardly stand, I made my way out of the chapel.

There were people waiting outside. The whole court, indeed, had gathered to see me and study me. I must not reveal my altercation with God just now, must not let anyone know that the Supreme Head of the Church in England had had a falling-out with his Commander.

I held up my hands. “God be praised!” I shouted. (“God be thrashed,” I meant.) “He has sent us this day as fair a Princess as ever came to England!”

They cheered halfheartedly, and their bewilderment showed on their faces. Still, they were relieved to follow my lead, and I was pleased to have kept my head and played a part. More and more, I was coming to realize the immense advantage in keeping one’s true thoughts to oneself. There are no windows into one’s mind; this simple truth had failed to serve me before now.

“Aye!” I grinned. “The Princess Elizabeth will be christened ten days from now-and we trust you will attend the ceremony.”

Lacking any further reason to stay, and thwarted in their desire to see me weep or rage, they dispersed.

All except Cromwell, who followed me to my chambers, at a discreet distance. I motioned him in, where he slid in like an obedient snake. And stood watching.

“ ’Tis bad,” I began. “Very bad.” Crushing, in fact. My heart ached within me, but to Cromwell I would put a mere political colouring on it.

“It looks bad,” he agreed. He often began his treading by repeating back what you had just said. That was safe ground.

“I look like a fool!” I burst out, suddenly seeing myself through the common man’s eyes—through Francis’s and Charles’s eyes, as well. “I shall have to—to have ‘ss’ added to all the proclamations: ‘in the deliverance of a fair Prince-ss,’” I barked irrelevantly, thinking of the fair, blemishless parchments selected for those rulers.