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A blast of wind hit me full in the face. My eyes smarted and watered in protest, and the horizon before me shimmered, swam, then cleared. In the blur, though, I had seen something, or thought I had. I blinked and strained to catch it again. Yes, there was something . . . and was that a smudge of smoke above it?

“There. Ahead,” I grunted. My lips were cracked and bleeding in spite of the grease I had smeared on them.

Cromwell started, stifled a smile. He knows, I thought. He knows what it is, and is pleased that I have discovered it for myself.

“What is that before us?” I asked.

“St. Osweth’s,” he said, the answer ready.

A small monastery—one that Cromwell’s agents had already visited and pronounced especially corrupt. The papers condemning it to dissolution lay on my inlaid work chamber desk amongst others awaiting my royal stamp.

“How providential,” I said, wheeling my horse around. “A religious house ahead!” I called to the men. “We will go there.”

“The good brothers will doubtless be astonished to welcome a royal party,” said Cromwell.

“Doubtless.” Thanking God for their location if not for their morals, I turned toward the monastery. The dull spot in the sky that betokened the sun was already halfway to its setting-slot.

The house was rough and tumble-down. Around it were not the neatly trimmed fences and ordered fields of my imagination, but the neglect of a slattern’s yard.

Cromwell knocked on the door like a wrathful archangel at the Last Judgment. It creaked open, and a face like a vulture’s peered out.

“The King is here,” announced Cromwell.

To his credit, the vulture proudly flung open the door and gestured welcome, as if he had expected us. His thick cowl and gleaming pink point of a head above his tonsure made his resemblance to that bird truly striking.

The odour of decay was so strong upon first stepping into the priory antechamber that I wondered what they fed upon.

“I will fetch the prior,” the vulture-monk said, bowing low.

Gagging, I willed myself to endure the putrid odour. It was warm in here. That was all that mattered.

The vulture returned, bringing one of the fattest men I had ever seen. He swung each leg in a half-circle, propelling himself forward in a series of curious half-turns, rather than walking as ordinary men do. Th8221;isguised pain to God.

I know not how long I remained thus, but it seemed a different sort of time than worldly time. Stumbling to my feet, I felt a fleeting sweetness that promised all would yet be well.

Or did I but deceive myself?

That night in the comical Sultan’s den, my men commented several times that I seemed subdued, softened.

“He grows fond and familiar in his old age,” said Neville.

“ ’Tis we who grow old,” said Carew. His heart trouble had frightened him. “The King merely grows more regal.”

But Cromwell studied me with narrowed eyes. He was trying to detect something—he who lived by being able to read the secret thoughts of other men.

As early as possible the next morning, we left St. Osweth’s behind, as a man will leave a sickbed. It would be closed as soon as I could sign the orders. In the meantime there was no point in punishing the prior. Let him enjoy his snake-lair a little longer before he was turned out to earn an honest living. Prudently, we had deprived him of the jewels and treasury. My saddle-pouches now bulged with gemstones.

The storm had passed out over the Channel and was now harassing France. I hoped it would ruin Francis’s hunting. Of late it was reported that he spent inordinate amounts of time hunting, restlessly moving from one lodge to another, feverishly chasing game. Feverish ... yes, the rumours said he was suffering from the dread French Disease, and this caused his glittering eyes and unpredictable behaviour.

Rumours. I wondered if any had reached Francis or Charles about my infirmity?

LVII

In the morning light, St. Osweth’s, now behind us, seemed as dreamlike as the days that had just passed. They were set apart, outside anything in our