VIII by H.M. Castor

Author:H.M. Castor [H. M. Castor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781848775022
Publisher: Templar Publishing
Published: 2012-01-14T16:00:00+00:00

“They tell me I must spend more time at my desk,” I say.

“On the contrary, I recommend less time.”

I’m doing target practice with darts; the board, circular and edged in green velvet embroidered with gold, is mounted on a frame several feet away. Wolsey is watching, sipping his wine. My friends are playing, variously, chess and a yellow and blue instrument that produces a tune if you turn a handle.

I tap the darts on my fingers. “You mock me.”

“Sir – how would I dare? I mean it. You simply need an able instrument to carry out your instructions; to do the desk work for you.”

“And you are proposing yourself.” I throw now, lining up and releasing the tiny arrows in quick succession – thud, thud, thud. Then I walk forward and collect them from the board.

As I come back, Wolsey inclines his head. “I would maintain a constant flow of information to Your Grace, and every decision would be yours – of course… Why should your time be taken up with the mundane details of the execution of your plans? I know how quick your mind is. Simply tell me what you want achieved…” He drains his glass. “And I will achieve it. Try me.”

I throw again. “But the seals – the sending every instruction back and forth, to Fox, to Warham—”

“Is not necessary. You can do things by direct decree. Just state that your instruction will take immediate effect, by royal command.”

I look at him. “They didn’t tell me I could do that.”

His gaze is steady and serious. “No, I know.”

The end of a bawdy song drifts to us from the far side of the room – Bryan has worked Wolsey’s name into the lyrics.

“The cheek!” he exclaims, spinning round. “And me a man of the Church, too!” He sets down his cup and launches himself across the room and into a verse of his own, working Bryan, Brandon and Boleyn’s names into the rhyme and beating time on their heads with the ends of his stole.

By the time he’s done, I’m spluttering with laughter and clapping. I say, “For a large man a little past the first bloom of youth, you have wondrous energy.”

“For an old fat man, you mean, sir!” He laughs – a wonderful belly laugh – and walks back to me. “You will not see me flag in your service. Ever.” He is suddenly earnest, intensely so. “Let me show you what you can do.”

As my friends carry on with their music – a little more dignified now – I beckon Wolsey to the large bay window. Within its alcove we can talk more privately. Outside the sky is a cloudless blue; clear bright sunlight streams in, creating dazzling reflections on the surfaces of a curious object that stands in the middle of the space.

It is a box, on long metal feet, the sides of which are made of glass, for the better viewing of the treasures inside. The lid, also glass, is made in two halves like doors, their frames garnished with pearls and gold thread.

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