‘I am your husband,’ he says with simple dignity. ‘Of course I guard your sleep and soothe your fears.’
In a moment he is breathing heavily, his mouth lolling open. I put my head against his bulky shoulder and close my eyes. I know that my dream was the dream of Tryphine, the maid who was married to a man who killed his wives. I know it was the smell of dead wife on my own fingers.
SOUTHSEA CASTLE, PORTSMOUTH HARBOUR, SUMMER 1545
It is a most delightful day, like a painting of a summer day, the sun bright on the blue waters of the Solent, the brisk wind scuffing little white caps on the waves. We have climbed to the top of one of the defensive towers overlooking the harbour and, now that they have hauled the king up the stone stairs and he can see everything, he is delighted with the world, standing astride at the sea wall, hands on his hips, as if he were an admiral on his own ship, the court around him abuzz with excitement and anxiety.
I cannot believe that everyone is joyous, as if we were about to watch a joust on a summer day, as if this were the legendary Field of the Cloth of Gold – a struggle between France and England to be the most glamorous, the most graceful, the most cultured and the most sporting. Surely everyone knows that it is nothing like that today? This is not playing at war but the hours before a real battle. There can be nothing to celebrate and everything to fear.
Looking behind me, over the open fields of Southsea Common, I see that though the court is putting a brave face on it, I am not the only one to be anxious. The yeomen of the guard are already prepared for the worst, their horses saddled and held on tight reins by their pages, ready for mounting and galloping away. The guardsmen are already in armour, with only their helmets to put on. Behind them, the great baggage train that always follows the royal court everywhere – petitioners, beggars, lawyers, thieves and fools – is slowly dragging itself away – the baggage train always knows which side will win – and the people of Portsmouth are fleeing their own town, some of them walking under a burden of household goods, some riding, and some loading up carts. If the French defeat our fleet they will sack Portsmouth and probably fire it as well. The king’s court seem to be the only ones who expect triumph and are looking forward to a battle.
The many bells of the town churches are tolling as our ships get ready to sail out of the harbour, the hundreds of noisy peals scaring the gulls, who circle and cry over the sea. There are about eighty ships, the greatest fleet England has ever assembled, some on the far side loading crew and weapons, some ready to go. I can see them unfurling their sails to our right, deeper in the harbour, the rowing boats and the galleys busy about them, taking ropes and preparing to haul them out of port to the sea.
‘The greatest navy ever mustered,’ the king declares to Anthony Browne at his side. ‘And ready to fight the French in the new way. It will be the greatest battle we have ever seen.’
‘Thank God we are here to see it!’ replies Sir Anthony. ‘What a great chance. I have commissioned a picture to show our victory.’
The painter, hurrying with his sketch book to record the sailing from the harbour, gives a low bow to the king and starts to outline the view before us, the tower where we are standing, the harbour to our right, the ships slowly emerging, the sea before us, the fluttering pennants, the cannon rolled out at the ready.
‘I’m glad that my husband is not on board one of the ships,’ Catherine Brandon remarks quietly.
I look at her pale face and see a reflection of my own unease. This is not a masque, this is not one of the expensive spectacles that the court loves; this is going to be a genuine sea battle fought between our ships and the French in sight of land. I will see what Thomas faces. I will have to watch as his ship is bombarded.
‘Do you know who is commanding which ship?’ I ask her.
She shakes her head. ‘Some new admirals were named last night at dinner,’ she says. ‘The king has honoured his friends with commands so that they can take part in the battle. My husband wasn’t very happy at new men being put in command the night before they have to fight. But he is overall commander of land and sea, and, thank God, he stays on land.’
‘Why, are you afraid of the sea?’
‘I am afraid of all deep water,’ she confesses. ‘I can’t swim. But then nobody in armour can swim. Few sailors know how and none of the soldiers would be able to stay afloat in their heavy jackets.’
I stop her with a small gesture. ‘Perhaps nobody will have to swim.’
There is a ragged cheer from the quayside as the king’s newly-refitted ship Mary Rose spreads her beautiful square sails and throws out ropes to the galleys to drag her out to sea.
‘Oh, there she goes. Who is her commander?’
‘Tom Seymour, God bless him,’ Catherine says.
I nod and raise my hand to my forehead, as if to shield my eyes from the sunshine. I think, I can’t bear to watch him sail out to battle, and chirrup like one of my songbirds, as meaningless and as stupid as they. ‘It’s quite windy,’ I remark. ‘Is that good?’
‘It’s a benefit for us,’ Uncle Parr reassures me. He is standing with my ladies, his hands shading his eyes, staring out to sea. ‘They have fighting galleys that can get amongst our ships in flat calm. They can row wherever they like. But on a day like today, when we can cram on sail, we can burst out of the harbour and bombard them. We can come down on them like the wind, with the wind behind us.’
Everyone falls back as the king comes to stand beside me, his head high, gulping in the sea air. ‘It’s certainly a beautiful sight,’ I remark as one by one his ships are dragged out of port, raising their sails and being set free, like flying doves, like seagulls out to sea. The court cheers as each ship, the Peter, and the Henry Grace à Dieu, and the ships we have stolen from the Scots, the Salamander and the Unicorn, go past our vantage point. Then suddenly, as if a cloud has passed over the sun, we fall silent.
‘What is it?’ I ask Henry.
For the first time he is not looking out to sea, his face bright; he is not striking a pose, hands on hips for the artist that is sketching him. He looks behind him, as if to see that his guard is ready to cover his retreat, and then he looks back to where the dark blue mass of the Isle of Wight looms on the horizon. Before the island, in the channel, the French fleet has suddenly silently appeared, sailing in, row upon row of them. If it were land it would be a cavalry charge of huge coursers, ridden knee to knee, one row after another in a great bank of brute strength. But here there is no sound, and it is somehow more terrifying for this. The ships move easily through the water, their sails spread, all on the same tack, and there seem to be hundreds, thousands of them. I cannot see the sea, not between them nor beyond them. It is like a forest of sails on the move. They are like a wall of sail.
And before them, in their vanguard, is another fleet. These are galleys, each one moving with an aggressive thrust through the water, each one keeping time with the other, row after row leaping forward with each blow of the oars into the sea. Even from here, even from our brave pretty little turret on Southsea Common, I can see the dark mouth of the single cannon that is mounted in the prow of each low barge as it looks hungrily towards our ships, our few ships, our little ships, as they tumble out of the safety of harbour to defend our coast, and I know that on his flagship, the Mary Rose, Thomas Seymour will be beside the steersman, looking out and seeing that he is massively outnumbered.