Pontefract’s bakers, were out of their beds. They did not speak, but gripped their mounts between their knees and spurred
them on into the brightening day.
Morning had not long broken, some days later, when finally they reached the Thames and the king’s city residence. Richmond Palace was as large as a village. At its heart lay the old
castle, its moat glassy green in the early light. The expanse of modern turrets, roofs and gardens that rose around it inspired awe. It was the work of Henry’s late father, but the exuberance
and scale of the fresh palace grounds were a fitting home for the brash new monarch.
Rising from a sea of furs, Henry greeted Surrey with a kiss on each cheek. The king’s secretary, Thomas Ruthall, Bishop of Durham, stood at his side, but merely inclined his head in
acknowledgement. He and Surrey knew each other, but had no desire to deepen the acquaintance. Neither trusted the other, Surrey believing Ruthall held too much influence over the king, the bishop
disliking soldiers, whatever their rank, their company not to his taste.
The earl was saddlesore. He and his servant had spent five nights on the road, and had set out again that morning before light. When the towers and walls of London came into view they quickened
their pace. The sight of the city sent a shiver through Surrey, but by averting his gaze from the Tower, he banished unwelcome memories.
By the time he reached Richmond, he was more dust than man, and his tongue was a kipper. Henry recognised the signs. He raised a hand, and a page appeared at his side. Minutes later, a full
board was spread for the earl in Henry’s rooms, and a commoner’s version of the same laid out in the kitchens below for his servant.
Surrey reached first for ale, then for the ham. While he ate, Henry picked up a knife and whittled a leg of heron for his amusement. The bishop neither ate nor drank, though his majestic belly,
and rings embedded in fat, suggested this was a rare abstinence.
There followed a long silence, broken only by slurping. Henry sucked a string of meat into his mouth with a slither of grease. He ate until his beard glistened with oil. ‘You have vital
news for me?’ he enquired at last, rubbing his chin with a cloth, and casting it to the floor where it was retrieved by a page who hovered by the table.
‘Aye, I believe so, Your Majesty,’ said Surrey, too mindful of his manners to talk through a mumble of food, and pushing aside his plate with regret.
‘My agent in the north sends word that James is fitting out ships for war.’
‘He always was keen on boats,’ said Henry, running his tongue over his lips. ‘He has haunted the shipyards since he was a boy.’ He reached for a pork pie, jewelled
fingers dandling over the dish while he chose the plumpest.
‘Aye, very likely,’ said Surrey. ‘But the ships he has been building of late are not mere vanities. James, as you know, prefers looking at boats to sailing them. These new
craft are built for soldiers; they are handsome, but they are not works of art. They’re too cumbersome for that. They’re perhaps not beautiful, but they are fitted with gunloops,
lance-hooks and embrasures for cannon. It is hinted that they are for France’s use, not merely his own.’
Surrey held the king’s eye: ‘He is also making weapons, Your Highness. Far more than he needs for a country at peace. And last week I learned that a party of French gunners has been
invited to Edinburgh Castle, to help make weapons. There seems little doubt where his loyalty lies.’
Henry was quiet.
‘Tell me about your agent,’ he said, finally.
‘He is a quiet man, sire, and unostentatious. His credentials are watertight.’ Surrey shook his head: ‘Unlike the last,’ he added.
Henry raised a hand in irritation.
‘Quite,’ said Surrey, before the king could voice his anger. ‘I’d rather not think of Walser myself. A fool. A damnable, dangerous fool.’
‘He was exiled, was
them on into the brightening day.
Morning had not long broken, some days later, when finally they reached the Thames and the king’s city residence. Richmond Palace was as large as a village. At its heart lay the old
castle, its moat glassy green in the early light. The expanse of modern turrets, roofs and gardens that rose around it inspired awe. It was the work of Henry’s late father, but the exuberance
and scale of the fresh palace grounds were a fitting home for the brash new monarch.
Rising from a sea of furs, Henry greeted Surrey with a kiss on each cheek. The king’s secretary, Thomas Ruthall, Bishop of Durham, stood at his side, but merely inclined his head in
acknowledgement. He and Surrey knew each other, but had no desire to deepen the acquaintance. Neither trusted the other, Surrey believing Ruthall held too much influence over the king, the bishop
disliking soldiers, whatever their rank, their company not to his taste.
The earl was saddlesore. He and his servant had spent five nights on the road, and had set out again that morning before light. When the towers and walls of London came into view they quickened
their pace. The sight of the city sent a shiver through Surrey, but by averting his gaze from the Tower, he banished unwelcome memories.
By the time he reached Richmond, he was more dust than man, and his tongue was a kipper. Henry recognised the signs. He raised a hand, and a page appeared at his side. Minutes later, a full
board was spread for the earl in Henry’s rooms, and a commoner’s version of the same laid out in the kitchens below for his servant.
Surrey reached first for ale, then for the ham. While he ate, Henry picked up a knife and whittled a leg of heron for his amusement. The bishop neither ate nor drank, though his majestic belly,
and rings embedded in fat, suggested this was a rare abstinence.
There followed a long silence, broken only by slurping. Henry sucked a string of meat into his mouth with a slither of grease. He ate until his beard glistened with oil. ‘You have vital
news for me?’ he enquired at last, rubbing his chin with a cloth, and casting it to the floor where it was retrieved by a page who hovered by the table.
‘Aye, I believe so, Your Majesty,’ said Surrey, too mindful of his manners to talk through a mumble of food, and pushing aside his plate with regret.
‘My agent in the north sends word that James is fitting out ships for war.’
‘He always was keen on boats,’ said Henry, running his tongue over his lips. ‘He has haunted the shipyards since he was a boy.’ He reached for a pork pie, jewelled
fingers dandling over the dish while he chose the plumpest.
‘Aye, very likely,’ said Surrey. ‘But the ships he has been building of late are not mere vanities. James, as you know, prefers looking at boats to sailing them. These new
craft are built for soldiers; they are handsome, but they are not works of art. They’re too cumbersome for that. They’re perhaps not beautiful, but they are fitted with gunloops,
lance-hooks and embrasures for cannon. It is hinted that they are for France’s use, not merely his own.’
Surrey held the king’s eye: ‘He is also making weapons, Your Highness. Far more than he needs for a country at peace. And last week I learned that a party of French gunners has been
invited to Edinburgh Castle, to help make weapons. There seems little doubt where his loyalty lies.’
Henry was quiet.
‘Tell me about your agent,’ he said, finally.
‘He is a quiet man, sire, and unostentatious. His credentials are watertight.’ Surrey shook his head: ‘Unlike the last,’ he added.
Henry raised a hand in irritation.
‘Quite,’ said Surrey, before the king could voice his anger. ‘I’d rather not think of Walser myself. A fool. A damnable, dangerous fool.’
‘He was exiled, was
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