LITMIR.BIZ

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He totters forward, and in time two others follow him. You could change any one for the other: hollow coughs, long beards. According to some precedence which they negotiate by grunting, they take their seats on a bench opposite. He hates alchemists, and these look like alchemists to him: nameless splashes on their garments, watering eyes, vapour-induced sniffles. He greets them in French. They shudder, and one of them asks in Latin if they are not going to have anything to drink. He calls for the boy, and asks him without much hope what he suggests. ‘Drink somewhere else?’ the boy offers.

      A jug of something vinegary comes. He lets the old men drink deeply before he asks, ‘Which of you is Maître Camillo?’

      They exchange glances. It takes them as long as it takes the Graiae to pass their single shared eye.

      ‘Maître Camillo has gone to Venice.’

      ‘Why?’

      Some coughing. ‘For consultations.’

      ‘But he does mean to return to France?’

      ‘Quite likely.’

      ‘The thing you have, I want it for my master.’

      A silence. How would it be, he thought, if I take the wine away till they say something useful? But one pre-empts him, snatching up the jug; his hand shakes, and the wine washes over the table. The others bleat with irritation.

      ‘I thought you might bring drawings,’ he says.

      They look at each other. ‘Oh, no.’

      ‘But there are drawings?’

      ‘Not as such.’

      The spilt wine begins to soak into the splintered wood. They sit in miserable silence and watch this happen. One of them occupies himself in working his finger through a moth hole in his sleeve.

      He shouts to the boy for a second jug. ‘We do not wish to disoblige you,’ the spokesman says. ‘You must understand that Maître Camillo is, for now, under the protection of King Francis.’

      ‘He intends to make a model for him?’

      ‘That is possible.’

      ‘A working model?’

      ‘Any model would be, by its nature, a working model.’

      ‘Should he find the terms of his employment in the least unsatisfactory, my master Henry would be happy to welcome him in England.’

      There is another pause, till the jug is fetched and the boy has gone. This time, he does the pouring himself. The old men exchange glances again, and one says, ‘The magister believes he would dislike the English climate. The fogs. And also, the whole island is covered with witches.’

      The interview has been unsatisfactory. But one must begin somewhere. As he leaves he says to the boy, ‘You might go and swab the table.’

      ‘I may as well wait till they've upset the second jug, monsieur.’

      ‘True. Take them in some food. What do you have?’

      ‘Pottage. I wouldn't recommend it. It looks like what's left when a whore's washed her shift.’

      ‘I never knew the Calais girls to wash anything. Can you read?’

      ‘A little.’

      ‘Write?’

      ‘No, monsieur.’

      ‘You should learn. Meanwhile use your eyes. If anyone else comes to talk to them, if they bring out any drawings, parchments, scrolls, anything of that kind, I want to know.’

      The boy says, ‘What is it, monsieur? What are they selling?’

      He almost tells him. What harm could it do? But then in the end he can't think of the right words.

      Part-way through the talks in Boulogne, he has a message that Francis would like to see him. Henry deliberates before giving him permission; face-to-face, monarchs should deal only with fellow monarchs, and lords and churchmen of high rank. Since they landed, Brandon and Howard, who were friendly enough on board ship, have been distant with him, as if to make it quite clear to the French that they accord him no status; he is some whim of Henry's, they pretend, a novelty councillor who will soon vanish in favour of a viscount, baron or bishop.

      The French messenger tells him, ‘This is not an audience.’

      ‘No,’ he says, ‘I understand. Nothing of that sort.’

      Francis sits waiting, attended only by a handful of courtiers, for what is not an audience. He is a beanpole of a man, his elbows and knees jutting at the air, his big bony feet restless inside vast padded slippers. ‘Cremuel,’ he says. ‘Now, let me understand you. You are a Welshman.’

      ‘No, Your Highness.’

      Sorrowful dog eyes; they look him over, they look him over again. ‘Not a Welshman.’

      He sees the French king's difficulty. How has he got his passport to the court, if he is not from some family of humble Tudor retainers? ‘It was the late cardinal who induced me into the king's business.’

      ‘Yes, I know that,’ Francis says, ‘but I think to myself there is something else going on here.’

      ‘That may be, Highness,’ he says crisply, ‘but it's certainly not being Welsh.’

      Francis touches the tip of his pendulous nose, bending it further towards his chin. Choose your prince: you wouldn't like to look at this one every day. Henry is so wholesome, in his fleshy, scrubbed pink-and-whiteness. Francis says, his glance drifting away, ‘They say you once fought for the honour of France.’

      Garigliano: for a moment he lowers his eyes, as if he's remembering a very bad accident in the street: some mashing and irretrievable mangling of limbs. ‘On a most unfortunate day.’

      ‘Still … these things pass. Who now remembers Agincourt?’

      He almost laughs. ‘It is true,’ he says. ‘A generation or two, or three … four … and these things are nothing.’

      Francis says, ‘They say you are in very good standing with That Lady.’ He sucks his lip. ‘Tell me, I am curious, what does my brother king think? Does he think she is a maid? Myself, I never tried her. When she was here at court she was young, and as flat as a board. Her sister, however –’

      He would like to stop him but you can't stop a king. His voice runs over naked Mary, chin to toes, and then flips her over like a griddle cake and does the other side, nape to heels. An attendant hands him a square of fine linen, and as he finishes he dabs the corner of his mouth: and hands the kerchief back.

      ‘Well, enough,’ Francis says. ‘I see you will not admit to being Welsh, so that is the end of my theories.’ The corners of his mouth turn up; his elbows work a little; his knees twitch; the not-audience is over. ‘Monsieur Cremuel,’ he says, ‘we may not meet again. Your sudden fortunes may not last. So, come, give me your hand, like a soldier of France. And put me in your prayers.’

      He bows. ‘Your beadsman, sir.’

      As he leaves, one of the courtiers steps forward, and murmuring, ‘A gift from His Highness,’ hands him a pair of embroidered gloves.

      Another man, he supposes, would be pleased, and try them on. For his part, he pinches the fingers, and finds what he is looking for. Gently, he shakes the glove, his hand cupped.

      He goes straight to Henry. He finds him in the sunshine, playing a game of bowls with some French lords. Henry can make a game of bowls as noisy as a tournament: whooping, groaning, shouting of odds, wails, oaths. The king looks up at him, his eyes saying, ‘Well?’ His eyes say, ‘Alone,’ the king's say, ‘Later,’ and not a word is spoken, but all the time the king keeps up his joking and backslapping, and he straightens up, watching his wood glide over the shorn grass, and points in his direction. ‘You see this councillor of mine? I warn you, never play any game with him.

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