Free After Flodden by Rosemary Goring

hound across the room so hard he broke its
back, and had cuffed the ears of a simpleton page with a ferocity that threw the boy into a fit. So far the earl had not witnessed this side of him, but he trod with care.
    There was little of Henry VII in the young king’s demeanour – no delicacy of dress or manner, no caution or compassion – but in his intellect and acuity, they were a match.
Indeed, from Surrey’s observations Henry VIII more than equalled his dead father’s capabilities, and brought to them an impatience and assurance that augured well for his ambitions.
    Surrey perched on a stool on the far side of the fire, his scabbard scraping the floor. Henry did not bother to suggest he remove it in his presence. Surrey was a soldier to the backbone, never
happier than in the saddle with orders in his knapsack. If he preferred to have steel under his hand at all times, Henry would not complain. Those who kept their swords sharp were men of his own
kind. Few prizes were won in this world by words, and much by aggression. Where months of letters and confabulation achieved nothing but bellyache and gripe, the mere sight of an army, before even
a sword was unsheathed, could bring a city to heel. Some of Henry’s happiest memories were of subduing his enemies using nothing more than menace.
    ‘Your instincts echo my own, Thomas,’ said Henry. ‘You may not be aware, but I have not yet paid my sister her dowry. She writes – she writes often – complaining
and wheedling. You know women. But she won’t have any of it, not even her seed pearls, until I see Scotland and ourselves bonded and James’s back turned on his French fancies.
    ‘Your agent must now turn his talents to finding out what goes on between James and Louis. Do you think he can do that?’
    ‘It’ll be testing,’ said Surrey. ‘It’ll be risky, but I will inform him of your wishes.’
    Henry nodded.
    ‘And on our side, we must send Doctor West north, to remind James of our claim on his loyalty. He must be made to see that any alliance with France that hurts our interests is tantamount
to a declaration of war against us.’ Henry’s face grew still, as if the mould had set. His eyes were bright as steel: ‘He must be made to appreciate how grave a matter it would be
to anger us. Because when we are angered, we give no quarter. Sister or no sister, I would treat him, and her, as rebels. The consequences of crossing us would be dire.’
    Henry smiled without mirth.
    ‘It would be good for him to be aware of that fact before he goes any further down the road to bed with Louis.’
    The king rose to his feet, and shrugged on his crimson cape. ‘We will ask Master Beecham where we stand.’
    They left his chamber, Surrey’s spurs rasping against the flagstones, while Henry’s leather slippers were so soft with linseed he might have been barefoot. The bishop followed
behind, breathing heavily.
    The palace was a cheerless place, for all its pomp. Surrey thought of his Yorkshire home, where narrow passages and small windows were sealed tight against the weather, and the smallest hearth
swallowed some of the chill. But at Richmond the corridors were broad, the ceilings high, and even those rooms swagged in drapes, tapestries and rugs were hostile to rheumatic bones the moment they
moved a yard beyond the fire.
    Beecham’s room had no hearth. It was little larger than the bole of an ancient oak, and as dark, with only a single lancet window, set high in the wall, giving sight of the sky. From floor
to ceiling it was lined with leather-bound documents and vellum scrolls, tied with ribbon. The smell of old parchment and dust infused the room, a scholar’s pomander. Surrey, used to the
rain-washed outdoors, sensed that the atmosphere had scarcely been sullied by fresh air for years. Older still was its occupant.
    At the centre of the room, from where he could touch each wall without leaving his chair, Beecham sat behind his desk. A rug was