Free After Flodden by Rosemary Goring Page A

pulled around his shoulders as he bent over a parchment, a pale
finger following its faded account. A rabbitskin hat was pulled low over his face, and a shadow beneath its rim was all that Surrey could see of his eyes. Vapour escaped from beneath the fur as he
breathed.
    At the sight of his king, Beecham struggled to get to his feet. Henry laughed, and waved at him to keep his seat. ‘Stay as you are,’ he barked. ‘No need to grovel. This is not
a formal visit, good sir. I merely need to borrow your brains.’
    Henry introduced the earl, and the pair bowed to each other. There was barely room in the library for four of them, and Surrey dared not move from the doorway in case he dislodged a book. If one
of these tomes fell, it could break a foot.
    The king prowled around the edge of the room, and his scribe had to twist his head left and right to follow him, like an owl watching from its perch. ‘Master Beecham,’ Henry told
Surrey, ‘is clerk of the royal records. He knows more than any of us about the details of state – yes, Lord Bishop, more even than you, though you burrow like a mole through the
books.’
    Ruthall gave a dutiful smile. ‘Would that my burden of work allowed me time to read, Your Majesty. If it were not a sin, I would admit to envy of our good clerk here, who can spend his
days cloistered with documents and ignore the ugly world beyond these walls.’ With a sniff, he gathered his cloak over his chest.
    Henry turned to the clerk. ‘There is not a statute or act of parliament or treaty of war from the past hundred years that Master Beecham does not know. You can even recite pages from the
blessed Domesday book, can’t you, brother?’
    ‘Only those relating to the southern shires, Your Highness,’ Beecham mumbled, with the lilt of a west country accent, never lost despite fifty years’ service to the court.
Henry laughed again, looking at Surrey, ‘Mirabile dictu! The dullest book on God’s earth and he has it by heart. This man is more valuable to me than a company of archers.’ He put
a hand on Beecham’s shoulder.
    ‘So tell us, good sir, where we stand with Scotland. As I recall, my father brokered a long and peaceful deal with young James.’
    ‘That is correct,’ said Beecham, retracting his hands into his sleeves, and licking his lips, which were so cracked they might not have spoken a word in days. His voice was as
high-pitched as the wind that moaned at the window. ‘Your esteemed father negotiated the Treaty of Perpetual Peace when James married your sister. That was eight years ago. Of late, however,
James has tinkered with the finer detail of that treaty, claiming that we have not followed its edicts to the letter, and thus taking the liberty of bending its rules to his own ends.’
    ‘Where stand we now?’ said Henry.
    ‘In law, the two countries are still amiable towards each other. Any act of aggression on land by one would of course annul that agreement.’
    ‘And what does it say about Scotland’s Auld Alliance with France?’ Henry no longer sounded warm.
    ‘It says nothing on that score,’ said Beecham, staring at the shelves in front of him as he retrieved the words from memory. ‘But it is implicit that for the purposes of
continued peace between the two countries, no nation at odds with England can become an active ally of Scotland; and vice versa. Your father was alert to the dangers of that liaison, and of many
others – I speak of Norway, and the Netherlands, to name only two.’
    A gruel of a smile crossed the clerk’s face. ‘Am I to understand that Your Majesty would like to compose a new deal, and oblige Scotland to eschew its French association? To make
plain the limits of what you will and will not tolerate?’
    ‘You are,’ said the king. ‘It needs to be explicit, so simple a suckling babe could not mistake its meaning. Norway, Denmark, and the like, are small beer. James can whistle
them up for all I care; between them