The Tournament

by Matthew Reilly

  And then, in the prime of his university career, he had come to teach me, a mere child, the third in line to the throne. Even at that tender age, it had struck me that the remarkable Mr Roger Ascham was wildly overqualified to be tutoring a girl of thirteen, even if she was a princess. I wondered why. What did he see in me that no-one else did?

  In any case, this exchange between us about the Moslem sultan’s use of English was not unusual. I was wrong and he was right—again.

  We turned our attention back to the invitation. It added that the chess tournament would take place in one month’s time in the Sultan’s capital, the ancient city of Constantinople.

  Accompanying the invitation was a note from my father, addressed to Mr Ascham.

  Ascham,

  I understand that your associate, Mr Gilbert Giles, was the finest player at Cambridge. Would you please inquire as to whether this is still the case and if it be so, dispatch him to me at once. No less than the reputation of the corpus christianum requires our best man at this tournament.

  Henry, R

  By the way, I appreciated your efforts in the matter of Cumberland’s son. They did not go unnoticed.

  In those days, it was more than just Christendom’s reputation that was at stake: the Moslem sultan was threatening Christendom itself.

  His empire spread from Persia in the east to Algiers in the southwest and had recently crossed the Danube. Eight years earlier, in 1538, the Sultan’s navy, led by the brilliant Barbarossa, had done the previously unthinkable: it had defeated a European fleet—a ‘Christian alliance’ of ships—at Preveza. This Christian alliance, assembled by Pope Paul III himself, lost over forty ships, more than 3,000 prisoners, and, after paying 300,000 gold ducats in reparations to the Ottoman sultan, a large portion of Europe’s pride.

  Then Suleiman’s land army had taken the city of Buda. Now it was poised at the gates of Vienna. Suleiman’s nearest European neighbour, Archduke Ferdinand of Austria, was said to be apoplectic with rage at the Sultan’s incursions into his territory, but except for sending out ever more spies to report on the movements of the Moslem armies, there was nothing Ferdinand could do. Suleiman’s empire was twice the size of all of Christendom combined and growing larger by the day.

  And that was all before one spoke of Suleiman himself. He was said to be a wise and shrewd ruler, a speaker of no less than five languages. He was a gifted poet and patron of the arts, a cunning strategist and—unlike his bitter enemy, Archduke Ferdinand, and many of Europe’s kings and queens—he was utterly beloved by his people.

  On more than one occasion my teacher had said to me that while the royal lines of England, France and Spain jockeyed among themselves for pre-eminence, a great shadow had been rising in the east. If it went unchecked our noble families might one day look up from their squabbles and find themselves paying tribute to a Moslem overlord.

  The other unspoken challenge in the gilt invitation was the inevitable contest that this tournament would pose between faiths. Just as he had done at Preveza, Suleiman was pitting his god against ours, and at Preveza his god had won.

  ‘Sir, is this Mr Giles still the best player in England?’ I inquired.

  My teacher said, ‘He most certainly is. I still play him regularly. He beats me nine times out of ten, but on the odd occasion I manage to outwit him.’

  ‘That sounds like our record.’

  Mr Ascham smiled at me. ‘Yes, but I have a feeling that our record will soon be reversed. Giles, on the other hand, will always have the upper hand on me. But this’—he held up the invitation—‘this is momentous. Giles will be thrilled to answer the king’s call.’

  Mr Giles most certainly was.

  Mr Ascham sent him to meet with my father, who (again, typically) arranged for a test of Mr Giles’s chess abilities: a game against my father himself. Naturally, Mr Giles lost this game.

  Like everyone else in England, Mr Giles was reluctant to beat a king who, in addition to beheading two of his wives (one of whom had been my mother), had had Thomas Cromwell beheaded for match-making him with one of them. It was not unknown for those who defeated my father at other games to end up with their heads mounted on stakes atop London Bridge.

  To my surprise, however, upon winning the game my father reportedly boomed: ‘Do not play lightly against me, Giles! I do not need a sycophant representing England and the primacy of Christ and the Christian faith at this event. I need a player!’

  They played again and Mr Giles beat my father in nine moves.

  Things proceeded swiftly from there.

  A small travelling train was assembled, with carts, horses and guardsmen for the journey across Christendom.

  But then just as Mr Giles was about to depart Hertfordshire, a terrible case of plague descended on the district.

  My half-brother, Edward, the heir to the throne, was whisked away. My sister Mary went soon after.

  I, apparently, was not so valuable: no-one moved with any kind of alacrity to facilitate my removal from Hatfield House, so I simply continued with my studies with Elsie and with you, my dear friend Gwinny Stubbes.

  Then one day there arose a commotion.

  We were sitting in my study reading Livy’s account of the mass Jewish suicide at Masada. Elsie, who was several years older than we were, sat in the corner at her mirror, idly brushing her hair. Oh, do you remember her, Gwinny? Lord, I do! At seventeen, Elsie was a genuine beauty, with the willowy figure of the dancer she was. Slender of waist yet pert of bosom, with gorgeous blonde hair that cascaded over her shoulders, Elsie drew the eye of every passing gentleman.

  With the airy confidence common to beautiful people, she was convinced that her prettiness alone would win her a husband of suitable rank and so did not feel it necessary to study—she spent more time in front of her mirror-glass than at her books, and I must confess that in this regard I was a little envious of her. I had to endure many tiresome lessons and I had royal blood. (I was also, I should add, jealous of her womanliness, given that I was nothing less than awkwardness personified: all knobbly knees and bony arms with a chest as flat as a boy’s and a ghastly shock of curly strawberry-red hair that I hated.) That said, most of the time I worshipped Elsie, entranced by her grace, enthralled by her beauty, and awed by her worldly seventeen-year-old’s wisdom.

  It was while we were thus engaged that I heard the commotion: my governess, Miss Katherine Ashley, raised her voice in the next room.

  ‘You will do no such thing, Mr Ascham!’ It must have been serious. She only called him ‘Mr Ascham’ when she was upset with him.

  ‘But it will be the learning opportunity of a lifetime—’

  ‘She is thirteen years old—’

  ‘She is the brightest thirteen-year-old I have ever taught and mature beyond her years. Grindal agrees.’

  ‘She is a child, Roger.’

  ‘The king doesn’t think so. Why, just last month when he was informed that Bess had started to bleed, King Henry said, “If she is old enough to bleed then she is old enough to be married off for the benefit of England. Daughters have to be good for something.”’ That sounded like my father.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Miss Katherine said, ‘the kingdom of the Moslems could be a very dangerous place for her . . .’

  Mr Ascham lowered his voice, but I could still hear him.

  ‘London is a very dangerous place for her, Kat. These are pivotal times. The king grows sicker and more erratic every day, and the court is divided in its loyalties to Edward and Mary. Our Elizabeth has the weakest claim to the throne yet her very presence in England threatens each of their claims. You know how often rival heirs die mysteriously during plagues . . .’

  Listening from behind the doorframe, I gasped softly.

  Miss Katherine was silent for a long moment.

  Mr Ascham said, ‘She will be well guarded on the journey. The king is providing six of his finest troops to escort us.’

  ‘It is not just her physical safety that conc
erns me. I want her morals protected, too. She will need a chaperone,’ Miss Katherine said haughtily. ‘It is scandalous enough that she should be travelling with two bachelors in yourself and Mr Giles, but soldiers, too.’

  ‘What about you and John, then?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly. I am far too old and far too fat to undertake such a journey.’ Miss Katherine was, it must be said, a rather large woman. She had married the kindly John Ashley only the previous year at the advanced age of forty (although she still liked me to address her as ‘Miss’ because, she said, it made her feel young).

  ‘All right, then—’ Mr Ascham rallied.

  ‘A responsible chaperone, Roger, married or at least betrothed. One who will be a moral example to Elizabeth. Not some silly strumpet who will be tempted to stray in an exotic land or liaise with the guards on the journey there—wait, I know! Primrose Ponsonby and her husband, Llewellyn.’

  My teacher groaned at the suggestion. ‘The Ponsonbys . . .’

  Miss Katherine said, ‘They are model Christians, tragically childless, yet ever keen to be of service to the king. If they go with you, Roger, my fears will be somewhat assuaged.’

  ‘Very well. Agreed.’

  A moment later the two of them entered our study.

  Mr Ascham nodded at me. ‘What say you, Bess, since we have to leave this place anyway, would you like to go on an adventure?’

  ‘To where, sir?’ I asked, feigning ignorance.

  ‘You know exactly where, young miss. You have been listening from behind the door.’ He smiled. ‘You need to gasp more quietly if you are to become a master spy, little one. To the chess tournament in Constantinople. To watch Mr Giles compete.’

  I leapt up, smiling broadly. ‘What a splendid idea! Can Gwinny and Elsie come, too? Can they? Please?’

  Mr Ascham frowned, glanced at Miss Kate. ‘I fear I am already bending far too many rules just by taking you, my young princess,’ he said. ‘It is too much to ask of your chaperones to govern three of you, but two would be manageable. You may bring one friend along.’

  I hesitated, glancing at my two friends. There you were, Gwinny, shy and sweet, a wallflower if ever there was one, looking at me with quiet hope while Elsie’s entire being blazed with excitement; her eyes wide, her fists clenched in desperate anticipation. She adored romantic tales about dashing princes in glittering palaces. A trip to an exotic city in the east was her dream come true. I had her undivided attention and I liked it.

  ‘I shall take Elsie!’ I cried, and Elsie squealed and threw her arms around me in utter delight. As I struggled in her embrace, I confess I did notice how you bowed your head in dismay.

  The young make mistakes. This is what they do. And given the awful things that occurred in Byzantium, perhaps this choice was a mistake.

  But having said that, given the true and lasting friendship that we have forged over the course of our lives, Gwinny—and mark my words, queens need true friends—there is a part of me that is glad for that error, for in choosing Elsie, I spared you the trauma of witnessing firsthand the events I beheld in the Moslem sultan’s court.

  THE JOURNEY, OCTOBER 1546

  WE LEFT HERTFORDSHIRE ON the 1st of October in the year of our Lord, 1546, with a small caravan of two wagons and six guardsmen to protect us on our way.

  Mr Ascham rode out in front astride his beloved courser, a big mare that had failed woefully as a jouster. My teacher didn’t care; he had bought her for her gentle temperament. He rode with his longbow slung over his shoulder. He had written a book on the subject of archery in which he argued that every male of adult age in England should be compelled to become expert in the use of the bow. Indeed, whenever he travelled, he always wore his leather archer’s ring on his right thumb and a bracer on his left forearm should ever he be required to notch an arrow at short notice.

  Riding in the main wagon with Elsie and me was Mrs Primrose Ponsonby, who even in that bouncing cart sat with perfect poise, her back erect, her hands placed neatly in her lap. She was twenty-six years old, married but childless, and was more pious than a nun. The hood of her sky-blue travelling cape was perfectly pressed (its pale blue colour brought to my mind images of the Virgin Mary and I wondered if this was her intention), the powder on her face was flawlessly applied, and her lips were, as always, pursed in a scowl of disapproval. Everything offended her: the low neckline of Elsie’s stomacher (a sign of the loose morals of the day), the mud-spattered armour of our escorts (lack of discipline), and, of course, Moslems (‘Godless heathens who will burn in Hell’). At times I thought Mrs Ponsonby actually liked being offended.

  Elsie couldn’t stand her. ‘Sanctimonious prude,’ she muttered when Mrs Ponsonby yet again told Elsie to cover her décolletage with a shawl. ‘We’d have more fun with Pope Paul himself as our chaperone.’

  Mrs Ponsonby’s husband, Llewellyn—a short, ruddy-faced man, as pious as his wife but from what I saw, more her servant than her equal—rode on a donkey beside our wagon. He was ever scurrying about doing her bidding, tripping over himself in his haste to effect commands that always began with the shrill call of: ‘Llewellyn Ponsonby!’

  I sighed. They were not exactly a winning example of the benefits of marriage and as chaperones, well, I feared that Elsie was right.

  We had to pass through London on our way to Dover. There Mr Ascham and Mr Giles stopped briefly at Whitehall to collect something from my father: a gorgeous scarlet envelope with gilt edges similar to those of the Sultan’s original invitation. This envelope was sealed with a dollop of wax that bore the imprint of my father’s ring in its centre. A private note from king to king. My teacher would carry this envelope on his person for the duration of our journey.

  I did not know what message or messages it contained. As I would discover later, neither did my teacher.

  While I would have liked to, I did not accompany my teacher into the palace at Whitehall. I rarely saw my father and never in the harsh light of court. He loomed at the fringes of my world, a godlike figure whom I glimpsed occasionally but rarely saw in full.

  Of course, he was spoken about every day. He was loved and feared, admired and feared, respected and feared. It was said by many that my father had executed more people than any English monarch before him. But he was also known for his keen, educated mind, his prowess at any kind of sport, his ability to write music and his fondness for any pretty thing in a skirt, even if she was married to another.

  His interactions with me were usually perfunctory, businesslike affairs. I was a by-product of kinghood and a bothersome one at that: a daughter. He had been tender toward me on perhaps three occasions and on each of those occasions I’d adored him. His recent observation about me being ‘old enough to bleed’ was more the rule: my ability to marry and breed for England suddenly made me useful.

  Elsie and I lingered outside the palace under the watchful gaze of our two chaperones, our six guardsmen and seven recently beheaded traitors mounted on spikes above the gates.

  The angry roars of a bear being baited rose from a nearby alley, followed by the cheers of a crowd. I peered into the alley and saw the poor animal: it was a mighty beast chained by the neck to a stake lodged in the ground and it bellowed with impotent rage as two mastiffs attacked it, drawing chunks from its hide. The bear managed to hit one of the dogs with a lusty swipe, and the dog went flying with a yelp into a wall, where it collapsed in a heap, mortally wounded. As it lay dying, another mastiff was released to take its place. The crowd cheered even more loudly.

  Mrs Ponsonby was predictably appalled. ‘I thought Englishmen were made of better stuff than this. Come, girls. Avert your eyes.’

  On this rare occasion, I found myself agreeing with her.

  After our short stop at Whitehall, we proceeded apace to Dover and thence across the Channel to Calais.

  From there, at Mr Ascham’s suggestion, we all changed into garments that were decidedly less colourful than the attire we had worn across southern England.
Elsie and I wore plain cassocks and skirts without farthingales (which I must say made movement considerably easier). With her graceful neck, blonde hair and nubile body, Elsie still managed to look angelic even in that crude smock.

  Mrs Ponsonby puckered her lips in outrage when Mr Ascham made her don a plain brown travelling cloak. Her blue one, he said, was not appropriate for an overland journey across the Continent—dressing so would almost certainly attract the attention of bandits. Elsie could barely contain her delight at this exchange.

  Mr Ascham dressed for our journey in a fashion that I feel warrants further description.

  In Hertfordshire he always wore the stiff formal attire of a gentleman: ruff, gown, bulging breeches and stockinged feet. But now he donned an outfit that was decidedly different: full-length brown trousers of a sturdy weave, knee-high brown riding boots and a brown jerkin made of tough Spanish leather. Over this he draped a longcoat of oiled black canvas that reached all the way to his ankles. On his head he placed a broad-brimmed brown hat that seemed impervious to rain.

  All this gave my beloved schoolmaster a far more rugged appearance than that to which I was accustomed. He looked more like an explorer or an adventurer than a little girl’s teacher from Hertfordshire.

  He looked harder, rougher, and perhaps even a little dashing.

  We made good progress through France.

  Although nominally my father was the King of France, such an appellation seemed a sore point to the local inhabitants, so we travelled through the lands of the Franks incognito, disguising our status to the extent that we did not even stay overnight in the homes of royal relatives.