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IV
    “Our Cousin of France pursues us with his offers!” Henry laughed, his face dark above the high jewelled collar. “And such offers! No mention of Normandy, of Anjou, of Touraine; no word of Poitou and Ponthieu. Beggarly huckstering! I say nothing of the expenses we've been put to entertaining these gentry.” He turned his sour glance towards the window at Monseigneur Guillaume Boisratier walking among the roses of my lord Bishop of Winchester's palace. Bishop Beaufort sent a sly glance at his nephew “Yon forget the princess, the lady Catherine.”
    “It is not the lady Catherine,” Henry interrupted. “It's France I want. Must I keep reminding you?”
    “It is not so much France you want, but to fight for France. If all your demands were met you'd be disappointed and you'd find a way to refuse. After all, the offer is not so mean. Aquitaine together with more great cities than I can name; eight hundred thousand golden crowns—and Madam Catherine.”
    “One French crown is enough for me,” Henry said, his face turned still to the window. “It is mine—Catherine or no Catherine. As for their wretched dowry—my ships lie in Southampton waters. I paid Holland well for them—you might say too well. My men are ready, the indentures made. Do you think eight hundred thousand crowns would cover that! I've begged and borrowed all I can lay hands on—pawned my crown even, the great Harry Crown. What I have begged, what I have borrowed, who should know better than you, Uncle? Your purse is the lighter for it!” He swung round suddenly. “What is this tale of tennis balls?”
    Henry Beaufort laughed. “They say, Sir, that the Dauphin has sent you a box of balls bidding you exercise your strength till you are grown to manhood.”
    Henry's brow cleared, he laughed outright. “I doubt the little Dauphin has so much wit. Have you seen the balls?”
    “Not I, nor any man. A tale. Merely a tale.”
    “A pity,” the King said. “It could have served my turn.”
    “A tale could serve it—tale of an insult, wanton insult to England's King.”
    “Yes...yes. It could prick the people well. It might even loosen the purse strings of my Parliament.” He shot one of his disconcerting questions. “Did you put it about, Uncle?”
    “You are bent on war,” Beaufort said and did not answer the question. “But all the same it would be better if you stayed at home and begot yourself an heir.” He turned and looked towards the window; Monsieur Boisratier had stopped gesticulating and was walking towards the house. “It's time, Sir, to continue conversations; we cannot, God be praised, keep the deputation here forever!” He looked at Monseigneur Boisratier walking bleakly, fierce nose out-thrust. “The man looks like an eagle...a moulting eagle, but still dangerous. You'll have to make an end, Harry. You've screwed the French well above their offer. I don't see how you can refuse them now.”
    “You will find the way, Uncle.”
    * * *
    Henry leaned smiling against a table, his lean elegance emphasized by the shimmering cloth-of-gold; but his eye was cold, cold and wary. Beyond him his brothers stood still as gilded statues; and behind them his uncle of York, his cousin young March and the Lords in Council, waiting, all waiting. Only my lord Bishop of Winchester smiled, easy, friendly.
    “We are agreed at last,” Beaufort said, very smooth. “And we are ready to sign the treaty. We shall, of course, require the Lady Catherine to be brought to us by November...”
    “It is my King's daughter we speak of, not a kitchen slut,” Boisratier said, sour.
    “Let us say the thirtieth then; November the thirtieth—five months.” Beaufort spoke as though he conferred extra privilege.
    “We could not have her clothes made by then, no, nor collect the jewels, either. As for the money about which we have argued so long, we should not have time to coin it.”
    The King waited, smiling, careless.
    “And besides,” Boisratier