What an idyllic setting. We were amidst the joys of high summer in England, with just enough of a breeze to save us from the heat of the sun, and the further help of a swimming pool. Water without, wine within. We were also surrounded by roses, England’s flower, luxuriating in their beauty and innocence. Experts have applauded my friends’ rose-husbandry. It seemed to this non-expert that they have not merely created a good rose garden; they have triumphed with a great one. Yet other thoughts intruded.
Godparents are supposed to abjure the devil. Might Satan not sue for breach of contract?
Roses makes one think of Henry VIII. I have recently been reading C.J. Sansom: so much better than Hilary Mantel. His Henry is wholly convincing as a study of corruption and evil. That monster-monarch’s emblems were frequently adorned with roses. It seems to have been his favourite flower: the Tudor rose, beloved by England’s cruellest King, the murderer of Queens and many other victims.
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