II

Salvage

LONDON, SUMMER 1536

‘Where’s my orange coat?’ he says. ‘I used to have an orange coat.’

‘I have not seen it,’ says the boy Christophe. He says it sceptically, as if he were talking about a comet.

‘I put it away. Before I brought you here. While you were still across the sea, blessing a Calais dunghill with your presence.’

‘You scorn me.’ Christophe is offended. ‘Yet it was I who caught the cat.’

‘You did not!’ Gregory says. ‘It was Dick Purser caught the cat. All Christophe did, he stood by making hunting cries. Now he looks to get the credit!’

His nephew Richard says, ‘You put that coat away when the cardinal came down. You had no heart for it.’

‘Yes, but now I am feeling cheerful. I am not going to appear before the bridegroom as a mourner.’

‘No?’ Christophe says. ‘With this king one needs a reversible garment. One never knows, is it dying or dancing?’

‘Your English is improving, Christophe.’

‘Your French is where it was.’

‘What do you expect, of an old soldier? I am not likely to write verse.’

‘But you curse well,’ Christophe says, encouragingly. ‘Perhaps the best I have heard. Better than my father, who as you know was a great robber and feared through his province.’

‘Would your father recognise you?’ Richard Cromwell asks. ‘I mean, if he saw you now? Half an Englishman, and in my uncle’s livery?’

Christophe turns down his mouth. ‘By now he is probably hanged.’

‘Don’t you care?’

‘I spit on him.’

‘No need for that,’ he says soothingly. ‘Coat, Christophe? Go and seek?’

Gregory says, ‘The last time we all went out together…’

Richard says, ‘Do not. Do not say it. Do not even think of the other one.’

‘I know,’ Gregory says amiably. ‘My tutors have imbued me with it, from my earliest days. Do not talk about severed heads at a wedding.’

The king’s wedding was in fact yesterday, a small and private ceremony; today they are a loyal deputation, ready to congratulate the new queen. The colours of his working wardrobe are those sombre and expensive shades the Italians call berettino: the grey-brown of leaves around the feast of St Cecilia, the grey-blue of Advent light. But today an effort is called for, and Christophe is helping him into his festival garment, marvelling at it, when Call-Me Wriothesley hurries in. ‘Not late, am I?’ He stands back. ‘Sir, are you wearing that?’

‘Of course he is!’ Christophe is offended. ‘Your opinion not wanted.’

‘It’s only that the cardinal’s people wore orange tawny, and so if it reminds the king … he may not like to be reminded…’ Call-Me falters. Last night’s conversation is like a stain on his own garment, something he can’t brush out. He says meekly, ‘Of course, the king may admire it.’

‘If he doesn’t, he can tell me to take it off. Mind he does not do the same with your head.’

Call-Me flinches. He is sensitive even for a redhead. He shrinks a little as they go out into the sun. ‘Call-Me,’ Gregory says, ‘did you see, Dick Purser ran up the tree and caught the cat. Father, can he have some addition to his wages?’

Christophe mutters something. It sounds like, heretic.

‘What?’ he says.

‘Deek Purser, heretic,’ Christophe says. ‘Believes the host is but bread.’

‘But so do we!’ Gregory says. ‘Surely, or … wait…’ Doubt crosses his face.

‘Gregory,’ Richard says, ‘what we want from you is less theology and more swagger. Prepare for the king’s new brothers—the Seymours will be in glory today. If Jane gives the king a son, they will be great men, Ned and Tom. But mind. So will we.’

For this is England, a happy country, a land of miracles, where stones underfoot are nuggets of gold and the brooks flow with claret. The Boleyns’ white falcon hangs like a sorry sparrow on a fence, while the Seymour phoenix is rising. Gentlefolk of an ancient breed, foresters, masters of Wolf Hall, the king’s new family now rank with the Howards, the Talbots, the Percys and the Courtenays. The Cromwells—father, son and nephew—are of an ancient breed too. Were we not all conceived in Eden? When Adam delved and Eve span / Who was then the gentleman? When the Cromwells stroll out this week, the gentlemen of England get out of their way.

---

The king wears green velvet: he is a verdant lawn, starred with diamonds. Parting from his old friend William Fitzwilliam, his treasurer, he takes Master Secretary’s arm, draws him into a window embrasure, and stands blinking in the sunlight. It is the last day of May.

So, the wedding night: how does one ask? The new bride is of such virginal aspect that it would not surprise him if she had slipped beneath the bed and spent the night rigid on her back, praying. And Henry, as several women have told him, needs a lot of encouragement.

The king whispers, ‘Such freshness. Such delicacy. Such maidenly pudeur.’

‘I am happy for your Majesty.’ He thinks, yes, yes: but did you manage it?

‘I have come out of Hell into Heaven, and all in one night.’

That is the answer he needed.

The king says, ‘The whole matter has been, as we all know, a difficult and delicate … and you have shown, Thomas, both expedition and firmness.’ He glances around the room. ‘Gentlemen—and ladies too, I may say—have prompted me: Majesty, is it not time Master Cromwell received his deserts? You know I have hesitated to promote you, only because your grip is wanted in the House of Commons. But,’ he smiles, ‘the House of Lords is equally unruly, and wants a master. So, to the Lords you shall go.’

He bows. Small rainbows flit and dance across the stonework.

‘The queen is with her women,’ Henry says. ‘She is getting her courage up. I have asked her to show herself to the court. Go to her, and speak a few comfortable words. Lead her out, if you can.’

He turns, and there at once is Ambassador Chapuys. He is one of the Emperor’s French-speaking subjects, not a Spaniard but a Savoyard. Though he has been in England some years now, he does not venture conversation in our language; his skills are not sharp enough for the kind of conversation an ambassador needs to hold. His keen ears have picked out the word ‘pudeur’ and smiling he asks, ‘Well, Master Secretary, whose is the shame?’

‘Not shame. Modesty. A proper modesty, on the bride’s part.’

‘Ah. I thought it might be your king who is shamed. Considering the events of recent days. And what came out in the courtroom, about his lack of skill and vigour with the other one.’

‘We have only George Boleyn’s word for that.’

‘Well, if the lady slept with George, as you allege—with her own brother—you would imagine there would be pillow-talk, and what more natural than that she should complain of her husband’s incapacity? But I can see that Lord Rochford cannot defend his version, now his head is off.’ The ambassador is afflicted by a brightness in the eye, a twitch of the lips: which he controls. ‘So the royal bridegroom has hit the mark. And he thinks that till last night Madame Jane was a virgin? But of course he can’t tell. He thought Anne Boleyn was a virgin, and that, believe me, strained the credulity of all Europe.’

The ambassador is right. When it comes to maidenheads, Henry is easier to play than a penny whistle.

‘I suppose he will be content with Madame Jane a month or two,’ Chapuys says, ‘till his eye lights on some other lady. Then it will be found that Jane has misled him—she was not free to marry after all, as she had some pre-contract with another gentlemen. Yes?’

Eustache is fishing. He knows Anne Boleyn’s head is off, but he wants to know on what grounds her marriage was dissolved. For it had to be dissolved: death was not enough to take her child Eliza out of the succession, it had to be shown the marriage was no marriage, defective from the start. And how did the king’s clergy achieve this for him? He, Thomas Cromwell, is not about to say. He simply inclines his head and makes his way through the crush, changing his language as he goes. The new queen speaks only her mother tongue: and even that, not very often. Her brother Edward speaks French well. The younger brother, Tom Seymour—he doesn’t know what he speaks. He knows he never listens.

The women around Jane are in their finery, and in the heat of mid-morning the scent of lavender ripples into air like bubbles of laughter. It is a pity that preservative herbs can do nothing for the dowagers of England’s old families, who now stand about their prize like sentinels in brocade. The Boleyn women have melted from view: poor Mary Shelton, who thought that Henry Norris was going to marry her, and the vigilant Jane Rochford, George’s widow. The room is crowded with faces not seen at court since Queen Katherine’s day: and Jane, regrettably pale and as usual silent, is a little dough-figure in their midst. Henry has endowed her generously with the pick of the dead woman’s jewels, and her gown has been hastily sewn over with goldsmith’s work, hearts and love-knots. As she stirs to greet him, a knot detaches itself; she stoops, but one of her attendants is quicker. Jane whispers, ‘Thank you, madam, for your courtesy.’

Her face is dismayed. She cannot believe that Margaret Douglas—the king’s niece, the Queen of Scotland’s daughter—is here to pick up after her. Meg Douglas is a pretty lass, nineteen or twenty now. She stands up with a flash of red hair, and steps back to her place. Her hood is the French style that Boleyn favoured, but most of the ladies have reverted to the older sort, concealing the hair. By Meg’s side is her best friend Mary Fitzroy, young Richmond’s wife; her husband has been and gone, one assumes, after congratulating his father on the new marriage. She is a very little wife, not seventeen; the clumsy gable gives her a scalped, wary look, and her eyes are travelling around. She sees him; nudges Meg; drops her eyes, breathes, ‘Cromwell.’

At once, both young women look away, as if to disappear him. Anne’s ladies don’t like to admit how they deluged him with gossip, once they knew the queen’s day was done. They don’t like to admit how fast they talked, what evidence they gave against her. Cromwell tricks you, they say. He puts words into your mouth. With his manner so suave, he makes you say things you don’t mean.

Before he can come at the new queen, her family sweep in: her mother Lady Margery, two brothers. Edward Seymour looks discreetly joyous. Tom Seymour looks rumbustious, and is dressed with a lavishness that even George Boleyn might have thought de trop. Lady Margery’s glance stabs the old dames. None of them have kept their looks as she has, nor have their girls become queen. She makes a deep, straight-backed curtsey to her daughter, then rises with an audible snap of knee-joints. The poet Skelton once compared her to a primrose. But now she is sixty.

Jane’s pale glance washes over her family. Then she turns her head, and lets it wash over him. ‘Master Secretary,’ she says. There is a long pause, while the queen masters her diffidence. At last she whispers, ‘Would you like to … kiss my hand? Or … or anything at all … like that?’

He finds himself on one knee, lips touching an emerald he had kissed on the narrow hand of the late Anne. With her other hand, with her stubby little fingers, Jane brushes his shoulder; as if to say, ah dear, it’s hard for both of us, but somehow we’ll stumble through the morning.

‘Your lady sister is not with us?’ he asks Jane.

‘Bess is on her way,’ Lady Margery says.

‘Only,’ Jane says, ‘it’s all been so sudden. Bess never thought I would be getting married. She is still in mourning for her husband.’

‘I think she should come out of black. Let me help dress her. I know the Italian clothiers.’

Lady Margery subjects him to a sharp scrutiny. Then she turns, and flicks a dismissive hand at the dowagers. For a moment, these great ladies lock their eyes with hers. They inhale, as if in pain. They lift their hems, and drop back a few paces. They see they must allow the bride’s immediate family to surround her, and pose the indelicate questions that must be asked the day after a wedding.

‘So, sister?’ Tom Seymour says.

‘Voice down, Tom,’ says brother Edward. He glances over his shoulder; he, Cromwell, is standing as an impassable barrier between the family and the court.

‘So,’ the new queen says.

‘We only require,’ her mother says, ‘the merest word of reassurance. As to how you find yourself this morning.’

Jane considers. For a long time she looks at her shoes. Tom Seymour is fidgeting. You almost think he’s going to pinch his sister, as if they were in the nursery still. Jane takes in a breath. ‘Yes?’ Tom demands.

Jane whispers, ‘Brothers, my lady mother … Master Cromwell … I can only say I find myself wholly unprepared for what the king asks of me.’

The brothers stare at Lady Margery. Surely the girl knows how a man and woman couple? And besides, she is not a girl, isn’t that the point?

‘Surely,’ Lady Margery says. ‘You are twenty-seven years old, Jane. I mean, your Grace.’

‘Yes, I am,’ Jane agrees.

‘The king should not have to coddle you like a thirteen-year-old,’ her mother says. ‘If he showed himself impatient, well, that is how men are.’

‘You’ll get used to it,’ Tom encourages her. ‘There’s a price to be paid for everything, you know.’

Jane nods miserably.

‘I am sure the king was not unkind,’ Lady Margery says firmly.

‘No, not unkind.’ Jane glances up. ‘But my difficulty is, he wants me to do some very strange things. Things I never imagined a wife had to do.’

They look at each other. Jane’s lips move: as if she were trying out her words, before daring to expose them to the air. ‘But I suppose … well, I hardly know … I suppose there are things men like.’

Edward looks desperate. Tom begs, ‘Master Secretary?’

How is he to intervene? Is he responsible for the king’s tastes?

Lady Margery’s face is taut. ‘Unpleasant things, Jane?’

‘I think so,’ the queen says. ‘Though I have no experience of them, of course.’

Tom looks wild. ‘My advice,’ he says. ‘Accommodate him, sister.’

‘The point is,’ Edward says, ‘this … whatever, his desire, his command … does it conduce to getting a child?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ Jane says.

‘You’ll have to talk to him,’ Edward says. ‘Cromwell, you’ll have to recall to him how a Christian man behaves.’

He takes Jane’s hands between his. It is a bold move but he can see no alternative. ‘Your Grace, put aside modesty, and tell me what it is the king requires of you.’

Jane slides her hands away. She slides her pale little person away, and nudges aside her brothers: she falters in the direction of her king, her court, her future. She whispers as she goes, ‘He wants me to ride down to Dover with him, and see the fortifications.’

Unsmiling, Jane walks the length of the great chamber. Every eye is on her; she looks proud, someone whispers. And if you knew nothing of her, you might think that. Henry stretches out his arms, as one does for a child learning to walk, and when he has her, he kisses her, full on the mouth. His lips form a question; she whispers an answer; he bends his head to catch it, his face full of solicitude and pride. Chapuys is in a huddle with the old dames and their menfolk. As if he were their envoy—as if he were their envoy to Cromwell—the ambassador peels himself away and says, ‘She appears to be wearing all her jewels at once, like a Florentine bride. Still, she looks well enough, for a woman who is so plain. Whereas the other one, the more she dressed up, the worse she looked.’

‘Latterly. Perhaps.’

He remembers the days, when the cardinal was still alive, when Anne needed no ornament but her eyes. She had dwindled away in those last months, her face pinched. When she landed at the Tower, and slipped from his grasp and fell at his feet on the cobbles, he had lifted her and she weighed nothing; it was like holding air.

‘So,’ Chapuys says. ‘While your king is in this merry mood, press him to name the Princess Mary as his heir.’

‘Pending, of course, his son by his new wife.’

Chapuys bows.

‘Press your master to speak to the Pope,’ he tells the ambassador. ‘There is a bull of excommunication hovering over my master. No king can live like that, threatened in his own realm.’

‘All Europe is keen to heal the breach. Let the king approach Rome in a spirit of penitence, and undo the legislation that has separated your country from the universal church. As soon as that is done, His Holiness will be pleased to welcome his lost sheep, and accept the restitution of his revenues from England.’

‘With interest paid, I suppose, on the missing years?’

‘I imagine the normal banking rules will apply. And also–’

‘There is more?’

‘King Henry should withdraw his delegates to the Lutheran princes. We know you are holding talks. We want you to break them off.’

He nods. In sum, Chapuys is asking him to destroy the work of four years. To take England back to Rome. To recognise Henry’s first marriage as valid, and the daughter of that marriage as his heir. To break off diplomacy with the German states. To forswear the gospel, embrace the Pope, and bow the knee to idols.

‘So what shall I do,’ he asks, ‘in these brave new days? I mean, me personally? Thomas Cromwell?’

‘Back to the smithy?’

‘I think I’ve lost the blacksmith’s art. I’ll have to take to the road as I did as a boy. Cross the sea and offer myself as a footsoldier to the King of France. Do you think he’d be pleased to see me?’

‘That is one course,’ Chapuys says. ‘On the other hand, you could stay in post, and accept a generous retainer from the Emperor. He understands the labour involved in returning your country to the status quo ante.’ The ambassador smiles at him; then swivels on his heel, his arms held out in greeting. ‘Cara-vey!’

That plush frontage, that deep chest emblazoned with gold: who can it be, but Sir Nicholas Carew? The grandee, in a lilting tone, corrects the ambassador’s pronunciation: ‘Car-ew.’ He waits for it to be repeated.

Chapuys signals regret. ‘It is beyond me, sir.’

Carew will let it pass. He fixes his attention on Master Secretary. ‘We should meet.’

‘That would honour me, Sir Nicholas.’

‘We must arrange an escort to bring the Princess Mary back to court. Come out to my house at Beddington.’

‘Come to me. I’m busy.’

Sir Nicholas is annoyed. ‘My friends expect—’

‘You can bring your friends.’

Now Sir Nicholas heaves closer. ‘We made a bargain with you, Cromwell. We expect it to be honoured.’

He doesn’t answer Carew, merely adjusts him so that his path is clear. Passing him, he touches his hand to his heart. It looks like the gesture of a man suddenly anxious. But that’s not what it is, and that’s not what he’s doing.

At once his boys are beside him.

Richard asks, ‘What did Carew want?’

‘His bargain honoured.’

It is true what Wriothesley says: there was a bargain. In Carew’s version: we, friends of the Princess Mary, will help you remove Anne Boleyn, and afterwards, if you grovel to us and serve us, we will refrain from ruining you. Master Secretary’s version is different. You help me remove Anne, and … and nothing.

Richard says, ‘Do you know that the king had Carew’s wife in his bed? Before Carew married her, and after?’

‘No!’ Gregory says. ‘Am I old enough to know? Does everybody know? Does Carew know they know?’

Richard grins. ‘He knows we know.’

It’s better than gossip. It’s power: it’s news from the court’s inner economy, from the counting house where the units of obligation are fixed and the coins of shame are weighed. Richard says, ‘I could like her myself, Eliza Carew. If a man were not a married man…’

‘Out of our sphere,’ he says.

‘When has that stopped you? It’s only a fortnight since you and the Earl of Worcester’s wife were shut in a room together.’

Getting evidence.

‘And she came out smiling,’ Richard says.

Because I paid her debts.

Gregory says, ‘And she’s big with child. Which people do talk about.’

‘Let’s go,’ Richard says, ‘before Carve-Away comes back. We might laugh at him.’

But their names are called: Rafe, whisking around a corner. He has come from the king, and his expression—if you could parse it—is a compound of reverence, wariness and incredulity. ‘He wants you, sir.’

He nods. ‘You boys go home.’ Then a thought strikes him. ‘But Richard—’

His nephew turns. He whispers. ‘Do you attend Sir William Fitzwilliam. See if he will stand my ally in the king’s council. He knows Henry’s mind. He knows him as well as any man.’

It was Fitzwilliam who came to him, last March, to spell out to him how the Boleyns were detested, and how this detestation might unite natural foes, give them a common interest. It was Fitzwilliam who hinted at the king’s own need for a change: who did it with the calm authority of a man who had known Henry since his youth.

Richard says, ‘I think he will follow your star, sir.’

‘Find out his hopes,’ he says. ‘And raise them.’

‘Sir—’ Rafe prompts.

He takes Rafe’s arm. A knot of gentlemen turn their faces, and watch them pass. Rafe looks over his shoulder as the gentlemen fall behind, arranged as if waiting for Hans to paint them: silken hose, silken beards, their daggers in scabbards of black velvet, crimson velvet books in their hands. They are all Howards, or Howard kin, and one is the Duke of Norfolk’s young half-brother, who shares his name: Thomas Howard the Lesser. No danger of confusing the two. The Lesser is the worst poet at court. The Greater never rhymed in his life.

Rafe says, ‘The king is not as sanguine as he appears. He is not sure now of what he believed yesterday. He says, is justice served? He does not doubt Anne’s guilt, but he says, what about the gentlemen? You remember, sir, what ado we had to get him to sign the warrants? How we stood over him? Now he has fallen into doubts again. “Harry Norris was my old friend,” he says. “How is it possible he betrayed me with my wife? And Mark—a lute player, a boy like that—is it likely she would sin with him?”’

Time was a king lived under the eye of his court. He ate in the great hall, spoke out all his thoughts, shat behind a scant curtain and copulated behind one too. Now rulers enjoy solitude: soft-slippered servants guard them, and in their recessed apartments noise is hushed. As the minister heads for the inner rooms, hat in hand, he institutes an inner process whereby he becomes pliable, infinitely patient. Usually, in cases of disturbance to the king’s peace of mind, he would call on the archbishop. But not in this matter. Since the former queen was indicted, Cranmer has had no peace of mind to spare.

At the door of the privy chamber he is ushered through. In the old days—that’s to say, a month ago—the king’s gentlemen would be vigilant to intercept him. You would expect Harry Norris, sliding out: I regret, Master Secretary, his Majesty is at prayer. And how long will he be praying, Harry? Oh, the whole morning, I don’t doubt … Norris fading away, with a charming smile of apology; while from behind a closing door he would hear a giggle from that little ape Francis Weston.

The courtiers ask, is it possible, really, that the queen was bedding such a grinning pup as Weston?

What can you do but shrug?

---

The king is seated, slumped, elbows on knees. In the hour since he left the public gaze his verdant sheen has greyed. Charles Brandon is with him, standing over him like a sentinel.

He makes his reverence: ‘Majesty.’ And a polite murmur, as he rises: ‘My lord Suffolk.’

The duke gives him a wary nod. Henry says, ‘Crumb, have you heard this story about Katherine’s tomb?’

Suffolk says, ‘It’s in every tavern and marketplace. At the very instant Anne’s head leapt from her body, the candles on Katherine’s tomb ignited—without touch of living hand.’ The duke looks anxious to have it right. ‘You need not believe it, Cromwell. I don’t.’

Henry is irritable. ‘Of course not. It is a story. Where did it start, Crumb?’

‘Dover.’

‘Oh.’ Henry had not expected an answer. ‘She is buried in Peterborough. What do they know of it in Dover?’

‘Nothing, Majesty.’

He’s going to plod like this, till Henry sends Brandon out.

‘Well, then,’ Brandon says. ‘If the tale began in Dover, you may be sure it came from France.’

‘You defame the French,’ Henry says, ‘and yet you take their money, Charles.’

The duke looks mortified. ‘But you know I do.’

‘Of course, Majesty,’ he says, ‘my lord Suffolk takes certain sums from the Emperor too. So it all balances out.’

‘I know the arrangements,’ Henry says. ‘God knows, Charles, if my councillors did not take retainers and pensions, I would have to pay them myself, and Crumb here would have to find the money.’

‘Sir,’ he says, ‘what is to happen to Thomas Boleyn? I see no need to disturb him in his earldom.’

‘Boleyn was not a rich man, before I raised him,’ Henry says. ‘But he did some service to the state.’

‘And he is heartily ashamed, sir, of the crimes of his daughter and son.’

Henry nods. ‘Very well. But as long as he does not employ that stupid title, Monseigneur. And as long as he stays away from me. He should go to his own country, where I don’t have to look at him. So should the Duke of Norfolk. I don’t want to see Boleyn faces or Howard faces or any of their kin.’

He means, not unless the French or the Emperor take it in their heads to invade; or if the Scots come over the border. If war breaks out, Howards are the people you send for.

‘Then Boleyn remains Earl of Wiltshire,’ he says. ‘But his office as Keeper of the Privy Seal—’

‘You can do that, Crumb.’

He bows. ‘And if it pleases your Majesty, I shall continue as Secretary.’

Stephen Gardiner was Master Secretary, until—as Mr Wriothesley points out—he was displaced. He doesn’t want Stephen erupting into the king’s mind, spilling his putrid flatteries in the hope of recall. The way to prevent that is to offer to do all the jobs himself.

But Henry is not listening. On the table before him is a stack of three small books bound in scarlet leather and tied with green ribbons. Beside them, lying open, his walnut writing box: a relic from Katherine’s day, it is ornamented with her initial, and with the emblem of the pomegranate. Henry says, ‘My daughter Mary has sent a letter. I do not recall I gave her permission to write to me. Did you?’

‘I would not presume.’ He wishes he could get the letter out of the box.

‘She seems to entertain expectations about her future as my heir. As if she believes Jane will fail in giving me a son.’

‘She won’t fail, sir.’

‘That is easy to say, but the other one made promises she could not keep. Our marriage is clean, she said: God will reward you. But last night in a dream—’

Ah, he thinks, you see her too: Ana Bolena with her collar of blood.

Henry says: ‘Did I do right?’

Right? The magnitude of the question checks him, like a hand on his arm. Was I just? No. Was I prudent? No. Did I do the best thing for my country? Yes.

‘It’s done,’ he says.

‘But how can you say, “It’s done”? As if there were no sin? As if there were no repentance?’

‘Go forward, sir. It’s the one direction God permits. The queen will give you a son. Your treasury is filling. Your laws are observed. All Europe sees and admires the stand you have taken against the pretended authority of Rome.’

‘They see it,’ Henry says. ‘They don’t admire it.’

True. They think England is low-hanging fruit. Exhausted game. A trophy for princes and their huntsmen. ‘Our walls are building,’ he says. ‘Forts. They will not dare.’

‘If the Pope excommunicates me, France and the Emperor will get a blessing for invading us. Or so the Pope will tell them.’

‘They will not go to war for a blessing, sir. Think how often they say, “We will crusade against the Turk.” But they never do it.’

‘Those who conquer England will get their sins remitted. Which amount to a great heap.’

‘They will be adding new sins all the time.’ He stands over Henry: time to remind him what the bloodletting has been for. ‘I am talking to the Emperor’s man every day. You know his master is ready to make an alliance. While Anne Boleyn was alive he felt obliged to keep up a quarrel with you. But now you have removed the cause of that quarrel. With the Emperor at our side, we need not fear King François.’ (Though, he thinks, I am talking to him, too: I am talking hard.) ‘And should the Emperor fail us, there are friends to be had among the princes of Germany.’

‘Heretics,’ Charles Brandon says. ‘What next, Crumb? A pact with the devil?’

He is impatient. ‘My lord, the German princes are not heretics—they are like our prince—they give a lead to the people of their territories, and refuse to hand them body and soul to Rome.’

Henry says, ‘My lord Suffolk, will you leave us?’

Charles looks mutinous. ‘As it pleases you. But remember what I say, and lift your chin, Harry. I got a fine son on my wife last year, and I am older than you.’

He strides out. The king looks after him: wistful, as if the duke were going on a journey. ‘Harry,’ he repeats. His own name is tender in his mouth. ‘Suffolk forgets himself. But I will always be a boy to him. I cannot persuade him that neither of us is young any more.’ His hand steals out, furtive, and caresses the books, their soft scarlet covers. ‘Do you know that Jane has no books of her own? None except a girdle book with a jewel, and that is of little worth. I am giving her these.’

‘That will give her much pleasure, sir.’

‘They were Katherine’s. They are devotional in nature. Jane prays a great deal.’ The king is restless; he looks as if prayers are his best hope. ‘Crumb, what if some accident befalls? I could die tomorrow. I cannot leave my kingdom to my daughters, the one truculent and half-Spanish, the other an infant—and neither of them born in wedlock. My next heir would be the Queen of Scotland’s daughter, but my sister being what she is,’ he sighs, ‘we cannot be wholly sure Meg was born in wedlock either. And I ask you—a woman, weak in body, weak in will—can she rule, with all the frailty of her sex? No matter if she is blest with firmness, with nimble wit—still the day comes when she must marry, and bring in a foreigner to share her throne—or else exalt a subject, and who can she trust? A woman ruler, it is only storing up trouble—you may stave it off for ten years, twenty, but trouble will come. There is only one way. We will have to bring young Richmond forward as my heir. So I put it to you—how will Parliament take it?’

Very ill, he thinks. ‘I believe they will urge your Majesty to trust in God and use your best endeavours to get a son of your marriage. In the interim, we can make an instrument that allows your Majesty to name a successor at your pleasure. And you need not reveal your choice. Any such person might be too much emboldened.’

Henry appears to be only half-listening; which means he is listening hard. ‘I had her library inventoried.’ The late Anne, he means. ‘There was seditious matter, and much that bordered on heresy. And in her brother’s books, too.’

Those fine French volumes: the names of George and Anne set side by side, with the Rochfords’ sable lion and the falcon crowned: his traces darkly inked, This book is mine, George Rochford. He waits. The king is quieting his conscience: he is assuring himself that the Boleyns and their friends were enemies of God. He doubts any book of theirs would be objectionable to him; or to Henry either, if his mind were more resolute. The king picks up one of the scarlet volumes. He glances into it, while he broaches his real concern: ‘The Commons will say to me, the crown is not yours to dispose of.’ A small hiccupping laugh: ‘They will put me in my place, Crumb.’

‘True.’ He smiles. ‘They may even call you Harry. But I have ways around them, sir.’

‘Who is Mr Speaker this session?’

‘Richard Riche.’

‘I see,’ Henry says. ‘Do you sleep at nights, Crumb?’

The question is not barbed: the king means no more than he says. ‘Only,’ Henry adds, ‘the Privy Seal is a great office of state, and as you are my deputy in church affairs, and the bishops meet soon in Convocation—and if you remain Master Secretary, as I am pleased you should—it is a burden of work no man has carried before. But then, you are like the cardinal, you can do the work of ten. I often wonder where you come from.’

‘Putney, Majesty.’

‘I know that. I mean, I don’t know what makes you as you are. God’s mystery, I suppose,’ Henry says, and leaves it at that.

---

In the guard chamber, Charles Brandon is waiting for him. ‘Look here, Crumb, I know you’re angry with me. It’s because I didn’t kneel when that whore’s head was smitten off.’

He holds up a hand, but you can no more stop Charles than you can stop a charging bull. ‘Bear in mind how she persecuted me!’ the duke roars. ‘She accused me of swiving my own daughter!’

Every head in the crowded hall turns. His mind ranges over Charles’s offspring, born in and out of wedlock.

‘As if it were Wolf Hall!’ Charles shouts. ‘Not,’ he adds in haste, ‘that I believe those slanders about Old Sir John. It was Anne Boleyn said he was tupping his own daughter-in-law. She only said it to draw attention from her own sin with her brother.’

‘Possibly, my lord, but do you wonder that she had a grievance against you? You told the king she had to do with Tom Wyatt.’

‘Aye, I said so—and I admit it! Can you stand by, and watch your friend made a cuckold? Not that Harry liked the news—he kicked me out like a dog. Well, he’s the king, he kills the messenger.’ He drops his voice. ‘But I would always, because I am his friend, I would always tell him what he should know, even if he ruins me for it. I propped him in his saddle, Crumb, when he was a green boy in the lists. I held him steady when he couched his first lance, to run against a knight and not a foe of painted wood—I saw his wrist tremble in its glove, and I said naught but, “Courage, mon brave!”—which I learned of the French, you know. No bolder man at the tournament than Harry, after his first course or two. I could help him, for I was a seasoned fighter—I was older, you see, and still am.’ The duke’s face clears. ‘Your little lad Gregory, he shapes in the tilt yard. Very fine turnout, cuts a good figure, nothing wanting by way of harness, weaponry, very sound, very gallant. Your nephew Richard, there’s a stout fellow—perhaps a touch rustic—came late to it as we all know, but he has some weight behind him—no, I tell you, he and Gregory, they are of that breed, always Forward, Forward!—they show no fear. It must be in the blood.’ The duke looks down, from his towering height. ‘You must have blood, must you not? I reckon a man could do worse than be born of a blacksmith. Better than some quill-nibbling clerk who is half-goose. Iron in the blood, not ink.’

Charles’s father died at Bosworth, close to the person of Henry Tudor. Some say he was bearing the Tudor banner, though truth is hard to pluck from a battlefield. If he fell beneath that banner, a living hand picked it up; the Tudors ascended, and the Brandons with them.

He says, ‘My father was a brewer as well as a blacksmith. He brewed very bad ale.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Charles says sincerely. ‘Now look—what I wish to impart is this. Harry knows that he did wrong. First he married his brother’s wife, then he had the misfortune to marry a witch. He says, how long must I be punished? He knows very well what witches do—they take your manhood away. They shrivel your member and then you die. Now I’ve told him—Majesty, don’t brood on it. Fetch the archbishop in, discharge your conscience, and start again. I don’t want this in his mind—following him, like a curse. You tell him to press on and never look back. He will take it from you, you see. Whereas me—he thinks I’m a fool.’ The duke thrusts out his vast hand. ‘So—friends?’

Allies, he thinks. What will the Duke of Norfolk say?

---

At Austin Friars there are always crowds about his gate, shouting his name and thrusting papers at him. ‘Make way, make way!’ Christophe gathers up an armful of petitions: ‘Get down, rats! Do not harass Master Secretary!’

‘Oy, Cromwell!’ a man shouts. ‘Why do you keep this French clown, are there no Englishmen to serve you?’

That sets up a cry: half of London wants to get inside these gates and get a position with him, and now they shout out their names, or those of their nephews and sons. ‘Patience, friends.’ His voice carries over the crowd. ‘The king may make me a great man, and then you can all come in and warm yourselves by my fire.’

They laugh. He is already a great man, and London knows it. His property is walled and guarded, his gatehouse manned day and night. The keepers salute him; he passes into the courtyard, and through a door beside which, left and right, are two gaps through which one could slide a blade, or slot the muzzle of a gun; they are aligned so any malefactor can be pierced or blasted from both sides at once. His chief cook, Thurston, had said to him, ‘Sir, I am no military man, but it seems excessive to me: having killed your foe at the gate, would you slaughter him again at the door?’

‘I neglect no precaution,’ he had said. ‘The times being what they are, a man may enter the gate as your friend and change sides while he crosses the courtyard.’

Austin Friars was a small place once: twelve rooms, when he first took the lease for himself and his clerks, for Lizzie and the girls, for Lizzie’s mother Mercy Prior. Mercy has now entered into her old age. She is the lady of the house, but she mostly keeps to her own part, a book open on her knees. She reminds him of an image of St Barbara he saw once in Antwerp, a saint reading against the noise of a construction site, backed by scaffolding and raw brick. Everybody complains about builders, the time they take, the mounting expense, the noise and the dust, but he likes their banging and thudding, their songs and their chat, their shortcuts and secret lore. As a boy he was always climbing about on somebody’s roof, often without their knowledge. Show him a ladder and he was up it, seeking a longer view. But when he got up there, what could he see? Only Putney.

In the great hall, his nephew Richard is waiting for him. Standing under the tapestry the king gave him, he opens a letter from the king’s daughter, written in her own hand.

Richard says, ‘I suppose Lady Mary thinks she’s coming home.’

He is heading for his own rooms, shaking off the clerks who sway after him, weighed down by files of paper, by bulging books of statute and precedent, by parchments and scrolls. ‘Later, boys…’

---

In his chamber the air is sharply scented: juniper, cinnamon. He takes off his orange coat. In the dimness of the room, shuttered against the afternoon, it blazes as if he handled fire. There were certain miserable divines, in darker days than these, who said that if God had meant us to wear coloured clothes he would have made coloured sheep. Instead, His providence has given us dyers, and the materials for their craft. Here in the city, amid dun and slate, donkey’s back and mouse, gold quickens the heart; on those days of grey swilling rain that afflict London in every season, we are reminded of Heaven by a flash of celestial blue. Just as the soldier looks up to the flutter of bright banners, so the workman on his daily trudge rejoices to see his betters shimmer above him in imperial purple, in silver and flame and halcyon against the wash of the English sky.

Richard has followed him. He closes the door behind them. The sounds of the house recede. He puts a hand to his chest—that habitual motion—and from a pocket inside his jacket, he takes out a knife.

‘Still?’ Richard says. ‘Even now?’

‘Especially now.’ Without the weight next to his heart, he would hardly know himself.

‘Carry it on the street, yes,’ Richard says. ‘But at court, sir? I cannot imagine the circumstance in which you could use it.’

Nor can I, he thinks. It is because I cannot imagine the circumstance, that I need it. He tests the blade against his thumb. He made his first knife for himself, when he was a boy. That was a good blade, and he misses it every day.

‘Go and get Chapuys,’ he says to Richard. ‘My compliments to him, and may I give him supper? If he says no, tell him I feel a lust for diplomacy—say I must have a treaty before sunset, and if he won’t come I’ll fetch in the French ambassador instead.’

‘Right you are.’ Richard goes out. And he, lighter by the orange coat, lighter by the knife, runs downstairs into the fresh air of an inner courtyard, and crosses to the kitchens to see Thurston.

---

He can hear Thurston before he sees him: some underling wishes he had never been born. ‘Told you once,’ Thurston roars, ‘told you twice, and next time, boy, that you use that mortar for garlic, I will personally knock out your brain, place it in the said mortar, pestle it to a fine paste and give it to Dick Purser for feeding the dogs.’

He passes the cold room where two peacocks hang on a rack, their throats cut, weights on their heels. He rounds the corner, meets the face of the chastened boy: ‘Mathew? Mathew, from Wolf Hall?’

Thurston snorts. ‘Comes from Wolf Hall! He comes from the pit!’

He is astonished to see the boy. ‘I brought you here to clerk for me, not for kitchen work.’

‘Yes, sir, I told them so.’ A pale, modest young man, Mathew had brought his letters courteously each morning, last year when the king had visited the Seymours. He had thought him too personable and deft to be left in the country; the boy’s face lit up when he’d asked, would you like to come away and see the world?

‘This boy is out of his right place,’ he says to Thurston. ‘There has been a mistake.’

‘Good. Take him. Take him away before I do him some mischief.’

‘Off with this.’ He indicates the boy’s spattered smock.

‘In truth, sir?’

‘Your day has come.’ He helps the boy free himself and emerge thinner, in shirt and hose. ‘How’s your friend Rob? Do you hear from him?’

‘Yes, sir. And he does as you bade him, he keeps an eye out, who visits Wolf Hall, and he faithfully writes down their names. Only I could not come at you, to give his news.’

‘I am sorry for your rough treatment. Cross the court and ask for Thomas Avery—say I have sent you to learn the household accounts. Perhaps when you have mastered that, you might go into some other family for a while.’

The boy is hurt. ‘I like it here.’

‘Despite this churl?’ He indicates Thurston. ‘If I sent you away, you would still be in my service.’

‘Would I go under another name?’ The boy hitches an imaginary coat on his shoulders. ‘I understand you, sir.’

Thurston says, ‘I’m glad somebody does.’

Around them, two dozen boys are dragging panniers across a stone floor, sharpening their paring knives, counting eggs, pricking off an inventory and plucking fowl. The house goes on without him, its arrangements complete. In here the blood puddings are stirred, the fish gutted; across the court, the bright-eyed clerks perch on their stools, hungry to incise. Here the chafing dish and the latten pan, there the penknife and the sealing wax, the ribbon and silk tags, the black words that creep across the parchment, the quills. He remembers the day in Florence, when the call came for him in his turn. ‘Englishman, they want you in the counting house.’ And how, leisurely, he had untied his apron, and hung it on a peg, and left behind him the copper pans and basins, and the row of lipped jars for oil and wine that stood together in an alcove, each as high as a child of seven. He had run up the stairs two at a time, and as he passed the sala he heard the drops of water falling from the wall fountain into its marble basin, a tiny erratic drum-beat, pit-pat … pit … pat-pit. The boy scrubbing the steps got out of his way. He sang: Scaramella’s off to war …

He says to Thurston, ‘Chapuys to supper. It will be just the two of us.’

‘Of course it will,’ Thurston says. He sieves his flour, allowing little puffs and billows to rise between them. ‘Somebody said to me, that Spanish fellow, that one who is always at your house—he and your master plotted it all between them to kill the queen, for she was in the way of their friendship.’

‘Chapuys is not a Spaniard. You know that.’

Thurston gives him a look that says, it is demeaning and futile to differentiate between foreigners. ‘I know that the Emperor is the King of Spain and lord of half the world. No wonder you want to be in bed with him.’

‘I have to be,’ he says. ‘I clasp him to my bosom.’

‘When’s the king coming again to dine?’ Thurston asks. ‘Mind, I expect he’s lost his appetite. Wouldn’t you, if your bollocks were insulted in open court?’

‘Would I? I don’t know. It’s never happened to me.’

‘The whole of London listening,’ Thurston says with relish. ‘Of course, we don’t know for sure what George said, it being in French. We speculate it was along the lines of, the king can get it up, he can get it in, but he doesn’t last long enough to please a lady.’

‘See,’ he says, ‘now you wish you’d learned French.’

‘But that was the gist of it,’ Thurston says comfortably. ‘If you can’t please a lady, she don’t get a child, or if she does, it’s some puny object that never lives to be christened. You remember the Spanish queen. When she was young she dropped them by the dozen. But they none of them lived, except for that little lass Mary, and she’s the size of a mouse.’

At his feet, eels are swimming in a pail, twisting and gliding; interlacing in their futile efforts, as they wait to be killed and sauced. He asks Thurston, ‘What are they saying on the street? About Anne?’

Thurston scowls. ‘She never had friends. Not even among the women. They say, if she went to it with her brother, that would explain why no child she got would stick in there. A brother’s child, or a child got on a Friday, or one got when you shove it in from the back—it’s against nature. They shed themselves, poor sinful creatures. For what’s the point of them being born only to die?’

Thurston believes it. Incest is a sin, we all acknowledge; but then so is congress in any position other than the one approved by priests. So is congress on a Friday, the day of Christ’s crucifixion; or on Sundays, Saturdays and Wednesdays. If you listen to churchmen, it’s a sin to penetrate a woman during Lent and Advent—or on saints’ days, though the calendar is bright with festivals. More than half the year is accursed, one way and another. It’s a wonder anyone is ever born.

‘Some women like to go on top,’ Thurston says. ‘That’s not godly, is it? You can imagine the sort of runt that would result from that carry-on. It doesn’t last the week.’

He speaks as if a child were a stale cake, a fading flower: doesn’t last the week. He and Lizzie had lost a child once. Thurston made a chicken broth to strengthen her and prayed for her while he diced the vegetables. That had been at Fenchurch Street. He was just a jobbing lawyer in those days, and Gregory was still in skirts, and his daughter Anne not weaned, and his little daughter Grace not even thought of; and Thurston himself was just a family cook and not the master chef he is now, with a brigade at his command. He remembers how, when the broth was put before her, Lizzie had cried into it, and they took it out untouched.

‘Are you just going to stand talking,’ Thurston says, ‘or are you killing those eels for me?’

He looks down into the pail. When he was a cook, he kept his eels in their watery world till the pans were hot. Still, it’s not worthwhile to argue. He turns back his sleeves. ‘Skin them while you’re about it,’ Thurston says.

---

‘In my days in Italy, as a student,’ Ambassador Chapuys says, ‘I never took more than bread and olives for supper.’

‘Nothing more healthful,’ he says. ‘Sadly, our English climate does not permit it.’

‘Perhaps a handful of tender broad beans, still in their pod. A small glass of vin santo.’

It is Gregory who, to honour their guest, brings in the linen towels and the basin. The ambassador’s fingers ripple through sprigs of dried lavender. ‘You will be hunting this summer, Master Gregory?’

‘I hope so,’ Gregory says. He dips his head; the ambassador blesses himself and offers up a grace. One forgets Chapuys is in holy orders. How does he manage about women? Either he is celibate or, like his host, discreet.

The eels come in, presented in two fashions: salted in an almond sauce, and baked with the juice of an orange. There is a spinach tart, green as the summer evening, flavoured with nutmeg and a splash of rosewater. The silver gleams; the napkins are folded into the shapes of Tudor roses; the coverpanes at each place are worked with silver garlands. ‘Bon appétit,’ he says to the ambassador. ‘I’ve had a letter.’

‘Ah yes, from the Princess Mary. And she says?’

‘You know what she says. Now listen to what I say.’ He hunches forward. ‘The princess, as you call her—the Lady Mary—believes her father will welcome her back to court. She thinks that with the change of wife her troubles are over. You must disillusion her, or I will.’

Chapuys takes a portion of eel between finger and thumb. ‘She blamed Anne Boleyn for all her afflictions these last years. She is convinced it was the concubine who had her separated from her mother and shut up in the country. She reveres her father and believes him at all times wise. As a daughter should, of course.’

‘So she must take the oath. She has evaded it, but now I see no help. All subjects must take it, when the king requires.’

‘Let me be exact about what you ask of her. She must recognise that her mother’s marriage was of no effect, and that she, though the king’s eldest child, is not his heir. She must swear to uphold, as the king’s successor, the little daughter of Boleyn, whom he has just killed.’

‘The oath will be revised. Eliza will be excluded.’

‘Good. Because she is Henry Norris’s bastard, as I understand it. Or is she the lute player’s? This is excellent,’ he says, addressing the eel. ‘So what does Henry intend now? My master will not accept young Richmond in Mary’s place. Nor, I think, will the King of France.’

‘Parliament will settle up the succession.’

‘Not Henry’s whim, then?’ The ambassador chuckles. ‘Have you told Henry?’

‘Mary claims she has no desire to be queen. She says she will support whatever successor her father chooses. But she cannot accept her father as head of the church.’

‘That is also a difficulty,’ the ambassador admits.

Old Bishop Fisher refused the oath, and last year Henry executed him. Thomas More refused it, and he too is shorter by a head. He says, ‘Mary is living in a fool’s paradise. Does she think we are headed back to Rome, because Anne Boleyn is dead?’

Chapuys sighs. ‘It grieves me, Thomas, that in the old days we were in Rome at the same time and did not know each another. How congenial, if we had been able to take supper together! Did you ever try those little ravioli, stuffed with cheese and herbs? They were light as air, if the cook knew his job.’ The ambassador adjusts his napkin over his shoulder. ‘The Emperor wishes the king success, of course, in his new marriage. He is sorry that your master did not pause to consider a bride of the Emperor’s choosing. With not much trouble, he could have had the Duchess of Milan, a tender little widow of sixteen. But it is done now, and we must make the best of it—the Emperor believes that if Madame Jane has a son, it will conduce to peace and stability. And from your point of view, mon cher, make Henry more…’ his eyes move sideways, ‘tractable. So despite what the lady’s brother said of his impotence, we must wish the king—how does Boccaccio put it?—“a resurrection of the flesh” .’

A boy brings the veal; he himself, Cromwell, takes up the carving knife.

‘I believe…’ Chapuys pauses, to let the servant go, ‘… I believe there is a general bewilderment in Germany. Your heretic friends know that Madame Jane was lady-in-waiting to Queen Katherine. They ask, has Cremuel lost his senses? Why would he destroy the concubine, who was a heretic like himself, and replace her with a good daughter of Rome?’ He dabs his mouth. ‘Unless Cremuel has a plot. But then, I say to the Emperor, Cremuel always has a plot. And as the evidence of the last fortnight shows us, his plots succeed.’

‘I was not responsible for Anne’s death,’ he says. ‘She herself brought it about, she and her gentlemen.’

‘But at a time of your choosing.’

He puts down the knife. The handle gleams, mother of pearl. ‘I could hardly dictate the timing of their quarrels.’

‘You told me that you did not know how to put an end to her, but you must do it, or she would kill you. You said you would go to your house and imagine it, how it might be. It seems your imagination is the most powerful in England. I dare say Henry was appalled at what emerged, once the investigation began.’ Chapuys wipes his fingers. ‘What a picture you have put in the mind of all Christian men! The Queen of England on her back with her skirts hauled up, “Come one, come all!”’

‘You must toss and turn at night, dwelling on it.’

‘Henry Norris, the king’s great friend. Francis Weston, some vain youth who was wandering past when she chanced to be naked. That north-country ruffian Will Brereton. The boy Smeaton … she was not too proud to go to it with the poor child hired to play the lute. But why would she be? She was pleased to rut with her own brother.’ Chapuys puts down his napkin. ‘I understand how it was—Henry is tired of her, he wants the little Jane, he says, “Cremuel, find me a reason to be rid of her.” But he cannot have been prepared for what you would uncover. Perhaps he will not forgive you, mon cher, for exposing him to ridicule.’

‘On the contrary. He is promoting me.’

‘Yet the business must rankle. He may think about it later. But come now—I should congratulate you. You are to become a milord. Baron Cremuel of—’

‘Wimbledon.’

‘No,’ Chapuys says. ‘Choose some other place. One I can pronounce.’

‘And I am to be Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal.’

‘Ah. Privy Seal is greater?’

‘Privy Seal is all I could desire.’

The ambassador takes a sliver of veal. ‘You know, this is very good.’

‘I warn you,’ he says. ‘If Mary enrages her father, it will come home to your door.’

‘If your cook ever wants a new post, send him to my door also.’ Chapuys picks up the carving fork, and admires its tines. ‘We know that the princess will not take an oath which declares her father head of the church. She could not swear to what she regards as an impossibility. Perhaps, rather than persecute her, Henry would let her enter a nunnery? She could not then be suspected of wanting the throne. It would be an honourable retreat from the world. She could go into one of the great houses, where in time she might become abbess.’

‘Yes. Shaftesbury perhaps? Wilton?’ He puts his glass down. ‘Oh, spare me, ambassador! She will no more enter a convent than you will. If she cares so little for the world and all in it, why does she not take the oath and have done? No one will trouble her then.’

‘Mary may agree to give up her claims on the future, but not on the past. She will not believe that her mother and father were not married. She does not agree to have her mother called a whore.’

‘She was not called a whore. She was called Princess Dowager. And you know that after they separated Henry maintained her honourably and at some expense.’

‘Look, Katherine is dead.’ The ambassador speaks with passion. ‘Let her rest, yes?’

She doesn’t, though. Katherine pulls and drags at her daughter. She walks by night, at her side her lean and ancient counsellor Bishop Fisher, and in her hands a parchment pleading her cause. When the news of Katherine’s death came, there was dancing at court. But on the day of her funeral, Anne Boleyn miscarried a child. The corpse had risen from her bier, and bounced her supplanter till her teeth rattled: shaken her, till the king’s son came loose.

‘Ambassador,’ he puts his fingertips together, ‘let me assure you, Henry loves his daughter. But he expects obedience, as a father and a king.’

‘Mary gives first place to her Heavenly Father.’

‘But what if she were to die, with the sin of disobedience staining her soul?’

‘You are a ruffian, Cremuel,’ Chapuys says. ‘You cannot help yourself. Threaten, when you ought to conciliate. Henry will not kill his daughter.’

‘Who knows what Henry will do? Not I.’

‘This is what I tell the Emperor. Henry’s subjects live in fear. I exhort my master: it is your Christian duty to free England. Even the usurper Richard, the Scorpion, was not abhorred as is this present king.’

‘I discourage that phrase, “the present king”. It comes near treason. Anyone who uses it must have another king in view.’

‘Treason is only a crime in those who owe loyalty. I owe Henry nothing, except perhaps a formal thanks for his hospitality—which is no better than perfunctory, and far inferior’—the ambassador bows—‘to your own. All Europe knows how frail is his grip on the future. Only last January—’

Put the fork down, he thinks; stop stabbing me. The memory is sharp: a day of dazing cold and confusion, and he dragged from his desk to witness a catastrophe. The king’s horse had come down in the tilt yard. Henry took a blow to the head and was carried to a tent. He looked dead; we thought he was dead, as he lay like a bloodless effigy, no breath, no pulse. He remembers laying his hand on Henry’s chest, and feeling for the frailest thread of life—but what the bystanders told him, after, was that he called on God and then struck the king with enough force to break his ribs. What had he to lose? Shuddering, wheezing, retching, the king sat up—back in the land of the living. ‘Cromwell?’ he said. ‘I thought I should see angels.’

‘Very well,’ Chapuys says. ‘We will not mention his accident if it puts you off your supper. But it must be acknowledged that there are men in England, the best blood of your nation, who remain loyal sons of Rome.’

‘Do they?’ he says. ‘How can that be? Because they have all taken their oath to Henry. The Courtenays have taken it. The Poles. They have recognised him not only as their king to whom they owe their duty, but as head of the church.’

‘Of course,’ Chapuys says. ‘What else could they do? What choice did you give them?’

‘You think oaths mean nothing to them, perhaps. You expect them to break their word.’

‘Not at all,’ the ambassador says soothingly. ‘I feel sure they would not move against their anointed king. My anxiety is that, inflamed by the justice of their ancient cause, some renegade supporter of theirs might give the king his death blow. A dagger thrust, it is easily done. It may be, even, it needs no human hand to strike. There is plague that kills in a day. There is the sweating sickness that kills in an hour. You know it is true, and if I were to shout it out to the populace at Paul’s Cross, you could not hang me for it.’

‘No.’ He smiles. ‘But ambassadors have been murdered in the street before now. I only mention it.’

The ambassador bows his head. He picks at his salad. A leaf of sweet lettuce, a spear of bitter endive. The boy Mathew comes in with fruit.

‘I am afraid once again we have failed with our apricots,’ he says. ‘It seems years since I ate them. Perhaps Bishop Gardiner will bring me some, if he comes over.’

Chapuys laughs. ‘I think they would be dipped in acid. You know he is assuring the French courtiers that Henry has plans to take your country back to Rome?’

He did not know, but he suspected. ‘In default of the apricots I have preserved peaches.’

Chapuys approves. ‘You do them in the Venetian fashion.’ He takes a spoonful and looks up, slyly. ‘What will happen to Guiett?’

‘What? Oh, Wyatt. He is in the Tower.’

‘I know well where he is. He is where you can watch him, while he writes his baffling verses and riddles. Why do you protect him? He should be dead.’

‘His father was a friend of my old master, the cardinal.’

‘And he asked you to cover for his son’s delinquencies?’ Chapuys laughs.

‘I gave my word,’ he says stiffly.

‘I perceive such a promise is sacred to you. Why? When nothing else is sacred? I do not understand you, Cremuel. You are not afraid, when you should be afraid. You are like someone who has loaded the dice.’

‘Loaded the dice?’ he says. ‘Is that what people do?’

‘You are playing with the greatest men in the land.’

‘What, Carve-Away and those folk?’

‘They know you need them. You cannot stand alone. Because if the new marriage does not last, what have you? You have Henry’s favour. But if he withdraws it? You know the cardinal’s fate. All his dignities as churchman could not save him. If he had not died on the road to London, Henry would have struck off his head, cardinal’s hat and all. And you have no one to protect you. You have certain friends, no doubt. The Seymours are grateful to you. The councillor Fitzwilliam has been a go-between, helping rid the concubine. But you have no affinity of your own, no great family at your back. For when all is said, you are a blacksmith’s son. Your whole life depends on the next beat of Henry’s heart, and your future on his smile or frown.’

In January when I thought the king was dead, he thinks, when they burst in shouting, I leapt up and said, ‘I’m coming, I’m right behind you’—but before I quit the room I sanded the paper and dried the ink, and I picked up from the desk the Turkish dagger with the sunflower handle, which lay there as an ornament: so I had one knife in the coat, and one knife extra; then I went and found Henry, and I raised him from the dead.

‘I remember those little ravioli,’ he says. ‘At the Frescobaldi house, once Lent was over, we used to stuff them with minced pork. At the family table they liked them sprinkled with sugar.’

‘How typical of bankers,’ Chapuys says, sniffing. ‘More money than taste.’

---

Wriothesley sails into Austin Friars as they come from evening prayers. Richard says, ‘Call-Me is here, but you’ve had enough today—shall I sneck him off?’

‘No. I want him to go and see Mary.’

‘You trust him with that?’

‘I will send Rafe too, if the king will spare him. But Mary is tender of her status and she may think Rafe is too much associated with…’

‘With us,’ Richard says.

Mr Wriothesley, on the other hand, descends from a family of heralds. Heralds have a status all of their own, and they are keen on according to others what is due to them and no more. Call-Me comes in with parchments in hand: ‘When shall we begin addressing you as Lord Cromwell, sir?’

‘Soon as you like.’

‘I wonder … now that you are elevated, would you like a fresh look at your provenance?’ He unrolls coloured devices. ‘Here we see the arms of Ralph Cromwell, of Tattershall Castle, who was Lord Treasurer to the great Harry who conquered France.’

We have been here before. ‘I am nothing to Lord Ralph’s folk, nor they to me. You know my father and where I come from. If you don’t, you can ask Stephen Gardiner. He sent a man down to Putney to dig out my secrets.’

Call-Me longs to ask, and did he? But he holds to his point. ‘You should revisit the matter. The king would feel more at ease with you.’

Richard says, ‘He could hardly be more at ease than he is.’

‘But you would be the more esteemed if you had an ancient name. Not just by your peers, but by all the common people, and in foreign courts too. They slight you, abroad—they are saying that Henry has dismissed you and appointed two bishops to govern.’

‘I would lay a wager one of them is Bishop Stephen.’ He admires these speculative worlds, that grow up in the crevices between truths. ‘What else are they saying?’

‘That the lovers of the concubine have been quartered, she forced to watch before she was burned. They take us for barbarians like themselves. They say her whole family is locked up. I can see the lady’s father will have trouble convincing people he is not dead too. I suppose you spared him because…’ Call-Me hesitates. ‘I suppose he fell in with your wishes, and you need to show people that you can reward them for doing that.’

If you call it a reward, the life Thomas Boleyn will lead now. He says, ‘I believe in economy of means. The headsman has to be paid, you know, Wriothesley. Do you think he practises his trade gratis?’

Call-Me checks, and blinks, and takes a breath: earnest, he sticks to his task. ‘They are saying that the Lady Mary is back at court already, and wearing the jewels of the late queen. They say that the king has in mind to marry her to the French king’s son, the Duke of Angoulême, and that the prince will come and live in England, to be trained up as king.’

‘I hear she is disinclined to matrimony.’

‘You have broached it then?’

‘One must keep French hopes alive.’

Call-Me is not sure whether he is being teased. He—Lord Cromwell—examines the other Lord Cromwell’s coat of arms. ‘I prefer the Cornish choughs I got from the cardinal. Anything today from Calais?’

In Calais, the spites and feuds of the leading families are enclosed by the town walls: those crumbling walls, England’s defence, are a sink of expenditure, and riddled by rumour, undermined by intrigue. Calais is a sort of purgatory; pained, one waits and waits, not for forgiveness but for a favourable wind. What is said in the citadel is carried across the sea, hissing, rustling, amplified by the waves; it breaks against the king’s attention in Whitehall. Calais is our last foothold on the mainland. Its pale is our last territory. It should be ruled by the strongest and steadiest man the king has. Instead it is ruled by Lord Lisle. Lisle is the king’s uncle—one of old King Edward’s bastards—and Henry is fond of him, having found him a genial playmate when he was a child. Already he is pestering for some advantage from recent events. Mindful of the need to be constantly in the king’s thoughts, he had Harry Norris in his pocket, pushing his name forward for sinecures and promotions. That’s all gone now, Norris being worm-food. Call-Me says, ‘It’s Lisle’s wife who causes the trouble. She is a shrew and I hear she is a papist.’

‘You know she has daughters from her first marriage?’ Wriothesley says. ‘She was always trying to get one of them placed with Anne. She will want to try again with our new queen.’

‘I think Jane is supplied,’ he says. ‘Call-Me, I want you and Rafe to go up to Hunsdon and try and talk Mary into sense. But be gentle with her. She’s not well.’

Mary’s letter is in his pocket. Even in his own house he dare not leave it down. Mary says she has a rheum in her head. She cannot sleep. Her teeth ache. It would comfort her to see her father. False friends keep them apart. When the false friends are cast aside or smitten by the sword of justice, when the false counsellors are elbowed into the Thames, her father the king will turn to her, she says—the scales falling from his eyes—and see her for what she is, his true heir and daughter.

But first the king must send for her. Bring her to the light of his presence. Till then she is the maiden embowered. She sits in the closed garden, ready to be discovered. She lies under an enchantment, in a thicket of thorns, and waits for someone who has the commitment to hack through.

‘Go yourself, sir,’ Wriothesley says.

He shakes his head.

‘Perhaps you do not want to be the one to bring her bad news.’

‘She loves her father,’ he says. ‘She cannot believe—well—but she must be brought to believe. He will not tolerate defiance. Not from a child to whom he gave life.’

The sun is declining: a last ray of warmth flits across the books on his table: the Decretals of Pope Gregory, a copy heavily annotated, and marked with the monogram ‘TC’—Thomas Cardinalis. In the shifting twilight, shadowed like water, he can see a figure of the king’s daughter: huddled into herself, her face pale and set. It entrances him, the stealthy movement of the light where she forms herself, a living ghost. She does not look at him; he looks at her. ‘You must tell her, Wriothesley, “Obedience, madam, is the virtue that will save you. Obedience is not servility, either of your person or your conscience. Rather, it is loyalty.”’

‘Well,’ Call-Me says, ‘yes … if you think I should address her as you might address the House of Commons. I might suggest, I suppose, that with obedience comes some diminution of responsibility.’

‘That might ease her mind. But Call-Me, don’t speak to her as if she were a little girl. And don’t try to frighten her. She is brave like her mother and will strike out, she is stubborn like her mother and will dig in. If she angers you, step back and let Rafe speak. Appeal to her womanly nature. To her daughter’s love. Tell her how much it hurts her father,’ he puts a hand to his heart, ‘tell her it hurts him, here, that she should put the dead before the living.’

The outlines of Master Wriothesley have blurred; he sinks into indistinction, as if the night were lapping at him. He would like the princess to linger, till she melts in the heat of his will: till she dissolves into acquiescence—which she will, if only he can find the right phrases to unresolve her.

‘Sir,’ Wriothesley says, ‘I think you know something no one else does.’

‘Me? I don’t know anything. Nobody tells me a thing.’

‘Is it something to do with Wyatt?’

Rafe has told him that verses are written against Wyatt, coded accusations and bitter jokes, circulated by the courtiers within breath of the king’s own person. A paper is inserted into a prayer book, or tucked into a glove, or played instead of the king of spades. ‘They are all afraid,’ Call-Me says. ‘They are looking over their shoulders. They don’t know if more charges will be laid. I was deep in talk with Francis Bryan, and when Wyatt’s name came up, he lost the thread of what he was saying, and he looked at me as if he had never seen me before.’

‘Francis?’ He laughs. ‘He was probably drunk.’

‘The women are afraid too, it seems to me. When I carried a message to Jane the queen, there were glances—hushing, and shuffling, and signs between them—’

‘My poor boy! You come in and women make signs at each other? Has this happened before? Tell me what the signs were and I will try to interpret them.’

Call-Me flushes. ‘Sir, it is not a joke. The queen—I mean, the other one—she is paid out for her evil dealings, but there is more. There is something else. You go into a room, you hear a door bang, you feel someone has run from your approach. But at the same time, you feel that someone is watching you.’

Someone is, he thinks.

‘Everyone believes,’ Call-Me says, ‘that it was Wyatt’s testimony that condemned Anne—but they do not know why he would give it, because they think him brave and reckless and…’

‘Witless?’

‘Not that, but he is very gallant—and they think, what did Anne do to him, to turn the honey to gall? They imagined he would be buried in her tomb with her, rather than—’

No wonder you break off. Sometimes our fantasies make a leap, sudden and precise, like dancers in a line. We see the arrow chest, barely wide enough for one. ‘They think Wyatt should have died for love? When they would not cross the street for it?’

He thinks of Wyatt in his prison, as dusk slips through the runnels and estuaries of the Thames, where the last light slides like silk, floating, sinking; it is the light that moves, when the stream is still. Wyatt seems distant to him, as if held in a mirror; or as if he had lived a long time ago. He says, ‘Safe journey tomorrow. Remember everything Mary says. As soon as you leave her, write it down.’

He goes to his room, Christophe thumping along behind him. ‘The ridiculous Mathew,’ Christophe says. ‘I hear he is promoted. You should send him back to Wolf Hall. He is more fit for a pig-keeper than for a servant to a lord.’

‘I could go up and see Mary myself,’ he says. ‘There and back before anyone knew I was gone.’

He closes the door of his chamber, shutting the day out. Christophe says, ‘Like when we went up to Kimbolton, in secret to see the old queen. When we stopped at the inn, and the bold wife of the innkeeper—’

‘Yes. Enough.’

‘—jumped into your bed. And next morning you said to me, “Christophe, pay the reckoning,” and gave me your purse. And then when we got to Kimbolton we went to the church. You remember I whistled, and the priest appeared?’

He remembers the stone devil, his serpentine coils; the archangel Michael, his wings with teal-coloured feathers, his sword raised to hack.

‘We all thought you would make confession. We hoped to hear it. But you did not. Besides, even if we are sorry for a thing, we cannot be forgiven if we fully mean to do it again.’

He sees himself in the glass, stripped to his shirt, a startling flash of white. Out of his brocade and velvet, his person is broad, a graceless slab of muscle and bone. His greying hair is cropped, so nothing softens the features with which God has punished him—small mouth, small eyes, large nose. He wears linen shirts so fine you can read the laws of England through them. He has a green velvet coat that was made for him last year and sent down to Wolf Hall; he has a riding coat of deep purple; he has his robe from the last coronation, a darkish crimson in which, said one of Anne’s ladies, he looked like a travelling bruise. If clothes make the man, he is made; but no one ever said, even when he was young, ‘Tommaso looks handsome today.’ They only said, ‘You’ve got to be up early to get ahead of that squat English bastard.’ You can’t even say he looks well on a horse. He just looks useful on a horse. He gets in the saddle and he goes somewhere. He sets an ambling pace, but he is there before anyone else.

The night is warm, but Christophe has lit a small, crackling fire, and set the perfume pan to burn. Sweet herbs, frankincense: these drive off contagion in any season. A bank of beeswax candles, ready for the touch of a taper; ink at his hand, his day-book ready on the table, turned to a blank leaf in case he wakes and remembers something for tomorrow’s list. I think I shall rest tonight, he says to Christophe, and Christophe says, the ambassador has long departed, even Call-Me is turned out, Master Richard is at home with his wife, the king is saying his prayers, or perchance he labours with the queen to please her; birds have tucked their heads beneath their wings, the prisoners of London are snoring in the Tower and the Marshalsea, the Clink and the Fleet. In the precincts of Austin Friars, Dick Purser has loosed the watchdogs. God is in his Heaven. The bolts are on the gates.

‘And I,’ he says, ‘am at home in my own chamber for once.’ Seven years back, when Florence was besieged by the Emperor and begging for French aid, the burgesses went to the merchant Borgherini’s house: ‘We want to buy your bedroom.’ There were fine painted panels, rich hangings and other furnishings they thought might make a bribe for King François. But Margherita, the merchant’s wife, stood her ground and threw their offer back in their faces. Not everything in life is for sale, she said. This room is my family’s heart. Away with you! If you want to take away my bedroom, you will have to carry your loot over my corpse.

He would not die for his furniture. But he understands Margherita—always supposing the story to be true. Our possessions outlast us, surviving shocks that we cannot; we have to live up to them, as they will be our witnesses when we are gone. In this room are the goods of people who can no longer use them. There are books his master Wolsey gave him. On the bed, the quilt of yellow turkey satin under which he slept with Elizabeth, his wife. In a chest, her carved image of the Virgin is cradled in a quilted cap. Her jet rosary beads are curled inside her old velvet purse. There is a cushion cover on which she was working a design, a deer running through foliage. Whether death interrupted her or just dislike of the work, she had left her needle in the cloth. Later some other hand—her mother’s, or one of her daughters’—drew out the needle; but around the twin holes it left, the cloth had stiffened into brittle peaks, so if you pass your finger over the path of her stitches—the path they would have taken—you can feel the bumps, like snags in the weave. He has had the small Flanders chest moved in here from next door, and her furred russet gown is laid up in spices, along with her sleeves, her gold coif, her kirtles and bonnets, her amethyst ring, and a ring set with a diamond rose. She could stroll in and get dressed. But you cannot make a wife out of bonnets and sleeves; hold all her rings together, and you are not holding her hand.

Christophe says, ‘You are not sad, sir?’

‘No. I am not sad. I am not allowed to be. I am too useful to be sad.’

My first thought was right, he says: I should not go to Mary, or not yet. Let it run … see what Rafe and Call-Me bring back. He thinks, the cardinal would have known how best to manage this. Wolsey always said, work out what people want, and you might be able to offer it; it is not always what you think, and may be cheap to supply. It didn’t work with Thomas More. He was a drowning man who struck away the hands stretched to save him. Offer after offer was made, and More took none. The age of persuasion has ended, as far as Henry is concerned; it ended the day More dripped to the scaffold, to drown in blood and rainwater. Now we live in an age of coercion, where the king’s will is an instrument reshaped each morning, as if by a master-forger: sharp-pointed, biting, it spirals deep into our crooked age. You will see Henry, profound in deception, take an ambassador’s arm and charm him. Lying gives him a deep and subtle pleasure, so deep and subtle he does not know he is lying; he thinks he is the most truthful of princes. Henry says that he, Cromwell, is too humble a man to deal with foreign grandees, so he stands against the wall and keeps his eyes on Henry’s face. Afterwards he will have his own hurried conversation with the ambassador: Cremuel, am I to believe him this time? And he will say earnestly, You should, ambassador, you must. Do you think I am new-hatched? He tells me this now, but what will he say next week? Trust me, ambassador, I swear I will keep him to his word. Yes, but by what do you swear, now you have thrown out the holy relics?

Then he puts his hand on his heart. By my faith, he says. ‘Ah, Master Secretary,’ the ambassador will say, ‘your hand is on your heart too often. And your faith I think is a very light matter and changeable from day to day.’

And then the ambassador will glance over his shoulder, and edge towards him. ‘Meet me, Cremuel. Let us dine.’

Then the dice are shaken in the bone cup—and never mind who is humble. He will deal and deal again and, brimming to confide, the ambassador will unfold his grievances. My master, my master the Emperor, my master the king … he is very like your master in some ways … and I should hazard, my dear Cremuel, that day by day your anxieties are not unlike mine. The envoy will then proffer little bluffs and double-bluffs, looking keenly to see how they are taken; and when Cremuel nods and says, ‘I see,’ then they are gaining firmer ground; with the lift of an eyebrow, the flicker of a smile, they proceed, negotiating the necessary falsities with the ease of men skipping over puddles. His new friend will understand that princes are not as other men. They have to hide from themselves, or they would be dazzled by their own light. Once you know this, you can begin to erect those face-saving barriers, screens behind which adjustments can take place, corners for withdrawal, open spaces in which to turn and reverse. There is a smooth pleasure in the process, a gratifying expertise, but there is a price too: a bilious aftertaste, a jaundiced fatigue. Jean de Dinteville had said to him once, have you ever considered, Cremuel, why do we lie and lie? And when we make our deathbed confession, will force of habit carry us to Hell?

But that again was a ploy; just something the Frenchman was trying out on him. In Henry’s own council chamber, with or without the king’s presence, there is a conspiracy of gestures, of sighs, a counterpoint to what can be spoken aloud; but when a messenger from the privy chamber comes in to say, ‘His Majesty is delayed,’ there is a shuffle and covert relief. The councillors may speculate as to why: gone riding, perhaps, or bowels recalcitrant, or just feeling lazy—or tired, who knows, of the sight of our faces? Someone will say, ‘Master Secretary, will you?’ And led by him through the agenda, they will begin their round of scrapping and cavilling, but with a furtive camaraderie they would not like Henry to witness, for he prefers his councillors divided. If councillors frown at the foe, the king can smile—ever-gracious prince. If they bully, he can reward. If they insist, he lulls, he coaxes, charms. It is his councillors, as mean a crew as ever walked, who carry his sins for him: who agree to be worse people, so Henry can be better.

It is June and the nights are short; but when the city gates are closed, the fires covered, then he, Cremuel, draws the bedcurtains and is shut in with the business of England. Outside this room, this bed, a long darkness stretches away, to the seashore and across the waves: to the walls of Calais, through the sleeping fields of France, across the dark snow peaks and through Italy to the sultanates. Night covers London like a blanket, as if we were gone already and under our pall, black velvet and a cold silver cross. How many lives have we, where we sleep and dream, and lost languages flow back into our mouths? All knew Cromwell, when he was a child. Put an Edge on It, they called him—because his father sharpened knives. Before he was twelve, he was his father’s little debt collector: amiable, smiling, tenacious. At fifteen he was on the road with his bundle, bruised and fleeing, heading for another bruising and another war; but at least, as a soldier of King Louis, he was paid to receive blows. He spoke French then, the argot of the camp. He spoke whatever language you need for trading and bartering—anything from a canvas sack to a saint’s image, tell me what you want, I’ll get it. At eighteen, two of his lives were behind him. His third life began in Florence, in the courtyard of the Frescobaldi house, when he crawled smashed from the battlefield; propping himself against the wall, he saw with glazed eyes his new field of endeavour. In time the master called him upstairs: the young Englishman, able to disentangle the affairs of his compatriots, and then to become perfect in the business of his new masters, trusted, discreet, reverent to his elders, never fatigate, nor despondent, nor overthrown by any demand. He is not as other Englishmen, his masters said, when they sent him to their friends: does not brawl in the street, does not spit like a devil, carries a knife but keeps it in his coat. In Antwerp he began afresh, clerk to the English merchants. He is Italian, they cried, full of sleight and guile—whisking up a profit out of air. That was his fourth life: pays bas. He spoke useful Spanish, and the Antwerp tongue. He left it—left the widow Anselma in her waterside house full of shadows; you must go home, she said, and meet a young Englishwoman of good fortune, and I hope she will make you happy at bed and at board. In the end she said, Thomas, if you do not leave now I shall pack your bundle and throw it in the Scheldt—take this boat, she had said, as if she thought there might never be another.

His next life was with his wife, his children, with his master the great cardinal. This is my real life, he thought, I have arrived at it now: but the moment you think that, you are due to take up your bundle again. His heart and mind travelled north, with the cardinal into exile; it ended on the road, and they buried him at Leicester, dug in with Wolsey. His sixth life was as Master Secretary, the king’s servant. His seventh, Lord Cromwell, now begins.

First we must, he thinks, have a ceremony: crown Queen Jane. For Anne Boleyn I filled the streets with speaking saints, with falcons the height of men. I unspooled a mile of blue, like a path to Heaven, from the abbey door to the coronation chair: I costed it by the yard and, lady, you walked it. Now I must begin again: new banners, painted cloths with the emblem of the phoenix; with the day star, the gates of Heaven, the cedar tree and the lily among thorns.

He stirs in his sleep. He is walking the blue, the waves. In Ireland they want longbows, and good bows come in at five marks for twenty. In Dover they want money for wages for the king’s works on the walls. They want spades, scoops and forty dozen shovels, and they want them yesterday. I must make a note, he thinks, indent for them, and I must find out what ails the women at court. Call-Me has seen it, I have seen it. There is a story beneath the story. They have secrets not yielded yet.

George Boleyn’s widow, Jane, is down in Kent, trying to pick up her affairs and face her future; she has written to him about her want of money. The Earl of Worcester’s wife, Beth, has gone off to the country carrying her big belly. Not his child, despite what the gossips say. If it is a boy, the earl may fuss about its provenance. If a girl, he may shrug and agree to own her. Women can be out in their reckoning. Their midwives can mislead them.

Once in Venice, he thinks, I saw a woman painted on a wall high above the canal, stars and moon at her back. ‘Hold up that torch,’ his friend Karl Heinz had said. ‘Tommaso, do you see her?’ And for an instant he did; from the wall of the German House, she looked down at Cremuello, come all the way from Putney. He was her pilgrim, she his shrine; naked, garlanded, she touched her burning heart.

When Anne died, four women attended her. They waded in her blood. Their faces were veiled and he does not believe they were the same women who had watched and waited with her through the final week, women he had planted around her to record all she said. He believes that the king, beseeched by God knows who, had allowed her to choose her own companions for her last walk over the rough ground, the wind pulling at her clothes, and her head turning, turning, for news that never came.

Lady Kingston, he thinks, would tell me who those women were. But must I know? They will have memories of the day. They might try to share them.

Leave me, he says to them, I need to sleep. Stay at the corners of the bed, under your draperies. Swaddle that gasping head in cloth and wrap it round and round. You know what Medusa does. You cannot look in her face. You must trap her image in polished steel. Gaze into the mirror of the future: the unspotted glass, specula sine macula. We will dress the city for Jane. At every corner a paradise, with a maiden seated in a rose arbour, the roses being striped, argent, vermilion; a serpent coiled about the apple tree, and singing birds, trapped by Adam, hanging in cages from the bough.

Tomorrow he will answer the letter from George Boleyn’s widow. Jane wants to get hold of her late husband’s plate and goods. She has nothing but a hundred marks a year, and it’s not enough for a gentlewoman who will never marry again: for who will take on a woman who trotted in to Thomas Cromwell and accused her own husband of sleeping with his sister and planning to murder the king?

We shall not escape these weeks. They recapitulate, always varied and always fresh, always doing and never done. When Anne was arrested, every hour had brought him letters from Kingston, the Constable of the Tower. Rafe scrutinised them, marking some, filing others. ‘Sir William says the queen still talks of how the king will send her to a nunnery. Then in the next breath, of how she will go to Heaven, because of the good deeds she has done. He says she keeps laughing. She makes jokes. Says she will be known hereafter as Anne the Headless.’

‘Poor woman,’ Wriothesley said. ‘I doubt she will be known at all.’

Rafe looked down at the letter. ‘I will give you Kingston’s phrase. “This lady has much joy and pleasure in death.”’

‘It sounds to me as if she is in terror,’ Richard Cromwell said.

‘If that is so,’ said Call-Me Wriothesley, ‘her chaplains should attend to it.’

‘And also,’ Rafe read, ‘she wishes Master Secretary to know that seven years after her death a great punishment—the nature of which she does not specify—will fall on the land.’

‘Good of her to hold back,’ he said.

‘Anne may find,’ Rafe said, ‘that God will not jump to her bidding, as men did.’ He had opened another letter, run his eyes over it: ‘George Boleyn wants to see you, sir. A matter that touches his conscience.’

‘He wants to confess?’ Wriothesley raised an eyebrow. ‘Why would he do it now, when the sentence is already passed, his proven offences so rank that the most merciful prince who ever reigned would not remit his punishment? For I should think that if he were to be excused the penalty, the common people would stone him in the street; or failing that, God would strike him down.’

‘And we should spare God the trouble,’ Richard said. ‘He has much to do.’

He had noted Wriothesley’s darting look. The boys are beginning to scrap over him, who controls access. ‘Lord Rochford leaves debts,’ he said, holding up the letter. ‘He wants me to put his affairs in order.’

‘I should not have thought George would care,’ Rafe said. ‘It seems I fail in charity. I’ll go for you, sir, shall I?’

He had shaken his head. What is he, George Boleyn, but a man who got up to glory because his two sisters worked for him, on their backs: first Mary in the king’s bed, then Anne. But when the dying ask for you, you must appear in person.

Later, leading him into the Martin Tower, Kingston said, ‘It seems only you will do, Master Secretary. You’d think he’d have a friend. But then,’ he glanced about him, ‘his friends are in like case, I suppose.’

George was reading a book of devotion. ‘Sir, I knew you would help me.’ Scrambling to his feet, his words tumbling out: ‘There are debts I owe, and sums owed to me—’

‘Wait, my lord.’ He held up a hand. ‘Should I send for a clerk?’

‘No, everything is here.’ A heap of papers on the table; George pawed through. ‘Also, I have a company of players. Can you give them employment? I would not like to see them put out on the road.’

He can. He means to divert the Londoners with certain spectacles. ‘Monks and their impostures,’ he says. ‘Farnese in his court at Rome, among his sycophants.’

George was eager. ‘We have everything needful. We have a pope’s hat, and croziers and stoles, we have bells, scrolls, and asses’ ears for the monks to sport. One of my company, he plays at Robin Goodfellow, he comes with broom and sweeps before the actors. Then comes again with candle, to signify the play is done. Here, sir.’ He thrust papers at him. ‘The king gets everything, my debts too—but these small people who owe me, I don’t want them harassed.’

He took the papers. ‘Never too late to consider your fellow man.’

George flushed. ‘I know you think me a great sinner. And so I am.’

George, he saw, was not well. The skin beneath his eyes was bruised, and he was ill-shaven, as if he could not sit still for the barber. He sank down into his chair; his hand gripped the chair arm, to control its shaking, and he looked down at it as if it were strange to him, and it was true it appeared shockingly naked. ‘I have given my rings into safekeeping.’ He held up his other hand. ‘But my wedding ring, I can’t…’

It will come off later, when your hands are cold. Who will wear George’s jewels? His wife will sell them. ‘Do you want anything, my lord? Kingston does all he should?’

‘I wish I could see my sister, but I suppose you would not permit it. Better she should settle her mind and frame herself to meet God. The truth is, Master Secretary’—he gave a little laugh—‘I cannot imagine meeting God. I am already dead by the law, but I do not seem to know it. I wonder how I am still breathing. I need to write myself a letter, perhaps, to explain it, or … can you explain it to me, Master Cromwell? How I am alive and dead at the same time?’

‘Read your gospel,’ he said. He thought, I should have sent Rafe after all. He would have been too proud to break down in front of Rafe.

‘I have read the gospel, but not followed it,’ George said. ‘I think I have hardly understood it. If I had done so, I would be a living man as you are. I should have lived quiet, away from the court. And disdained the world, its flatteries. I should have eschewed all vanities, and laid aside ambition.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but we never do it. None of us. We have all read the sermons. We could write them ourselves. But we are vain and ambitious all the same, and we never do live quiet, because we rise in the morning and we feel the blood coursing in our veins and we think, by the Holy Trinity, whose head can I stamp on today? What worlds are at hand, for me to conquer? Or at the least we think, if God made me a crewman on his ship of fools, how can I murder the drunken captain, and steer it to port and not be wrecked?’

He was not sure if he had spoken aloud. George did not seem to think so. He had put a question, and was waiting for an answer, leaning forward, hands joined on the table. ‘Did Tom Wyatt claim he had tupped my sister?’

‘His evidence was private. It was not given in court.’

‘But it reached the king. I don’t know how Wyatt can make such claims, and live. Why Henry does not strike him dead on the spot.’

‘After a certain point, the king was not concerned with her chastity.’

‘You mean, what’s one man more?’ George flushed. ‘Master Secretary, I do not know what you call this, but you cannot call it justice.’

‘I don’t call it anything, George. Or if I must, I call it necessità.’

He was aware of George’s pisspot in the corner. As if noting his delicate attention to it—as if his nostrils had twitched—George said, ‘I would empty it myself, but they will not let me out.’ He opened his hands. ‘Master Secretary, I will not dispute with you. Neither verdict nor sentence. I know why we are dying. I am not the fool you have always thought me.’

To that, he had said nothing. But George pushed back his chair and followed him to the door: ‘Master, pray to God to strengthen me on the scaffold. I must give an example if, as I think, we observe order of rank—’

‘Yes, my lord, you will be first.’

Viscount Rochford. Then the gentlemen. Then the lute player. ‘It would have been better to send Mark before us,’ George said. ‘Being a common man, he is the most likely to give way. But I suppose the king would not have the order broken.’

And at this, he burst into tears. He threw out his arms, a swordsman’s arms, young, strong, springing with life, and locked them around Thomas Cromwell as if grappling with Death. His body trembled, his lower limbs shook, he sagged and staggered as he rehearsed what he would never let the world see, his fear, his incredulity, his hope that this was a dream from which he might wake: his eyes slitted by tears, his teeth chattering, his hands blindly grasping, his head seeking a shoulder where it might rest.

‘God bless you,’ he had said. And he had kissed Lord Rochford, as one gentleman might, leaving another. ‘You will soon be past your pain.’ Going out, he had said to the guards, ‘Empty his pisspot, for God’s sake.’

And now he is awake, in his own house. George recedes, and the taste of his tears. There are footsteps in the room. He pulls aside the bedcurtains: heavy brocade, embroidered with acanthus leaves. It is half-light. I have hardly slept, he thinks. Sometimes, if you think of money as it flows in, flows out, you can drowse; the river brings it, you comb it from the shore. But then persons step into his dream: Sir, if you require clerks for the king’s new enterprise, my nephew is exact with numbers … It is no easy matter, to break up the monasteries. It is only the small houses, and even so. Some of them have land in ten counties. Real property and movables add themselves, assets for the king’s treasury … but then out of those sums subtract the monks’ debts and liabilities, the pensions, settlements, annuities. He has had to start up a new department to handle the work of survey and audit, collection and disbursement. Sir, my son is learning Hebrew and seeks a post where he can also employ his Greek … He has thirty-four boxes stuffed with papers, left over from when he did such work for Wolsey. He must arrange their carriage. Can your son shift heavy weights? Perhaps Richard Riche should keep the boxes at his house. Freshly appointed, he is Chancellor of Augmentations, and there are no premises yet for the new court, just some space in the Palace of Westminster he must contest with mice. It won’t do, he thinks. I shall build us a house.

On the sword of the Calais headsman, a prayer was written. ‘Show me,’ he said. He remembered the incised words, their feel under his fingers. Anne’s lovers died by the axe, and when they were dead they were stripped. Five linen shrouds. Five bodies in them. Five severed heads. On the day the dead rise, they hope to recognise themselves. What kind of blasphemy would it be, to mismatch heads and bodies? The sheer ineptitude of these people at the Tower, you would not believe it. When the sodden load was tumbled from a cart, bare of any badge of rank, they found they had no note of who was who. He was not there—he was at Lambeth, with the archbishop—so they turned to his nephew Richard: ‘What do we do now, sir?’

He thinks, I would have opened the shrouds and looked at their hands. Norris had a scar in his palm. Mark’s fingers were calloused from the lute-strings. Weston had torn nails, like the child he was. George Rochford … George still wore his wedding ring. And the one remaining, that must be Brereton—unless, in error, they had severed the head of some passer-by?

What I need, he thinks, are men who can count. Keep track of five heads and five bodies, thirty-four boxes of papers. Can your son count? Does he mind being out in all weathers? Will he ride the winter roads? Officers have been appointed for Augmentations, honest and able men: Danaster and Freeman, Jobson and Gifford, Richard Paulet, Scudamore, Arundell, Green. Did he appoint Waters, so he could introduce him to Spillman? Then his friend Robert Southwell, and Bolles and Morice and—who? Who’s missing?

When Anne was cut in two pieces the man from Calais showed him the sword and he passed his fingers over the prayer. The steel is cold and his fingers numb; when I am cold, I shall slide off this wedding ring. He walks towards, always towards the king, his naked hands held out, no weapon. Three silken gentlemen, in his dream, turn to watch him pass, Howard faces stamped with Howard sneers. Thomas Howard the Greater, Thomas Howard the Lesser. Half-waking he asks himself, what is the Lesser for? What does he do with his time? It is he who is the bad poet. His lines go thump and flop. Me/see. Too/do. Thing/bring. Flip-flap, they go, pit-pat.

Don’t count Howards, he thinks. Count clerks. Beckwith, I did forget Beckwith. Southwell and Green. Gifford and Freeman, Jobson and Stump—William Stump. Who could forget Stump?

Me. Evidently.

You need to write everything down, he tells his people. Distrust yourself. Human memory is fallible. You are Augmentations men. Twenty pounds per annum plus generous expenses. You will never be at home, always quartering the kingdom, slicing it; you will kill horses under you, when the business of revenue is urgent. Each house of monks has different obligations, and different customs, personnel. Certain abbots say ‘Spare us’; he says, perhaps. Pay in two years’ income to the Treasury and we may give you a stay. He must steady the pace of closures, because the monks—those who wish—must be found places in larger houses. Auditors must be appointed. Several are in place already, and three are called William. And there is Mildmay and Wiseman, Rokeby and Burgoyne. But not Stump. Get out of my dream, Stump. In Christ’s time there were no monks, no Stump either. The court must have messengers, it must have an usher; there must be someone to keep back the tide of petitioners, yet open the door. Put the usher on a per diem, he will make enough from gratuities; wouldn’t you want the door opened to you, if you stood to make your way in the world? Fortune, your gate is unlatched: Thomas Lord Cromwell, stroll through.

Now Austin Friars begins to shape like the house of a great man, its front lit by oriel windows, its small town garden expanding into orchards. He has bought up the parcels of land that adjoin it, some from the friars, and some from the Italian merchants who are his friends and live in this quarter. He owns the neighbourhood, and in his chests—in a walnut chest carved with laurel wreaths, in an armoire that’s higher than Charles Brandon—he keeps the deeds that have divided, valued and named it. Here are his freedoms and titles, the ancient seals and signatures of the dead, witnessed by city wardens and sergeants, by aldermen and sheriffs whose chains of office are melted for coin, whose corpses rest under stone. Citizen tailors, citizen skinners have plied their trades here, Broad Street and Swan Alley and London Wall. Two sisters have inherited a garden; before their husbands sell it to the friars, they stroll under the fruit trees together, skins fresh in the apple-scented evening, fingers of Isabella resting on Margaret’s arm: through the braided pattern of branches they look into the sky, and their feet in pattens leave bruises on the grass. A vintner sells a warehouse, a chandler conveys a shop: the warehouse and the shop come to the prior, a century rolls by and then—his finger tracks them—they come to me. Careful, do not smudge them, their names are not yet dry, Salomon le Cotiller and Fulke St Edmund. Here are their seals, showing rabbits, lions, flowers and saints, a bird with fledglings in her nest; the city’s arms, a horseshoe, a porcupine and the Sacred Heart. History inks the skin: it writes on the hide of sheep long slaughtered, or calves who never breathed; the dead cut away the ground beneath us, so that when he descends a stair at Austin Friars, the tread falls away under his foot, and below him there is another stair, no longer visible except in the mind’s eye; and down it goes, to the city where the legions of Rome left their ashes beneath the earth, their glass in the soil, their bones in the river. And down it plunges and down, into the subsoil of himself, through France and Italy and the pays bas, through the lowlands and the quicksands, by the marshes and meadows estuarine, through the floodplains of his dreams to where he wakes, shocked into a new day: the clang of the anvil from the smithy shakes the sunlight in a room where, a helpless child, he lies swaddled, startled from sleep, feeling as if for the first time the beat of his own heart.

---

In his room at the Tower, Thomas Wyatt is sitting at the table where he left him, in the same bright light, as if he has not moved since the day of Anne’s death. He has a book before him, and he does not lift his gaze from it, much less rise or greet them: simply says, ‘You would like this, Master Secretary. It is new.’

He picks up the book. Verses of Petrarch; he leafs through. Wyatt says, ‘In this edition the verses are arranged in an order that corresponds to the poet’s life. They tell a story. Or they seem to. I always want a story, don’t you?’ When he looks up, his blue eyes are dazzling. ‘Let me out. I cannot sit here a day longer.’

‘Just now the king has decided that it was in the court of France that Anne was seduced into losing her maidenhead. I want him to be fixed in that opinion, and not reminded of any Englishmen who may have been near her. You are safer here.’

‘I will go down to Kent. I won’t hover in his sight. I will go anywhere you bid me.’

‘You like to be on the road,’ he says. ‘Never mind the destination.’

Wyatt says, ‘I have been adding my life up—it is ten years this year since I first went to France, with Cheney on his embassy. They said my legs were young and my stomach strong, so I was the go-between, tossed on the waves. I would turn up sweating and desperate with a killed horse under me, and Wolsey would say, “Where in God’s name have you been, boy—picking flowers?” The Lord Cardinal was a great man for speed.’

‘He was a great man for everything.’

‘Now the Boleyns and their friends are gone, you have made space for yourself. You can put your own people close to the king. Harry Norris, I see why you would want him gone. Brereton, George Boleyn—I see the benefit to you. But Weston was a boy. And Mark may have had a jewel in his bonnet, but I warrant he had not twenty pence to buy his shroud.’

‘Poor Mark,’ he says. ‘He knelt at Anne’s feet and she laughed at him.’

He imagines the cart, the pile of corpses, a canvas over them smeared and stippled with blood; the boy’s hand tumbling out, as if wanting to be held. He says, ‘I only wanted Mark as a witness. But he accused himself. I did not hurt him.’

‘I believe you. Though no one else does.’

‘Give me a few days. A week, at the outside. When you get out you will have a hundred pounds from the Treasury.’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘Believe me, you do.’

‘They will say it is a reward for betraying my friends.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ He slaps Petrarch down on the table. ‘Your friends? What friendship did they ever show you? What was Weston—a grinning puppet who couldn’t keep his prick in his breeches. Or Brereton, that braggart—I tell you, his folk in the north are well-warned. They think they write the law. But those days are done. There are no private kingdoms now. There is one law, and that is the king’s.’

‘Be careful,’ Wyatt says. ‘You are on the brink of explaining yourself.’

Or I am just on the brink, he thinks. ‘I sweated blood to save you, Tom. Your life hung by a hair.’

Wyatt looks up. ‘I will tell you why I am still alive. It is not because I fear death or am content to live in shame. It is because a woman is having my child. If it were not for that, then if you wanted Anne dead you would have had to contrive it some other way.’

He stares at him. ‘Who is she?’ He sits down on a three-legged stool. ‘You know you will tell me sooner or later.’ A thought strikes him. ‘Tell me it is not Edward Darrell’s daughter. She who followed Katherine, when the king banished her?’

Wyatt inclines his head.

‘Can you not love a woman, except she is poised to do you harm?’

‘I am as I am. It is a poor excuse.’

He says, ‘I remember Bess Darrell as a child when she was in the Dorset household. I used to do business for them. I know her father was bound in loyalty—he was Katherine’s chamberlain. But he is dead now, and the girl was never bound.’

‘You think she would have been better off with Anne Boleyn?’

Fair point. ‘Better in a nunnery. But I suppose you have your ways.’

‘I suppose I have,’ Wyatt says sadly. ‘I love her, and I have loved her a long time. It is only because she was away from the court we could keep it secret.’

When I rode up to Kimbolton, he thinks, to Katherine—was Bess there in the shadows? He remembers the old Spanish ladies; they did not trust the kitchen so they were cooking for Katherine in their own chamber, and the smell of smoke and vegetable water was trapped in their clothes. They insulted him in their own tongue, wondering aloud if he had a hairy body like Satan. He sees himself walk into Katherine’s presence, sees her huddled in her furs; the invalid smell envelops him, and from the corner of his eye he sees a slight form sliding away with a bowl. He had thought at the time, her maid carries the queen’s vomit covered, as if it were the sacred host. That must have been Edward Darrell’s daughter, golden hair under a servant’s cap.

‘I begged her,’ Wyatt says, ‘if she would not leave Katherine, then at least to take the oath when it was put to her. What is it to you, Bess, I said, if the king wants to call himself head of his church? I cited the precedents. I argued my best. Bishop Gardiner had not more force. But she would not let Henry win the argument. She was with Katherine when she died.’

‘Money?’ he says.

‘She had none. What Katherine left her was never paid. She has no protector if I fail. She knows I am married and nothing to be done there. She cannot go back to her family, carrying my child. I cannot send her home to Allington, my father will not receive her. I do not know who will take her in, because my wife’s family have turned everyone against me. This will give them occasion to rejoice. Nothing they love more, than to see me clawing my way through thorns.’

Wyatt won’t speak his wife’s name, not if he can help it. He has a child with her, a boy, but God knows how he got it.

‘Allington is your best hope. Shall I talk to your father?’

‘He is ill. I want to spare him. I dread his contempt. And I know I have earned it.’

He wants to say, it is not contempt, it is the opposite, he loves and admires you, but fortune has made him harsh. When Henry Wyatt lay in this fortress, it was not in an airy chamber but fettered in a cell, his ears straining, waiting for the footsteps of his torturers and the rattle of their keys. Torturers do not need extraordinary means, or special instruments. Opportunities for pain lie all around, in items of common use. His gaolers pulled Wyatt’s head back and wedged a horse’s bit into his mouth. They poured mustard and vinegar into his nostrils, so he was half-drowned in the acrid brew, spewing out what he could, inhaling the rest. Richard the usurper came to watch him suffer, and he urged him to give up his allegiance to the Tudor, who then lay out of the realm, a man without hope or resource. ‘Wyatt, why art thou such a fool? Thou servest for moonshine in the water a beggarly fugitive. Forsake him and become mine, who can reward thee.’

He would not forsake. They dropped him bleeding on the straw, in the dark. His teeth were broken and he heaved up his guts on the filthy floor. His belly was empty, the corrosive at work in his throat; he had neither clean water nor, when he could eat, did they bring him bread. Wyatt says, ‘It is a pretty story, how a cat brought my father food. I never believed it, even when I was a child. I thought, it is a tale for children who are simpler than me. But now I see what it is to be locked away. Prisoners believe all sorts of things. A cat will come and save us. Thomas Cromwell will come with the key.’

‘I wonder, would Bess take the oath now? Katherine is dead and it cannot offend her.’

‘I have not asked her,’ Wyatt says. ‘Nor I would not. Surely Henry will not pursue her? He has enough people to tell him he is head of the church and stands next to God. And we hope that once the Lady Mary is back at court, she will help us. She must have a care for Bess—for a young woman alone in the world, who held her mother’s hand when she was dying.’

‘No doubt,’ he says. ‘But while you have been here with Petrarch, the world moves on. The king will require Mary to take the oath herself. If she says no, she will be in here with you.’

Wyatt looks away. ‘Then you must help us. It is my honour that is at stake.’

He thinks, where was honour when you lifted Bess Darrell’s skirts? He stands up from the stool and gives it a nudge with his foot. It’s a miserable seat for a king’s councillor. ‘I’ll talk to Bess. There must be a place for her somewhere. Take the king’s money, Tom. You need it.’

‘I will obey you,’ Wyatt says, ‘as my father said I should. I suppose you can err like other men, and God he knows, you may be heading for disaster. But for me all roads lead there. I reach the crossroads and I throw the dice, and whichever comes up, it is the same—it is the swamp, or the abyss, or the ice. So I shall follow you as the gosling its mother. Or as Dante followed Virgil. Even to the underworld.’

‘I doubt I’ll be going further than the south coast this summer. Perhaps down to the Isle of Wight.’ He picks up the book of verses. It is unbruised, though the binding is soft as a woman’s skin: a Venetian printing, the title set within a woodcut of tumbling putti, the printer’s mark a sea monster. Suppose someone saved the scraps of Wyatt’s verse—the pastoral scratched on the back of an armourer’s bill, the lyric a woman lays to her naked breast? If an editor applied himself to this writer’s life, he would find a story to ruin many. Wyatt says, ‘She never leaves me, Anne Boleyn. I see her as I saw her last, here in this place.’

He thinks, I see her too, in her little hat with the feather. With her tired eyes.

He goes out: ‘Martin! Who gave Wyatt such beggarly furnishings?’

‘He’s not complained, sir. Mind you, a gentleman—he doesn’t.’

‘But I’m a lord,’ he says. ‘And I’m complaining.’

He thinks, I didn’t notice that whoreson stool when I visited the prisoner before. But I can be forgiven, as I had just come from watching the Calais executioner perform his trick.

---

At Austin Friars, Gregory is waiting: ‘You are sent for by Fitzroy.’

‘I saw Wyatt,’ he says.

‘And?” Gregory is anxious.

‘I’ll tell you later. We shouldn’t keep the king’s son waiting.’

‘Rafe supposes Fitzroy will ask you if you are going to make him king.’

‘Hush.’

‘I mean, one of these days,’ Gregory says. ‘It’s no treason to say all men are mortal.’

‘No, but it’s not your best idea either.’ He thinks, that was Anne Boleyn’s mistake. She took Henry for a man like other men. Instead of what he is, and what all princes are: half god, half beast.

Gregory says, ‘Richard Riche is here. He is writing a loyal address. Shall we go and look on? I love to watch him work.’

Sir Richard goes through paperwork like a raven through a rubbish heap. Stab, stab, stab—with his pen, not a beak—till everything before him is minced or crushed or shattered, like a snail-shell burst on a stone.

‘Hello, Mr Speaker,’ Gregory says.

‘Hello, Little Crumb,’ Riche says absently.

Handsome and leisured, his boy gazes down at Sir Richard as he toils. ‘Riche considers his name his destiny,’ Gregory says. ‘He can turn ink into cash. You have a fine mind, don’t you, Ricardo?’

‘Ingenious,’ Riche says. ‘Retentive. I would not lay a claim beyond that.’

Riche’s duty is to welcome the king, when he opens Parliament. ‘May I read to you, sir? I have got some way with it.’

He sits. ‘Pretend I am the king.’

‘Let me get you a better hat,’ Gregory suggests.

Riche says, ‘By your leave, I am ready to begin.’

He reads. Gregory fidgets: ‘You remember the hat Ambassador Chapuys had? We wanted to borrow it for our snowman?’

‘Hush,’ he says. ‘Give heed to Mr Speaker.’

‘I wonder what happened to it.’

Riche breaks off, frowning. ‘You do not like my beginning?’

‘I think the king will like it.’

‘I next compare him to Solomon for wisdom—’

‘You can’t go wrong with Solomon.’

‘—then Samson for strength, and Absalom for beauty.’

‘Wait,’ Gregory says, ‘Absalom had luxuriant hair, or else he could not have been caught by it in the boughs of a tree. The king’s hair is … well … it is less profuse. He may think you are mocking him.’

‘No one will suspect Mr Speaker of mockery,’ he says firmly.

‘Still,’ Gregory says. ‘The conduct of Absalom was often deplorable.’

‘Put your speech aside,’ he says to Riche. ‘Come and see Fitzroy with me.’

Riche is more than ready. Christophe runs up as they are leaving. ‘Do not go without me, sir. What if some ruffian accosts you? Now you are a lord, you must be attended with force at all times.’

‘And you are force, are you?’ Riche is amused.

‘Let him come with us, he likes to be useful.’

Increasingly, he thinks Christophe’s dull appearance an advantage. No one would be cautious in front of such a churl. As they go out, he takes him by the front of his livery coat, straightens him, dusts him. ‘You’re supposed to do this for me,’ he says. ‘Were you walking about in my room in the night?’

‘In the night I was asleep,’ Christophe says. ‘It was some old ghost, I suppose.’

‘Surely not,’ Riche says. ‘I never heard of ghosts that walk in June.’

There’s something in that. It was the veiled ladies—living women, as far as one knows—who attended him, till dawn came and they faded into the wall. He remembers the dappling of their garments, the streaks of darkness where they had wiped the queen’s blood on their robes.

---

The king has gone hunting; but because of some anxiety of his doctors, his son has stayed in London, at St James’s, the palace they have been carving out of the site of the old hospital. They have cleared and drained the ground, which was flooded by the Tyburn, and now a pleasant park stands all about. It is a retreat for the king and his family, away from the crowds that surge around Whitehall.

Inside the gateway, the courtyard is piled with scaffolding, and as they step inside workmen’s shouts greet them, and the noise of chipping and hammering. At the sight of lords, the clamour falls silent, but the space still echoes with the sounds of metal against stone. A labourer slides down a ladder and pulls off his cap. ‘We’re knocking down the HA-HAs, sir.’

The initials, he means, of Henry and the late queen: so fondly intertwined, like snakes breeding.

‘I want you to leave off for an hour, while I talk to my lord Richmond.’

The man knocks dust off his cap. ‘We dursn’t, sir.’

‘Obey this man,’ Christophe says.

‘You’ll be paid for the time,’ he urges.

‘The master of works will need it in writing.’

He drops his hand flat on the man’s head, draws him nose to nose. ‘Why don’t I write your gaffer a love letter? Tell me his name and I’ll put his initials in a heart.’ He can smell the man’s sweat. ‘Christophe, go out to the kitchen and ask for bread, ale and cheese for these fellows. Tell them Cromwell said so.’

The man rams his cap back on. ‘It’s dinner time anyway. When you see King Harry, tell him we’re raising a beaker to the new bride.’

---

Behind the presence chamber, in a small panelled cabinet, the young Duke of Richmond receives them as an invalid, wearing a long gown and a nightcap. ‘I ran a fever last night. So once again my physicians will not let me stir.’

A few spots of rain spatter the window. ‘It’s no sort of day, sir. Better indoors.’

‘It’s not the sweating sickness,’ Riche says reassuringly.

‘No,’ the boy says. ‘Or I would not have summoned you here, masters, lest you be infected.’

They bow, thankful that their lives are considered: common men, such as they be.

‘Nor the plague,’ Riche adds. ‘There is none in fifty miles. At least, not yet.’

He laughs out loud. ‘Remind me to keep you from my bedside, if ever I take sick. Is that the way to lift my lord’s spirits?’

Stiffly, Riche begs the duke’s pardon. But he is puzzled: what was the joke?

The boy says, ‘Riche, I thank you for your gentle attendance, but now I wish to confer with Master Secretary.’

Riche is inclined to stand his ground. ‘With respect, my lord, Master Secretary has no secrets from me.’

He thinks, how profoundly wrong you are. Riche falters, lingers, bows himself out. Fitzroy says, ‘The hammering has stopped.’

‘I bribed them with bread and cheese.’

‘They cannot work quick enough for me. I want her gone, that woman. All traces. At least, everything visible.’ The boy casts a glance at the window, as if someone were signalling him from outside. ‘Cromwell, are there such things as slow poisons?’

He is startled. ‘God save your lordship.’

‘I thought perhaps, having been in Italy—’

‘You suspect the late queen has poisoned you?’

‘My father said she would have done it if she could.’

‘But your lord father was in a state of…’ Of what? ‘He was shocked by the discovery of the late queen’s crimes.’

‘And those crimes are greater, are they not, than common report? My lord Surrey tells me he was made privy to evidence that was never given in court. Worse was done, than was ever admitted. I would have punished her more straitly.’

How? he wonders. What would you have done, sir? Hacked her head off with a rusty kitchen knife? Burned her with green wood?

‘And,’ Richmond says, ‘she was a witch.’ His fingers, restless, tug at the string of his cap. ‘Some people do not believe in witches. Though St Thomas Aquinas makes mention of them. I have heard they can sour milk, and cause cattle to abort. They can cause a horse to shy in his path—always at the same place, to the injury of the rider.’

He thinks, if it’s always at the same place, the rider should keep a grip.

‘They can wither a man’s arm. Did not the usurper Richard suffer that fate?’

‘So he maintained, and yet it was as good an arm after the curse as before.’

‘Sometimes they harm children. They can do it with prayers, which they say backward. Or with poison. Do you not think it was Anne Boleyn who poisoned my lord cardinal?’

He had not expected that. Truthfully he answers, ‘No.’

‘Yet his end was not natural. I have been told it by wise and discreet gentlemen.’

‘It may be someone bribed his physicians.’ He thinks of Dr Agostino, taken from Cawood a prisoner, his feet bound under his horse. Where did he vanish to? Straight into Norfolk’s custody. He cannot tell the boy that, if there is a poisoner in the case, it is likely to be his own father-in-law.

Fitzroy says, ‘When I was a little child—I believe I told you once—the cardinal brought me a doll. It was an image of myself, in a robe all broidered over with the arms of England and France. I do not know where it is now.’

‘I can make a search, sir. You do not think your lady mother has it?’

The boy had not thought of that. ‘I do not think so. It was after we parted. She has other children now, and I suppose never thinks of me.’

‘On the contrary, sir. You are the origin of her fortune, of her present honourable marriage and rank. I am sure she remembers you every day in her prayers.’

For six or seven years, male children live with the women. Then without choice or discussion, one day they are plucked away, their hair cropped so their ears are always cold, and thrust into the sullen world where everyone finds fault and visits punishment, and until you are married there is no kindness unless you pay for it. It was not how he had been reared, of course. When he was five he was foraging for items for the smithy’s scrap pile. At six he was with his father’s apprentices, under their feet, accustoming himself to the white-hot sparks that leap and arc, to the ringing pitch of the anvil and the thud, thud that goes on in your brain when the day’s work is done. At seven, able to curse but barely read, he was running wild like a tinker’s son.

Richmond says, ‘I did not know when I was a child that Wolsey was of low birth. He seemed to me a very splendid man. Well, his end was miserable. He was fortunate not to die by the axe. They tell me that his heart broke on the road, and that is what killed him.’

There is that possibility. Those who think a heart cannot break have led blessed and sheltered lives. The boy shifts in his chair. ‘Do you think Jane the queen will bear a son?’

‘All England knows, my lord, she comes from fertile stock.’

‘Yes, but if it is true what was claimed in court, that the king cannot please a woman or serve her as he ought—’

‘I recommend, sir—I earnestly recommend—drop this matter.’

But Richmond is a king’s son, and he sails on. ‘My brother Surrey tells me’—he means his brother-in-law—‘my brother Surrey says the Parliament has done ill, in framing the new bill of succession. They have left the king to choose his own heir, when they should have named me foremost.’

Thank God the boy had the sense to send Riche out of the room. If Riche heard that, he would be straight to Henry with the tale.

‘I want to be king,’ Richmond says. ‘I am fitted for it. Surrey says my father should recognise that. If he should die now, I am not afraid of the whelp Eliza, for she is only the concubine’s child—unless, as they say, she was a foundling picked up in the street. There is not a man in the nation who will lift a finger for her claim.’

He nods; this much is true.

‘As for the Lady Mary, if I am a bastard, so is she, and I am true English and she is half-Spanish, and I am a man. Besides, they say she will not swear to my father’s titles as head of the church. And if she will not, she is a plain traitor.’

‘Mary will swear,’ he says.

‘She may say the words. She may sign a paper, if you force her. But my lord father will see through her. Mary should not thrive, nor she will not.’

When he last spoke to Richmond, the boy was content with his situation. So who can be behind this surge of unholy ambition? His father-in-law Norfolk? Norfolk might scheme, but he does it silently. No, this is Norfolk’s son, that foolish, headstrong boy, pushing his friend towards a throne that is not empty. He says, ‘Did my lord Surrey suggest to you—’

‘I am my own man.’ The boy cuts him off. ‘Surrey is my friend and he gives me good counsel, but no man will dictate my actions when I am king, nor cozen me in the way my father is cozened. I will not have women lead me.’

He inclines his head. ‘My lord, I cannot remake the succession. The new arrangement reflects the king’s will. I do not see what I can do for you.’

‘You will find a way. Every man says you are master of the Parliament. When I am king I shall reward you.’

When you are king? ‘I shall hardly live so long.’

‘I think you will,’ Richmond says. ‘My father’s leg is sore, since he took his fall in January. I am advised an old wound has reopened and there is a channel in his flesh that lies open to the bone.’

‘If that is true, then he bears the pain with great fortitude.’

‘If that is true, it cannot remain clean. It will putrefy and he will die.’

With every breath he commits treason, and does not hear it. He sees the will stirring, inside the body becoming a man’s. The strand of hair that escapes from his cap is red, the Plantagenet colour. His great-grandfather Edward would own him; the house of York would claim him; King Edward’s disappeared sons, if they had lived, would have looked like this, the gleam in the eye like light on the blade of a sword; the fine skin, where the colour comes and goes, betraying every passion. Richmond says, ‘If my lord cardinal were still alive, he would have made me king. He advised that I should be King of Ireland, did he not? In this pass, he would have wanted me to be King of England too.’

He turns away. ‘You should rest, my lord, and let your indisposition pass.’

He thinks, lions sometimes eat their cubs. Is it any wonder?

The boy calls after him, ‘Do it, Cromwell.’

---

He is in a state of dull astonishment, like a man dealt a blow from out of the air. God help me, what are princes? They think on murder all day long. A patricide, now: as if the season does not hold enough surprises.

Riche is leaning against the wall, gossiping with Francis Bryan. They straighten up when they see him. Bryan’s jewelled eye-patch gives a knowing wink. ‘Greetings from France. Bishop Gardiner sends you his special love, kiss-kiss. I’m only back till the turn of the tide. Collect dispatches. Whisper in the king’s ear. Check up on you. Gardiner doesn’t believe it, that you’re to be a baron. He says your luck can’t last.’

‘Does he? Kiss him back for me.’

‘Oh, I will,’ Francis says. ‘He wonders why you are so fond of Katherine’s whelp. He claims you are protecting Mary, and it will undo you. He says—mark this—“For Henry’s daughter to deny he is head of the church is as great a treason as to deny he is king.” He says, “Believe me, Francis, Cromwell will go too far, this affair will bring him down.”’

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘You are a great aid to me, Francis.’

Riche looks uneasy. Is Master Secretary ironical? Riche can’t tell. He asks, ‘What did Fitzroy want, sir? I suppose he is in debt?’

‘How much?’ A veteran spendthrift, Bryan takes an interest in a promising youngster.

‘He spoke of the cardinal. He is in a fit of melancholy, I believe.’

Riche says, ‘If you are uneasy about his health, should we tell the king?’

‘He has the best advice. And the king will not go near him, you know how he is about any illness.’

‘But the king came to see you, sir, when you had a fever.’

‘Only when I was over it. And besides, it was a special Italian fever.’

A true, bone-shaking tertian: not like the little bouts of sweating and shivering that afflict those who’ve never been south of the Kent marshes.

‘It was a signal favour.’ Riche sounds envious.

The fever will come back, he thinks. And very likely, Henry will come back too. He does not believe the king is going to die soon—though a man may as well be dead, if his only son turns against him. The father loves the son, but not the son the father. The son wishes him gone. He wants to take his place. That is the way it is. Of course. It must be that way.

He thinks of the cardinal on the day of his arrest, Harry Percy’s men thundering in to where he lodged: the hand he laid to his ribs. ‘I have a pain,’ he said. ‘A pain as cold as a whetstone.’ If his heart broke, who broke it? No one but the king himself.

‘Shall I order the men back to work?’ Riche asks.

Francis says, ‘I’m told that one of Katherine’s carved pomegranates is still dangling in the roof timbers at Hampton Court. I can’t see it myself. The surgeons say that when you lose an eye, the sight of the other starts to fail. I shall be a blind man begging alms on the high road, and kind Bishop Gardiner will lead me.’

---

Rafe Sadler and Thomas Wriothesley return from Mary at Hunsdon, without a paper in hand, without her oath. Wriothesley says, ‘Why did you send us, sir? You must have known we could not succeed.’

‘How did she look?’

‘Ill,’ Rafe says.

‘The king is incensed against her advisers,’ he says.

‘In all honesty,’ Rafe says, ‘I don’t think it’s her advisers. It’s her own stubborn pride.’

‘Whichever.’ He is indifferent.

Wriothesley says, ‘Sir, never send me there again.’ Vehement, he flushes. ‘If Master Sadler will not tell you how it was, then I will tell you. The house was full of Nicholas Carew’s people, and servants of the Courtenay family, and others in Lord Montague’s livery. They did not have your licence to be there, and they boasted, it doesn’t matter now, Cromwell is naught—Mary is returning to court, and the Pope will be restored, and the world put to rights again.’

‘They gave her the title of “Princess,”’ Rafe says, ‘and they did not mind who heard.’

‘We greeted her as Lady Mary,’ Call-Me says. ‘She looked enraged. She expected the title of Princess, and she expected us to kneel to her. Then as we delivered your compliments she broke out, “Tell me how she died.” All she wanted was to curse Anne Boleyn. We said, she died calmly, and Rafe said—’

‘“An example of Christian resignation.”’ Rafe looks away, astonished by his own phrase: he was not even there.

‘But she did not want to hear that. She called Anne “the creature” and said she should have been burned alive. She asked what prayers she said, was she pale, did she tremble … I did not think a young girl could be so cruel, or one person of the female sex so hate another. I could have spewed, so help me. She has a black heart, and she showed it.’

Rafe is watching Call-Me. ‘Hush,’ he says. ‘It is hard, but it is done now. And besides, sir, Mary is not as strong in her resolve as her people think. She asked us, “What, Master Secretary does not come himself?” It’s almost as if she is waiting for you. So she can take the oath and it be no blame to her. She will tell the world you have threatened her, enforced her. Rome and all Europe will believe it.’

‘I had rather she obeys from free choice. Whatever the world says.’

‘Obeys?’ Wriothesley says. ‘I never saw any person less likely to yield or obey. What does she think about, abed at night? Does she lie awake devising torments? Sir, you know I do not flinch. I know what manner of things are done. I was at the Tower, when you hung the friar up by his hands—’

‘I didn’t—’ he says.

‘—and I did not demur. I understood his cries were those of a treacherous knave who could still see his duty and save himself—’

‘I didn’t,’ he says. ‘Rafe? Tell him.’

‘You misremember,’ Rafe says gently. ‘There was talk of hanging him up. But it only happened in your imagination.’

‘It happened in the friar’s imagination,’ he says. ‘That was the point. I set his fantasy to work.’

‘Then set Mary’s to work,’ Call-Me says. ‘See if her fantasy will sicken her, as she sickened me. She thinks her cousin the Emperor will crest the sea on a white horse and sweep her away across his saddle. Tell her that no one will rescue her, and that no one will speak for her, but her father will hurt her and bend her to his will.’

---

June: the Duke of Richmond walks in procession with the House of Lords. How like his father he is, onlookers say: heavy muscle already under the hot drag of the Parliament robes. His handsome face is flushed with portent, as if he feels his future in a warm breeze.

The king seems to enjoy Richard Riche’s speech of welcome. He is not averse to the comparisons: King Solomon, King David. And he has forgotten that Absalom said, ‘I have no son to keep my name in remembrance.’

It’s not only the folk at Hunsdon who believe that with the change of queen, the tide will turn, and England go back to Rome. As sufficient answer, he—Lord Cromwell—brings in a measure: An Act Extinguishing the Authority of the Bishop of Rome. The title is a guide to its content.

As Parliament meets, so too bishops meet in Convocation. They rustle and grumble, censure and debate—old bishops, new bishops—my bishops, as Anne used to call them. They wrangle dawn till dusk about the sacraments of the church, their nature and number; which ceremonies are laudable, which idolatrous; who should be allowed to read the gospel, and in what language. He, Lord Cromwell, is enthroned among them as Henry’s deputy, Vicegerent of the church under God and the king; where once, in Archbishop Morton’s day, he was the littlest and the lowest of the boys who scrubbed vegetables in the kitchen at Lambeth Palace. Gregory exclaims, ‘To think my father is over all the bishops!’

‘I am not over them, I am only—’ He stops. ‘True. I am over them.’

Since the week of the lady’s death, his archbishop has been elusive. Now, trapped in a side room, Cranmer makes himself busy, pulls out a bundle of writing. The papers are inked with amendments. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘where Bishop Tunstall has written all over me. So now,’ he picks up a quill, ‘I am going to write all over Bishop Tunstall.’

‘You do that,’ Hugh Latimer pats his archbishop’s shoulder. ‘Cromwell, how is it that Richard Sampson has been made a bishop? He has so papist a flavour I think I am chewing the Bishop of Rome himself.’

Cranmer says, ‘He made speed with the king’s annulment, that is why, it is his reward. Though I wish the king … I wish he had elected a period of reflection, between the two…’ his voice fades, ‘… before the new…’ He puts the papers down. He rubs the corners of his eyes. ‘I cannot bear it,’ he says.

‘Anne was our good lady,’ Hugh says. ‘So we thought. We were much misled.’

‘I heard her last confession,’ Cranmer says.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘And?’

‘Cromwell, you do not expect me to tell you what she said?’

‘No. But I thought your face might tell me.’

Cranmer turns away.

Latimer says, ‘Confession is not a sacrament. Show me where Christ ordained it.’

Cranmer says, ‘You will not get the king to agree.’

Henry likes to utter his sin and be forgiven. He is sincerely sorry, he will not do it again. And in this case perhaps he will not. The temptation to cut off your wife’s head does not arise every year.

‘Thomas…’ the archbishop says. He pauses. His face mirrors an inner struggle. ‘Thomas … about the manor at Wimbledon…’

Hugh stares at him. Whatever he thought Cranmer was going to say, it wasn’t that.

‘Since it pertains to your new title,’ Cranmer says, ‘you will want it, I suppose. At present it belongs to me—to the archdiocese, I should say.’

‘And the house at Mortlake,’ he says. ‘If you would. The king will compensate you.’

Hugh Latimer says, ‘You can hardly demur, Cranmer. You owe Cromwell money.’

The bishops mean to beat out some statement of common faith, which will stand against the malice of ill-wishers and the misconstructions of fools; which will please the German divines, with whom they wish to come into concord, but will also assuage the fears of the king, who distrusts novelty, and German novelty above all. They mean to issue a statement, if it takes them till next Easter to do it. Considering the differences they have to reconcile, and the parties they wish to please, you would be surprised if they could contrive it before the sun goes out and the earth grows cold.

We need the counsel of dead men, Hugh Latimer says. Father Thomas Bilney should be here with us. He taught us the way and the truth. He opened our insensate hearts. But Little Bilney was burned in a ditch in Norwich, and his bones thrown to dogs: and whenever you think about it, you can hear Thomas More, chuckling.

It is Latimer, as Bishop of Worcester, whose sermon opens the session. ‘Define me first these three things: what prudence is; what is the world; what light; and who be the children of the world, who of the light.’

Latimer smells of burning too. The air sparks around him as he walks.

---

The king, bearing in mind his daughter’s care for her status, orders the Duke of Norfolk to visit her at Hunsdon and get her compliance; Norfolk, after young Richmond, ranks highest in the land.

Norfolk calls him in, to complain of a fool’s errand. But the duke is, he points out, lucky to have any errand at all. In the days after his niece’s death, as Norfolk admits, he did not know which way to run; except that he did good service at her trial, he thinks that Henry would have banished him and taken his title away. Now, fuming with impatience, he rattles as he paces. About his neck is a heavy gold chain, where the emblems of the Howards alternate with the Tudor rose. Under his shirt, in a filigree case, he wears the relics of saints, faded hairs and splinters of bone; on his sword hand, a stout gold band, set with a greyish diamond like a chipped tooth. ‘I told Henry,’ he says, ‘look here, I have no parlour manners, I am no man for sweet-talk with some little coquette. If Mary were mine—but no use to think of it.’ As if restraining an impulse, the duke folds one fist into the other.

The Duchess of Norfolk had once told him that when Thomas Howard wanted to marry her—she having a sweetheart already—he had stormed into her father’s house and threatened to break the place up; and so she had given way to him, to her rapid regret. Perhaps Mary will do the same? The duke’s voice runs on, anticipating knock-backs: ‘… so the girl will say … then I say … I declare the whole realm considers her obstinate, disobedient, worthy of exemplary punishment—but the king, out of his gracious and divine nature—is that right, Cromwell, do I say “divine”?’

‘Try “fatherly”. It gives the same idea, without hyperbole.’

‘Right,’ the duke says, uncertainly. ‘Gracious and fatherly, et cetera and so forth—the king considers that as a woman, frail and inconstant, she is easily led—but she must name them, those who are feeding her obstinacy—and she must say if she will or will not recognise his full authority and submit to his laws—which frankly, it seems to me, Cromwell, is the least a king should require of a subject. Then she, et cetera and so forth, must forswear all attempts to seek remedy from Rome—is that correct?’

He nods: all quarrels are to be pursued in English and here at home.

A young man is at his elbow, bowing. It is Thomas Howard the Lesser. Ah, he thinks, I dreamed of your verses: flip/snip, lip/pip, love/dove.

The Greater is not pleased to see his half-brother. ‘What brings you out, boy, crawling from under some trull’s skirt?’

‘Sir—my lord—’

‘An idle generation.’ Norfolk sucks his lip. ‘Naught but riddles and games.’

‘What would your lordship like instead?’ the young man says. ‘A war?’

He suppresses a smile. ‘Tom Truth,’ he says.

‘What?’ The young man jumps.

‘Is that not how you style yourself? In your verses. Your man, Tom Truth.’ He shrugs. ‘The ladies share these things.’

The duke laughs—though perhaps it’s more of a snarl. ‘Master Cromwell here, he knows what the ladies are up to. Naught is secret from him.’

‘No harm sharing verses,’ he says. ‘Even poor ones are not a crime.’

Tom Truth reddens. ‘The king wants you, sir.’

‘Me too, of course,’ Norfolk says.

‘No, your Grace. He only wants my lord Cromwell.’ The boy turns his shoulder to the duke. ‘If you please, the king has hit Sexton the jester. The fellow made a—well, a jest. Now he has got a bleeding pate. God help him, he chose the wrong moment. His Majesty has received a letter from a cousin of his, and he is screaming as if it came hot from the pit and signed by the devil. And I do not know—we do not know—which cousin writ it. He has so many.’

So many cousins. So few of them what they ought to be, loyal or true. ‘Let me through,’ he says. ‘All will be well. Give you good day, my lord Norfolk.’ He says to Tom Truth over his shoulder, ‘Pole is the name of his cousin. Reginald Pole. Lady Salisbury’s son.’

As he walks towards the king’s apartments, there is a bounce in the soles of his boots. He is aware that in his wake, the Howards are agitated—the Lesser Thomas has grabbed the Greater’s arm, and is whispering urgently. Whatever it is, it must keep.

In the guard chamber Sexton is sitting on the floor, his legs spread out before him as if he has just been felled. The injury is hardly worth rubbing, but he is holding his head and bleating, ‘My brain doth leak.’

He stands over him. ‘Why are you here, Patch?’

The man looks up. ‘Why are you? Unless you want my job.’

‘I thought you were fled. I heard the king turned you out last year.’

‘Aye, he did, and beat me too, because I called his woman a ribald. And Nicholas Carew took me in, out of his charity, till my jokes were in season again. Which they are, aren’t they? Now the whole world knows what Nan Bullen was. She was as common as a cart-way. She would go to it with a leper in a hedge.’

He says, ‘The king has got Will Somer now. He doesn’t need you.’

‘Aye, Somer, Somer, that’s all I hear. Sexton? Kick him out, his day’s done. “Thomas Cromwell,” all say, “he is good to masterless men—he took in the cardinal’s folk when they were turned out.” But not Patch—no, kick Patch in the ditch.’

‘I’d kick you in the midden if I had my way. You mocked the cardinal, that was nothing but good to you.’

‘So how am I still alive?’ Sexton says. ‘The four masquers are dead, who dragged the cardinal to Hell; and Smeaton too, only for making a pig’s bladder of old Tom Wolsey’s head, and kicking a doll up and down, and singing a ditty while winding sausages from its gut. They are dead as you could require, and I hear you buried them with their wrong heads, so when they rise on the last day, Smeaton will be George Boleyn, and the addled pate of Weston joined to Gentle Norris.’

He thinks, much occurred to shame us, but that did not occur.

‘It is heavy work, executing. I suppose you were too busy to think of Patch.’ Sexton hauls up his checkered robe and scratches himself. ‘Lord Tom from Putney. You put the jesters out of occupation and make them beg a living. Let Somer watch himself. Who needs make a joke, when the jokes are walking and talking and calling themselves by the title of baron?’

He has to step over the man’s legs. ‘Pull down your clothes, and get away, Sexton. Never let me see you here again.’

---

When he enters the royal presence, Henry says quite pleasantly to the buzzing swarm, ‘Will you allow me to have conference now with my lord Privy Seal?’

There is a stir—Henry is, for the first time, speaking his new title aloud. After the stir, a shuffle—then a scuttle backwards, bowing. They cannot go fast enough, swept by the king’s stare.

Henry has a thick folio in front of him. His hand lies on it, as if forbidding it to open. ‘Before you were my councillor…’ He stops, and looks into empty air. ‘Pole,’ he says. ‘His book has come, out of Italy. My subject, my liegeman, Reginald Pole. My cousin, my trusted kin. How can he sleep at night? The one thing I cannot endure,’ Henry says, ‘is ingratitude, disloyalty.’

While the king goes on to enumerate the things he cannot endure, his councillor’s eyes rest on the book. It is not, to him, a closed book. He had warning. He is only surprised at the extent of it. There must be three hundred leaves, each leaf veined with treason. He knows the story, but that will not stop the king’s need to rehearse it—the history of the Pole family, their grievance and grudge: the long butchery before the Tudors, when the great families of England hacked each other apart on the battlefield; when they murdered each other with the headsman’s axe in the kingdom’s market squares, and hung body parts on town gates. The process that has put the manuscript on the table, this summer’s day, began before any of us were born: before Henry Tudor landed in Milford Haven and marched through Wales under the emblem of the red dragon on a banner of white and green. That banner kept on marching, till it was laid by the victor on the altar at Paul’s. He came with a ragged army, with a prayer on his lips: he came for the salvation of England, with a broom to sweep the charred bones out, and a rag to mop up the gore.

And what was left of the old regime, after the battle was won, after Richard Plantagenet was dropped naked into his grave? Old King Edward’s sons vanished into the Tower and never came out. His bastards and daughters remained, and a nephew, a child not ten. After showing him to the people, the Tudor locked the child away. He never denied his title, Earl of Warwick: just denied him the right to threaten the new regime.

Henry Tudor was blessed with many children, but then they themselves must breed. A bride for Prince Arthur, the first son, must be secured among the princesses of Europe. The King and Queen of Spain offered one of their daughters, but made a stipulation. They hesitated to part with Catalina to a country so easy to destabilise. His whole reign, Henry Tudor had been plagued by dead men rising and claiming the crown; and though young Warwick was locked up, what would stop some pretender raising troops under his name? So the claimant must die: not in some hole-and-corner scuffle, some stabbing or smothering, but in daylight, on Tower Hill, by the axe.

Treason was alleged: an escape plot. Who believed it? The young man, a prisoner since childhood, was a stranger to ambition; he knew no knightly exercises, he had never taken sword in hand. It was like killing a cripple; but Henry Tudor did it, so as not to lose the Spanish bride. With Warwick dead, his sister Margaret was in the hands of the king; he made her safe with marriage to a loyalist. ‘My grandmother wed her to Richard Pole,’ the king says. ‘It was a modest match, but honourable. It was I who reinstated her in her former fortunes. I revered her family for their ancient blood. I pitied their fall. I made her Countess of Salisbury. What more could I do? I could not give her brother back. I could not raise the dead.’

Catalina, the Spanish princess, knew what lay behind her marriage. In her whole life after, she tried to atone to Margaret Pole. She placed trust in her, making her Lady Governor to Mary, her only child. ‘But,’ Henry says, ‘I have been told there is a curse.’

Don’t repeat it, he thinks. Repetition is the only force it has.

‘The marriage with Katherine was made, and in weeks Arthur was dead. Thereafter, as you know…’

He thinks of Katherine’s miscarried children, their blind faces and their vestigial hands joined in prayer. ‘It was not I caused Warwick’s death,’ Henry says. ‘It was not even my father, it was Katherine’s people. I do not know why my father allowed the Spaniards to put a bloody hand into this realm’s affairs. How long must I suffer, to ease the conscience of Castile? And what more can I give Warwick’s family? I have promoted them. I have enriched them. Other kings would have kept them low.’

So much is true. They have worked on your shame, he thinks. ‘Who can read Margaret Pole, sir? Not I.’

Henry says, ‘Her son Montague has never liked me. To speak truthfully, I have never liked him. His brother Geoffrey is not a man to trust. But Reginald, I had hopes there—a gentle soul, one worthy to be cherished—or so I was told. I paid for his studies. I funded him to travel in Italy. I trusted him to go to the Sorbonne for me, to put my case in the matter of my annulment.’

His first annulment, he means. ‘I heard he put it very well.’

‘I would have rewarded him. I would have made him Archbishop of York. You know he is in minor orders, he is not yet a priest, but my thought was, he might quickly be ordained, and as the see was vacant after Wolsey—but he would none of it. Said he was too young. Not worthy. I should have known then, he meant to turn.’ The king thumps the folio. ‘All I asked of him was one word out of Italy—a statement, a scholar’s opinion, something I could set before the world, to show his family’s support. I told him, I do not need a book, I have books enough, I need just a word, to justify how and why I am head of my own church. And I waited. In great patience. And I was promised and promised, but nothing forthcame. Always some reason for delay. The heat, the cold, an outbreak of disease, the poor state of the roads, the untrustworthy nature of messengers, and his need to remove, to travel, consult some rare volume or some learned divine. Well, now it has come at last. It is a book after all.’ The king looks exhausted, as if he had written it himself. ‘And worth the waiting, because now the scales fall from my eyes.’

He moves to pick up the manuscript, but the king drops his hand on it. ‘I will save you the trouble. First there is a note to me, cold and insolent in tone. After that, each page more bitter than the last. I am a greater danger to Christians than the infidel Turk. He calls me a Nero, and a wild beast. He advises the Emperor Charles to invade. He claims that for the whole of my reign I have plundered my subjects and dishonoured the nobility. They are now ready to revolt, he claims, lords and commons both, and he exhorts them to do so, to rise up and murder me.’

‘It must appear to your Majesty—’

‘And I am damned,’ Henry says. ‘Hell gapes for me. Or so he says.’

‘—it must strike your Majesty that a rising, such as he advocates, cannot only be against somebody. It must also be for somebody.’

‘Of course. You see how it all works together? Pole exhorts Europe to take arms against me, and at the very same hour, my own daughter defies me. Tell me this—why is Reginald not a priest yet? When he is so fond of his prayers? I will tell you why. Because his family schemes to marry him to my daughter.’

Neat, if they could do it. Mary Tudor carries the best blood of Spain. Unite it with Plantagenet blood: that’s the thinking. The Pole family and their allies dream of a new England: which is to say, an old one, where they rule again.

‘I believe,’ he says, ‘that the Lady Mary regards your Majesty’s favour more than that of any bridegroom. Even if Heaven sent him.’

‘So you say. But then you always defend her.’

‘She is a woman, she is young. Trust me, your Majesty, she will see her duty, she will comply. These people who call themselves her supporters, they take advantage of her. I don’t believe she can penetrate their schemes.’

The king says, ‘I lived with her mother for twenty years, and I tell you, she could penetrate any scheme. You said yourself, if Katherine had been a man, she would have been a hero like Alexander.’

He had once said to Cranmer, the dreams of kings are not the dreams of other men. They are susceptible to visions, in which the figures of their ancestors come to speak to them of war, vengeance, law and power. Dead kings visit them; they say, ‘Do you know us, Henry? We know you.’ There are places in the realm where battles have been fought, places where, the wind in a certain direction, the moon waning, the night obscure, you can hear the thunder of hooves and the creak of harness and the screams of the slain; and if you creep close—if you were thin air, suppose you were a spirit who could slide between blades of grass—then you would hear the aspirations of the dying, you would hear them cry to God for mercy. And all these, the souls of England, cry to me, the king tells him, to me and every king: each king carries the crimes of other kings, and the need for restitution rolls forward down the years.

‘You think me superstitious,’ Henry says. ‘You do not understand me. However Pole’s family offends me, I am fastened to them, by the history that binds us together.’

The bonds of history can be loosened, he thinks. ‘If there was a crime, it is an old crime. If there was a sin, it is stale.’

‘You cannot enter into my difficulty. How can you?’

You’re right, he thinks, how can I? Ghosts don’t oppress the Cromwells. Walter does not rise by night, ale pot in hand, chisel in his belt, roistering by the wharves and showing his bruised knuckles to Putney. I don’t have a history, only a past. ‘Given my poor understanding, what shall I do for you, sir?’

‘Go and see Margaret Pole. She is here in London. See if she knew about her wretched son’s book. See if his brothers knew.’

‘They will disclaim it, I am sure.’

‘I ask myself, what did you know?’ The king’s eyes rest on him. ‘You do not seem amazed by it, as I was amazed.’

‘Your Majesty will remember why my lord cardinal employed me, in times past. It was not for my knowledge of the law. There are lawyers enough. It was for my connections in Italy. I am good to my friends there. I write them letters. They write to me.’

‘If you knew, you could have stopped it.’

‘I could have stopped Reginald sending the book to your Majesty. But he was determined to speak his mind. I could not, for example, stop him sending it to the Pope.’

Henry pushes the book across the table. ‘He swears there is only one copy, and this is it. But why should I believe him? In two months it could be printed and read everywhere. Likely the Pope is reading it now. And the Emperor too.’

‘I suppose Charles needs to be alerted. If he is to lead this invasion force that Pole seeks.’

‘They will never make landfall,’ Henry says. ‘I will eat them alive.’

Now everything falls away, the pain, the doubt and the jaundiced fear that has shadowed Henry this last hour. Now he slaps his hand down on the book, and a cannibal glint in his eye reminds you: dog eat dog, but no man eats England. He rises from his chair. You think he is going to say, Fetch me Excalibur.

But these are not the days of heroes and giants. He tells the king, ‘I believe men in the Pole livery have been seen at Hunsdon, with messages for Lady Mary—though of course, we do not know that she has read them. The Courtenays are there too, though she is forbidden visitors—’

‘The Courtenays? Lord Exeter himself?’ The king is shocked.

‘No. His lady wife. I think Lady Mary could not prevent her. You know what she is, Gertrude Courtenay.’

‘She will thrust herself in, by God. She tries my patience. Tell Exeter he is expelled from the council. A man who cannot control his wife is not fit to serve his country.’ Henry frowns. His mind runs over sundry faces. ‘What about Riche, shall we have Riche on?’

He would just as soon the council were smaller. But it would help to have another man with a head for figures.

‘Good. You can tell him,’ Henry says.

Richard Riche on the council! He can see Thomas More, turning in his grave like a chicken on a spit. As if he can see it too, Henry points to the folio. ‘Pole says I murdered More and Fisher. He says that he hesitated to write against me, loyalty constrained him. But when he got the news of their deaths, he took it as a message from God.’

‘He should have taken it as a message from me.’

Henry walks to the window. ‘Get Reginald back here.’ His form shows faintly in the leaded panes. His clothes seem to weigh heavy on him, and he can hardly raise his voice above a murmur. ‘Promise what you like. Assure him what you like. Tell him to come back to England. I want to look him in the eye.’

---

In the watching chamber, a knot of councillors, whispering. He walks into their midst. They fall silent. He looks around the circle. ‘Did you hope he would beat me about the head, like Patch?’

Word has leaked out. Pole’s book has come, Henry mislikes it, it calls him Nero. William Fitzwilliam says, ‘Pole could not have timed it worse if he had tried. It will go hard with Mary, if Henry thinks her complicit.’

‘This looks black for Pole’s family,’ says Lord Chancellor Audley. ‘It looks black for all the ancient blood. The Courtenay family too.’

‘Exeter is off the council. You’re on, Riche.’

‘What, me?’

‘Hold him up, Fitzwilliam.’

‘Jesus! Thank you!’ Riche says. ‘Thank you, Lord Cromwell.’

‘It was the king’s idea. I think he liked what you said, about Absalom.’

‘What?’ the Lord Chancellor says. ‘King David’s son? He that hangs in the tree by his hair? What did Riche say about him? When did he say it?’

Someone takes Lord Audley aside, and explains it all to him.

Riche looks dazed. Fitzwilliam says, ‘Crumb, you had warning of this book.’

‘I have entered into the mind of Reginald like a worm into an apple.’

‘When? When did you know?’ Fitzwilliam’s mind is busy.

Riche says, ‘No wonder you dealt so boldly these last weeks. With that card in your hand. No danger now the king will revert to Rome.’

‘The lad is getting an education,’ he says to Fitz.

I have been watching Pole for a year, he admits—as in Italy the young man procrastinates. Tortured by his own prose Reginald scribbles, then erases. He amends, and then he writes more and does worse. But the day must come, the letter be signed at last—the ink blotted, the papers rolled and tied, and the messenger summoned to carry it to England. Anne Boleyn’s death would speed the matter: for Pole would think, ‘Now Henry’s resolve is weakened, now he is ready to repent, now I will threaten him with damnation and scare him back to Rome.’ So he might, if he had modulated his argument. But Reginald does not understand Henry, not as a man: still less does he comprehend the mind and will of a prince.

‘I have met him,’ he says. ‘Pole.’ He remembers a fledgling scholar, body neither tall nor short nor stout nor lean; fairish hair, broad pleasant countenance. Reginald’s plain exterior gives no idea of the elaborate, useless nature of his mind, with its little shelves and niches for scruples and doubts. ‘One time I believe I laughed at him,’ he says. The boy had prated about how virtue should rule nations. I do not disagree, he had said; but read some books to bolster your scant practical experience. The Italians understand these matters.

Since then Reginald has been frightened of him. He speaks ill of him: says he is a devil, and you can’t speak worse than that. And yet, when a travelling scholar calls on him, or a noble young Italian wishing to improve his English, Pole never thinks to ask, ‘Could this be an emissary of Satan, alias Cromwell?’ Time was, Reginald was tempted by Luther’s teachings; we know how he wobbled on to that course, and wobbled off again. Time was, he doubted the Pope’s authority; his doubts were recorded. Pole’s folly is, that he thinks aloud. Some apprentice phrase, modelled on Cicero, trembles in the air; he believes no one hears. He writes, and he thinks no one reads; but friends of Lucifer look into his book. At dusk he locks his manuscript in a chest, but the devil has a key. Demons know every crossing-out and every blot. His ink betrays him. The fibres in his paper are spies. When he lies down at night, the horsehair in his mattress and the feathers in his bolster are eavesdropping on England’s behalf, as he supplicates, in hedging, quibbling terms, whatever form of God he believes in that day.

Fitz says, ‘You could bring the Poles down now. The whole family.’

‘Except for Reginald,’ Riche chips in. ‘He is out of the jurisdiction.’

Lord Audley says, ‘A good point, Mr Speaker. But you leave one singing bird in the cage, to lure another home.’

Riche says, ‘How is that on the point, Lord Chancellor? It is rather the opposite, do you not think? Pole being free, his song lures out the others. We see treason on the wing.’

‘Oh,’ Audley says. ‘Yes, I suppose you are right.’

He says, ‘I could have brought them down two years ago.’

‘The prophetess,’ Fitz says, ‘Eliza Barton, there was a great traitor. That was like them, to shelter behind the skirts of some deluded little nun who thought God talked to her. Only—tell me if I am wrong—did not Barton favour the Courtenay claim over the Poles?’

‘The difference between the families kept eluding her,’ Riche says. ‘That was my view. I believe Master Secretary is right. Let their designs play out. We should stay our hand. They will hang themselves.’

‘By God, a councillor already,’ Fitz says. He snatches Riche’s hat off and lopes the length of the chamber, throwing it up to the Tudor roses in the ceiling. Is that a stray HA-HA lurking up there? The Lord Chancellor, loyal soul, is squinting up and craning his neck.

---

L’Erber, the Pole house: Margaret, the countess, looks up at his entrance, but does not speak.

What’s she doing? Needlework, like any beldame. Her hawk’s profile is lowered over her work, as if she is pecking it.

Margaret’s son, Henry Lord Montague, winces visibly at the sight of him. ‘Master Secretary. Please sit.’

He would rather stand. ‘I take it you know what’s in the book, more or less? The king keeps it close. He will treat you to some extracts, but he would like you to write to your brother in Italy, to tell him he is not offended.’

Montague stares at him. ‘Not offended?’

‘Your brother is welcome to return to England to put his case.’

‘I ask you,’ Montague says, ‘would you come, if you were Reynold?’

Reynold: that’s what his family call him. A name with a liquid, subtle nature.

‘The king would offer him a safe-conduct. And you have always found the king a man of his word.’

Montague says, ‘We, his family—I tell you, Cromwell, we are amazed by my brother’s proceedings. I think you knew more of this than we did.’

‘Shall I tell the king that you repudiate him?’

Montague hesitates. ‘That is strong…’

‘Deprecate.’ Margaret Pole speaks. ‘You may say we deprecate his writings and are dismayed.’

‘Astonished,’ he suggests. ‘Struck by sorrow and frozen with horror, to find he sets up his judgement against the king’s. That he belies his prince, slanders him, threatens him with invasion, and tells him he is damned.’

‘I am not my brother’s keeper,’ Montague says.

‘Someone must be. If not you, then me. Reginald needs to be locked away for his own protection. At present, I stand between you and the king’s displeasure.’

‘Good of you,’ Montague says.

‘I stand also between the king and his daughter. You must see that, before this book arrived, the Lady Mary was in jeopardy through her own foolish pride. But now, because the king suspects she is complicit in this, her position is graver still. And it is your family who has put her in danger.’

Montague is a languid man, hard to arouse, hard to bait. It is Margaret Pole who puts down her work and speaks. ‘We helped you pull down the Boleyns, when they were threatening your life.’

‘I took the risks of that enterprise. Not you.’

‘You owe us a debt,’ she says, ‘and now you do not have to pay it. You knew the book was in preparation. You knew all that would occur.’

‘Can you explain that to Nicholas Carew? He doesn’t seem to take it in. I owe him nothing. I owe you nothing, Madam. The obligation is on the other side. And whether Mary lives or dies—I will not say it is in my hands, but it may be in yours. I look for your aid to keep her in the land of the living. Where I think she can do most good.’

‘Her mother, God rest her soul, made me her Lady Governor,’ Margaret Pole says. ‘How would I repay Katherine’s trust, if I advised the princess to act against her own conscience?’

Montague says, ‘I do not see, Cromwell, what is your interest in this. You appear to want to save Mary from herself, and save her from her friends too. But you cannot imagine she will favour you thereafter?’

‘Should she become queen,’ Margaret Pole says, ‘and I hope and pray she never has that misfortune, then she will at once, surely—’

What? Put me in the Tower? Strike off my head? Make me Lord Chancellor?

‘My lady mother…’ Montague warns.

‘Ah, I see the Treason Act,’ Margaret says gaily. ‘I see its trip-wire. It is a crime to envisage the future. We are trapped in the hour we occupy.’

‘In past months,’ he says to Montague, ‘you have spoken with the Emperor’s man Chapuys, and assured him that England is ready to rise against the king.’ He holds up a hand: do not interrupt me. ‘Only two, three weeks ago, in the West Country, we saw simple people in arms.’

‘That is Courtenay land,’ Montague says. ‘So tax them with it.’

No loyalty among thieves, he thinks. ‘It is lucky for you no great harm is done, and the country now quiet. But any repetition—any further breach of the king’s peace, in any part of the realm—it will be hard for you to show you are not the instigator.’

‘But could you show that he is?’ Margaret puts in. ‘Because in my poor understanding, it is for the accuser to demonstrate guilt.’

‘That should not be a matter of great difficulty. Besides, the common law provides ways to protect the realm from traitors. I mean an attainder, by which no trial is needed.’

Margaret is still. She glides her needle into her cloth. Her father died this way.

‘Madam,’ he says, ‘do not by your resistances and your evasions and your plots corrupt a good king who has done everything in his power to recompense your family for what it has suffered. Pray for concord, as all good Christians ought. And write the Lady Mary a letter.’

‘You will carry it?’ Montague says.

‘Give it to your friend Chapuys. That way, the young lady will not say it is forged.’

Margaret says, ‘You are a snake, Cromwell.’

‘Oh no, no, no.’ A dog, madam, and on your scent. He interposes his reassuring bulk between her person and the light. Margaret is sewing a border of flowers. It is the emblem of her family, the viola: known also as the pansy, or heart’s-ease. ‘I compliment you. I am surprised your sight is still sharp enough for that work.’

She reaches for her scissors. ‘I have seen other days, and better.’

---

He sends nephew Richard to the Tower with an order to free Thomas Wyatt. The arrival of Pole’s book, as news of its content seeps and leaks through the court, has caused such a stir that no one is looking Wyatt’s way. No one has seen the text, but when they guess at what is in it, their guesses are not bad enough; they cannot imagine its bitter prolixity, its heedless squandering of the favour of the living, its praise of dead men. Rumours of new arrests are flying. Lady Hussey, who once served in Mary’s household, is whisked into the Tower. He sends Wriothesley to talk to her. She admits that when, by the king’s grace, she had licence to visit Hunsdon at Whitsuntide, she addressed the Lady Mary as Princess.

‘She claims it was old habit,’ Wriothesley says. ‘She swears she did not mean, God strike her, to claim that Mary was Henry’s lawful successor. She spoke unthinkingly. She says.’

Richard Cromwell, banging in. ‘I told Wyatt, go down to Kent and never dwell on the dead. Stay there till he’s told. Constable Kingston wants to know, will he need lodgings for any other noble prisoners, and if so, can you say how many and specify their rank and sex and age, and tell him when they will be arriving? He wants to be ready.’

‘Is Kingston not always ready? You astonish me.’

‘Sir,’ Wriothesley says, ‘I know you pity the Lady Mary. But let her go now.’ He says to Richard, ‘She looks modest as any maid, she speaks low, she shrinks from men, but when Sadler and I went to Hunsdon—if she had a dagger I swear she would have stuck it in me, when I told her how neat a job the man from Calais made.’

She’s hard to like, he says. That’s all he will say.

---

As Henry takes his place at the council board, he rests a fist on the table to steady himself; he moves cautiously, steering himself so as not to knock or jolt. Courteous, he murmurs his thanks to his new councillor, as Riche eases back a chair to give clear passage to his bandaged leg. ‘Sworn in, Riche? Good.’ He falls into his seat with a little grunt, and grips the council board to drag himself towards it.

‘A cushion, Majesty?’ Lord Audley suggests.

Henry closes his eyes. ‘Thank you, no. Today there is only one matter—’

‘A more capacious chair perhaps?’

The king’s voice shakes. ‘—one salient matter … Thank you, Lord Audley, I am comfortable.’

He catches the Lord Chancellor’s eye, and presses a palm across his own mouth. But Richard Riche is not so easily suppressed. At the sight of Edward Seymour: ‘You here, sir? I did not think you were sworn?’

‘Well, it appears—’ Edward says.

‘It appears that I want his opinion,’ the king says. ‘In this instance at least. These are matters that come very near me. You understand, Riche?’

Edward is the king’s brother now; of course he wants his advice. But Edward sits awkwardly on a stool at the end of the table. He looks like a man who is on trial, to see if he gives satisfaction; perhaps his sister is in the same case.

Richard Riche cannot settle. He leans over to whisper: sir, is this truly a meeting of the council, or some other form of conference? He, Cromwell, whispers back: just sit still and listen. Fitzwilliam looks around. ‘Where is my lord of Norfolk?’

‘I have directed him,’ Henry says, ‘to avoid my sight.’

Good news for Fitz. His quarrels with the Howards go back a decade and more. ‘You should never have sent him to Mary, sir. You know what he is. He talks to a woman as if she were a town wall and he has to breach her.’

‘I do not think,’ the Lord Chancellor says, ‘that you should speak of the king’s daughter as “a woman” .’

‘Well, what else is she?’ Fitzwilliam says. ‘If I call her a lady, it does not alter the case. Norfolk was the last man to do anything with her.’

Henry says, ‘I admit, I chose ill. It is not likely she will yield to force.’ Is there a hint, in his tone, of perverse pride? ‘We must choose another messenger. Perhaps my lord archbishop, with his gentle persuasions…’

Fitz stares at him. ‘She hates Cranmer. How would she not? Cranmer divorced you from her mother. He called her the product of incest.’

‘And so she is.’ The king bows his head. ‘It was a great sin—committed, as you know, in ignorance.’

‘Majesty,’ Edward Seymour says, ‘we are all cognisant—there is no need—spare yourself—’

‘Forgive me if it appears the weight of twenty years is on my shoulders.’ The king seems calm, resigned: but I know, he thinks, that dangerous twitch of his mouth. ‘Since in Christendom for a clear generation it has been debated in every students’ hall, bawled out in every pulpit, and jangled in every alehouse, I have no objection if the matter be stated again. Though the scripture is clear that such a marriage is not licit, I believed, in those days, that the Pope had power to dispense. I know better now. My daughter Mary is the product of a union illegitimate. If Katherine would not acknowledge the sin in this life, as she would not, then I fear she will suffer for it in the place where she is now.’

Peterborough, he thinks.

‘For my part,’ the king says, ‘my eyes being opened to the abusions and pretences of Rome, I have wrought for seven years to rid myself of that accursed jurisdiction and to lead my country on a true path to Christ. If I have not atoned by this time—then, gentlemen, I know not how, and I know not when. To be defied by my daughter, to know that my own kin and cousins urge her on, to be reviled in my own house by that monster of ingratitude, Pole—to be called heretic and schismatic and Judas—’

‘No, sir,’ Riche interrupts. ‘It was not your Majesty that Pole called a Judas. It was Bishop Sampson, for acting as proctor in your divorce.’

‘Our new councillor is an exact man.’ Henry turns to Riche. ‘Then what does he call me? Antichrist, is it? Lucifer?’

Day star, he thinks, bringer of light.

‘So I warn you,’ Henry says. ‘If I hear one voice raised in support of that errant creature my daughter, I shall know I am hearing treason. I am taking advice. I have called in the judges to consider what is the best way to bring her to trial.’

Fitzwilliam slaps his palm on the board. ‘Trial? Jesus save us! Your flesh and blood? I implore you, think before you do this. You will make yourself a monster in the sight of all.’

He cuts in, ‘Majesty, Mary is ill.’

‘The king will be ill!’ Riche says. ‘Look at him!’

Edward Seymour whispers, ‘Riche, forbear.’

Henry turns to him. ‘Tell me, Crumb, when is she not ill? I wonder if so weakly a creature can be mine. Her brothers and sisters all died. I wonder how she lived. I wonder what God meant by it.’

Fitzwilliam says, ‘Well, if you don’t know, Harry, who does? You are His deputy, are you not? You know all our fates.’

‘I know yours,’ Henry says.

Henry glances up to the doors. A nod, and the guards would march in. Richard Riche sits frozen on his bench, jaw dropped, fingers poised as if to make a note. Edward Seymour half-rises: ‘Pardon, Majesty. Pardon Master Treasurer’s plain speaking. We are all … we are all over-wrought…’

Henry sighs. ‘Over-wrought, abused, exhausted. True, Ned, we are. Go on, Fitzwilliam, take yourself out of the council chamber before I have you taken, my patience is not infinite, neither with you nor my daughter. So, Crumb, tell us about her illness. What is it this time? I heard it was cramps, then fever, then headache, then toothache.’

‘I am afraid it is all of them. She writes—’

‘Let me see her letter.’

The letter is in his pocket.

‘I shall send for it, sir.’

‘Some of you councillors know more of my daughter’s mind than I do myself.’ Again, that tight smile: Henry is in pain. ‘Master Secretary promised me he could get her compliance—that he would make her swear the oath without stirring himself from Whitehall. But he too has failed me.’

Fitzwilliam is almost out of the room; but he turns to face the councillors, his papers held across his chest. ‘Some of us are trying to save you from yourself, Majesty. You are flailing and injuring all about, because Pole has insulted you. Reckon with your enemies, not your friends. As for Mary—lock her up, yes, keep her close where she can do no harm—but that you should go so far as to consult the judges, that you should consider bringing your own daughter before a court—because what then? I tell you, she is guilty. What needs a judge? What needs a jury? She will not swear the oath and she will give you her reasons, as Thomas More would not. She will say she is not a bastard, but a princess of England, and that you are no more head of the church than I am. Then what will you do? Cut off her head?’

Audley turns down his mouth. ‘Brave man.’

‘Dead man,’ Seymour murmurs.

He, Lord Cromwell, rises from his place. He strides across the room, grasps Master Treasurer by his coat, trips him off-balance, tumbles him backwards and bundles him towards the doors. They open smoothly, like the gates of Hell. He seizes the treasurer’s chain of office, trying to loop it over Fitz’s head. The councillor bellows, the chain twists; Fitz threads his fingers into it; they tussle. ‘Hands off me, Cromwell,’ Fitz bawls, and swipes at him with his other fist. But he has a grip on the chain and he hauls Fitz nose to nose, spitting into his face, ‘Give it over, you dolt.’

Fitz comprehends. He yields his grip. He yelps, a finger still caught, as the chain flies free. A shove in the chest: Fitz staggers backwards. The doors slam.

He, Lord Cromwell, crosses the room and drops the chain on the table before the king. Clank.

‘No, that won’t do,’ Henry says. ‘Getting up a fight for my benefit, when I know you agree with him.’ His fingers reach out for the chain, the gold still warm from where it lay against a velvet chest. ‘Still, I applaud your effort, my lord. Fitz is no mean weight.’ He won’t look at his councillors. ‘Bring Lord Montague to see me. I wish to read him extracts from his brother’s letter. Fetch Bishop Judas—strangely enough, I find Sampson is one man on whom I can rely. Perhaps we should bring Gardiner back from France. He usually has ideas about what to do, and none of you seem to know. Remind Sir Nicholas Carew I forbid him to communicate with my daughter. Tell the Courtenay family I know their practices. Warn them of my extreme displeasure. Commit Francis Bryan to the Tower. I hear he has been hawking his opinions about the town, saying that Mary is ill-used and I am an unnatural father.’

‘Oh, you know Francis,’ Edward Seymour says. ‘He doesn’t mean it. He loves your Majesty.’

‘And Fitzwilliam?’ Audley is frowning. ‘Must we appoint a new Master Treasurer?’

‘Fitzwilliam,’ the king says gently, ‘is not greatly to be blamed. He is my old friend, and I think you commonly say, you councillors, that he understands me better than any man alive.’ Henry looks around the table, fearfully leisured; all their hours are his. ‘You see,’ he says, ‘I do know what you councillors say, and how you scheme to govern me, and talk of who I love and who not. If there is one being in this world a man should trust, it is his maiden daughter. She should have no will but his, and no thought but what comforts him; in return, he protects her, and works her advancement. But Master Treasurer has no children. God has so disposed it. Not being a father, he cannot feel what I feel, and he does not know what I have suffered these last weeks. For I have never varied: Mary knows what declaration I require of her, and has known since the oath was first framed. If she chose to believe my title and right was some whim of that woman lately dead, then she was much mistook, and much misled, and if she has entertained some notion that I will creep back to Rome, she is a greater fool than I thought her. But what you do not see, what none of you seems to understand, is that I love my daughter. I think of all my children dead in the cradle, or dead before they saw the light. If I lose Mary, what have I? Ask yourselves … what comfort have I in this breathing world but her?’

The room is silent. I felt, Audley will say later, that I should cross and say ‘Amen.’ Not even the new councillor is crude enough to say, ‘In fact, Majesty, you have young Richmond,’ or remind him of the ginger pig Eliza, squalling somewhere up-country. But Edward Seymour is frowning: if the king has nothing, where does that leave sister Jane, where does that leave the family at Wolf Hall?

‘So, good Master Secretary,’ the king says. ‘Lord Cromwell—as you love me and love my service, you will bring this matter to a conclusion. We shall not come here to debate it again.’

The king puts his palms on the table and levers himself to his feet. The councillors tumble from bench and stool, and kneel. They kneel till he is out of the room. Even when the doors are closed after him they do not speak. Till the Lord Chancellor says, ‘Conclusion? What does that mean?’

‘God knows,’ he says.

Riche says, vehement, ‘I wish I were never a councillor! I wish I were in China.’

Seymour mutters, ‘I wish you were in Utopia.’

Mary’s letter, which is still in his pocket, tells him: Cromwell, I can go no further, I can concede no more. I will sign no articles that slander my mother the queen. I will never agree my father is or ought to be head of the church. Do not let them push me, do not let them entreat me, I have moved as far as my conscience will let me move. You are my chief friend and sustainer. My very trust is in you.

‘I think he wants you to kill her,’ Edward Seymour says.

The cardinal, in his day, used to laugh about the time when the young Henry thrust a leg forth from his gown and invited the French ambassador to admire his calf. ‘Has your king a leg like that?’ he asked. ‘Tell me, has he? King Francis is a tall man, I know, but is he broad in the shoulder like me?’

Now the same prince, dragging away from the council chamber, wraps his gown about himself, the fine calf visibly bandaged, his face puffy and pale. Henry is the site, his body the locus, the blood and bile and phlegm; his burdened and oppressed flesh the place where all arguments come to rest.

---

At the Tower, Francis Bryan says, ‘Was this where you kept Tom Wyatt?’

‘Airy,’ he says, ‘isn’t it? I always get good lodgings for my friends.’

‘One in, one out.’ Francis slides low in his chair, and looks around him; one eye patched, the other bleared. ‘I take it house arrest would not have been enough?’

‘You’re safer here. That’s what I told Wyatt.’

‘I hear you are Privy Seal. You climb so fast, my lord, the kingdom has not ladders enough.’

‘Ladders? I have wings.’

‘Then flit into the dusk,’ Francis says, ‘before they melt.’

‘The king thinks Mary would not defy him unless a man were behind her. In chief he suspects your brother-in-law Carew.’

‘Old Carve-Away.’ Francis laughs. ‘He paints a picture of himself, the loyal chevalier in black armour. He gives Mary to understand he will make her queen.’

There is no note-taker. Only Lord Cromwell’s own folder of papers, on the table where the book of Petrarch’s verse lay: the putti, the sea monster, the binding soft as skin. His hand does not move. Time enough to write. ‘Carew, then. Who else?’

‘Lord Exeter’s tribe. And snivelling little Montague.’

‘If the king fetches them in, will you give testimony?’

‘Yes. If it’s me or them. Why should I be better than Tom Wyatt?’

‘No one ever thought you were.’

‘But you don’t want to bring them in, do you? You’d rather cut deals.’

‘It is my merciful nature prevents me—’

Francis snorts. ‘Nothing prevents you. But you cannot destroy Mary’s people unless you destroy her, and you don’t want to lose her, and you don’t think you can control Henry, if he keeps killing close to home.’

He remembers Francis standing beside the scaffold, sweating in his leather jerkin, waiting to sprint to the Seymours with the news that Anne’s head was off. If you want speed, choose Francis Bryan. Your impulses ripple beneath his skin, ready for action. If you want someone bribed, if you want someone charmed, if you want some secret and dirty dealing, you know where to go. If you want the unspeakable thing spoken, then give Francis the nod. ‘I know you, Cromwell,’ he says. ‘You think yourself a cautious politic man. But you are a gambler, like me.’

‘Not like you. You would crawl to the card table if you were poisoned. When you go blind you will sniff out the cups and wands. Your fingertips will feel out the spots on the dice.’

Francis says, ‘Another man, from the place where you come from, would get himself to a quiet spot and count his takings. Not Cromwell. He will have all to rule. If Seymour’s girl makes the king a son, who will oversee his princely education, but Cromwell? If Fitzroy is named heir, Cromwell is in his graces. If Mary survives to reign, she will always know that Cromwell saved her life.’

‘Believe me, Francis,’ he says, smiling, ‘I have no expectations. All I want is to get through the week.’

‘You won’t stop till you’re a duke. Or king.’ Francis pushes up his eye-patch. He rubs the scar tissue beneath. ‘Not that you would be a bad king, by the way.’

His glance flicks away from the wreckage of Bryan’s face. Its owner laughs. ‘You’ve seen worse.’

He goes to the door. ‘Martin? Fetch me a proper chair. How is this miserable stool still here? Didn’t I kick it out?’

Martin appears. ‘It must have trundled back by itself. I’ll toss the little bugger downstairs.’

‘Chop it up for firewood,’ Francis says. ‘Show it who’s master.’

‘And fetch claret,’ he says to Martin. ‘Put it on my tally.’

‘You keep an account?’ Francis says. ‘St Agnes bless me.’

‘I think of setting up my own cook, with a few spit boys and a cold room for pastry. I keep spare shirts here, and my lambskin coat. I keep clerks.’

‘No clerks,’ Francis says. ‘Or I fall silent.’

‘If you will give me the testimony you promise, I will put it away till such time as I can use it. I will write down what you say myself, and no one need ever know it comes from you. But if any of us are to live to see next week, Carve-Away must write to Mary, and admit she can look for no practical help from him or his friends, and that if she does not do exactly as I tell her, she will be lost. And I will speak to Henry for you and’—he rubs his own eyes—‘as soon as we are to the other side of this, you will be free. It will not be long. Mary must choose now: her father or the Pope.’

‘Her father or her mother,’ Francis says. ‘You cannot fight the dead. You may have to cede her to them. God knows why you think she is your future. Even if you save her now, she will die on you; she is always ailing. And if the king turns on you, it will not be like when old Henry Guildford quit and went off to the country to prune his fruit trees and enjoy the birdsong. Remember how Wolsey fell. Bungle this, and Henry will put you where I am now. Or in a worse place, where you would be glad of the three-legged stool.’

‘You sound as if you care,’ he says. ‘Giving me good advice.’

Francis says, ‘What is this commonwealth without you? I would like to see you thrive. After all, I may have to borrow money from you.’

Martin comes in, bumping a chair before him. He thinks, this will need patience: even if I get sure proofs of treason, can I afford to use them? Bryan is right. It is no small matter to bring down two great families and their affinities, when you have scarcely buried the Boleyns; and to do it without damage to the young woman whose cause they claim they promote. Henry cannot be ready before I am ready: I must restrain my cannibal king.

‘One more thing, Francis. When Carew has written his letter, your sister Eliza must take it to Hunsdon herself, and confer with your lady mother. Lady Bryan has brought up Mary from her infancy. I trust her to have her interests at heart.’

‘And,’ Francis says, ‘my lady mother is not the dottypoll she seems.’

‘They must go to Mary, mother and daughter, and be earnest with her, and use any persuasion. I am trusting your whole family to serve me in this.’

‘Well,’ Francis says with distaste, ‘if you must pull the women into it.’

‘The women are already in it. It’s all about women. What else is it about?’

Francis looks into his cup. He swills the contents about, as if he were divining and trying to change the fate in the lees. ‘People say, Henry will not make away with his daughter. Others say, we did not think he would make away with his wife. But I—I always knew he would kill Anne Boleyn. Or if not, then some other man would do it for him.’

---

The warm weather is here. The long days in which, if rumour is true, the Lady Mary does not eat: the short, light nights, in which she paces sleepless, her face swollen, her eyes red-rimmed; in which she swims in her salt tears as in a drowning pool. Tears are good for young women, especially those in whom the menstrual flow is stopped, or those who want a man in their bed but are obliged to do without. If Mary stopped crying, she might be even sicker than she is now. So when she sobs and retches, no one stirs to comfort her. When she cries, ‘Jesus pity me,’ it appears He does not.

The jurists whom the king consults suggest that the oath should be put to Mary again, so there can be no doubt that she knows what is required. Of course she knows, the king says. She is in no doubt. But he adds, as he did last month in the matter of Anne Boleyn, ‘Cromwell, I wish to stand right with the law in every particular.’

‘Send for Chapuys,’ he tells Richard: he, Lord Cromwell. ‘He must take supper with me. He will plead he has no appetite. But he can watch me eat.’

Richard says, ‘You could have resolved this two weeks ago. You have put us in peril day after day. Why do you not go to Mary yourself?’

‘Because I can only do this at a distance,’ he says.

He remembers the castle at Windsor, a day of baking heat; the year of our salvation, 1531. In the great courts, the king’s baggage wagons stood ready, the household departing for a summer of hunting, dancing and other sport. He himself, compelled to melt into shadow, up staircases and through shuttered rooms empty of contents; through the queen’s suite of rooms to find Katherine sitting alone, abandoned, obdurate, knowing but not consenting to know that Henry had gone without a word of goodbye; the child Mary, fragile as straw, leaning on the back of her chair. Madam, he said, your daughter is ill, she should sit. A spasm of pain shook the girl and caused her to droop, and clench her hand on the gilding. Katherine spoke to her in Castilian: ‘You are a daughter of Spain. Stand up.’

He battled that day for the sick, narrow body, and he won. At his feet, a stool: on the stool, a cushion embroidered with a mermaid. He picked up the stool in one hand, the mermaid in the other. He held the gaze of the Spanish queen, and slammed the stool down on the flags. The sun streamed through coloured glass; squares of light, pale green and vermilion, fluttered like standards against pale stone.

Katherine had closed her eyes. As if she herself were suffering, she made the barest concession to a nod. Then she opened her eyes and shifted her gaze to the middle distance. He saw the princess sway; he moved and caught her, arm outstretched. He steadied her: he remembers her tiny bones, her weightless body quivering, her forehead sheened with sweat. She sank to the stool. He passed her the cushion, studying her face. She hugged the mermaid against her belly, wrapping her arms across herself, bending double to ease her pain. After a moment, she let out her breath with a grunt. Then her head jerked up, and she took him in, astonished and grateful. In an instant she had wiped the expression away. It was a transaction so swift that you could barely say it occurred. But until the interview was concluded and he bowed himself out of the room, her eyes followed him everywhere he moved.

---

After supper, as a hush falls and the long midsummer day folds itself and disposes to dusk, he and the ambassador climb one of the garden towers. London lurks below them in the blue haze. Before them is a dish of strawberries they must finish before the moon rises. The ambassador has left his papers at the foot of the tower. His folio of white leather, stamped with the Emperor’s double eagle, rests on a bank of turf starred with daisies.

‘What irks me,’ he tells Chapuys, ‘is that no prince in Europe has a place to stand and look down at Henry. They have broken their parliaments, such as they were, racked their people with taxes, raided the church coffers, killed their councillors—but if they crook their knee to the Vatican, all is well, they are moral fellows and the Pope sends them a blessing and tells them what glorious monarchs they are. Which of them would have endured a barren wife, year after year? They would have poisoned her. Which of them would bear with a disobedient child? If Mary were the daughter of some other prince, she would be walled up and forgotten, or she would meet with an accident.’

‘Yes,’ Chapuys says. ‘But that is not what you are going to recommend.’

‘It doesn’t matter what I recommend. This affair has broken me. I am a dead man.’

‘You said that before. When the concubine was plaguing you.’

‘I said it and I meant it. I have gone so far in this matter there is no way back—I assured the king that Mary would comply. He hates a promise-breaker.’

Chapuys is pensive, tracing with a finger the faint, feathery pattern on the marble tabletop. ‘How did you get this up here?’

‘Winched it through the window. Did you think I prayed to the holy bones of Bishop Fisher, and he made it fly?’

He has leased this house from the canons at Smithfield, at St Bartholomew’s. Their prior Will Bolton was the king’s builder, a man with a good head for planning big works and seeing them through; bless me, Bolton, he sometimes says, when he arrives here and takes a breath, his horse walked to the stable, his bags hauled in by Christophe. The prior used to come out here to hunt in summer and recreate himself, and his rebus—a barrel or tun shot through with a crossbow bolt—is set into the garden walls. It is a small house with one good square chamber on each floor, and fruit trees and arbours all around, and garden towers so placed that they catch the summer breezes, and look down over the treetops to the city.

‘Prior Bolton was lame the last five years of his life,’ he says. ‘He can never have made it up here to get the view. Though one could not expect it, he was eighty-two at his decease.’

‘You are going to live for ever, of course,’ Chapuys says. ‘Always climbing.’

‘When we go in I will show you the enamelled tiles in the parlour. They are a pure lapis blue. He must have got them from Italy.’

The low murmur of their voices, the settling, preening doves in their cote: like a flake of summer snow, a stray feather floats past, and his eyes follow it into the dusk. Chapuys says, ‘Of course, I do not wonder everyone in this country has contempt for the Vatican. Rome let Katherine down, vacillating year after year.’

‘Everybody let her down. Her advisers were a set of old women. Fisher may have been a very holy man, but he was useless. As far as I can see, he told her to keep cheerful and hope for the best. And as for her friends abroad—what did your Emperor do? He made warlike noises.’

Chapuys says, ‘My master has the Turks to fight. He has more to do than quarrel with a wilful prince in a small island.’

‘So why should my king hold back now? He is at ease in his own kingdom. He can deal with his daughter as he pleases.’

‘You will forgive me for saying this,’ Chapuys says, ‘and I hope the dead will forgive me too—if the Emperor did not make shift to rescue his noble aunt, perhaps it was because he did not know what he would do with her thereafter. She would only have been a charge on him. She was used to spending money, as a queen does. And she might have lived to a great age.’

You must respect a man who cuts through the pieties as the ambassador does. He always tells people, don’t underestimate Chapuys. Behind his politesse there is a passionate little man, a cunning man too, and one prepared to take risks.

‘With Mary it is otherwise,’ the ambassador says. ‘Even if she does not achieve the throne, her children may, and they may turn the world in a way that is very much to the Emperor’s mind. You say Henry is at ease. But though the Emperor will overlook much, he will not suffer Mary to be mistreated. He will send ships.’

‘He will never make landfall.’

‘Have you studied a map of these islands? My prince is master of the seas. While you are guarding the coast of Kent, his ships will be bobbing in from Ireland. While you are watching the south-west, he will invade from the north-east.’

‘His captains will die on these shores. The king has said he will eat them.’

‘I am to carry that message?’

‘If you like. You know, and I know, the Emperor in arms has no power to save Mary. Her case is urgent.’

A head emerges, coming up the winding stair. It is Christophe. ‘Lords, will you have comfits?’ He clatters down a silver tray. ‘Master Call-Me is here.’ He casts an evil glance at Chapuys. ‘He is here for breaking ciphers. None may stand against his wit.’

Chapuys clasps his hands together. He fears for his papers, left below. His knee joints are sore, and a small groan escapes him, at the thought of lurching down three flights then climbing up again.

‘Ask Call-Me to sit beneath the vine and listen for the nightingales. Then fetch up the ambassador’s papers. Do not look into them.’

Christophe’s head sinks out of sight. ‘What a donkey that boy is!’ Chapuys selects a strawberry and frowns at it. ‘Thomas, I see it is not an easy thing to do, to show an innocent girl that the world is not as she thinks. The late Katherine never let the child hear a word in dispraise of her father. Everything was the fault of the cardinal, or his council, or his concubine. Nothing was the fault of Henry. Naturally she expected to be embraced, without question, once Anne Boleyn was dead.’ He takes a chary nibble. ‘Naturally, you must disabuse her.’

He nods. ‘She does not know her father.’

‘How could she? She has hardly seen him in five years. She has been in prison.’

‘Prison? She has been kept in great comfort.’

‘But we must not tell her that, Thomas. Better to tell her she has suffered grievously, in case she feels she has not done enough. She boasts to me she is not afraid of the axe.’

‘Is she not? When her last night on earth falls, and she must wait it out sleepless, and all that is before her is a sorry breakfast with the headsman, it will be no good crying for me to save her then.’

In the silence that ensues he wonders, where has Christophe got to? Is he reading the ambassador’s papers after all? What a breach of decorum that would be. But profitable, if the papers were in French. Christophe has sound recall.

‘It is her mother…’ Chapuys says. He is afraid, as shadows gather, at having spoken ill of the dead. ‘I believe she vowed to Katherine she would never give way. Vows to the living may be set aside, with their permission. But the dead do not negotiate.’

‘She does not want to live?’

‘Not at any price.’

‘Then how will history regard her—the grandchild of the kings of Spain, with not the wit or policy to save herself?’

Christophe whoops from below: the ambassador, who has selected an aniseed sweet, almost swallows it. The boy erupts among them, slaps down the Imperial folio: the black eagle flies against white marble. ‘What kept you, Christophe?’

‘One came up from Islington and says they fear thunder, the cows are lying down in the fields. I pray you, come down at the first spot of rain. If lightning strikes you are undone. Only a fool would stay at the top of a tower.’

‘I shall watch the sky,’ he says. ‘It will break over London first.’

Christophe’s head declines from view, a greasy planet in a crooked cap. He waits till he is sure the boy is out of earshot, then says, ‘If her father were to die now, then Mary might find herself queen, despite any disposition her father has made, despite any act of Parliament. Then as queen, she could put all to rights. Reunite us with Rome. Rivet on our shackles. She would have the pleasure of striking off my head. I do not trust her fair words.’

‘And what words are they?’

He takes out Mary’s letter and skims it across the table. ‘Shall I have Christophe fetch lights?’

‘I will puzzle it out,’ the ambassador says. ‘It is her hand,’ he allows. He squints at the paper. The arch behind him fills with the evening’s lustre, a pale opaline glow. ‘She is adamant she will resist the oath. But she calls you her friend—next to her father, God save her innocence, she calls you her chief friend in this world.’

‘But why should I trust her? I think she is full of guile.’

He is enjoying himself. The ambassador, he thinks, must woo me. I shall pretend I am a flighty heiress, and he must soothe my fears and caress me with his promises.

‘Mary has led me into a place of great peril,’ he says. ‘I have lost my reputation with the king. And what had I, but my reputation? Even if he does not kill me, nobody wants a used councillor.’

The ambassador knows the game but he will not play. Grimly he says, ‘Why does she think you are her friend? Something her mother told her. It can only be that. To think that after all this toil—’ He breaks off. He looks both angry and ashamed. ‘It seems to me that, if she trusts you, so must I. Which is an unfortunate situation to be in.’

‘You must advise her to give in, and you must make it right with the Emperor. Get his permission. His blessing.’

‘Unfortunately I do not keep the Emperor in my closet, where I can consult him at will.’

‘No? You should hang up his portrait. Perhaps in time you could teach it to speak.’

He thinks he hears a footstep below. ‘Hush.’ He is on his feet. He calls into the stairwell: ‘Who is that?’ The ambassador tenses and gathers himself, as if at any peril he would launch himself from the tower. The window is unglazed; the fading light softens the brickwork to a faint, flushed rose.

No answer. Prior Bolton did not build his garden walls high, or secure his fences. An ill-wisher can bend wattle or willow; through a fence of pliant hazel, a felon insinuate. He touches his heart and feels the knife, nestled between silk and linen.

‘Defence of a tower is easy,’ he says. ‘Even a garden tower. Anyone coming up, you just push them down again.’

‘You would relish that,’ Chapuys says. ‘They tell me you greatly enjoyed your tussle with the councillor Fitzguillaume. Really, Thomas, you are such a boy.’

‘Christophe?’ he calls. His voice curves in the stone spiral. ‘You are there?’

An answer echoes: ‘Where else?’ Christophe is surprised. He is always on guard, it is his early training as a thief. In his unoccupied moments, he sinks on his heels, his back against the wall, his head dropped as if he were dozing; but his ears are open, his eyes scanning for movement at the edge of his vision.

‘No one is there,’ he reassures the ambassador. ‘It is only Christophe.’ Chapuys settles back in his chair. ‘Eat up the strawberries,’ he tells him. ‘Write to Rome.’

‘But should one trust this fruit? To eat it raw?’ Chapuys frowns. ‘Chez-moi, we bake it in tarts.’

‘The Pope will forgive her, if she submits to save her life. Tell her you have asked for absolution for her. If you’re worried about the cost, I’ll cover it with Rome myself.’

‘I am more worried about my digestion. And I doubt she will credit this specious reasoning.’

‘Go to her first thing tomorrow, I’ll write you a pass.’ He leans towards the ambassador. ‘Tell her this. While Anne Boleyn was alive, there was no chance that Henry would restore her to the succession. But now, if she obeys him in every particular, her fortunes may look up.’

‘You are making her this offer?’ Chapuys raises an eyebrow. ‘Will Henry not prefer his bastard boy? I thought you favoured Richmond yourself. What has happened?’

‘Richmond cannot be put in place without great quarrel and grudge. Whichever lady the king has been married to—if he was ever married to anybody—the whole world agrees it was not to Richmond’s mother. As for any new heir he may get—the life of a young child, you cannot count on it from hour to hour. Tell Mary: if ever she is to compromise her conscience, now is the time, when she can do herself some good.’ He leans back in his chair. ‘Yes, of course she will despise herself afterwards. But that is the price. Tell her time will ease the sting of it.’

‘It seems to me,’ the ambassador says, ‘you are saying, you can live, but only as Cromwell permits. You can reign even—but only through Cromwell’s grace.’

‘If you wish to explain it like that.’ He has lost patience. ‘Explain it how you like. I will send her a document to sign. A deed of submission. She need not read it. In fact, she must not, as she may need to repudiate it later. But she must have a clerk copy it, because it cannot go to the king in my hand.’

‘No, that would wreck everything,’ Chapuys smiles. ‘She is not simple, you know.’

‘Tell her that from now on I will make sure she is protected. She will live at her ease, as a king’s daughter, and no one will trouble her to make the same prayers as I do, or to give up her saints, or her ceremonies. But then tell her—if she does not give way now, she is lost. I will regard her as the most obdurate and ungrateful woman who ever lived. I will not block the king’s will. And even if by some miracle she survives, she is dead to me. I take my leave of her for ever. I shall never come into her presence. I will never see her or speak to her again.’

A pause. ‘I see.’ The ambassador looks sardonic. ‘You had better write that yourself. I will carry your letter faithfully.’

‘Shall we go down?’

Chapuys winces as he stands, and rubs his back. ‘You first, my lord. I am so slow.’

He scoops the papers from the marble. ‘I’ll carry these.’ He is ahead of the ambassador. At the first landing he calls up, ‘I am not looking into them, I promise!’

Christophe is squatting, vigilant, in the posture he had imagined. Standing by him, another shape in the dimness. ‘Good evening, sir,’ the shape says softly. It is Mr Wriothesley, a sheaf of peonies in his hand.

---

In the parlour with the lapis tiles, the flame of a single wax candle shimmering in the blue, he makes his first draft; it is hard for him, to become the king’s daughter. At dawn he takes the draft back to the city, and in the morning light sits before it again: humble, trembling, obedient. Perhaps he should do this in a room alone; but he does not want to think about it too much.

He picks up a quill. Examines its tip. ‘This will require self-abasement.’

Richard Cromwell says, ‘Shall I go out and find somebody who’s better at it than you are?’

‘Richard Riche knows the art of creeping,’ Gregory offers. ‘And Wriothesley can crawl when required.’

He begins: ‘Most humbly prostrate before your Majesty…’

‘Try, prostrate at the feet of your Majesty,’ Gregory says.

‘Redundant,’ Richard says.

‘Yes, but it makes her sound … flatter.’

He amends the phrase. ‘Don’t let our efforts be mentioned outside this room. The king must think she composed it herself. I write to … why do I write?’

… To open my heart to your grace … as I have and will put my soul under your direction … so I wholly commit my body … desiring no state, no condition, nor no manner or degree of living but such as your grace shall appoint …

‘It sounds straight out of a law book,’ Richard says. ‘Not this, not that, not the other.’

‘True. She is not a Gray’s Inn man.’ He is exasperated. He knows no way to draft, but to cover every circumstance; no way to write that leaves a gap, a hairsbreadth, a crack, that would allow meaning to slide or leak away. Forgive my offences … I do recognise, accept, take, repute and acknowledge …

‘The king must expect her to take a lawyer’s advice,’ Gregory says. ‘He will expect it to show.’

… repute and acknowledge the king’s highness to be supreme head, under Christ, of the church of England …

I do freely, frankly … recognise and acknowledge that the marriage formerly had between his majesty and my mother … was by God’s law and man’s law incestuous and unlawful …

‘Incestuous and unlawful,’ Gregory repeats. ‘It covers everything. Nothing is left to want.’

‘Except,’ Richard says, ‘that she has not actually taken the oath.’

He dries the ink. ‘As long as no one makes Henry face that fact.’

Let this be her own form of oath, crushing and comprehensive. When she writes of Katherine, she says, the late princess dowager, as any subject might; but she also writes my mother, my dead mother: whose hand now falls incapacitate, and flinches into its shroud. Catalina, today you are put down; the living beat the dead, England conquers Spain. I have written letters for Mary before, he thinks, more pitiful than this and more yielding: I am but a woman, and your child. They met with small success. They did not touch the king’s heart. What touches his heart is giving him everything he wants: and in such a form that, until he had it, he did not know what he lacked. I put my soul under your direction. I commit my body to your mercy.

‘I want Rafe to take this to Hunsdon,’ he says. ‘Get it signed tonight.’

---

We are now in the third week of June. A gusty wet spring when Anne died; a month passes, and we are in high summer. On a hot morning you close your eyes and on your lids is stamped a blazing pattern of cloth-of-gold. You raise your arm to cover your face and the glare shifts to purple, as if bishops were hatching through flames. With the dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, he rides up to Hunsdon to honour the young lady who—penitent, chastened, abased—is once again fit to be called the king’s daughter.

Hertfordshire is a moneyed and populous country, well wooded and well furnished with the residences of gentlemen and courtiers. The house itself, brick-built on high ground, is fit for the accommodation of a king’s family. The manor itself is ancient, but this present house is perhaps eighty years old; they show as antiquities their charters with painted shields bearing the emblems of long-dead lords: the bend sable of a Despencer heiress, the Mowbrays’ lion argent, and the royal arms of Edmund Beaufort, with their broken border of silver and blue. Two years back the king laid out near three thousand on new tiles and timbers, and sent up people from Galyon Hone’s workshop to glaze the principal chambers with striped roses, lovers’ knots, shivering white falcons and fleurs-de-lys. At the same time—providentially, as it turns out—the whole house was made more tight and secure, with new hinges, clasps, hooks, bolts and locks.

On the journey the trains of the three lords keep separate, for fear of quarrels between servants. Norfolk says, cackling, ‘It is well-known what Cromwell does when he strays north of London, he will stop at some low hostelry to drag out a pot-washer and have his pleasure of her.’ Except that the duke uses a coarser expression, accompanying it with a driving elbow and a pumping fist.

Charles Brandon roars. It’s Brandon’s sort of joke.

He notices the Lesser Thomas is riding with Norfolk. Whatever the half-brothers were whispering about when he left them together, they are whispering still. ‘You see that?’ he says to Suffolk.

‘I do,’ Suffolk says. ‘Your man, Tom Truth. Walking/talking. Dipping/snipping. Wishing/fishing.’

Poor boy, he thinks. Even Suffolk knows how evil he rhymes. He recalls the young Howard’s stricken face, when he broke it to him that the ladies shared their verses. As if he never thought that could happen. As if he thought they read the poem then ate the paper.

In the great hall, Lady Shelton meets them; she has been Mary’s custodian these last three years, not a post anyone envies. Brandon strides in: she makes her reverence: ‘My lord Suffolk. And Thomas Cromwell, at last.’ She kisses him heartily, as if he were her cousin; whereas to Thomas Howard, who really is her cousin, she says, ‘May we hope your lordship will not abuse the furnishings? Inventory is kept, and the tapestry that was rent by your lordship, the other week, was worth a hundred pounds.’

‘Was it so?’ Norfolk says. ‘I wouldn’t use it to wipe my arse. Where’s John Shelton? Never mind, I’ll find him myself. Charles, come with me.’

The dukes exit, hallooing for their host. He says, ‘He attacked the arras? What else did he do?’

‘He threatened Lady Mary with a beating, and drove his fist into the wall, injuring himself.’ Lady Shelton raises a hand to hide her smile. ‘He was like a drunken bear. I thought Mary would faint from fright. I thought I would. Anyway, you are here now, thank God.’

‘Uglier than ever,’ he says. ‘While you, my lady, the more cares are heaped on you, the more gracefully you wear them.’

It is clear Lady Shelton bears him no ill will: which she might have, as the late queen was her niece. With a whisk of her hand she brushes his compliment away, but, ‘By Our Lady,’ she says, ‘we have wanted you here a long season. Lady Bryan, as you know, is solely in charge of the nursery and what appertains to the little child, but having nursed Mary herself when she was scarcely weaned, she thrusts her advice in at every turn, and she presumes to tell Shelton how to run the wider household, as if the whole world must revolve about my lady Eliza. We have no instructions about the baby, except that she is no longer to be called “the Princess Elizabeth”. What do you think, will the king disown her?’

He shrugs. ‘We dare not ask. His leg has been paining him and he is out of temper because he cannot ride three hours in the morning and play tennis all afternoon. It is never sweet dealing, when he wants exercise. But who knows—now he has Mary’s conformity, we may be able to approach him. What do you think? You see the child daily.’

‘I think she’s Henry’s. You should hear her bawl. Had any of Anne’s gentlemen red hair?’

‘None of the dead gentlemen,’ he says.

She hesitates. Then, ‘Ah, I see … there may have been others? Who were not brought to trial?’ He can see her mind ranging. ‘Wyatt you would call blond…’

‘Wyatt I would call bald.’

‘You men are cruel to each other.’

‘The king said Anne slept with a hundred men.’

‘Did he? Well, I suppose he could not be any ordinary cuckold.’ She glances over her shoulder. ‘Is it true Wyatt is released?’

He wants to say, the ground is closing over your niece, we are moving on. ‘No one is detained now—not in connection with that affair. You have heard of this letter come from Italy?’

‘Reynold. Yes. The great fool. I thought he had ruined Mary, I tell you. And what about John Seymour’s daughter? How does she do, now she is mistress of all?’

‘She is good for Henry. She soothes his temper.’

‘A wet cloth can do that. Still, good luck to her. She must have more about her than first appears, if she was able to displace my niece.’

Lady Shelton takes his hand and draws him into the house and calls for wine. ‘I will tell you how it was, when Sadler brought your letter. We may as well sit. Shelton will be an hour with the dukes, pouring out his complaints about Lady Bryan.’

He likes to be told a story by Lady Shelton. He feels it will be one he can keep a grip on. ‘You can go, Rob,’ she says to the waiting boy. The boy—it is Mathew, from Wolf Hall—turns at the door and catches his eye. He looks away. I shall say to him, he thinks, lonely though you be—in a strange house, serving under a strange name—you must make no signal, and certainly never in a woman’s presence: they see plenty that men miss.

‘We hourly expected your letter,’ Lady Shelton says, ‘and the paper for Mary to sign—because the Emperor’s man Chapuys came two days past, and was shut up with her three or four hours. When he arrived here he would not eat, but drank off a great draught of ale before he went in, and Shelton said, “I hope the poor fellow does not regret that last swill”—for when a young woman insists she is a princess, how can you say, “Pardon me, Highness,” and leave her to call for a pisspot? We could hear her all the while, talking, talking, talking. And the ambassador putting in a word, as he could. When he came out, he looked as if he had been on trial for his life. Shelton walked him out to his horse and waved him off, and as he came back in and was pulling off his boots, Mary ran to her chamber and slammed her bolt and shoved a chest against the door. It is not the first time. We have a burly fellow who cuts wood for us, and Shelton sent for him to set his shoulder at it. And when the woodsman fell in at the door, Mary ignored him, and went on saying her prayers.’

But then, he thinks, she had all next day to dwell on what she must do.

‘So when Sadler rode up, it was long after dark, I believe it was eleven o’clock. Mary was still awake, stretched on her bed in her shift—lying on the counterpane, we could not get her to go between the sheets. She said, “If it is a gentleman, I will get dressed. But if it is only a letter, I declare I will not read it till morning.” We said, “It is Sadler,” and then we did not know what she would do, because she held before that he was not a gentleman, and yet she knows he serves in the king’s privy chamber.’

I wonder how I would stand with her, he thinks.

‘But then she exclaimed, “Sadler is Lord Cromwell’s servant!” She ran down the stairs, no shoes on her feet, and snatched the package from his hands. “Give it to me, and let us have it over with,” she said. And she crushed it to her, and made away with it, back up the stairs. She shouted out, “I will sign. I must. Ambassador Chapuys counsels it, and my cousin the Emperor commands it, and the Pope will forgive it, for I am enforced, and so it is no sin.” And,’ Lady Shelton says, ‘I was never so surprised. A little later she came out of her chamber seething with spite, and called to me, “Shelton! You will soon be put out of your place. My good father will bring me to his side now. You will never have my keeping again.”’

She cradles her cup in her hands. ‘By midnight she had signed. She said she wanted the paper out of the house. She commanded Master Sadler to set out in the dark. “Either the letter leaves the house,” she said, “or I do. I will not be under roof with it.” Which was foolish talk, for the gate to the park was guarded, she would not have got fifty paces. And all this while, you must picture, Lady Bryan was scuttling in her wake bearing a beaker of camomile, the steam rising from it, and she wailing, “My darling, you will fall into a fever!” And in the nursery that demon child was howling—for her great teeth are not through yet—and Shelton, who is mannerly on ordinary occasions, roared out, “Get you away, Lady Bryan, and you, Princess, drain that beaker, or I will hold your nose and enforce you thereto!” You will forgive him for using that title, but it is the quickest way to get her to do anything. Then Master Sadler very civilly and properly spoke up, and said, “I would not disdain a pallet in your summerhouse, and would take the letter out with me; it seems to me a solution that would unite all parties.”’

Good boy. He smiles. Rafe had told him, I swear to you, sir—so that I got out of that house, I would have slung a hammock. I would have lain in a manger, or slumbered on the sward. As it was, I passed a pleasant night, and dreamt of my wife Helen. And I woke with the birdsong, with Helen in my arms. They brought me bread and ale, water to wash; unshaven and with curt farewells I mounted up, and rode to you. And it is worth a night under the stars, sir, to put this paper in your hand, and see your face clear.

He puts down his cup. ‘My lady, we should join the others. I shall stand between you and Norfolk. If he rends the arras, he shall not rend me.’

He thinks, Mary Boleyn once leaned against me, mistaking me for a wall. Norfolk will drive his fist into me, but it will bounce.

Lady Shelton says, ‘John and I wonder—is this household to be broke up?’

‘Not yet.’ He hesitates. ‘The king will not receive Mary himself till news of her submission has gone abroad, and he knows from Rome and the Emperor that they have understood.’

‘Of course. Or it would look as if he had just changed his mind, and let her off. Or as if the Emperor had frightened him.’

‘You are a woman of sense. Come here.’ He holds out his hand to her. He thinks, all the Boleyns are politicians. ‘You might ease her conditions. No visitors unless I say so, but let her take the air in the park. She may have letters.’

She takes his hand. ‘I think she only simulates her obedience.’

‘Lady Shelton,’ he says, ‘I don’t care.’

---

When they come into Mary’s presence they kneel. It is for Norfolk, as their senior, to greet her on behalf of her father, that puissant and merciful prince, long may he reign: begging her pardon for any offence given, by their rude solicitations, on a previous occasion. Their severity occasioned only, he says, by their fear for her.

‘Thomas Howard,’ Mary says, ‘I wonder you dare.’

Norfolk’s head rears back; he glares.

‘My lord Suffolk,’ Mary turns to Brandon, ‘you have given no offence.’

‘Oh, in that case…’ Brandon begins to scramble to his feet; but one look, and he subsides again.

‘You must think a woman a very feeble creature,’ Mary tells Norfolk, ‘if you think her memory does not reach back a week. Mine is good for that, and more. I know very well how you persecuted my mother.’

‘Me?’ Norfolk says. ‘What about—’

‘I know how you promoted the ambitions of Anne your niece, and afterwards disowned her, and condemned her to death. Do you think I have no pity for that misguided woman?’ She checks herself, drops her voice. ‘I have compunction. I am no stranger to it.’

From his kneeling position, he appraises the king’s daughter. She is twenty, so it is not to be expected she will grow. Her person is as meagre as when he saw her at Windsor five years back: her face wan, her eyes dull, puzzled and full of pain. She wears a bodice and gown of tansy colour, which nothing becomes her, and her hair is scooped into a net of braided silk; she has left off her hood, no doubt because her head aches too much to bear the weight.

‘My sweet lady,’ Charles says. His voice unexpectedly lulling, he repeats the phrase: but then, it appears, he has nothing to add. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘here’s Cromwell. All will be right.’

‘It will be right,’ she snaps, ‘when my lord Norfolk makes it right. Would you use me as you do your wife?’

‘What?’ The duke’s eyebrows shoot up, and an unwilling grin creeps over his face.

She blushes. ‘I mean, would you beat me?’

‘Who told you I beat my wife? Cromwell, was it you? What has that blasted woman been telling you?’ He wheels around, arms spread to the company. ‘That scar she shows folk, on her temple—she had that before ever I knew her. She says I dragged her up from childbed and knocked her across the room. By John the Baptist, I did no such thing.’

Mary says, ‘If I did not know this tale before, I know it now. You have no respect for any woman, though she be set above you by God. Go out of here. I want to speak with Lord Cromwell alone.’

‘Oh, do you?’ Norfolk is chastened, but not chastened enough. ‘And why can you say things to him that you cannot say to us?’

Mary says, ‘To explain that to you, my lord, eternity is not long enough.’

Brandon is on his feet. His dearest wish is to be out of the room. For Norfolk, getting up is less easy. A leg shoots out—he treads down hard on the rushes, trying for leverage—he grunts, and an arm thrashes the air. Charles grips him under the elbow, ready to hoist. ‘Hold hard, I’ve got you, Howard.’

Norfolk beats off assistance. ‘Unhand me. It’s cramp.’ He will not admit it’s age. But he swerves around both dukes—allow me, my lord Suffolk—grips Thomas Howard, double-handed, by the back of his coat, and sets him on his feet with one contemptuous twitch. His heart is singing.

---

‘So,’ she says. ‘I hear you are Lord Privy Seal. What will happen to Thomas Boleyn?’

‘The king has permitted him to go down to Sussex, and live quietly.’

She sniffs. She rubs her forehead; even the net seems to fret her. ‘I will say that Boleyn was civil in his dealings with my mother, unlike Thomas Howard. He never gave her harsh words—not in her hearing, at least. Still, he was a cold and selfish man, and he consorted with heretics. The king is merciful.’

‘Some say, too much so.’

It is a warning. She does not hear it.

‘You are grown very grand, Lord Cromwell. I suspect you were always very grand, only we did not see it. Who knows God’s plan?’

Not I, he thinks. ‘I directed Carew to write to you. I trust he did?’

‘Yes. Sir Nicholas gave me certain advice.’

‘Which disappointed you.’

‘Which surprised me. You see, my lord, I know that he has taken the oath, even though he loved my mother and stood up in her cause. I think all have taken it, who are alive today.’

Not all, he thinks. Not Bess Darrell, Tom Wyatt’s lady.

‘My lady Salisbury signed it,’ Mary says. ‘And Lord Montague her son, and Lord Exeter and all the Courtenays. When Anne Boleyn was alive, they would have suffered if they had not bent to that lady’s will. But when I knew she was cut down, I thought, what needs this concealment now? Will they not say plain what I know they believe, that my father should reconcile with the Pope? And will they not aid me, to be restored to my father’s favour, and to have my rights and title? I did not know he meant to persist in error, I did not know—’

That you had so many faint hearts about you? Timeservers and placemen and cowards? ‘They left you to bear the risk,’ he says. ‘They have practice in scuttling for cover.’

‘Since then—since I received this advice from my friends, so much contrary to what preceded it—you must understand me, my lord, I have felt so alone.’

She moves towards him—he’s forgotten her clumsiness, the way she blunders like a blind woman. A low table is set with wine, in a jug of silver and crystal; she sees it, sidesteps, clips it; it sways, the wine slops, a tide of crimson washes over the white linen. ‘Oh,’ she cries, and her hand dives out—the jug leaps from her fingertips—

‘Leave it,’ he says.

She stares at her shoes, appalled. Picks her feet out of the shards. ‘It is John Shelton’s. He had it of the Venetians.’

‘I will send him another.’

‘Yes, you have friends in those parts. So Ambassador Chapuys tells me.’

‘I am glad he succeeded in bringing home to you the peril in which you stood. This last week has been—’ He shakes his head.

‘Chapuys said, “Cromwell has used all the grace that is in him. Risked all.” He said, “He feels the axe’s edge.”’ The hem of her skirt has soaked up the claret. She shakes it, ineffectually. ‘No other lord has spoken for me. Not Norfolk, he would not. Not Suffolk, he durst not. This goes far with us to mitigate—’

She breaks off. He thinks, she is using the royal plural. Already.

‘The ambassador says, “Cromwell is a heretic. But we may hope God will guide him to the truth.”’

‘We may all hope that,’ he says piously.

‘I often think, why did I not die in the cradle or the womb, like my brothers and sisters? It must be that God has a design for me. Soon I too may be elevated, beyond what seems possible now.’

The peril in the room is as quick and rank as a flare of sulphur. The tansy bodice casts an aura as she moves, a wash of jaundiced light. She is like Richmond; she thinks Henry is dying. ‘What design could there be,’ he asks, ‘but that you should live content, and be a good daughter to your father?’

‘The king will find me always obedient. But I have another Father, and a higher.’

‘The will of the heavenly Father is often obscure. The will of your earthly father is plain. It is not for you to make reservations now, Mary. You have signed.’

She lifts her eyes, and her glance is rinsed with rage. And the next second, once again a mild passionless blue, like Henry’s. ‘Yes. I set my hand to it.’

‘Chapuys is right. I could have done no more for you. I doubted my powers to do so much. Your resistance has injured your father. It has made him ill.’

‘I believe it,’ she says. ‘It has made me ill too. So when shall I come back to court? I will come with you today, if you will take me. Let them find me a mount. We could be at Greenwich before dark.’

‘The king is at Whitehall. And there are matters to settle.’

‘Of course, but I do not mind about my lodging. I will share a truckle bed with a laundrymaid, if it means I am nearer my father.’ She stumbles across the room again, trampling the shattered glass. ‘I know you think me weak. Lady Shelton says a corpse has more colour and she is right. But I have always been a good horsewoman. I can keep pace with you, I swear it.’

‘Lady Mary, you must have patience. The king must make sure news of your reformation travels to all parts, here and abroad.’

‘So everyone will know,’ she says. ‘I see.’

‘And few will doubt you have done right.’

‘Chapuys told me about Reynold’s letter. It is nothing to do with me. I had no foreknowledge.’

He thinks, I can pity you, without entirely believing you. He says, ‘These supporters you think you have—the Courtenays, the Poles—forget them. They say they revere your ancient blood, but they think more of their own. Oh, they may spare one of their boys to marry you, but then they will exact your obedience, for a wife must obey her husband, no matter what her degree. And if your father, God forbid, should die before he gets a son, they will bid for the crown, and they may march behind your banner, but by their grace you will never rule.’

She has turned her back. In the sunlight that filters through the royal arms, through the tawny hide of glass lions, she raises her arms, and fumbles with her cap, and then lifts it free. Head dropping, she rubs her temples and forehead, then reaches up and pulls her hair from its pins.

He stares at her, dumbstruck. He cannot remember watching a woman do this, except in one circumstance. Even then, he has known a woman of business signal the start of proceedings by knotting her hair more firmly, and pinning it on top of her head.

She says, ‘I suffer so much, Master Cromwell, that I think God must love me. Forgive me, I could not bear the confinement one minute more. My scalp throbs and my teeth ache. John Shelton says, perhaps you should have them pulled out, at least then the pain would be over. I have had a rheum in my head and here’—she puts her hand to her cheek—‘a swelling the size of a tennis ball.’

She is innocent, he thinks. Surely. Look how she said to Norfolk, ‘You would use me as your wife,’ and did not know why he was grinning. ‘My lady,’ he says, ‘let me help you. Your eyes, your head, your understanding, all parts of you have been in rebellion; you could not digest what you ate, if you slept it did not restore you. But now you have chosen a wise course, you have done as others have—men and women who love God, just as you do—all of whom have embraced conformity, and seen their duty to this realm. You have put all your strength into saying no. Now you have said yes. You have chosen to live and you must find a way to thrive. Do you think only weak people obey the law, because it terrifies them? Do you imagine only weak people do their duty, because they dare not do other? The truth is far different. In obedience, there is strength and tranquillity. And you will feel them. Believe me, I am earnest when I tell you this. It will be like the sun after a long winter.’

She says, ‘I would give anything to ride again. But I have no saddle horse. They would not let me have one.’

‘As soon as I get back to London, I will find you a mount, it will be the first thing I think of. And I will tell John Shelton you are to ride out with an escort, whenever you choose.’

‘He was afraid the country people would see me, and would kneel to me, and acclaim me as princess.’

If that happens, he thinks, Shelton will know how to quell it. And I hardly think Chapuys will rise out of a ditch and carry you away. He says, ‘I have a pretty dapple grey in my stables, a very gentle beast. She can be here with you in no time.’

‘What is her name?’

Her hair, hanging limp, is a thin russet streak. She drags at it, anxious. At this moment she looks half her age.

‘She is called Douceur. But you can change it if you like.’

‘No. It is a good name.’

She drops her silk net on the table, and he watches it soak up the spilled wine. He wants to pick it out of the liquid, but he knows it is spoiled. She says, ‘I can get another.’ Her eyes pass over him; she looks covetous. ‘Your jacket is a good blue. I like that figured stuff.’

He thinks of Mary Boleyn: I like your grey velvet. It seems so long ago, it could be another life. I was a different man then, he thinks, inside my jacket. A little thinner, perhaps. More tentative, certainly. He says, ‘When you come back to court, you can have all the silk and damask your heart desires. The king has spoken to me of what he will give you.’

Mary puts her hand over her mouth. She gives a little moan, and her forehead tents in a deep frown, and the next moment, her nose is running and tears are rolling down her cheeks—cold weighty tears, like stones before a tomb.

He crosses the room to her. On a thin note, from between her fingers, she keens as if she had stumbled over a corpse. She sways and bleats, and he grips her to keep her on her feet, mouse bones jumping and trembling in his grasp. The door opens. Lady Shelton sweeps a glance over the smashed crystal, the crimson spill, the girl with her terrible naked face, and she speaks as directly as a mother to her daughter: ‘Mary, stop that noise. Let go of the Lord Privy Seal. Put on your cap.’

Mary’s wail cuts off. Her face is streaked; she shakes like someone in the grip of fever. ‘I cannot. My cap is spoiled. I walked into the table and smashed Sir John’s jug, for which I am sorry, and then I—’

‘Never mind,’ Lady Shelton says. ‘I have never made any sense of what you say, and I suppose I shall not begin now.’ She gathers up the girl’s hair and stands holding it in her fist, as if to lead her from the room; then with a sound of exasperation, lets her go. ‘I shall take you to Lady Bryan to put you to rights. Blow your nose.’

He can hear Mary’s thoughts, as loud as if they were slapping the walls: I am a princess of England, you have made promises to me. ‘Mary,’ he says, ‘mark this. My promises are kept now. You have my duty and regard. Count on that. No more.’

Mary’s eyes flicker with dismay. ‘But you said I should be—that if anything befell the king—that you would help me to—did you not promise the ambassador?’

‘I promised what I had to,’ he says. ‘It was an extremity.’

With a tug to her scalp, Anne Shelton stops any further questions. She speaks to him over the girl’s head. ‘You cannot leave without you see Eliza. Lady Bryan insists.’

---

What Lady Bryan has to exhibit is a convulsing mass of linen, red flailing fists, a maw emitting shrieks. ‘Now, my lady!’ She sweeps up the little girl. ‘Show your goodness to these gentlemen. They have ridden to see you to tell your lord father how you do.’

He is dismayed. ‘She screams as if she had seen Bishop Gardiner.’

A chortle from Brandon. A tight smile from Thomas Howard.

‘Will you tell their lordships you are glad to see them?’ Lady Bryan asks her charge. ‘Will you sing them a song?’

‘I take leave to doubt it,’ Norfolk says.

‘Fol-de-dee, fol-de-dee, fol-de-dee-do,’ trills Lady Bryan. ‘When sparrows build churches upon a green hill … No? Never mind, darling. Bite on this.’ She produces a circle of ivory, garlanded with green ribbons; the child seizes it and falls to. ‘Her teeth come very slowly forth.’

Suffolk stares down from his vast height. ‘Thank God they are no faster. I should be afraid she would nip me.’

‘Perhaps we could come back at a better time,’ he says.

‘Aye,’ Suffolk mutters, ‘when she is thirty.’ But he likes children, and he cannot help leaning down and making faces at her. The little girl breaks off grizzling, touches his beard; she rubs it, and looks at her fingers, dubious.

‘It doesn’t come off,’ Charles tells her. The child’s black eyes snap at him; she thrusts her ivory ring back into her mouth, but she does not cry again.

‘I never saw a child suffer so,’ Lady Bryan says. ‘It makes me give way to her when perhaps I should not. Sir John lets her sit at table, and she is too young to be refrained from what she has a fancy for.’ She turns to him. ‘Master Cromwell, how does your little Gregory these days?’

‘A head taller than me, and in want of a wife.’

‘How the years fly! It seems no time since you brought him to … wherever we were…’

‘Hatfield.’

‘Mary was wasting away.’ She turns to the dukes. ‘Till Thomas Cromwell came, we could do nothing with her. We could not make her come to the common board, because she would have had to sit lower than her sister—Eliza was a princess then. And Sir John said, mark my words, give way to one, and they will all be wanting to dine in private, and the cooks will be put about, and the expense will run beyond my means—no, he said, Mary dines and sups in the hall with us, or she must go without. But Master Cromwell got the physicians to state, on their honour, that Mary could not thrive without a trencher of red meat at her first rising in the morning. Sir John could hardly refuse her a breakfast, for that meal we all take apart. So she had her fill of venison while the larder lasted, and salt beef when needs must.’

Suffolk smiles. ‘She breakfasted like Robin Hood and his men, feasting in the green wood. I trust it did her good.’

‘So is Mary now a princess again?’ Lady Bryan asks.

He says, ‘She remains as she was, Lady Mary the king’s daughter.’

‘And this lass,’ Norfolk says, ‘is to be known as My Lady Bastard, till you hear different.’

‘For shame!’ Lady Bryan is distraught. ‘Whoever she may be, she is a gentleman’s daughter, and I know not how to keep her in that degree. All children do grow, sir, and this last month she has outgrown every stitch she owns, and Sir John says he has no budget and no instructions. We have patched and mended till we can do no more. She needs nightgowns, she needs caps—’

‘Madam, am I a nursemaid?’ Norfolk says. ‘Tell Cromwell about it—I dare say he can understand the child’s requirements. No trade is beyond him—give him some cambric and a needle and you will find your little dame clad before supper time.’

The duke turns on his heel and stalks out of the room. They can hear him on the stairs, calling for John Shelton to fetch the horses.

‘Write to me,’ he says to Lady Bryan. He wants to get after Norfolk. He doesn’t want him alone with Mary.

But Lady Bryan follows him, a buzz at his elbow. On the stairs, ‘Cromwell, I spoke to her. As you demanded. So did my daughter, Lady Carew.’ Her voice is low. ‘We did what you asked.’

‘Good.’

‘You have broken her pride. It is ill-done.’

‘It saved her life.’

‘To what purpose?’

He strides ahead. ‘Send me a list of what the little maid needs.’

Shelton is outside, with the horseboys. Lady Shelton says, laughing, ‘No need to haste away. Mary has run upstairs. Did you think she would be rushing to confer with your enemies? You take her for a fickle mistress.’

He checks his pace. ‘The dukes are not my enemies. We are all the king’s servants.’

‘You appear to have Suffolk in awe.’

True, he thinks. Brandon gives no trouble these days.

He turns and takes her hand; but there is a yell from below, like a hunting call. ‘Cromwell!’

It is Charles, stopped on the threshold, head thrown back, pointing upwards. ‘Cromwell, see that?’

He has to clatter downstairs, to look from another angle. Far above them, in a haze of blood-coloured light, the initials of the late Anne rest on a glazed cushion.

‘Shelton!’ the duke yells. ‘You’ve got a HA-HA. Knock it out, man. Do it while the weather’s fine.’ Charles bellows with laughter. ‘Get the Lady Mary to heave a brick at it.’

The boy Mathew is outside, holding his horse’s bridle. ‘Keep steady,’ he says. He doesn’t mean the horse.

He mounts, and below the creak of saddle and harness the boy murmurs, ‘Get me home when you can, sir.’

‘I’ll tell Thurston you miss him.’

Mathew backs away. ‘God be with you, sir.’

He gathers his reins. John Shelton is standing in their path, apologising for the HA-HA. ‘I thought I had got them. Every last one.’

He says, ‘It’s scarcely a month since Galyon Hone sent in his bill from Dover Castle, for setting the queen’s badges in the private lodgings.’

‘What?’ Norfolk says. ‘The queen that is now, or the other one?’

‘Wasted,’ he says. ‘Two hundred pounds.’

Brandon whistles. ‘It’s the devil. Stone, you can chisel it off; wood, you can rip it out or reshape it; whitewash and repaint your plasterwork, and stitching you can unpick—but when it’s blazing down at you, the sun behind it, what can you do?’

They get on the road. The early-summer day will allow them home by dusk. ‘Which is sad for you, Cromwell,’ Norfolk says. ‘You’d rather make a stop, I suppose. Still, keep looking in the ditch, you might spot some drab with her legs apart.’

Norfolk rides ahead with his people; but he and Brandon ride companionably, knee to knee. In Southwark, Brandon says, where his family has a great house and the glassmakers have their shops, they are at constant peril from the fires that blaze away when their kilns are opened. ‘Catch a wisp of straw,’ Brandon says, ‘and whoosh—the whole district goes up.’

Well, at those temperatures, he thinks. A blacksmith’s forge is dangerous, and smiths are always blackened and burned, but you don’t find them pierced to the heart with their own product, or hurtling to their deaths from church towers, as glaziers do every day of the week.

As they meet the road to Ware, Thomas Howard stops and turns in his saddle, watching them. His half-brother Tom Truth stops too, and twists to look back.

‘Look at the Howards, twitching,’ he says. ‘They want to know what we are talking about.’

Glazing still, as it happens. ‘Do you know, Cromwell,’ the duke says, ‘I was a rare hand at smashing glass in my youth? I expect you were. Though perhaps you didn’t have the chance?’

‘Yes, my lord, we had glass in Putney.’

‘My lord Norfolk?’ Charles calls out. ‘Just telling Cromwell here—I’ve not broken a window in years.’

---

In the first week of July, the king indicates that he is ready to meet his daughter. Not, yet, to bring her to court: ‘But the queen is urging me,’ he says. ‘And I thought you might manage it so as … just to allow me to see her. Allow me to judge her feelings towards me. And Crumb,’ he says, ‘I don’t want to ride far.’

The physicians are in daily consultation. The king’s good humour is soured by the nagging pain of his injured leg. I have feared for some time, Butts says, there is residual foulness in the bone. What is in the flesh, we can wash out—cut out, if we have to. But the bone must mend itself. Or not. Young Richmond was right. Decay runs deep. Next year the king might not be here.

---

At Austin Friars, he goes to Mercy Prior’s chamber. ‘Mother, the king would like to see his daughter. I thought we might use our new house at Hackney.’

Mercy’s lodging gives out on to the garden, so she can sit in the sun when there is any. She keeps up letter-writing with her friends, many younger than herself, some of them learned, some of them Lutherans. Sometimes Mistress Sadler comes to read to her; Helen can read now as well as if she had learned as a child, and can write a fair hand too. But today Mercy is alone with her New Testament, the book of Tyndale’s making. If she cannot always make out the words, she likes to have the text to hand. She sets it down and watches it for a moment, as you might watch a child to see if it will settle. ‘I suppose there is no news?’

The Bible scholar has been in the Emperor’s prison at Vilvoorde for a year now, ever since he was taken up in Antwerp. Now his time is short. Tyndale will recant, or he will burn. Perhaps he will recant and burn. The Emperor wishes to make an example, and keep the town of Antwerp in fear. The King of England will not stir for this subject of his, as Tyndale stood against him in the matter of his divorce. Because you are against the Pope, it doesn’t mean you are for Henry; Tyndale has always said, as Martin Luther does, we do not love Rome or its authority, but we cannot fault your marriage to Katherine, it is good and it must stick.

‘You cannot move the king to speak for him?’ Mercy asks. ‘Now he has his new queen and is at ease … you say he will reconcile with his daughter, and the other party in the quarrel is dead and gone.’

Katherine is dead and not dead. Her cause flourishes, its taproot deep in acid soil. Mercy says, ‘I think of Tyndale in his cell. Could you fetch him out of there, before winter comes? Would it be possible?’

‘You mean, would it be possible for me? You think it is a thing I might attempt?’

‘You might attempt anything.’ She does not mean it as a compliment.

He has a ground plan of the fortress of Vilvoorde. He knows where Tyndale is kept. But if he got him to the coast, where would he go? ‘I think we will see the Testament in English soon. I think Henry will allow it. The work will be Tyndale’s. But it cannot have his name on it.’

‘I hope I live so long,’ Mercy says. ‘I blame Thomas More for Tyndale, his nest of spies that lived on after he was dead, and if I thought the dead in their graves felt pain I would grub him from the ground and kick him up and down Cheap, for what he inflicted on men and women who are nearer to God than he will ever be.’

‘Blessed are the meek,’ he says.

‘Yes, so they claim. I notice where it gets you.’

He has often thought, these last weeks, that if you matched the king’s daughter with Tyndale—to see which was the more stubborn, the more set on self-destruction—it would be a close contest. ‘But you see,’ he says, ‘she has yielded. If we bring her to Hackney, then if it goes ill, the king can quickly be away.’

For the last year, he has been rebuilding a place made over to the king by the Earl of Northumberland. Young Harry Percy is sick, and deep in debt to the crown. He offered in part-payment the house with all its contents; Henry had said, why don’t you move in, Crumb, during the renovations, then you can keep a hand on the workmen? With young Sadler building his house just across the meadow, you can redirect the labour as needed … The king had sent seasoned oak from the royal forests, and he and Rafe had set up a brickfield, the water from the brook supplying it. Mercy had said, ‘You’ll see, Thomas, as soon as all the hard work is done, Henry will turn you out.’

Of course—but it’s the king’s house, after all. He is laying out a new garden and he has ambassadors alert for cuttings and seeds, of plants not grown in England. Light will flood the old rooms. There will be no HA-HAs, nor need he bear the arrogance of Hone’s glaziers—James Nicholson is just as skilled at a lower rate. He has walked the ground with the builders, deep in talk about pipes and culverts, the capacity of cisterns, hidden springs that can be tapped. Even in his early days at Austin Friars, he had made a bathroom, but it is hard to get piped water to more than a trickle; you need a healthy supply for a kitchen, if it has to feed a king.

‘Will you come out there?’ he asks Mercy. ‘Everything must be ready for royal ladies to lodge one night.’

‘Helen Sadler will do it. I am too old to go jolting out to the country. And as neither of us have ever been near the court, she can guess as well as I what is wanted. Mary is only human, I suppose, and a girl like other young girls.’

Yes, he thinks, and Jane a queen like other queens. Henry has been showing her off to the ambassadors, allowing her to converse. He is surprised—everyone is surprised—by her calm and poise. But afterwards she seems to withdraw into herself. During her first week on show, her eyes had sought out her brothers, or his, for a signal what to do. The women around her are still set fluttering by any disturbance. Francis Bryan says, what do you expect, Thomas? It is only weeks since you were questioning them one by one and tying their poor little stories in knots. They need time to recover from the fright.

---

The day is upon us. Helen has a list in hand. Harry Percy’s furnishings have been under covers to protect them from plaster dust and the smell of fresh paint. In the chief bedchamber, the earl’s arms have been unpicked from bed hangings of blue and cloth of gold. The counterpane of gold damask and blue velvet came with the house; beneath it, layers of new blankets of dense white wool. He woke, this morning, thinking of Tyndale, lying in the running damp. If the executioner does not kill him, another winter will. In Antwerp they slide the printed sheets of the gospels between the folds of bales of cloth, where they hide, white against white. Warm, nestled, God whispers within each bundle; His word sails the sea, is unloaded in eastern ports, travels to London in a cart. He makes a note to himself: Tyndale, talk to Henry, try again.

For the Lady Mary’s use, he has advised choosing the warmest room in the house. A great bed of down is ready, hangings of tawny velvet, cushions of russet velvet and figured green satin. ‘It could be a bridal bed,’ Helen says. He can see the pleasure it gives her—a poor girl, brought up hard—to handle the fine stuff and have a brigade of cushions at her command. She says, ‘I have moved the great purple chair to the gallery for the king. I must find a lower one for the queen. There is a little gold brocade chair for the Lady Mary. They say she is spare of habit and small.’ She hesitates. ‘Shall I see her?’

Helen is the wife of a man in the king’s privy chamber, close to his person; why should she not make her curtsey? But there are customs, and she will not break them. ‘When you show them in to their supper, I shall stand with the servants. You must not bring me forward, I should not like that.’

They are in the gallery as they speak; Helen looks up at the arras, at the white thread limbs of running figures, a maid with streaming hair. ‘I have no idea who these folk are.’

It is the story of Atalanta and her unfortunate start in life. ‘She was a king’s daughter too,’ he says.

‘And?’

A king’s daughter cannot just live quiet. There is always an and or a but. ‘But the king wanted a son. So when a daughter was born, he left her to die on the mountainside.’

‘A blameless infant?’ Helen is shocked.

‘It was a long time ago,’ he says, ‘and in Arcadia. But she was saved, because by good fortune a she-bear was passing, and gave her milk.’

‘Ah, I understand. It is a fairy tale. And then what?’

‘She grew up to be a huntress. She lived in the wilderness. She vowed herself to virginity.’

‘What did she do that for?’

‘I think it was an offering to the gods. It was before popes. Before Christ. They had small gods of their own in those days.’

Noise from the courtyard brings them to the window. Thurston is here. The kitchen staff are braced for him. In an English summer you must make your own sunshine. Downstairs, Thurston will attend to fine detail: rosewater jelly, quaking puddings, curd tarts.

---

The king wears white and gold, the queen white and silver. ‘Better today,’ the king says: meaning himself. In no haste to see his daughter—or wishing to seem in no haste—he strolls in the garden, Rafe Sadler at his side, examining the new planting. ‘I shall spend a week here. Perhaps towards the end of the summer.’

That’s you out on the road, he thinks. Rafe catches his eye. ‘I shall visit you, Sadler,’ the king promises. ‘Master Sadler lives down the lane,’ he tells Jane. ‘Did you know that he married a beggar woman?’

‘No,’ Jane says: adding nothing.

‘She came to the gate of Lord Cromwell’s house, two little children at her skirts. And no resource in the world—but Cromwell here, perceiving her to be of an honest demeanour, he took her in.’ Henry warms to his own story; his colour is high, his manner easy and gracious, his eye brighter than for weeks. ‘Master Sadler, seeing her flourish day by day, his heart was won—and despite her want of fortune, he married her.’

There is something lacking in Jane’s response—or at least the king thinks so. ‘Was that not great charity?’ Henry urges. ‘A man who might have married to his advantage, to match with a lowly woman, only for the virtue he perceived in her?’ Jane murmurs; the king leans down to catch it. ‘Oh yes, I expect they were marvellously put about. Cromwell, were Sadler’s family not angry? But Cromwell here pleaded their cause. He said nothing must stand in the way of true love. And,’ the king lifts Jane’s hand, and kisses it, ‘Cromwell was right.’

---

The signal is given, the moment arrived. The king beams around the room. ‘This day has been long in coming. You may conduct her to us, Cromwell.’ He turns to Rafe: ‘Lord Cromwell has behaved to my lady daughter with such tenderness and care that he could not have done more if he were my kinsman. Which of course,’ the king seems surprised at his own words, ‘he could not be. But I mean to reward him, and all his house. Lady Shelton, will you go with him?’

Lady Shelton has ridden from Hertfordshire in Mary’s train, along with her chest of new clothes. As they walk upstairs together, she says, ‘The king looks lighter in himself. You would almost think Jane has given him good news, though I suppose it is too soon for that.’

‘Some women seem to know it the very moment they conceive.’

‘When there is a king in the case, you would not risk a mistake.’

At the head of the stair he stops. ‘How shall I find her?’

‘Silent.’

‘The tansy bodice…?’

‘Extirpated as thoroughly as the name of the Pope.’

‘Never to return?’

‘It is made into a cushion, and sent to the nursery. We can expect the Lady Eliza to deal with it, as soon as her teeth appear. I must confess it was my fault in the first place. The king supplied her well with mourning clothes for her mother, he did not stint. But I thought your lordship might not like her to appear in black.’

Thirty-two yards of black velvet at thirty pounds and eight shillings. Forty-two shillings and eightpence to the new Master of the Merchant Tailors, for making up. Fourteen yards of black satin at six pounds and six shillings. Thirteen yards of black velvet for a nightgown and taffeta lining. Ninety black squirrels’ skins. Plus kirtles, partlets, bodices, sleeves, sundries: one hundred and seventy-two pounds, sixteen shillings and sixpence in total, on the king’s account. Now she will wear brighter hues. Every day since his visit—or rather, since the king signalled he was content—bounty by the cartload has been bumping over the roads out of Bishopsgate. He has spoken to the Italian cloth merchants, and to Hans about a design for a fine emerald, to be set as a pendant with pearls. Katherine’s furs will be inspected, and, if the king sees fit, given to Mary this winter ahead.

Tyndale, he thinks. Remember the winter ahead.

---

Mary looks up at his arrival. She meets his eye. The beauteous Eliza Carew is with her; Eliza does not look at him at all. Another lady is kneeling, making some adjustment to Mary’s hem. It is Margaret Douglas, the king’s red-headed niece. ‘Lady Meg is here,’ Mary says: as if he might not notice her. ‘The king thought … as it was a family occasion…’

Every time I see you, Meg, you are on your knees. He offers a hand. She ignores it, flounces up, crosses to the window and stares out over the garden. Carew’s wife is left to fuss about Mary’s train. ‘My lady?’ he says. ‘Are you ready?’

Meg is train-bearer. As they sweep out, Mary stiff and precarious in her new gown of crimson and black, he holds back Lady Carew with a gesture: ‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’

‘For your part in saving her.’

‘I had no choice. I was told.’

Women, staircases, words behind the hand: are the Emperor’s servants, he wonders, forced to work like this? You have to hold your breath, as Mary negotiates every tread on the stair. The King of England’s daughter, the Queen of Scotland’s child: such moments seem like the work of some artificer, who designs to weave them in wool or flowers. Mary glances around, as if to check he is following. Meg gives her train a shake. She seems to steer her from behind, with clucks and murmurs, like a woman driving a cart. When Mary stops, Lady Meg stops. What if Mary panics? What if she thinks at this last moment, I cannot do it? But, he murmurs to Lady Shelton, my anxiety is not so much, will she change her mind—it’s will she trip over her feet and land before her father in a heap.

‘We have done our best with her,’ Lady Shelton sighs. ‘In my opinion, a gentler hue would have flattered her complexion, but she wished to be as regal as possible. What’s the matter with the Scots girl? Doesn’t she like you?’

‘It happens,’ he says.

They had received no notice that there would be three royal ladies—Mary, the queen, Meg Douglas too. They had expected the queen to bring her familiar chamber women. But the party had not dismounted before he had called out to Helen, and she had sped away. In short order she was back: got the red tinsel cushions, she said, and laid a foot carpet down. Hung up the story of Aeneas; at least, that’s what Rafe said it is. He had thought, I hope Dido is not in flames.

At the foot of the stairs, Mary stops abruptly. ‘My lord Cromwell?’

Meg releases one long outraged breath: ‘Madam, the king is waiting.’

‘I forgot to thank you for the dapple grey. She is a gentle creature, as you promised.’ She says to Meg, ‘Lord Cromwell sent me a pretty mount from his own stable. Nothing has pleased me more—I have not ridden in five years, and it is much comfort to my health.’

‘She does look better,’ Lady Shelton says. ‘A little colour in her cheeks.’

‘Her name was Douceur,’ Mary says. ‘It is a good name, but I have renamed her. I have called her Pomegranate. It was my mother’s emblem.’

Lady Shelton closes her eyes, as if in pain. Mary gains the threshold. She disposes her skirts. The doors are flung open. The king and queen are still against the light: golden sun and silver moon. Mary takes in a deep, ragged breath. And he stands behind her: because, what else can he do?

---

That evening, the king releases him, so he can be alone with his family. They will retire early, and there will be no policy discussed, or papers signed. Helen says, ‘You are exhausted. Will you not stroll down the lane and sit in our summerhouse for an hour? Gregory and Mr Richard are there already.’

The evening, dove-like, is settling itself to rest. When the chronicles of the reign are composed, by our grandchildren or by those in another country, distant from these fading fields and glow-worm light, they will reimagine the meeting between the king and his daughter—the orations they made each other, the mutual courtesies, the promises, the blessings. They will not have witnessed, they could not record, the Lady Mary’s wobbling curtsey, or how the king’s face flushes as he crosses the room and sweeps her up; her sniffling and whimpering as she grips the white-gold tissue of his jacket; his gasp, his sob, his broken endearments and the hot tears that spring from his eyes. Jane the queen stands, dry-eyed, shy, until a thought strikes her and she removes a jewel from her finger. ‘Here, wear this.’ Mary’s mewling cuts off. He is reminded of Lady Bryan, holding out a teething ring to the Lady Bastard.

‘Oh!’ Mary juggles with the ring, almost drops it. It is a vast diamond, and it holds the light of the afternoon in an ice-white grasp. Margaret Douglas grips Mary’s wrist and hoops the jewel on a finger. ‘Too big!’ She is desolate.

‘It can be reset.’ The king holds out his flat palm. The gem vanishes into some pocket. ‘You are generous, sweetheart,’ he says to Jane. He, Cromwell, has seen the flicker in the king’s eye, as he calculates the worth of the stone.

‘You are gracious, madam,’ Mary says to the queen. ‘I wish you nothing but what is for your comfort. I hope you will have a child soon. I shall pray for it daily. I take you now as my own lady mother. As if God had ordained the same.’

‘But,’ the queen says. Perturbed, she motions her husband to bend his head: whispers to him. He says, smiling, ‘The queen says, it would be hard even for God to ordain, as she is but seven years your senior.’

Mary stares at the queen. ‘Tell her it is an expression of my regard. It is an established form of well-wishing. Her Grace should not—’

‘She understands, don’t you, sweetheart?’ Henry smiles down at Jane. ‘Shall we go in?’

The servants wait, kneeling, for the royal party to pass. But Helen wafts in with halved lemons on a silver tray—seeing she has come at the wrong moment, she draws back and curtseys deeply. The scent of the lemons cuts the air. Jane smiles absently at Helen. Mary does not seem to see her, but she does not trip over her either. The king checks his stride and seems about to speak; then turns to his wife and daughter, who face each other in the doorway.

‘I will not go before you,’ Jane says.

‘Madam, you are the queen, you must.’

Jane holds out her hand, naked without its diamond. That star, pocketed, beams its rays at the king’s belly. ‘Let us go in like sisters,’ Jane says. ‘Neither one before the other.’

Henry glows with pleasure. ‘Is she not a jewel in herself? Is she not, Cromwell? Come, my angels. Let us ask God to bless our repast and our new amity, and I pray it may never falter.’

But later, when their grace is made, and the king has washed his hands in a marble basin, and the dishes are served, and he has eaten artichokes and said they are his favourite thing in this world, he falls silent and seems to brood; at last bursts out, ‘Sadler, is that your wife? She who made her curtsey as we came in?’ He chuckles. ‘I think if she had come a beggar to my gate, I would have married her too. I see it was no charity. Such eyes! Such lips!’ He glances at Jane. ‘And she has already given Sadler a son.’

Jane neither sees nor hears. She just goes on steadily eating her way through her trout pasty, slices of cucumber scattered around her like green half-moons. It is as if the blessed Katherine is inspiring her. If it had been the other one sitting here, she would have laughed, and set up some peevish revenge.

---

Down the lane, ‘Pomegranate?’ Rafe says. He groans. ‘I should have known it was going too well.’

Strawberries and raspberries arrive. Wriothesley arrives, arm in arm with Richard Riche. They take their seats in the arbour. Pitchers of white wine rest in a bowl of cold water on the ground. He thinks, if Mary were here she would tread in that.

Rafe’s goblets are decorated with pictures of Christ’s disciples. ‘I hope it is not the Last Supper,’ Rafe says. ‘Here, sir. This one for you.’

He recognises St Matthew, the tax-gatherer. He raises the saint, and offers them the Tuscan merchants’ toast: ‘In the name of God and of profit.’

The weight of the day has fallen on him. He listens to the rise and fall of their voices, and allows his mind to drift. He thinks of the wings he wears; or so he boasted to Francis Bryan. When the wings of Icarus melted, he fell soundless through the air and into the water; he went in with a whisper, and feathers floated on the surface, on the flat and oily sea. Why do we blame Daedalus for the fall, and only remember his failures? He invented the saw, the hatchet and the plumbline. He built the Cretan labyrinth.

He comes back to himself; from the house, a baby’s cry. Helen jumps up. ‘Small Thomas. His window is open. To the night air!’

They look up; a nurse’s face appears, the shutter is drawn close, the wail cuts off. Rafe stretches out his hand. ‘Sweetheart, take your ease. He has attendance enough.’

They want her to stay in the garden with them, her beauty like a blessing. She sits down, but she says, ‘My breasts ache sometimes when he cries, even though he is weaned now. My girls I fed myself—the children I had before. But now I am a lady. So.’

They smile: they are fathers, except only Gregory. And he is already thinking how with advantage Gregory could be wed.

Riche raises St Luke. He will never stray long from the business in hand. ‘To your success, sir.’ He drinks. ‘Though you ran it to the danger point.’

Gregory says, ‘By the time my father let our friend Wyatt go free, Wyatt had pulled out what was left of his hair. He delays to show his power.’

‘Nothing amiss there,’ Riche says. ‘Since he has it. My lord—Christopher Hales is sworn in as Master of the Rolls today. He asks, do you mean to vacate the Rolls House?’

He has no plans for moving. Chancery Lane is easy for Whitehall. ‘Tell Kit we’ll lodge him elsewhere.’

‘You should have heard the king,’ Rafe says, ‘when he spoke of what he owes our master. He said, Lord Cromwell could not be more to me if he were my own kin.’

‘Then he remembered I was of mean parentage,’ he says, smiling. ‘If it were not for that, he would very much like to be related to me.’ He looks around at them. They are waiting. He remembers how Wyatt had said, you are in danger of explaining yourself. ‘God knows,’ he says, ‘I would have moved sooner, but I had to let Mary fetch herself to where we needed her to be. You were there, Riche, that day the king threw Fitzwilliam out of the council chamber—’

‘It was you who threw him out, I think.’

‘Believe me, it was better so.’ It was hard for me to walk back, he thinks, with his chain of office in my hand. I felt a breeze on my neck, as if my head were lifting away. I could have kept walking. Like Jesus, walked on the water. Or deployed my wings.

Master Wriothesley touches his arm. ‘Sir, your friends wish me to say—they have authorised me to say—that they hope you do not lose by the amity you have shown the king’s daughter. For while, on the one hand, it must be a blessed work to reconcile father and daughter, and bring an unruly child to proper obedience—’

‘Call-Me, have a strawberry,’ Rafe says.

‘—yet on the other hand, we have no reason to believe proper gratitude will follow. Let us hope you have no reason to regret your goodness towards her.’

‘Gardiner will be in a rage,’ he says. ‘He will think I have stolen a mean advantage.’

‘You have,’ Helen says. ‘Mary cannot take her eyes off you.’

‘But not like that,’ he says. She watches me, he thinks, as one watches some rare beast—what might it do, if it would? ‘I promised Katherine I would look after her.’

‘What?’ Rafe is shocked. ‘When? When did you?’

‘When I went up to Kimbolton. When Katherine was ill.’

‘And you bedded that woman at—’ Gregory breaks off. ‘Sorry.’

‘At the inn. Yes. But I did not have her husband poisoned. Or invent a new crime and have him hanged for it.’

‘No one thinks you did,’ Riche says soothingly.

‘Bishop Gardiner does.’ He laughs. ‘I never saw the woman after.’

But I remember her, he thinks: at dawn, singing on the stairs. I remember the sick-room at the castle, and Katherine shrunken into her cape of ermines: her face marked with what she had already endured, and what she knew she would endure in the weeks to come. No wonder she was not afraid of the axe. ‘Contemptible,’ Katherine had called him that day. He remembers the young woman—whom he knows, now, was Bess Darrell—gliding away with a basin. Master Cromwell, Katherine had asked him, do you take the sacraments still? In what language do you confess? Or perhaps you do not confess at all?

What had he said? He can’t recall. Perhaps he said he would confess if ever he was sorry, which mostly he wasn’t. He was leaving, but—‘Master Secretary? A moment.’

He had thought, it is always the case: it is just as you are heading out of the door—as if to show you no longer care—that your prisoner concedes guilt, or offers you a bargain, or yields up the name you have been waiting for. Katherine had said, ‘You recall when we met at Windsor?’ She had added, unflinching, ‘The day the king left me?’

The very swans on the river stunned with heat, the trees drooping, the hounds from the courtyard making their hound music, till their bell-like voices withdrew into the distance, and the train of gallant horsemen moved away over the meadows, and the queen knelt praying in the afternoon light, and the king who went hunting never came back.

‘I remember,’ he said. ‘Your daughter was ill. I made her sit. I did not intend she should faint and crack her head.’

‘You think I am a bad mother.’

‘Yes.’

‘But still I believe you are my friend.’

He had looked at her, astonished. Painfully, clasping her hands on the arms of her chair, the dowager got to her feet. The ermines slid to the floor, nosing each other, curling at her feet in a soft feral heap. ‘I am dying, as you see, Cromwell. When the time comes that I can no longer protect her, do not let them harm the Princess Mary. I commend her to your care.’

She did not wait for his answer. She nodded to him: you go now. He could smell the leather binding of her books, the stale sweat from her linen. He made his reverence to her: Madam. Ten minutes later he was on the road: and ridden here, to the conclusion of the enterprise, to the place where promises are kept.

Gregory says, ‘Why did you do it?’

‘I pitied her.’ A dying woman in a strange country.

You know what I am, he thinks. You should by now. Henry Wyatt told me, look after my son, don’t let him destroy himself. I have kept the promise though I had to lock him up to do it. In the cardinal’s day they used to call me the butcher’s dog. A butcher’s dog is strong and fills its skin; I am that, and I am a good dog too. Set me to guard something, I will do it.

Richard Cromwell says, ‘You could not know, sir, what Katherine was asking.’

That’s the point of a promise, he thinks. It wouldn’t have any value, if you could see what it would cost you when you made it.

‘Well,’ Rafe says. ‘You kept this close.’

‘Since when was I an open book?’

‘I don’t think it was a good idea,’ Gregory says.

‘What, you don’t think it was a good idea to stop the king killing his daughter?’

Richard Riche says, ‘Tell me, sir, I am curious—how far does your care of her extend? Were she openly to rebel against the king, what would you do then?’

Richard Cromwell says, ‘My uncle is the king’s sworn councillor. The promise he made to Katherine was—I will not say a word lightly given, but it was no solemn oath. It could not bind him, if there were any conflict with the king’s interest.’

He is silent. Chapuys had said, you may renegotiate with the living, but you cannot vary your terms with the dead. He thinks, I bound myself: why did I? Why did I bow my head?

Riche says, ‘Does Mary know of this … what shall we term it … this undertaking?’

‘No one knows, except myself and the dowager Katherine. I have never spoken about it till now.’

Riche says, ‘Best if it goes no further. We will consign it to the shadows.’ He smiles. Perhaps nothing is quite clear, that is spoken in a garden on an evening like this. In Arcadia.

Richard Cromwell looks up. ‘Don’t try and make it a dirty little secret, Riche. It was an act of kindness. No more.’

‘But here comes Christophe,’ Rafe says. ‘Et in Arcadia ego.’

Christophe’s bulk occludes the last rays of sunlight. ‘Chapuys is here. I told him, stay in the house, till I see if my lord desires your company.’

‘I hope you put it more courteously,’ Rafe says. He gets up.

‘I’ll fetch him,’ Gregory says.

His son has seen that Rafe needs to arrange his face. Rafe takes off his cap and flattens down his hair.

‘You look tidier now,’ he tells him, ‘but no happier.’

Rafe says, ‘Truly, Mary shocked me, when I went up to Hunsdon with the papers for her to sign. Running downstairs like that—I never saw a gentlewoman go unshod—at least, not unless a fire broke out. When she snatched the letter from my hand, I thought she meant to rip it up. Then she went shrieking away with it as if it were a map for buried treasure.’

‘That treasure,’ he says, ‘is her life.’

‘I could not answer for the worth of that lady,’ Riche says. ‘I fear she may be counterfeit coin.’

Helen looks up. ‘Hush. Our visitor.’

Gregory says, ‘He doesn’t understand English.’

‘Doesn’t he?’ Helen says.

They watch the ambassador pick his way across the lawn, flickering like a firefly in his black and gold. ‘I took a chance on my welcome,’ he says. ‘Master Sadler, how happy I am to see you in the midst of your family. How well your garden flourishes! You ought to set a vine here, and train it over a trellis, like the one Cremuel has at Canonbury.’ He takes Helen’s hand. ‘Madame, you have no French, and I no English. Yet could I command your tongue, words are needless, for at so sweet a flower, it is enough to gaze.’ He swivels on his heel. ‘So, Cremuel, we survive the dies irae. And all your boys are here. I think we may congratulate ourselves. Echoes have reached me. I hear the king has given his daughter a thousand crowns, not to mention a diamond worth as much again, and made her great guarantees as to her future. And I tell you, gentlemen, if Cremuel can pacify the Lady Mary, I expect soon to see him descend to Hell and fetch up Satan to shake hands with Gabriel. Not that I compare the young lady to a devil, you understand. But he is quite justified in reproaching her with being the most stubborn woman alive.’

Ah, he thinks. She showed you the billet doux I sent her. They embrace. He is careful not to crush the ambassador’s bones. Chapuys looks around him, smiling. ‘My friends, let this be a new era of concord. No one wants another dead lady, or a war. Your prince cannot afford it, and mine is a lover of peace. What I always say is, wars begin in man’s time, but they end in God’s time. What a pretty summerhouse.’ He shivers. ‘Forgive me. The damp. We could go inside, perhaps?’

‘What a deficient climate,’ Rafe says.

‘Alas,’ says the ambassador. He follows Rafe towards the house. ‘When once you have been in Italy…’

Helen collects the disciples. ‘Christophe, you can take these, but mind St Luke, I think he is chipped. Richard Riche must have gnawed him. I shall have to use him for flowers.’

‘Chapuys looks upon you with lust,’ Christophe tells her. ‘He says, when I gaze on Mistress Sadler, I burn with desire, I wish command of her tongue. I shall fight King Henry for her.’

‘He does not!’ Helen is laughing. ‘Get inside, Christophe.’ She takes his arm. ‘You did not finish the story, sir. About Atalanta. In the tapestry.’

He thinks, I wish it were some other story.

‘She was a virgin,’ Helen prompts. ‘But her father, you said. Then you stopped.’

‘He wished to find her a husband. But she was averse to matrimony.’

‘She challenged her suitors to a race,’ Gregory says. ‘She was the fastest person in the world.’

‘If the man outpaced her, she must wed him,’ he says, ‘but if she won, then—’

‘Then she was allowed to cut off his head,’ Gregory says. ‘Which she greatly enjoyed. There were heads bouncing everywhere, you could not go a pace without one rolling out of an olive grove and eyeing you. In the end she married a man who outran her, but he only did it with the help of the goddess of love.’

Later, back at his own house, in the gallery’s waning light, ‘You see the golden apples?’ Gentle, Gregory aligns her, points them out. ‘Venus gave them to the suitor, and when they began to race, he threw them at Atalanta’s feet.’

‘Those are apples?’ Helen is staring at the arras. She sucks her finger, laughs. ‘I did not know they were running, I thought they were having a bowling match. Look at her hand—I thought she had just sped the ball away.’

He sees how it scoops the air. He grasps her error. ‘So, what happened,’ someone says, ‘did she trip on the apples?’ Their voices are a murmur. They recede. The light falters. Nesting birds rustle under the eaves. Vespers are sung and Compline, the offices of night. The dew is cold in the grass. Shutters are closed against the exhalations from meres and ponds. Atalanta snapped up the gold, she sold the race. You cannot say she lost on purpose, but she knew the consequence if she swerved. ‘Perhaps she was tired of running,’ Helen says.

‘She was not insensible to the value of money,’ he says. ‘Et in Arcadia.’

‘Did she like being married?’ Helen appraises her—a wild-haired woman, a bare arm flung before her. ‘I suppose her husband stopped her running around like that, with her duckies on view. Or perhaps a husband didn’t mind in those days.’

He thinks, I have seen her in Rome, carved in marble: her slim running legs, her pleated tunic, her torso straight as a boy’s. She got a taste, some versions claim, for the carnal life. She bedded her spouse in the temple of a heathen god, after which she was changed into a lioness.

At least, he thinks, that’s one worry I don’t have. Daughter into beast, it won’t happen to Henry’s child. One day she will have to marry, but for now she is safe from adventurers who have special arrangements with the goddess of love. She is to go back to Hertfordshire tomorrow morning. The king and queen are planning their first summer together. They will make their visit to Dover. When Parliament rises, they will go hunting. The ring, impulsively offered, will be reduced to fit. In recompense, the emerald pendant will be worn not by Mary, the branch and flower of Aragon and Castile, but by Jane, the daughter of John Seymour of Wolf Hall.

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Perhaps you have seen, in Italy, a painting of a house with one wall removed? The painter does this to show you the deep interior of a room, where at a prie-dieu a virgin kneels, surrounded by bowls of ripening fruit. Her expression is private and reserved; she has kicked off her shoes and she is waiting to be filled with grace. Already you can see the angel hovering above the rooftops, a blur of gold on the skyline, while below in the street the people go about their business, and some of them glance upward, as if attracted by a quickening in the air. In the next street, through an archway, down a flight of steps, a housewife is hanging out washing, and someone is rising from the dead. White pelicans sit on rooftops, waiting for Christ’s imminence to be pronounced. A mitred bishop strolls through the piazza, a peacock perches on a balcony among potted plants, and striated clouds like bales of silk roll above the city: that city which itself, in miniature form, is presented on a plat for the viewer, its inverse form dimly glowing in the silver surface: its spires and battlements, its gardens and bell towers.

Imagine England then, its principal city, where swans sail among the river-craft, and its wise children go in velvet; the broad Thames a creeping road on which the royal barge, from palace to palace, carries the king and his bride. Draw back the curtain that protects them from the vulgar gaze, and see her feet in their little brocade slippers set side by side modestly, and her face downturned as she listens to a verse the king is whispering in her ear: ‘Alas, madam, for stealing of a kiss…’ See his great hand creep across her person, fingertips resting on her belly, enquiringly. His hands are alive with fire, rubies on every finger. Within the stones their lights flicker, and clouds move, white and dark. This stone gladdens the heart and protects against the plague. The speculative physicians speak of its heated nature: notice the heated nature of the king. The emerald too is a stone of potent virtue, but if worn during the sexual act is liable to shatter. Yet it has a greenness to which no earthly green can compare, it is an Arabian stone and found in the nests of griffins; its verdant depths restore the weary mind and, if gazed on constantly, it sharpens the sight. So look … see a street opened to you, a house with its walls folded back: in which the king’s councillor sits, wrapped in thought, on his finger a turquoise, at his hand a pen.

At midsummer, the walls of the Tower are splashed with banners and streamers in the colours of the sun and the sea. Mock battles are staged mid-current, and the rumble of celebratory cannon fire shakes the creeping channels of the estuaries and disturbs the fish in the deep. In sundry and several ceremonies, Queen Jane is shown to the Londoners. She rides with Henry to Mercers’ Hall for the ceremony of setting the city watch. A parade of two thousand men, escorted by torchbearers, walks from Paul’s down West Cheap and Aldgate, and by Fenchurch Street back to Cornhill. The city constables wear scarlet cloaks and gold chains, and there is a show of weaponry, and the lord mayor and sheriff ride in their armour with surcoats of crimson. And there are dancers and morris men and giants, wine and cakes and ale, and bonfires glowing as the light fades. ‘London, thou art the flower of cities all.’