I knew the air would do yougood.’ He glances up, in invitation; but he, Cromwell, signals hewill stay where he is, leaning by the window. ‘I don’t know,’Audley says, good-humoured. ‘First one won’t sit. Then t’otherwon’t sit. Look,’ he pushes a piece of paper towards More, ‘theseare the names of the priests we have seen today, who have swornto the act, and set you an example. And you know all themembers of Parliament are conformable. So why not you?’More glances up, from under his eyebrows. ‘This is not acomfortable place for any of us.’‘More comfortable than where you’re going,’ he says.‘Not Hell,’ More says, smiling. ‘I trust not.’‘So if taking the oath would damn you, what about all these?’He launches himself forward from the wall. He snatches the listof names from Audley, rolls it up and slaps it on to More’s shoulder. ‘Are they all damned?’‘I cannot speak for their consciences, only for my own. Iknow that, if I took your oath, I should be damned.’‘There are those who would envy your insight,’ he says, ‘intothe workings of grace. But then, you and God have always beenon familiar terms, not so? I wonder how you dare. You talkabout your maker as if he were some neighbour you went fishingwith on a Sunday afternoon. Audley leans forward. ‘Let us be clear. You will not take theoath because your conscience advises you against it?’‘Yes.’‘Could you be a little more comprehensive in your answers?’‘No.’‘You object but you won’t say why?’‘Yes.’‘Is it the matter of the statute you object to, or the form of theoath, or the business of oath-taking in itself?’‘I would rather not say.’Cranmer ventures, ‘Where it is a question of conscience, theremust always be some doubt …’‘Oh, but this is no whim. I have made long and diligentconsultation with myself. And in this matter I hear the voice ofmy conscience clearly.’ He puts his head on one side, smiling. ‘Itis not so with you, my lord?’‘None the less, there must be some perplexity? For you mustask yourself, as you are a scholar and accustomed to controversy,to debate, how can so many learned men think on the one side,and I on the other? But one thing is certain, and it is that you owea natural obedience to your king, as every subject does. Also,when you entered the king’s council, long ago, you took a mostparticular oath, to obey him. So will not you do so?’ Cranmerblinks. ‘Set your doubts against that certainty, and swear.’Audley sits back in his chair. Eyes closed. As if to say, we’renot going to do better than that.More says, ‘When you were consecrated archbishop,appointed by the Pope, you swore your oath to Rome, but allday in your fist, they say, all through the ceremonies, you kept alittle paper folded up, saying that you took the oath underprotest. Is that not true? They say the paper was written byMaster Cromwell here.’Audley’s eyes snap open: he thinks More has shown himselfthe way out. But More’s face, smiling, is a mask of malice. ‘I would not be such a juggler,’ he says softly. ‘I would not treat theLord my God to such a puppet show, let alone the faithful ofEngland. You say you have the majority. I say I have it. You sayParliament is behind you, and I say all the angels and saints arebehind me, and all the company of the Christian dead, for asmany generations as there have been since the church of Christwas founded, one body, undivided –’‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ he says. ‘A lie is no less a lie because itis a thousand years old. Your undivided church has liked nothingbetter than persecuting its own members, burning them andhacking them apart when they stood by their own conscience,slashing their bellies open and feeding their guts to dogs. You callhistory to your aid, but what is history to you? It is a mirror thatflatters Thomas More. But I have another mirror, I hold it up andit shows a vain and dangerous man, and when I turn it about itshows a killer, for you will drag down with you God knows howmany, who will only have the suffering, and not your martyr’sgratification. You are not a simple soul, so don’t try to make thissimple. You know I have respected you? You know I haverespected you since I was a child? I would rather see my only sondead, I would rather see them cut off his head, than see yourefuse this oath, and give comfort to every enemy of England.’More looks up. For a fraction of a second, he meets his gaze,then turns away, coy. His low, amused murmur: he could kill himfor that alone. ‘Gregory is a goodly young man. Don’t wish himaway. If he has done badly, he will do better. I say the same of myown boy. What’s the use of him? But he is worth more than adebating point.’Cranmer, distressed, shakes his head. ‘This is no debatingpoint.’‘You speak of your son,’ he says. ‘What will happen to him?To your daughters?’‘I shall advise them to take the oath. I do not suppose them toshare my scruples.’ ‘That is not what I mean, and you know it. It is the next generation you are betraying. You want the Emperor’s foot on theirneck? You are no Englishman.’‘You are barely that yourself,’ More says. ‘Fight for theFrench, eh, bank for the Italians? You were scarcely grown up inthis realm before your boyhood transgressions drove you out ofit, you ran away to escape gaol or a noose. No, I tell you whatyou are, Cromwell, you are an Italian through and through, andyou have all their vices, all their passions.’ He sits back in hischair: one mirthless grunt of laughter. ‘This relentless bonhomieof yours. I knew it would wear out in the end. It is a coin that haschanged hands so often. And now the small silver is worn out,and we see the base metal.’Audley smirks. ‘You seem not to have noted Master Cromwell’sefforts at the Mint. His coinage is sound, or it is nothing.’The Chancellor cannot help it, that he is a smirking sort ofman; someone must keep calm. Cranmer is pale and sweating,and he can see the pulse galloping at More’s temple. He says, ‘Wecannot let you go home. Still, it seems to me that you are notyourself today, so rather than commit you to the Tower, wecould perhaps place you in the custody of the Abbot of Westminster … Would that seem suitable to you, my lord of Canterbury?’Cranmer nods. More says, ‘Master Cromwell, I should notmock you, should I? You have shown yourself my most especialand tender friend.’Audley nods to the guard at the door. More rises smoothly, asif the thought of custody has put a spring in his step; the effect isspoiled only by his usual grab at his garments, the scuffle as heshrugs himself together; and even then he seems to step backwards, and tread on his own feet. He thinks of Mary at Hatfield,rising from her stool and forgetting where she’d left it. Aftersome fashion, More is bundled out of the room. ‘Now he’s gotexactly what he wants,’ he says. He puts his palm against the glass of the window. He sees thesmudge it makes, against the old flawed glass. A bank of cloudhas come up over the river; the best of the day is behind them.Audley crosses the room to him. Hesitant, he stands at his shoulder. ‘If only More would indicate which part of the oath he findsobjectionable, it is possible something might be written to meethis objection.’‘You can forget that. If he indicates anything, he is donefor. Silence is his only hope, and it is not much of a hope atthat.’‘The king might accept some compromise,’ Cranmer says.‘But I fear the queen will not. And indeed,’ he says faintly, ‘whyshould she?’Audley puts a hand on his arm. ‘My dear Cromwell. Who canunderstand More? His friend Erasmus told him to keep awayfrom government, he told him he had not the stomach for it andhe was right. He should never have accepted the office I nowhold. He only did it to spite Wolsey, whom he hated.’Cranmer says, ‘He told him to keep away from theology too.Unless I am wrong?’‘How could you be? More publishes all his letters from hisfriends. Even when they reprove him, he makes a fine show ofhis humility and so turns it to his profit. He has lived in public.Every thought that passes through his mind he has committed topaper. He never kept anything private, till now.’Audley reaches past him, opens the window. A torrent ofbirdsong crests on the edge of the sill and spills into the room,the liquid, fluent notes of the storm-thrush.‘I suppose he’s writing an account of today,’ he says. ‘Andsending it out of the kingdom to be printed. Depend upon it, inthe eyes of Europe we will be the fools and the oppressors, andhe will be the poor victim with the better turn of phrase.’Audley pats his arm. He wants to console him. But who canbegin to do it? He is the inconsolable Master Cromwell: the unknowable, the inconstruable, the probably indefeasible MasterCromwell.Next day the king sends for him. He supposes it is to berate himfor failing to get More to take the oath. ‘Who will accompany meto this fiesta?’ he enquires. ‘Master Sadler?’As soon as he enters the king’s presence, Henry gestures witha peremptory sweep of his arm for his attendants to clear a space,and leave him alone in it. His face is like thunder. ‘Cromwell,have I not been a good lord to you?’He begins to talk … gracious, and more than gracious … ownsad unworthiness … if fallen short in any particular begs mostgracious pardon …He can do this all day. He learned it from Wolsey.Henry says, ‘Because my lord archbishop thinks I havenot done well by you. But,’ he says, in the tone of onemisunderstood, ‘I am a prince known for my munificence.’The whole thing seems to puzzle him. ‘You are to be MasterSecretary. Rewards shall follow. I do not understand whyI have not done this long ago. But tell me: when it was putto you, about the lords Cromwell that once were inEngland, you said you were nothing to them. Have you thoughtfurther?’‘To be honest, I never gave it another thought. I wouldn’t wearanother man’s coat, or bear his arms. He might rise up from hisgrave and take issue with me.’‘My lord Norfolk says you enjoy being low-born. He saysyou have devised it so, to torment him.’ Henry takes his arm. ‘Itwould seem convenient to me,’ he says, ‘that wherever we go –though we shall not go far this summer, considering the queen’scondition – you should have rooms provided for you next tomine, so we can speak whenever I need you; and where it ispossible, rooms that communicate directly, so that I need no gobetween.’ He smiles towards the courtiers; they wash back, like a tide. ‘God strike me,’ Henry says, ‘if I meant to neglect you. Iknow when I have a friend.’Outside, Rafe says, ‘God strike him … What terrible oaths heswears.’ He hugs his master. ‘This has been too long in coming.But listen, I have something to tell you when we get home.’‘Tell me now. Is it something good?’A gentleman comes forward and says, ‘Master Secretary, yourbarge is waiting to take you back to the city.’‘I should have a house on the river,’ he says. ‘Like More.’‘Oh, but leave Austin Friars? Think of the tennis court,’ Rafesays. ‘The gardens.’The king has made his preparations in secret. Gardiner’s armshave been burned off the paintwork. A flag with his coat of armsis raised beside the Tudor flag. He steps into his barge for the firsttime, and on the river, Rafe tells his news. The rocking of the boatbeneath them is imperceptible. The flags are limp; it is a stillmorning, misty and dappled, and where the light touches flesh orlinen or fresh leaves, there is a sheen like the sheen on an eggshell:the whole world luminous, its angles softened, its scent wateryand green.‘I have been married half a year,’ Rafe says, ‘and no oneknows, but you know now. I have married Helen Barre.’‘Oh, blood of Christ,’ he says. ‘Beneath my own roof. Whatdid you do that for?’Rafe sits mute while he says it all: she is a lovely nobody, apoor woman with no advantage to bring to you, you could havemarried an heiress. Wait till you tell your father! He will beoutraged, he will say I have not looked after your interests. ‘Andsuppose one day her husband turns up?’‘You told her she was free,’ Rafe says. He is trembling.‘Which of us is free?’He remembers what Helen had said: ‘So I could marry again?If anybody wanted me?’ He remembers how she had looked athim, a long look and full of meaning, only he did not read it. She might as well have turned somersaults, he would not havenoticed, his mind had moved elsewhere; that conversation wasover for him and he was on to something else. If I had wanted herfor myself, and taken her, who could have reproached me formarrying a penniless laundress, even a beggar off the street?People would have said, so that was what Cromwell wanted, abeauty with supple flesh; no wonder he disdained the widows ofthe city. He doesn’t need money, he doesn’t need connections, hecan afford to follow his appetites: he is Master Secretary now,and what next?He stares down into the water, now brown, now clear as thelight catches it, but always moving; the fish in its depths, theweeds, the drowned men with bony hands swimming. On themud and shingle there are cast up belt buckles, fragments ofglass, small warped coins with the kings’ faces washed away.Once when he was a boy he found a horseshoe. A horse in theriver? It seemed to him a very lucky find. But his father said, ifhorseshoes were lucky, boy, I would be the King of Cockaigne.First he goes out to the kitchens to tell Thurston the news. ‘Well,’the cook says easily, ‘as you’re doing the job anyway.’ A chuckle.‘Bishop Gardiner will be burning up inside. His giblets will besizzling in his own grease.’ He whisks a bloodied cloth from atray. ‘See these quails? You get more meat on a wasp.’‘Malmsey?’ he suggests. ‘Seethe them?’‘What, three dozen? Waste of good wine. I’ll do some for you,if you like. Come from Lord Lisle at Calais. When you write, tellhim if he sends another batch, we want them fatter or not at all.Will you remember?’‘I’ll make a note,’ he says gravely. ‘From now on I thought wemight have the council meet here sometimes, when the king isn’tsitting with us. We can give them dinner before.’‘Right.’ Thurston titters. ‘Norfolk could do with some fleshon his twiggy little legs.’