He waits, still wondering.‘I don’t suppose she would be a bad wife, for somebody whowas prepared to keep her chained to the wall.’‘Ah. Mary your sister.’‘What did you think? Oh,’ she laughs, ‘you thought I meantMary the king’s bastard. Well, now you put it in my mind, sheshould be married too. What age is she?’‘Seventeen this year.’‘And still a dwarf?’ Anne doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘I shallfind some old gentleman for her, some very honourable feebleold gentleman, who will get no children on her and whom I willpay to stay away from court. But as for Lady Carey, what is to bedone? She cannot marry you. We tease her that you are herchoice. Some ladies have a secret preference for common men.We say, Mary, oh, how you long to repose in the arms of theblacksmith … even at the thought, you are growing hot.’‘Are you happy?’ he asks her.‘Yes.’ She drops her eyes, and her small hands rest on herribcage. ‘Yes, because of this. You see,’ she says slowly, ‘I wasalways desired. But now I am valued. And that is a differentthing, I find.’He pauses, to let her think her own thoughts: which he seesare precious to her. ‘So,’ she says, ‘you have a nephew Richard, aTudor of sorts, though I am sure I cannot understand how thatcame about.’‘I can draw out for you the tree of descent.’She shakes her head, smiling. ‘I wouldn’t give you the trouble.Since this,’ her fingers slip downwards, ‘I wake up in themorning and I scarcely remember my name. I always wonderedwhy women were foolish, and now I know.’‘You mentioned my nephew.’‘I have seen him with you. He looks a determined boy. Hemight do for her. What she wants are furs and jewels. You cangive her those, can’t you? And a child in the cradle every other year. As for who fathers it, you can make your own householdarrangements about that.’‘I thought,’ he says, ‘that your sister had an attachment?’He doesn’t want revenge: just clarification.‘Does she? Oh well, Mary’s attachments … usually passingand sometimes very odd – as you know, don’t you.’ It’s not aquestion. ‘Bring them to court, your children. Let’s see them.’He leaves her, eyes closing again, edging into marginalwarmth, the small sort of sunbeam that is all February offers.The king has given him lodgings within the old palace at Westminster, for when he works too late to get home. This being so, hehas to walk mentally through his rooms at Austin Friars, pickingup his memory images from where he has left them onwindowsills and under stools and in the woollen petals of theflowers strewn in the tapestry at Anselma’s feet. At the end of along day he takes supper with Cranmer and with Rowland Lee,who stamps between the various working parties, urging themalong. Sometimes Audley joins them, the Lord Chancellor, butthey keep no state, just sit down like a bunch of inky students, andtalk till it’s Cranmer’s bedtime. He wants to work them out, thesepeople, test how far he can rely on them, and find out their weaknesses. Audley is a prudent lawyer who can sift a sentence like acook sifting a sack of rice for grit. An eloquent speaker, he is tenacious of a point, and devoted to his career; now that he’s Chancellor he aims to make an income to go with the office. As for whathe believes, it’s up for negotiation; he believes in Parliament, in theking’s power exercised in Parliament, and in matters of faith …let’s say his convictions are flexible. As for Lee, he wonders if hebelieves in God at all – though it doesn’t stop him having a bishopric in his sights. He says, ‘Rowland, will you take Gregory intoyour household? I think Cambridge has done all that it can forhim. And I admit that Gregory has done nothing for Cambridge.’‘I’ll take him up the country with me,’ Rowland says, ‘when Igo to have a row with the northern bishops. He is a good boy, Gregory. Not the most forward, but I can understand that. We’llmake him useful yet.’‘You don’t intend him for the church?’ Cranmer asks.‘I said,’ growls Rowland, ‘we’ll make him useful.’At Westminster his clerks are in and out, with news and gossipand paperwork, and he keeps Christophe with him, supposedlyto look after his clothes, but really to make him laugh. He missesthe music they have nightly at Austin Friars, and the women’svoices, heard from other rooms.He is at the Tower most days of the week, persuading theforemen to keep their men working through frost and rain;checking the paymaster’s accounts, and making a new inventoryof the king’s jewels and plate. He calls on the Wardens of theMint, and suggests a spot check on the weight of the king’scoinage. ‘What I should like to do,’ he says, ‘is make our Englishcoins so sound that the merchants over the sea won’t even botherweighing them.’‘Do you have authority for this?’‘Why, what are you hiding?’He has written a memorandum for the king, setting out thesources of his yearly revenues, and detailing through whichgovernment offices they pass. It is remarkably concise. The kingreads it and reads it again. He turns the paper over to see ifanything convoluted and inexplicable is written on the back. Butthere is nothing more than meets his eye.‘It’s not news,’ he says, half-apologetic. ‘The late cardinalcarried it in his head. I shall keep calling at the Mint. If YourMajesty pleases.’At the Tower he calls on a prisoner, John Frith. At his request,which does not count for nothing, the prisoner is cleanly keptabove ground, with warm bedding, sufficient food, a supply ofwine, paper, ink; though he has advised him to put away his writings if he hears the key in his lock. He stands by while theturnkey admits him, his eyes on the ground, not liking what he is going to see; but John Frith rises from his table, a gentle, slenderyoung boy, a scholar in Greek, and says, Master Cromwell, Iknew you would come.When he takes Frith’s hands he finds them all bones, cold anddry and with tell-tale traces of ink. He thinks, he cannot be sodelicate, if he has lived so long. He was one of the scholars shutin the cellar at Wolsey’s college, where the Bible men were heldbecause there was no other secure place. When the summerplague struck underground, Frith lay in the dark with thecorpses, till someone remembered to let him out.‘Master Frith,’ he says, ‘if I had been in London when youwere taken –’‘But while you were in Calais, Thomas More was at work.’‘What made you come back into England? No, don’t tell me.If you were going about Tyndale’s work, I had better not knowit. They say you have taken a wife, is that correct? In Antwerp?The one thing the king cannot abide – no, many things he cannotabide – but he hates married priests. And he hates Luther, andyou have translated Luther into English.’‘You put the case so well, for my prosecution.’‘You must help me to help you. If I could get you an audiencewith the king … you would have to be prepared, he is a mostastute theologian … do you think you could soften youranswers, to accommodate him?’The fire is built up but the room is still cold. You cannot getaway from the mists and exhalations of the Thames. Frith says,his voice barely audible, ‘Thomas More still has some credit withthe king. And he has written him a letter, saying,’ he manages tosmile, ‘that I am Wycliffe, Luther and Zwingli rolled togetherand tied up in string – one reformer stuffed inside another, as fora feast you might parcel a pheasant inside a chicken inside agoose. More means to dine on me, so do not injure your credit byasking for mercy. As for softening my answers … I believe, and Iwill say before any tribunal Do not, John.’‘I will say before any tribunal what I will say before my lastjudge – the Eucharist is but bread, of penance we have no need,Purgatory is an invention ungrounded in scripture –’‘If some men come to you and say, come with us, Frith, you gowith them. They will be my men.’‘You think you can take me out of the Tower?’Tyndale’s Bible says, with God shall nothing be unpossible. ‘Ifnot out of the Tower, then when you are taken to be questioned,that will be your chance. Be ready to take it.’‘But to what purpose?’ Frith speaks kindly, as if speaking to ayoung pupil. ‘You think you can keep me at your house and waitfor the king to change his mind? I should have to break out ofthere, and walk to Paul’s Cross, and say before the Londonerswhat I have already said.’‘Your witness cannot wait?’‘Not on Henry. I might wait till I was old.’‘They will burn you.’‘And you think I cannot bear the pain. You are right, I cannot.But they will give me no choice. As More says, it hardly makes aman a hero, to agree to stand and burn once he is chained to astake. I have written books and I cannot unwrite them. I cannotunbelieve what I believe. I cannot unlive my life.’He leaves him. Four o’clock: the river traffic sparse, a fine andpenetrative vapour creeping between air and water.Next day, a day of crisp blue cold, the king comes down in theroyal barge to see the progress of the work, with the new Frenchenvoy; they are confidential, the king walking with a hand on deDinteville’s shoulder, or rather on his padding; the Frenchman iswearing so many layers that he seems broader than the doorways, but he is still shivering. ‘Our friend here must get somesport to warm his blood,’ the king says, ‘and he is a bungler withthe bow – when we went into the butts last, he shook so much Ithought he would shoot himself in the foot. He complains we are not serious falconers, so I have said he should go out with you,Cromwell.’Is this a promise of time off? The king strolls away and leavesthem. ‘Not if it’s cold like this,’ the envoy says. ‘I’m not standingin a field with the wind whistling, it will be the death of me.When shall we see the sun again?’‘Oh, about June. But the falcons will be moulting by then. Iaim to have mine flying again in August, so nil desperandum,monsieur, we shall have some sport.’‘You wouldn’t postpone this coronation, would you?’ It’salways so; after a little chaff and chat, out of his mouth pops anambassador’s purpose. ‘Because when my master made thetreaty, he didn’t expect Henry to be flaunting his supposed wifeand her big belly. If he were to keep her quietly, it would be adifferent matter.’He shakes his head. There will be no postponement. Henryclaims he has the support of the bishops, the nobles, judges,Parliament and the people; Anne’s coronation is his chance toprove it. ‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘Tomorrow we entertain thepapal nuncio. You will see how my master will manage him.’Henry calls down to them, from the walls, ‘Come up here, sir,see the prospect of my river.’‘Do you wonder I shake?’ the Frenchman says with passion.‘Do you wonder I tremble before him? My river. My city. Mysalvation, cut out and embroidered just for me. My personallytailored English god.’ He swears under his breath, and begins toclimb.When the papal nuncio comes to Greenwich, Henry takes himby the hand and tells him frankly how his ungodly councillorstorment him, and how he longs for a return of perfect amity withPope Clement.You could watch Henry every day for a decade and not see thesame thing. Choose your prince: he admires Henry more andmore. Sometimes he seems hapless, sometimes feckless, some times a child, sometimes master of his trade. Sometimes he seemsan artist, in the way his eye ranges over his work; sometimes hishand moves and he doesn’t seem to see it move. If he had beencalled to a lower station in life, he could have been a travellingplayer, and leader of his troupe.At Anne’s command, he brings his nephew to court, Gregorytoo; Rafe the king already knows, for he is always at his elbow. Theking stands gazing for a long time at Richard. ‘I see it. Indeed I do.’There is nothing in Richard’s face, as far as he can see, to showthat he has Tudor blood, but the king is looking at him with theeye of a man who wants relatives. ‘Your grandfather ap Evan thearcher was a great servant to the king my father. You have a finebuild. I should like to see you in the tilt yard. I should like to seeyou carry your colours in the joust.’Richard bows. And then the king, because he is the essence ofcourtesy, turns to Gregory, and says, ‘And you, Master Gregory,you are a very fine young man too.’As the king walks away, Gregory’s face opens in simple pleasure. He puts his hand on his arm, the place the king has touched,as if transferring regal grace to his fingertips. ‘He is very splendid. He is so splendid. Beyond anything I ever thought. And tospeak to me!’ He turns to his father. ‘How do you manage tospeak to him every day?’Richard gives him a sideways look. Gregory thumps him onthe arm. ‘Never mind your grandfather the archer, what wouldhe say if he knew your father was that big?’ He shows betweenfinger and thumb the stature of Morgan Williams. ‘I have beenriding at the ring these many years. I have been riding at theSaracen’s image and putting my lance just so, thud, right over hisblack Saracen’s heart.’‘Yes,’ Richard says patiently, ‘but, squib, you will find a livingknight a tougher proposition than a wooden infidel. You neverthink of the cost – armour of show quality, a stable of trainedhorses . ‘We can afford it,’ he says. ‘It seems our days as foot soldiersare behind us.’That night at Austin Friars he asks Richard to come to speakwith him alone after supper. Possibly he is at fault, in putting it asa business proposition, spelling out to him what Anne hassuggested about his marriage. ‘Build nothing on it. We have yetto get the king’s approval.’Richard says, ‘But she doesn’t know me.’He waits, for objections; not knowing someone, is that anobjection? ‘I won’t force you.’Richard looks up. ‘Are you sure?’When have I, when have I ever forced anyone to do anything,he starts to say: but Richard cuts in, ‘No, you don’t, I agree, it’sjust that you are practised at persuading, and sometimes it’s quitedifficult, sir, to distinguish being persuaded by you from beingknocked down in the street and stamped on.’‘I know Lady Carey is older than you, but she is very beautiful, I think the most beautiful woman at court, and she is not aswitless as everyone thinks, and she has not got any of her sister’smalice in her.’ In a strange way, he thinks, she has been a goodfriend to me. ‘And instead of being the king’s unrecognisedcousin, you would be his brother-in-law. We would all profit.’‘A title, perhaps. For me, and for you. Brilliant matches forAlice and Jo. What about Gregory? A countess at least for him.’Richard’s voice is flat. Is he talking himself into it? It’s hard totell. With many people, most people perhaps, the book of theirheart lies open to him, but there are times when it’s easier to readoutsiders than your own family. ‘And Thomas Boleyn would bemy father-in-law. And Uncle Norfolk would really be ouruncle.’‘Imagine his face.’‘Oh, his face. Yes, one would go barefoot over hot coals to seehis expression.’‘Think about it. Don’t tell anybody.’ Richard goes out with a bob of the head but without anotherword. It seems he interprets ‘don’t tell anybody’ as ‘don’t tellanybody but Rafe’, because ten minutes later Rafe comes in, andstands looking at him, with his eyebrows raised. Red-headedpeople can look quite strained when they are raising eyebrowsthat aren’t really there. He says, ‘You need not tell Richard thatMary Boleyn once proposed herself to me. There’s nothingbetween us. It won’t be like Wolf Hall, if that’s what you’rethinking.’‘And what if the bride thinks different? I wonder you don’tmarry her to Gregory.’‘Gregory is too young. Richard is twenty-three, it is a goodage to marry if you can afford it. And you have passed it – it’stime you married too.’‘I’m going, before you find a Boleyn for me.’ Rafe turns backand says softly, ‘Only this, sir, and I think it is what gives Richardpause … all our lives and fortunes depend now on that lady, andas well as being mutable she is mortal, and the whole history ofthe king’s marriage tells us a child in the womb is not an heir inthe cradle.’In March, news comes from Calais that Lord Berners has died.The afternoon in his library, the storm blowing outside: it seemswhen he looks back a haven of peace, the last hour he had tohimself. He wants to make an offer for his books – a generousone, to help Lady Berners – but the folios seem to have jumpedoff their desks and walked, some in the direction of FrancisBryan, the old man’s nephew, and some to another connection ofhis, Nicholas Carew. ‘Would you forgive his debts,’ he asksHenry, ‘at least for his wife’s lifetime? You know he leaves –’‘No sons.’ Henry’s mind has moved ahead: once I was in thatunhappy state, no sons, but soon I shall have my heir.