‘Calmly, George,’ he advises.‘– yesterday he sent us four cartloads of furnishings – comeand see! Tapestry, plate, bed hangings – was it by your suit?’Who knows? He hadn’t asked for anything directly. If he had,he’d have been more specific. Not that hanging, but this hanging,which my lord likes; he likes goddesses, rather than virginmartyrs, so away with St Agnes, and let’s have Venus in a grove.My lord likes Venetian glassware; take away these battered silvergoblets.He looks contemptuous as he inspects the new stuff. ‘Onlythe best for you boys from Putney,’ Wolsey says. ‘It is possible,’he adds, almost apologising, ‘that what the king appointed forme was not in fact what was sent. That inferior substitutionswere made, by inferior persons.’‘That is entirely possible,’ he says.‘Still. Even so. We are more comfortable for it.’‘The difficulty is,’ Cavendish says, ‘we need to move. Thiswhole house needs to be scrubbed out and aired.’‘True,’ the cardinal says. ‘St Agnes, bless her, would beknocked over by the smell of the privies.’‘So will you make suit to the king’s council?’He sighs. ‘George, what is the point? Listen. I’m not talking toThomas Howard. I’m not talking to Brandon. I’m talking tohim.’The cardinal smiles. A fat paternal beam.He is surprised – as they thrash out a financial settlement for thecardinal – at Henry’s grasp of detail. Wolsey has always said thatthe king has a fine mind, as quick as his father’s, but morecomprehensive. The old king grew narrow as he aged; he kept ahard hand on England; there was no nobleman he did not holdby a debt or bond, and he said frankly that if he could not beloved he would be feared. Henry has a different nature, but whatis it? Wolsey laughs and says, I should write you a handbook. But as he walks in the gardens of the little lodge at Richmond,where the king has allowed him to remove, the cardinal’s mindbecomes clouded, he talks about prophecies, and about thedownfall of the priests of England, which he says is foretold, andwill now happen.Even if you don’t believe in omens – and he doesn’t, personally– he can see the problem. For if the cardinal is guilty of a crime inasserting his jurisdiction as legate, are not all those clerics, frombishops downwards, who assented to his legacy, also guilty? Hecan’t be the only person who’s thinking about this; but mostly, hisenemies can’t see past the cardinal himself, his vast scarlet presence on the horizon; they fear it will loom up again, ready forrevenge. ‘These are bad times for proud prelates,’ says Brandon,when next they meet. He sounds jaunty, a man whistling to keephis courage up. ‘We need no cardinals in this realm.’‘And he,’ the cardinal says, furious, ‘he, Brandon, when hemarried the king’s sister out of hand – when he married her in thefirst days of her widowhood, knowing the king intended her foranother monarch – his head would have been parted from hisbody, if I, a simple cardinal, had not pleaded for him to the king.’I, a simple cardinal.‘And what excuse did Brandon make?’ the cardinal says.‘“Oh, Your Majesty, your sister Mary cried. How she did cryand beg me to marry her myself! I never saw woman cry so!” Sohe dried her tears and got himself up to a dukedom! And now hetalks as if he’s held his title since the Garden of Eden. Listen,Thomas, if men of sound learning and good disposition come tome – as Bishop Tunstall comes, as Thomas More comes – andplead that the church must be reformed, why then I listen. ButBrandon! To talk about proud prelates! What was he? The king’shorsekeeper! And I’ve known horses with more wit.’‘My lord,’ Cavendish pleads, ‘be more temperate. AndCharles Brandon, you know, was of an ancient family, a gentleman born.’ ‘Gentleman, he? A swaggering braggart. That’s Brandon.’ Thecardinal sits down, exhausted. ‘My head aches,’ he says.‘Cromwell, go to court and bring me better news.’Day by day he takes his instructions from Wolsey at Richmond,and rides to wherever the king is. He thinks of the king as a terraininto which he must advance, with no sea coast to supply him.He understands what Henry has learned from his cardinal: hisfloating diplomacy, his science of ambiguity. He sees how theking has applied this science to the slow, trackless, dubious ruinof his minister. Every kindness, Henry matches with a cruelty,some further charge or forfeiture. Till the cardinal moans, ‘I wantto go away.’‘Winchester,’ he suggests, to the dukes. ‘My lord cardinal iswilling to proceed to his palace there.’‘What, so near the king?’ Brandon says. ‘We are not fools toourselves, Master Cromwell.’Since he, the cardinal’s man, is with Henry so often, rumourshave run all over Europe that Wolsey is about to be recalled. Theking is cutting a deal, people say, to have the church’s wealth inexchange for Wolsey’s return to favour. Rumours leak from thecouncil chamber, from the privy chamber: the king does not likehis new set-up. Norfolk is found ignorant; Suffolk is accused ofhaving an annoying laugh.He says, ‘My lord won’t go north. He is not ready for it.’‘But I want him north,’ Howard says. ‘Tell him to go. Tell himNorfolk says he must be on the road and out of here. Or – andtell him this – I will come where he is, and I will tear him with myteeth.’‘My lord.’ He bows. ‘May I substitute the word “bite”?’Norfolk approaches him. He stands far too close. His eyes arebloodshot. Every sinew is jumping. He says, ‘Substitute nothing,you misbegotten –’ The duke stabs a forefinger into his shoulder.‘You … person,’ he says; and again, ‘you nobody from Hell, youwhore-spawn, you cluster of evil, you lawyer. He stands there, pushing away, like a baker pressing thedimples into a batch of manchet loaves. Cromwell flesh is firm,dense and impermeable. The ducal finger just bounces off.Before they left Esher, one of the cats that had been brought into kill the vermin gave birth to a litter in the cardinal’s ownrooms. What presumption, in an animal! But wait – new life, inthe cardinal’s suite? Could that be an omen? One day, he fears,there will be an omen of another sort: a dead bird will fall downthat smoking chimney, and then – oh, woe is us! – he’ll neverhear the last of it.But for the while the cardinal is amused, and puts the kittenson a cushion in an open chest, and watches as they grow. One ofthem is black and hungry, with a coat like wool and yellow eyes.When it is weaned he brings it home. He takes it from under hiscoat, where it has been sleeping curled against his shoulder.‘Gregory, look.’ He holds it out to his son. ‘I am a giant, myname is Marlinspike.’Gregory looks at him, wary, puzzled. His glance flinches; hishand pulls away. ‘The dogs will kill it,’ he says.Marlinspike goes down to the kitchen, to grow stout and liveout his beastly nature. There is a summer ahead, though hecannot imagine its pleasures; sometimes when he’s walking in thegarden he sees him, a half-grown cat, lolling watchful in an appletree, or snoring on a wall in the sun.Spring 1530: Antonio Bonvisi, the merchant, invites him tosupper at his fine tall house on Bishopsgate. ‘I won’t be late,’ hetells Richard, expecting that it will be the usual tense gathering,everyone cross and hungry: for even a rich Italian with an ingenious kitchen cannot find a hundred ways with smoked eel or saltcod. The merchants in Lent miss their mutton and malmsey, theirnightly grunt in a featherbed with wife or mistress; from now tillAsh Wednesday their knives will be out for some cut-throatintelligence, some mean commercial advantage. But it is a grander occasion than he thought; the Lord Chancellor is there, amongst a company of lawyers and aldermen.Humphrey Monmouth, whom More once locked up, is seatedwell away from the great man; More looks at his ease, holding thecompany captive with one of his stories about that great scholarErasmus, his dear friend. But when he looks up and sees him,Cromwell, he falls silent halfway through a sentence; he casts hiseyes down, and an opaque and stony look grows on his face.‘Did you want to talk about me?’ he asks. ‘You can do it whileI’m here, Lord Chancellor. I have a thick skin.’ He knocks backa glass of wine and laughs. ‘Do you know what Brandon issaying? He can’t fit my life together. My travels. The other dayhe called me a Jewish peddler.’‘And was that to your face?’ his host asks politely.‘No. The king told me. But then my lord cardinal callsBrandon a horsekeeper.’Humphrey Monmouth says, ‘You have the entrée these days,Thomas. And what do you think, now you are a courtier?’There are smiles around the table. Because, of course, the ideais so ridiculous, the situation so temporary. More’s people arecity people, no grander; but he is sui generis, a scholar and a wit.And More says, ‘Perhaps we should not press the point. Thereare delicate issues here. There is a time to be silent.’An elder of the drapers’ guild leans across the table and warns,his voice low: ‘Thomas More said, when he took his seat, that hewon’t discuss the cardinal, or the Lady either.’He, Cromwell, looks around at the company. ‘The kingsurprises me, though. What he will tolerate.’‘From you?’ More says.‘I mean Brandon. They’re going to hunt: he walks in andshouts, are you ready?’‘Your master the cardinal found it a constant battle,’ Bonvisisays, ‘in the early years of the reign. To stop the king’s companions becoming too familiar with him. ‘He wanted only himself to be familiar,’ More suggests.‘Though, of course, the king may raise up whom he will.’‘Up to a point, Thomas,’ Bonvisi says; there is some laughter.‘And the king enjoys his friendships. That is good, surely?’‘A soft word, from you, Master Cromwell.’‘Not at all,’ Monmouth says. ‘Master Cromwell is known asone who does everything for his friends.’‘I think …’ More stops; he looks down at the table. ‘In alltruth, I am not sure if one can regard a prince as a friend.’‘But surely,’ Bonvisi says, ‘you’ve known Henry since he wasa child.’‘Yes, but friendship should be less exhausting … it should berestorative. Not like …’ More turns to him, for the first time, asif inviting comment. ‘I sometimes feel it is like … like Jacobwrestling with the angel.’‘And who knows,’ he says, ‘what that fight was about?’‘Yes, the text is silent. As with Cain and Abel. Who knows?’He senses a little disquiet around the table, among the morepious, the less sportive; or just those keen for the next course.What will it be? Fish!‘When you speak to Henry,’ More says, ‘I beg you, speak tothe good heart. Not the strong will.’He would pursue it, but the aged draper waves for more wine,and asks him, ‘How’s your friend Stephen Vaughan? What’s newin Antwerp?’ The conversation is about trade then; it is aboutshipping, interest rates; it is no more than a background hum tounruly speculation. If you come into a room and say, this is whatwe’re not talking about, it follows that you’re talking aboutnothing else. If the Lord Chancellor weren’t here it would be justimport duties and bonded warehouses; we would not be thinking of the brooding scarlet cardinal, and our starved Lentenminds would not be occupied by the image of the king’s fingerscreeping over a resistant, quick-breathing and virginal bosom.He leans back and fixes his gaze on Thomas More. In time there is a natural pause in conversation, a lull; and after a quarter-hourin which he has not spoken, the Lord Chancellor breaks into it,his voice low and angry, his eyes on the remnants of what he haseaten. ‘The Cardinal of York,’ he says, ‘has a greed that will neverbe appeased, for ruling over other men.’‘Lord Chancellor,’ Bonvisi says, ‘you are looking at yourherring as if you hate it.’Says the gracious guest, ‘There’s nothing wrong with theherring.’He leans forward, ready for this fight; he means not to let itpass. ‘The cardinal is a public man. So are you. Should he shrinkfrom a public role?’‘Yes.’ More looks up. ‘Yes, I think, a little, he should. A littleless evident appetite, perhaps.’‘It’s late,’ Monmouth says, ‘to read the cardinal a lesson inhumility.’‘His real friends have read it long ago, and been ignored.’‘And you count yourself his friend?’ He sits back, armsfolded. ‘I’ll tell him, Lord Chancellor, and by the blood of Christhe will find it a consolation, as he sits in exile and wonders whyyou have slandered him to the king.’‘Gentlemen …’ Bonvisi rises in his chair, edgy.‘No,’ he says, ‘sit down. Let’s have this straight. Thomas Morehere will tell you, I would have been a simple monk, but myfather put me to the law. I would spend my life in church, if I hadthe choice. I am, as you know, indifferent to wealth. I am devotedto things of the spirit. The world’s esteem is nothing to me.’ Helooks around the table. ‘So how did he become Lord Chancellor?Was it an accident?’The doors open; Bonvisi jumps to his feet; relief floods hisface. ‘Welcome, welcome,’ he says. ‘Gentlemen: the Emperor’sambassador.’It is Eustache Chapuys, come in with the desserts; the newambassador, as one calls him, though he has been in post since fall. He stands poised on the threshold, so they may know himand admire: a little crooked man, in a doublet slashed and puffed,blue satin billowing through black; beneath it, his little blackspindly legs. ‘I regret to be so late,’ he says. He simpers. ‘Lesdépêches, toujours les dépêches.’‘That’s the ambassador’s life.’ He looks up and smiles.‘Thomas Cromwell.’‘Ah, c’est le juif errant!’At once the ambassador apologises: whilst smiling around, asif bemused, at the success of his joke.Sit down, sit down, says Bonvisi, and the servants bustle, thecloths are swept away, the company rearranges itself more informally, except for the Lord Chancellor, who goes on sitting wherehe’s sitting. Preserved autumn fruits come in, and spiced wine,and Chapuys takes a place of honour beside More.‘We will speak French, gentlemen,’ says Bonvisi.French, as it happens, is the first language of the ambassadorof the Empire and Spain; and like any other diplomat, he willnever take the trouble to learn English, for how will that helphim in his next posting? So kind, so kind, he says, as he easeshimself back in the carved chair their host has vacated; his feet donot quite touch the floor. More rouses himself then; he and theambassador put their heads together. He watches them; theyglance back at him resentfully; but looking is free.In a tiny moment when they pause, he cuts in. ‘MonsieurChapuys? You know, I was talking with the king recently aboutthose events, so regrettable, when your master’s troops plundered the Holy City. Perhaps you can advise us? We don’tunderstand them even now.’Chapuys shakes his head. ‘Most regrettable events.’‘Thomas More thinks it was the secret Mohammedans in yourarmy who ran wild – oh, and my own people, of course, thewandering Jews. But before this, he has said it was the Germans,the Lutherans, who raped the poor virgins and desecrated the shrines. In all cases, as the Lord Chancellor says, the Emperormust blame himself; but to whom should we attach blame? Areyou able to help us out?’‘My dear Sir Chancellor!’ The ambassador is shocked. Hiseyes turn towards Thomas More. ‘Did you speak so, of myimperial master?’ A glance flicked over his shoulder, and hedrops into Latin.The company, linguistically agile, sit and smile at him. Headvises, pleasantly, ‘If you wish to be half-secret, try Greek.Allez, Monsieur Chapuys, rattle away! The Lord Chancellor willunderstand you.’The party breaks up soon after, the Lord Chancellor rising togo; but before he does, he makes a pronouncement to thecompany, in English. ‘Master Cromwell’s position,’ he says, ‘isindefensible, it seems to me. He is no friend to the church, as weall know, but he is friend to one priest. And that priest the mostcorrupt in Christendom.’With the curtest of nods he takes his leave. Even Chapuysdoes not warrant more. The ambassador looks after him,dubious, biting his lip: as if to say, I looked for more help andfriendship there. Everything Chapuys does, he notices, is likesomething an actor does. When he thinks, he casts his eyes down,places two fingers to his forehead. When he sorrows, he sighs.When he is perplexed, he wags his chin, he half-smiles. He is likea man who has wandered inadvertently into a play, who hasfound it to be a comedy, and decided to stay and see it through.The supper is over; the company dwindle away, into the earlydusk. ‘Perhaps sooner than you would have liked?’ he says, toBonvisi.‘Thomas More is my old friend. You should not come hereand bait him.’‘Oh, have I spoiled your party? You invited Monmouth; wasthat not to bait him?’ ‘No, Humphrey Monmouth is my friend too.’‘And I?’‘Of course.’They have slid back naturally into Italian. ‘Tell me somethingthat intrigues me,’ he says. ‘I want to know about ThomasWyatt.’ Wyatt went to Italy, having attached himself to a diplomatic mission, rather suddenly: three years ago now. He had adisastrous time there, but that’s for another evening; the question is, why did he run away from the English court in suchhaste?‘Ah. Wyatt and Lady Anne,’ Bonvisi says. ‘An old story, I’dhave thought?’Well, perhaps, he says, but he tells him about the boy Mark,the musician, who seems sure Wyatt’s had her; if the story’sbouncing around Europe, among servants and menials, what arethe odds the king hasn’t heard?‘A part of the art of ruling, I suppose, is to know when to shutyour ears. And Wyatt is handsome,’ Bonvisi says, ‘in the Englishstyle, of course. He is tall, he is blond, my countrymen marvel athim; where do you breed such people? And so assured, ofcourse. And a poet!’He laughs at his friend because, like all the Italians, he can’tsay ‘Wyatt’: it comes out ‘Guiett’, or something like that. Therewas a man called Hawkwood, a knight of Essex, used to rape andburn and murder in Italy, in the days of chivalry; the Italianscalled him Acuto, The Needle.‘Yes, but Anne …’ He senses, from his glimpses of her, that sheis unlikely to be moved by anything so impermanent as beauty.‘These few years she has needed a husband, more than anything:a name, an establishment, a place from which she can stand andnegotiate with the king. Now, Wyatt’s married. What could heoffer her?’‘Verses?’ says the merchant. ‘It wasn’t diplomacy took himout of England. It was that she was torturing him. He no longer dared be in the same room with her. The same castle. The samecountry.’ He shakes his head. ‘Aren’t the English odd?’‘Christ, aren’t they?’ he says.‘You must take care. The Lady’s family, they are pushing alittle against the limit of what can be done. They are saying, whywait for the Pope? Can we not make a marriage contract withouthim?’‘It would seem to be the way forward.’‘Try one of these sugared almonds.’He smiles. Bonvisi says, ‘Tommaso, I may give you someadvice? The cardinal is finished.’‘Don’t be so sure.’‘Yes, and if you did not love him, you would know it wastrue.’‘The cardinal has been nothing but good to me.’‘But he must go north.’‘The world will chase him. You ask the ambassadors. AskChapuys. Ask them who they report to. We have them at Esher,at Richmond. Toujours les dépêches. That’s us.’‘But that is what he is accused of! Running a country withinthe country!’He sighs. ‘I know.’‘And what will you do about it?’‘Ask him to be more humble?’Bonvisi laughs. ‘Ah, Thomas. Please, you know when he goesnorth you will be a man without a master. That is the point. Youare seeing the king, but it is only for now, while he works outhow to give the cardinal a pay-off that will keep him quiet. Butthen?’He hesitates. ‘The king likes me.’‘The king is an inconstant lover.’‘Not to Anne.’‘That is where I must warn you. Oh, not because of Guiett …not because of any gossip, any light thing said … but because it must all end soon … she will give way, she is just a woman …think how foolish a man would have been if he had linked hisfortunes to those of the Lady’s sister, who came before her.’‘Yes, just think.’He looks around the room. That’s where the Lord Chancellor sat. On his left, the hungry merchants. On his right, the newambassador. There, Humphrey Monmouth the heretic. There,Antonio Bonvisi. Here, Thomas Cromwell. And there areghostly places set, for the Duke of Suffolk large and bland, forNorfolk jangling his holy medals and shouting ‘By the Mass!’There is a place set for the king, and for the doughty littlequeen, famished in this penitential season, her belly quakinginside the stout armour of her robes. There is a place set forLady Anne, glancing around with her restless black eyes, eatingnothing, missing nothing, tugging at the pearls around her littleneck. There is a place for William Tyndale, and one for thePope; Clement looks at the candied quinces, too coarsely cut,and his Medici lip curls. And there sits Brother Martin Luther,greasy and fat: glowering at them all, and spitting out his fishbones.A servant comes in. ‘Two young gentlemen are outside,master, asking for you by name.’He looks up. ‘Yes?’‘Master Richard Cromwell and Master Rafe. With servantsfrom your household, waiting to take you home.’He understands that the whole purpose of the evening hasbeen to warn him: to warn him off. He will remember it, the fatalplacement: if it proves fatal. That soft hiss and whisper, of stonedestroying itself; that distant sound of walls sliding, of plastercrumbling, of rubble crashing on to fragile human skulls? That isthe sound of the roof of Christendom, falling on the peoplebelow.Bonvisi says, ‘You have a private army, Tommaso. I supposeyou have to watch your back.’ ‘You know I do.’ His glance sweeps the room: one last look.
‘Good night. It was a good supper. I liked the eels. Will you send
your cook to see mine? I have a new sauce to brighten the season.
One needs mace and ginger, some dried mint leaves chopped –’
His friend says, ‘I beg of you. I implore you to be careful.’
‘– a little, but a very little garlic –’
‘Wherever you dine next, pray do not –’
‘– and of breadcrumbs, a scant handful …’
‘– sit down with the Boleyns.