It is a low sort of place, and smells of wood smoke, fish and
mould. On a side wall is a watery mirror through which he
glimpses his own face, pale, only his eyes alive. For a moment it
shocks him; you do not expect to see your own image in a hovel
like this.
He sits at a table and waits. After five minutes there is a disturbance of the air at the back of the room. But nothing happens. He
has anticipated they will keep him waiting; to pass the time, he
runs over in his head the figures for last year’s receipts to the king
from the Duchy of Cornwall. He is about to move on to the
figures submitted by the Chamberlain of Chester, when a dark
shape materialises, and resolves itself into the person of an old
man in a long gown. He totters forward, and in time two others
follow him. You could change any one for the other: hollow
coughs, long beards. According to some precedence which they
negotiate by grunting, they take their seats on a bench opposite.
He hates alchemists, and these look like alchemists to him: nameless splashes on their garments, watering eyes, vapour-induced
sniffles. He greets them in French. They shudder, and one of
them asks in Latin if they are not going to have anything to
drink. He calls for the boy, and asks him without much hope
what he suggests. ‘Drink somewhere else?’ the boy offers.
A jug of something vinegary comes. He lets the old men drink
deeply before he asks, ‘Which of you is Maître Camillo?’
They exchange glances. It takes them as long as it takes the
Graiae to pass their single shared eye.
‘Maître Camillo has gone to Venice.’
‘Why?’
Some coughing. ‘For consultations.’
‘But he does mean to return to France?’
‘Quite likely.’
‘The thing you have, I want it for my master.’
A silence. How would it be, he thought, if I take the wine
away till they say something useful? But one pre-empts him, snatching up the jug; his hand shakes, and the wine washes over
the table. The others bleat with irritation.
‘I thought you might bring drawings,’ he says.
They look at each other. ‘Oh, no.’
‘But there are drawings?’
‘Not as such.’
The spilt wine begins to soak into the splintered wood. They sit
in miserable silence and watch this happen. One of them occupies
himself in working his finger through a moth hole in his sleeve.
He shouts to the boy for a second jug. ‘We do not wish to
disoblige you,’ the spokesman says. ‘You must understand that
Maître Camillo is, for now, under the protection of King Francis.’
‘He intends to make a model for him?’
‘That is possible.’
‘A working model?’
‘Any model would be, by its nature, a working model.’
‘Should he find the terms of his employment in the least unsatisfactory, my master Henry would be happy to welcome him in
England.’
There is another pause, till the jug is fetched and the boy has
gone. This time, he does the pouring himself. The old men
exchange glances again, and one says, ‘The magister believes he
would dislike the English climate. The fogs. And also, the whole
island is covered with witches.’
The interview has been unsatisfactory. But one must begin
somewhere. As he leaves he says to the boy, ‘You might go and
swab the table.’
‘I may as well wait till they’ve upset the second jug, monsieur.’
‘True. Take them in some food. What do you have?’
‘Pottage. I wouldn’t recommend it. It looks like what’s left
when a whore’s washed her shift.’
‘I never knew the Calais girls to wash anything. Can you
read?’
‘A little. ‘Write?’
‘No, monsieur.’
‘You should learn. Meanwhile use your eyes. If anyone else
comes to talk to them, if they bring out any drawings, parchments, scrolls, anything of that kind, I want to know.’
The boy says, ‘What is it, monsieur? What are they selling?’
He almost tells him. What harm could it do? But then in the
end he can’t think of the right words.
Part-way through the talks in Boulogne, he has a message that
Francis would like to see him. Henry deliberates before giving
him permission; face-to-face, monarchs should deal only with
fellow monarchs, and lords and churchmen of high rank. Since
they landed, Brandon and Howard, who were friendly enough
on board ship, have been distant with him, as if to make it quite
clear to the French that they accord him no status; he is some
whim of Henry’s, they pretend, a novelty councillor who will
soon vanish in favour of a viscount, baron or bishop.
The French messenger tells him, ‘This is not an audience.’
‘No,’ he says, ‘I understand. Nothing of that sort.’
Francis sits waiting, attended only by a handful of courtiers,
for what is not an audience. He is a beanpole of a man, his elbows
and knees jutting at the air, his big bony feet restless inside vast
padded slippers. ‘Cremuel,’ he says. ‘Now, let me understand
you. You are a Welshman.’
‘No, Your Highness.’
Sorrowful dog eyes; they look him over, they look him over
again. ‘Not a Welshman.’
He sees the French king’s difficulty. How has he got his passport to the court, if he is not from some family of humble Tudor
retainers? ‘It was the late cardinal who induced me into the king’s
business.’
‘Yes, I know that,’ Francis says, ‘but I think to myself there is
something else going on here.’ ‘That may be, Highness,’ he says crisply, ‘but it’s certainly not
being Welsh.’
Francis touches the tip of his pendulous nose, bending it further
towards his chin. Choose your prince: you wouldn’t like to look
at this one every day. Henry is so wholesome, in his fleshy,
scrubbed pink-and-whiteness. Francis says, his glance drifting
away, ‘They say you once fought for the honour of France.’
Garigliano: for a moment he lowers his eyes, as if he’s remembering a very bad accident in the street: some mashing and irretrievable mangling of limbs. ‘On a most unfortunate day.’
‘Still … these things pass. Who now remembers Agincourt?’
He almost laughs. ‘It is true,’ he says. ‘A generation or two, or
three … four … and these things are nothing.’
Francis says, ‘They say you are in very good standing with
That Lady.’ He sucks his lip. ‘Tell me, I am curious, what does
my brother king think? Does he think she is a maid? Myself, I
never tried her. When she was here at court she was young, and
as flat as a board. Her sister, however –’
He would like to stop him but you can’t stop a king. His voice
runs over naked Mary, chin to toes, and then flips her over like a
griddle cake and does the other side, nape to heels. An attendant
hands him a square of fine linen, and as he finishes he dabs the
corner of his mouth: and hands the kerchief back.
‘Well, enough,’ Francis says. ‘I see you will not admit to being
Welsh, so that is the end of my theories.’ The corners of his mouth
turn up; his elbows work a little; his knees twitch; the not-audience is over. ‘Monsieur Cremuel,’ he says, ‘we may not meet
again. Your sudden fortunes may not last. So, come, give me your
hand, like a soldier of France. And put me in your prayers.’
He bows. ‘Your beadsman, sir.’
As he leaves, one of the courtiers steps forward, and murmuring, ‘A gift from His Highness,’ hands him a pair of embroidered
gloves. Another man, he supposes, would be pleased, and try them on.
For his part, he pinches the fingers, and finds what he is looking
for. Gently, he shakes the glove, his hand cupped.
He goes straight to Henry. He finds him in the sunshine,
playing a game of bowls with some French lords. Henry can
make a game of bowls as noisy as a tournament: whooping,
groaning, shouting of odds, wails, oaths. The king looks up at
him, his eyes saying, ‘Well?’ His eyes say, ‘Alone,’ the king’s say,
‘Later,’ and not a word is spoken, but all the time the king keeps
up his joking and backslapping, and he straightens up, watching
his wood glide over the shorn grass, and points in his direction.
‘You see this councillor of mine? I warn you, never play any
game with him. For he will not respect your ancestry. He has no
coat of arms and no name, but he believes he is bred to win.’
One of the French lords says, ‘To lose gracefully is an art that
every gentleman cultivates.’
‘I hope to cultivate it too,’ he says. ‘If you see an example I
might follow, please point it out.’
For they are all, he notices, intent on winning this game, on
taking a piece of gold from the King of England. Gambling is not
a vice, if you can afford to do it. Perhaps I could issue him with
gaming tokens, he thinks, redeemable only if presented in person
at some office in Westminster: with tortuous paperwork
attached, and fees to clerks, and a special seal to be affixed. That
would save us some money.
But the king’s wood moves smoothly towards the marker ball.
Henry is winning the game anyway. From the French, a spatter
of polite applause.
When he and the king are alone, he says, ‘Here’s something you
will like.’
Henry likes surprises. With a thick forefinger, his pink clean
English nail, he nudges the ruby about on the back of his hand.
‘It is a good stone,’ he says. ‘I am a judge of these things.’ A pause. ‘Who is the principal goldsmith here? Ask him to wait on
me. It is a dark stone, Francis will know it again; I will wear it on
my own finger before our meetings are done. France shall see
how I am served.’ He is in high good humour. ‘However, I shall
give you the value.’ He nods, to dismiss him. ‘Of course, you will
compound with the goldsmith to put a higher valuation on it,
and arrange to split the profit with him … but I shall be liberal in
the matter.’
Arrange your face.
The king laughs. ‘Why would I trust a man with my business,
if he could not manage his own? One day Francis will offer you
a pension. You must take it. By the way, what did he ask you?’
‘He asked if I were Welsh. It seemed a great question with
him, I was sorry to be so disappointing.’
‘Oh, you are not disappointing,’ Henry says. ‘But the moment
you are, I will let you know.’
Two hours. Two kings. What do you know, Walter? He stands
in the salty air, talking to his dead father.
When Francis comes back with his brother king to Calais, it is
Anne who leads him out to dance after the evening’s great
feast. There is colour in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkle
behind her gilded mask. When she lowers the mask and looks
at the King of France, she wears a strange half-smile, not quite
human, as if behind the mask were another mask. You can see
his jaw drop; you can see him begin to drool. She entwines her
fingers with his, and leads him to a window seat. They speak in
French for an hour, whispering, his sleek dark head leaning
towards her; sometimes they laugh, looking into each other’s
eyes. No doubt they are discussing the new alliance; he seems
to think she has another treaty tucked down her bodice. Once
Francis lifts her hand. She pulls back, half-resisting, and for
one moment it seems he intends to lay her little fingers upon
his unspeakable codpiece. Everyone knows that Francis has recently taken the mercury cure. But no one knows if it has
worked.
Henry is dancing with the wives of Calais notables: gigue,
saltarello. Charles Brandon, his sick wife forgotten, is making his
partners scream by throwing them in the air so that their skirts
fly up. But Henry’s glance keeps straying down the hall to Anne,
to Francis. His spine is stiff with his personal terror. His face
expresses smiling agony.
Finally, he thinks, I must end this: can it be true, he wonders,
that as a subject should, I really love my king?
He ferrets Norfolk out of the dark corner where he is hiding,
for fear that he should be commanded to partner the Governor’s
wife. ‘My lord, fetch your niece away. She has done enough
diplomacy. Our king is jealous.’
‘What? What the devil is his complaint now?’ Yet Norfolk
sees at a glance what is happening. He swears, and crosses the
room – through the dancers, not round them. He takes Anne by
her wrist, bending it back as if to snap it. ‘By your leave, Highness. My lady, we shall dance.’ He jerks her to her feet. Dance
they do, though it bears no relation to any dance seen in any hall
before this. On the duke’s part, a thundering with demon
hooves; on her part, a blanched caper, one arm held like a broken
wing.
He looks across at Henry. The king’s face expresses a sober,
righteous satisfaction. Anne should be punished, and by whom
except her kin? The French lords huddle together, sniggering.
Francis looks on with narrowed eyes.
That night the king withdraws from company early, dismissing
even the gentlemen of his privy chamber; only Henry Norris is
in and out, trailed by an underling carrying wine, fruit, a large
quilt, then a pan of coals; it has turned chilly. The women, in
their turn, have become brisk and snappish. Anne’s raised voice
has been heard. Doors slam. As he is talking to Thomas Wyatt, Mistress Shelton comes careering towards him. ‘My lady wants a
Bible!’
‘Master Cromwell can recite the whole New Testament,’
Wyatt says helpfully.
The girl looks agonised. ‘I think she wants it to swear on.’
‘In that case I’m no use to her.’
Wyatt catches her hands. ‘Who’s going to keep you warm
tonight, young Shelton?’ She pulls away from him, shoots off in
pursuit of the scriptures. ‘I’ll tell you who. Henry Norris.’
He looks after the girl. ‘She draws lots?’
‘I have been lucky.’
‘The king?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Recently?’
‘Anne would pull out their hearts and roast them.’
He feels he should not go far, in case Henry calls for him. He
finds a corner for a game of chess with Edward Seymour.
Between moves, ‘Your sister Jane …’ he says.
‘Odd little creature, isn’t she?’
‘What age would she be?’
‘I don’t know … twenty or so? She walked around at Wolf Hall
saying, “These are Thomas Cromwell’s sleeves,” and nobody knew
what she was talking about.’ He laughs. ‘Very pleased with herself.’
‘Has your father made a match for her?’
‘There was some talk of –’ He looks up. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just distracting you.’
Tom Seymour bursts through the door. ‘Good e’en, grandfer,’
he shouts at his brother. He knocks his cap off and ruffles his
hair. ‘There are women waiting for us.’
‘My friend here advises not.’ Edward dusts his cap. ‘He says
they’re just the same as Englishwomen but dirtier.’
‘Voice of experience?’ Tom says.
Edward resettles his cap primly. ‘How old would our sister
Jane be? ‘Twenty-one, twenty-two. Why?’
Edward looks down at the board, reaches for his queen. He
sees how he’s trapped. He glances up in appreciation. ‘How did
you manage that?’
Later, he sits with a blank piece of paper before him. He means to
write a letter to Cranmer and cast it to the four winds, send it
searching through Europe. He picks up his pen but does not
write. He revisits in his mind his conversation with Henry, about
the ruby. His king imagines he would take part in a backstairs
deceit, the kind that might have entertained him in the days when
he antiqued cupids and sold them to cardinals. But to defend
yourself against such accusations makes you seem guilty. If
Henry does not fully trust him, is it surprising? A prince is alone:
in his council chamber, in his bedchamber, and finally in Hell’s
antechamber, stripped – as Harry Percy said – for Judgment.
This visit has compacted the court’s quarrels and intrigues,
trapped them in the small space within the town’s walls. The
travellers have become as intimate with each other as cards in a
pack: contiguous, but their paper eyes blind. He wonders where
Tom Wyatt is, and in what sort of trouble. He doesn’t think he
can sleep: though not because he’s worried about Wyatt. He goes
to the window. The moon, as if disgraced, trails rags of black
cloud.
In the gardens, torches burn in wall brackets, but he walks
away from the light. The faint push and pull of the ocean is
steady and insistent as his own heartbeat. He knows he shares
this darkness, and within a moment there is a footstep, a rustle of
skirts, a faint breathy gulp, a hand sliding on his arm. ‘You,’
Mary says.
‘Me.’
‘Do you know they unbolted the door between them?’ She
laughs, a merciless giggle. ‘She is in his arms, naked as she was
born. She can’t change her mind now. Tonight I thought they would quarrel.’
‘They did. They like quarrelling. She claims Norfolk has
broken her arm. Henry called her a Magdalene and some other
names I forget, I think they were Roman ladies. Not Lucrece.’
‘No. At least, I hope not. What did she want the Bible for?’
‘To swear him. Before witnesses. Me. Norris. He made a
binding promise. They are married in God’s sight. And he swears
he will marry her again in England and crown her queen when
spring comes.’
He thinks of the nun, at Canterbury: if you enter into a form
of marriage with this unworthy woman, you will not reign seven
months.
‘So now,’ Mary says, ‘it is just a question of whether he will
find he is able to do the deed.’
‘Mary.’ He takes her hand. ‘Don’t frighten me.’
‘Henry is timid. He thinks you expect a kingly performance.
But if he is shy, Anne will know how to help.’ She adds, carefully,
‘I mean to say, I have advised her.’ She slides her hand on to his
shoulder. ‘So now, what about us? It has been a weary struggle to
bring them here. I think we have earned our recreation.’
No answer. ‘You’re not still frightened of my uncle Norfolk?’
‘Mary, I am terrified of your uncle Norfolk.’
Still, that’s not the reason, not the reason why he hesitates, not
quite pulling away. Her lips brush his. She asks, ‘What are you
thinking?’
‘I was thinking that if I were not the king’s most dutiful
servant, it would be possible to be on the next boat out.’
‘Where would we go?’
He doesn’t remember inviting a friend. ‘East. Though I grant
this would not be a good starting point.’ East of the Boleyns, he
thinks. East of everybody. He is thinking of the Middle Sea, not
these northern waters; and one night especially, a warm midnight
in a house in Larnaca: Venetian lights spilling out on to the
dangerous waterfront, the slap of slave feet on tiles, a perfume of incense and coriander. He puts an arm around Mary, encountering something soft, totally unexpected: fox fur. ‘Clever of you,’
he says.
‘Oh, we brought everything. Every stitch. In case we are here
till winter.’
A glow of light on flesh. Her throat very white, very soft. All
things seem possible, if the duke stays indoors. His fingertip
teases out the fur till fur meets flesh. Her shoulder is warm,
scented and a little damp. He can feel the bounce of her pulse.
A sound behind him. He turns, dagger in hand. Mary screams,
pulls at his arm. The point of the weapon comes to rest against a
man’s doublet, under the breastbone. ‘All right, all right,’ says a
sober, irritated English voice. ‘Put that away.’
‘Heavens,’ Mary says. ‘You almost murdered William
Stafford.’
He backs the stranger into the light. When he sees his face, not
till then, he draws back the blade. He doesn’t know who Stafford
is: somebody’s horse-keeper? ‘William, I thought you weren’t
coming,’ Mary says.
‘If I didn’t, it seems you had a reserve.’
‘You don’t know what a woman’s life is! You think you’ve
fixed something with a man, and you haven’t. He says he’ll meet
you, and he doesn’t turn up.’
It is a cry from the heart. ‘Give you good night,’ he says. Mary
turns as if to say, oh, don’t go. ‘Time I said my prayers.’
A wind has blown up from the Narrow Sea, snapping at the
rigging in the harbour, rattling the windows inland. Tomorrow,
he thinks, it may rain. He lights a candle and goes back to his
letter. But his letter has no attraction for him. Leaves flurry from
the gardens, from the orchards. Images move in the air beyond
the glass, gulls blown like ghosts: a flash of his wife Elizabeth’s
white cap, as she follows him to the door on her last morning.
Except that she didn’t: she was sleeping, wrapped in damp linen,
under the yellow turkey quilt. If he thinks of the fortune that brought him here he thinks equally of the fortune that brought
him to that morning five years ago, going out of Austin Friars a
married man, files of Wolsey’s business under his arm: was he
happy then? He doesn’t know.
That night in Cyprus, long ago now, he had been on the verge
of handing his resignation to his bank, or at least of asking them
for letters of introduction to take him east. He was curious to see
the Holy Land, its plant life and people, to kiss the stones where
the disciples had walked, to bargain in the hidden quarters of
strange cities and in black tents where veiled women scuttle like
cockroaches into corners. That night his fortunes had been in
equipoise. In the room behind him, as he looked out over the
harbour lights, he heard a woman’s throaty laughter, her soft ‘alhamdu lillah’ as she shook the ivory dice in her hand. He heard
her spill them, heard them rattle and come to rest: ‘What is it?’
East is high. West is low. Gambling is not a vice, if you can
afford to do it.
‘It is three and three.’
Is that low? You must say it is. Fate has not given him a shove,
more of a gentle tap. ‘I shall go home.’
‘Not tonight, though. It is too late for the tide.’
Next day he felt the gods at his back, like a breeze. He turned
back towards Europe. Home then was a narrow shuttered house
on a quiet canal, Anselma kneeling, creamily naked under her
trailing nightgown of green damask, its sheen blackish in candlelight; kneeling before the small silver altarpiece she kept in her
room, which was precious to her, she had told him, the most
precious thing I own. Excuse me just a moment, she had said to
him; she prayed in her own language, now coaxing, now almost
threatening, and she must have teased from her silver saints some
flicker of grace, or perceived some deflection in their glinting
rectitude, because she stood up and turned to him, saying, ‘I’m
ready now,’ tugging apart the silk ties of her gown so that he
could take her breasts in his hands.