Wolf Hall (49 page)

1531: it is the summer of the comet. In the long dusk, beneath the curve of the rising moon and the light of the strange new star, black-robed gentlemen stroll arm in arm in the garden, speaking of salvation. They are Thomas Cranmer, Hugh Latimer, the priests and clerks of Anne's household detached and floated to Austin Friars on a breeze of theological chitchat: where did the church go wrong? How can we drift her into the right channel again? “It would be a mistake,” he says, watching them from the window, “to think any of those gentlemen agree one with the other on any point of the interpretation of scripture. Give them a season's respite from Thomas More, and they will fall to persecuting each other.”

Gregory is sitting on a cushion and playing with his dog. He is whisking her nose with a feather and she is sneezing to amuse him. “Sir,” he says, “why are your dogs always called Bella and always so small?”

Behind him at an oak table, Nikolaus Kratzer, the king's astronomer, sits with his astrolabe before him, his paper and ink. He puts down his pen and looks up. “Master Cromwell,” he says lightly, “either my calculations are wrong, or the universe is not as we think it.”

He says, “Why are comets bad signs? Why not good signs? Why do they prefigure the fall of nations? Why not their rise?”

Kratzer is from Munich, a dark man of his own age with a long humorous mouth. He comes here for the company, for the good and learned conversation, some of it in his own language. The cardinal had been his patron, and he had made him a beautiful gold sundial. When he saw it the great man had flushed with pleasure. “Nine faces, Nikolaus! Seven more than the Duke of Norfolk.”

In the year 1456 there was a comet like this one. Scholars recorded it, Pope Calixtus excommunicated it, and it may be that there are one or two old men alive who saw it. Its tail was noted down as saber-shaped, and in that year the Turks laid siege to Belgrade. It is as well to take note of any portents the heavens may offer; the king seeks the best advice. The alignment of the planets in Pisces, in the autumn of 1524, was followed by great wars in Germany, the rise of Luther's sect, uprisings among common men and the deaths of 100,000 of the Emperor's subjects; also, three years of rain. The sack of Rome was foretold, a full ten years before the event, by noises of battle in the air and under the ground: the clash of invisible armies, steel clattering against steel, and the spectral cries of dying men. He himself was not in Rome to hear it, but he has met many men who say they have a friend who knows a man who was.

He says, “Well, if you can answer for reading the angles, I can check your workings.”

Gregory says, “Dr. Kratzer, where does the comet go, when we are not looking at it?”

The sun has declined; birdsong is hushed; the scent of the herb beds rises through the open window. Kratzer is still, a man transfixed by prayer or Gregory's question, gazing down at his papers with his long knuckly fingers joined. Down below in the garden, Dr. Latimer glances up and waves to him. “Hugh is hungry. Gregory, fetch our guests in.”

“I will run over the figures first.” Kratzer shakes his head. “Luther says, God is above mathematics.”

Candles are brought in for Kratzer. The wood of the table is black in the dusk, and the light settles against it in trembling spheres. The scholar's lips move, like the lips of a monk at vespers; liquid figures spill from his pen. He, Cromwell, turns in the doorway and sees them. They flitter from the table, skim and melt into the corners of the room.

Thurston comes stumping up from the kitchens. “I sometimes wonder what people think goes on here! Give some dinners, or we shall be undone. All these hunting gentlemen, and ladies too, they have sent us enough meat to feed an army.”

“Send it to the neighbors.”

“Suffolk is sending us a buck every day.”

“Monsieur Chapuys is our neighbor, he doesn't get many presents.”

“And Norfolk—”

“Give it out at the back gate. Ask the parish who's hungry.”

“But it is the butchering! The skinning, the quartering!”

“I'll come and give you a hand, shall I?”

“You can't do that!” Thurston wrings his apron.

“It will be a pleasure.” He eases off the cardinal's ring.

“Sit still! Sit still, and be a gentleman, sir. Indict something, can you not? Write a law! Sir, you must forget you ever knew these businesses.”

He sits back down again, with a heavy sigh. “Are our benefactors getting letters of thanks? I had better sign them myself.”

“They are thanking and thanking,” Thurston says. “A dozen of clerks scribbling away.”

“You must take on more kitchen boys.”

“And you more scribblers.”

If the king asks for him, he goes out of London to where the king is. August finds him in a group of courtiers watching Anne, standing in a pool of sunlight, dressed as Maid Marian and shooting at a target. “William Brereton, good day,” he says. “You are not in Cheshire?”

“Yes. Despite appearances, I am.”

I asked for that. “Only I thought you would be hunting in your own country.”

Brereton scowls. “Must I account to you for my movements?”

In her green glade, in her green silks, Anne is fretting and fuming. Her bow is not to her liking. In a temper, she casts it on the grass.

“She was the same in the nursery.” He turns to find Mary Boleyn at his side: an inch closer than anyone else would be.

“Where's Robin Hood?” His eyes are on Anne. “I have dispatches.”

“He won't look at them till sundown.”

“He will not be occupied then?”

“She is selling herself by the inch. The gentlemen all say you are advising her. She wants a present in cash for every advance above her knee.”

“Not like you, Mary. One push backward and, good girl, here's fourpence.”

“Well. You know. If kings are doing the pushing.” She laughs. “Anne has very long legs. By the time he comes to her secret part he will be bankrupt. The French wars will be cheap, in comparison.”

Anne has knocked away Mistress Shelton's offer of another bow. She stalks toward them across the grass. The golden caul that holds her hair glitters with diamond points. “What's this, Mary? Another assault on Master Cromwell's reputation?” There is some giggling from the group. “Have you any good news for me?” she asks him. Her voice softens, and her look. She puts a hand on his arm. The giggling stops.

In a north-facing closet, out of the glare, she tells him, “I have news for you, in fact. Gardiner is to get Winchester.”

Winchester was Wolsey's richest bishopric; he carries all the figures in his head. “The preference may render him amenable.”

She smiles: a twist of her mouth. “Not to me. He has worked to get rid of Katherine, but he would rather I did not replace her. Even to Henry he makes no secret of that. I wish he were not Secretary. You—”

“Too soon.”

She nods. “Yes. Perhaps. You know they have burned Little Bilney? While we have been in the woods playing thieves.”

Bilney was taken before the Bishop of Norwich, caught preaching in the open fields and handing out to his audience pages of Tyndale's gospels. The day he was burned it was windy, and the wind kept blowing the flames away from him, so it was a long time before he died. “Thomas More says he recanted when he was in the fire.”

“That is not what I hear from people who saw it.”

“He was a fool,” Anne says. She blushes, deep angry red. “People must say whatever will keep them alive, till better times come. That is no sin. Would not you?” He is not often hesitant. “Oh, come, you have thought about it.”

“Bilney put himself into the fire. I always said he would. He recanted before and was let go, so he could be granted no more mercy.”

Anne drops her eyes. “How fortunate we are, that we never come to the end of God's.” She seems to shake herself. She stretches her arms. She smells of green leaves and lavender. In the dusk her diamonds are as cool as raindrops. “The King of Outlaws will be home. We had better go and meet him.” She straightens her spine.

The harvest is getting in. The nights are violet and the comet shines over the stubble fields. The huntsmen call in the dogs. After Holy Cross Day the deer will be safe. When he was a child this was the time for the boys who had been living wild on the heath all summer to come home and make their peace with their fathers, stealing in on a harvest supper night when the parish was in drink. Since before Whitsun they had lived by scavenging and beggars' tricks, snaring birds and rabbits and cooking them in their iron pot, chasing any girls they saw back screaming to their houses, and on wet and cold nights sneaking into outhouses and barns, to keep warm by singing and telling riddles and jokes. When the season was over it was time for him to sell the cauldron, taking it door-to-door and talking up its merits. “This pot is never empty,” he would claim. “If you've only some fish-heads, throw them in and a halibut will swim up.”

“Is it holed?”

“This pot is sound, and if you don't believe me, madam, you can piss in it. Come, tell me what you will give me. There is no pot to equal this since Merlin was a boy. Toss in a mouse from your trap and the next thing you know it's a spiced boar's head with the apple ready in its mouth.”

“How old are you?” a woman asks him.

“That I couldn't say.”

“Come back next year, and we can lie in my feather bed.”

He hesitates. “Next year I'm run away.”

“You're going on the road as a traveling show? With your pot?”

“No, I thought I'd be a robber on the heath. Or a bear-keeper's a steady job.”

The woman says, “I hope it keeps fine for you.”

That night, after his bath, his supper, his singing, his dancing, the king wants a walk. He has country tastes, likes what you call hedge wine, nothing strong, but these days he knocks back his first drink quickly and nods to signal for more; so he needs Francis Weston's arm to steady him as he leaves the table. A heavy dew has fallen, and gentlemen with torches squelch over the grass. The king takes a few breaths of damp air. “Gardiner,” he says. “You don't get on.”

“I have no quarrel with him,” he says blandly.

“Then he has a quarrel with you.” The king vanishes into blackness; next he speaks from behind a torch flame, like God out of the burning bush. “I can manage Stephen. I have his measure. He is the kind of robust servant I need, these days. I don't want men who are afraid of controversy.”

“Your Majesty should come inside. These night vapors are not healthy.”

“Spoken like the cardinal.” The king laughs.

He approaches on the king's left hand. Weston, who is young and lightly built, is showing signs of buckling at the knees. “Lean on me, sir,” he advises. The king locks an arm around his neck, in a sort of wrestling hold. Bear-keeper's a steady job. For a moment he thinks the king is crying.

He didn't run away the next year, for bear-keeping or any other trade. It was next year that the Cornishmen came roaring up the country, rebels bent on burning London and taking the English king and bending him to their Cornish will. Fear went before their army, for they were known for burning ricks and ham-stringing cattle, for firing houses with the people inside, for slaughtering priests and eating babies and trampling altar bread.

The king lets him go abruptly. “Away to our cold beds. Or is that only mine? Tomorrow you will hunt. If you are not well mounted we will provide. I will see if I can tire you out, though Wolsey said it was a thing impossible. You and Gardiner, you must learn to pull together. This winter you must be yoked to the plow.”

It is not oxen he wants, but brutes who will go head-to-head, injure and maim themselves in the battle for his favor. It's clear his chances with the king are better if he doesn't get on with Gardiner than if he does. Divide and rule. But then, he rules anyway.