Wolf Hall (63 page)

“I thought you might bring drawings,” he says.

They look at each other. “Oh, no.”

“But there are drawings?”

“Not as such.”

The spilled 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.

Partway 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 favor 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 farther toward 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 honor 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 toward 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 humor. “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 color 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 toward 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.