Wolf Hall (87 page)

First he goes out to the kitchens to tell Thurston the news. “Well,” the cook says easily, “as you're doing the job anyway.” A chuckle. “Bishop Gardiner will be burning up inside. His giblets will be sizzling in his own grease.” He whisks a bloodied cloth from a tray. “See these quails? You get more meat on a wasp.”

“Malmsey?” he suggests. “Seethe them?”

“What, three dozen? Waste of good wine. I'll do some for you, if you like. Come from Lord Lisle at Calais. When you write, tell him if he sends another batch, we want them fatter or not at all. Will you remember?”

“I'll make a note,” he says gravely. “From now on I thought we might have the council meet here sometimes, when the king isn't sitting with us. We can give them dinner before.”

“Right.” Thurston titters. “Norfolk could do with some flesh on his twiggy little legs.”

“Thurston, you needn't dirty your hands—you have enough staff. You could put on a gold chain, and strut about.”

“Is that what you'll be doing?” A wet poultry slap; then Thurston looks up at him, wiping pluck from his fingers. “I think I'd rather keep my hand in. In case things take a downturn. Not that I say they will. Remember the cardinal, though.”

He remembers Norfolk: tell him to go north, or I will come where he is and tear him with my teeth.

May I substitute the word “bite”?

The saying comes to him,
homo homini lupus
, man is wolf to man.

“So,” he says to Rafe after supper, “you've made your name, Master Sadler. You'll be held up as a prime example of how to waste your connections. Fathers will point you out to their sons.”

“I couldn't help it, sir.”

“How, not help it?”

Rafe says, as dry as he can manage, “I am violently in love with her.”

“How does that feel? Is it like being violently angry?”

“I suppose. Maybe. In that you feel more alive.”

“I do not think I could feel any more alive than I am.”

He wonders if the cardinal was ever in love. But of course, why did he doubt? The all-consuming passion of Wolsey for Wolsey was hot enough to scorch all England. “Tell me, that evening after the queen was crowned . . .” He shakes his head, turns over some papers on his desk: letters from the mayor of Hull.

“I will tell you anything you ask,” Rafe says. “I cannot imagine how I was not frank with you. But Helen, my wife, she thought it was better to be secret.”

“But now she is carrying a child, I suppose, so you must declare yourselves?”

Rafe blushes.

“That evening, when I came into Austin Friars looking for her, to take her to Cranmer's wife . . . and she came down,” his eyes move as if he were seeing it, “she came down without her cap, and you after, with your hair sticking up, and you were angry with me for taking her away . . .”

“Well, yes,” Rafe says. His hand creeps up and he flattens his hair with his palm, as if that would help matters now. “They were all gone out to the feasts. That was the first time I took her to bed, but it was no blame. By then she had promised herself to me.”

He thinks, I am glad I have not brought up in my house a young man without feeling, who only studies his advancement. If you are without impulses, you are, to a degree, without joy; under my protection, impulses are a thing Rafe can afford. “Look, Rafe, this is a—well, God knows, a folly but not a disaster. Tell your father my promotion in the world will ensure yours. Of course, he will stamp and roar. It is what fathers are for. He will shout, I rue the day I parted with my boy to the debauched house of Cromwell. But we will bring him around. A little and a little.”

Till now the boy has been standing; he subsides onto a stool, hands on his head, head flung back; relief washes through his whole body. Was he so afraid? Of me? “Look, when your father sets eyes on Helen, he'll understand, unless he's . . .” Unless he's what? You'd have to be dead and entombed not to notice: her bold and beautiful body, her mild eyes. “We just need to get her out of that canvas apron she goes around in, and dress her up as Mistress Sadler. And of course you will want a house of your own. I will help you there. I shall miss the little children, I have grown fond of them, and Mercy too, we are all fond of them. If you want this new one to be the first child in your house, we can keep them here.”

“It is good of you. But Helen would never part with them. It is understood between us.”

So I shall never have any more children at Austin Friars, he thinks. Well, not unless I take time out of the king's business and go wooing: not unless, when a woman speaks to me, I actually listen. “What will reconcile your father, and you can tell him this, is that from now on, when I am not with the king, you will be with him. Master Wriothesley will tease the diplomats and keep the ciphers, for it is sly work which will suit him, and Richard will be here to head the household when I am absent and drive my work forward, and you and I will attend on Henry, as sweet as two nursemaids, and cater to his whims.” He laughs. “You are a gentleman born. He may promote you close to his person, to the privy chamber. Which would be useful to me.”

“I did not look for this to happen. I did not plan it.” Rafe drops his eyes. “I know I can never take Helen with me to court.”

“Not as the world is now. And I do not think it will change in our lifetimes. But look, you have made your choice. You must never repent it.”

Rafe says, passionate, “How could I think to keep a secret from you? You see everything, sir.”

“Ah. Only up to a point.”

When Rafe has gone he takes out his evening's work and begins on it, methodical, tapping the papers into place. His bills are passed but there is always another bill. When you are writing laws you are testing words to find their utmost power. Like spells, they have to make things happen in the real world, and like spells, they only work if people believe in them. If your law exacts a penalty, you must be able to enforce it—on the rich as well as the poor, the people on the Scottish borders and the Welsh marches, the men of Cornwall as well as the men of Sussex and Kent. He has written this oath, a test of loyalty to Henry, and he means to swear the men of every burgh and village, and all women of any consequence: widows with inheritances, landowners. His people will be tramping the wold and heathland, pledging those who have barely heard of Anne Boleyn to uphold the succession of the child in her womb. If a man knows the king is called Henry, swear him; never mind if he confuses this king with his father or some Henry who came before. For princes like other men fade from the memory of common people; their features, on those coins he used to sift from the river silt, were no more than a slight irregularity under his fingertips, and even when he had taken the coins home and scrubbed them he could not say who they might be; is this, he asked, Prince Caesar? Walter had said, let's see; then he had flipped the coin away from him in disgust, saying, it's but a tinny farthing from one of those kings who fought the French wars. Get out there and earn, he'd said, never mind Prince Caesar; Caesar was old when Adam was a lad.

He would chant, “When Adam delved and Eve span, Who was then the gentleman?” Walter would chase him and hit him if he could catch him: there's a bloody rebel song for you, we know what to do with rebels here. They are dug into shallow graves, the Cornishmen who came up the country when he was a boy; but there are always more Cornishmen. And beneath Cornwall, beyond and beneath this whole realm of England, beneath the sodden marches of Wales and the rough territory of the Scots border, there is another landscape; there is a buried empire, where he fears his commissioners cannot reach. Who will swear the hobs and bogarts who live in the hedges and in hollow trees, and the wild men who hide in the woods? Who will swear the saints in their niches, and the spirits that cluster at holy wells rustling like fallen leaves, and the miscarried infants dug into unconsecrated ground: all those unseen dead who hover in winter around forges and village hearths, trying to warm their bare bones? For they too are his countrymen: the generations of the uncounted dead, breathing through the living, stealing their light from them, the bloodless ghosts of lord and knave, nun and whore, the ghosts of priest and friar who feed on living England, and suck the substance from the future.

He stares down at the papers on his desk, but his thoughts are far from here. My daughter Anne said, “I choose Rafe.” He lowers his head into his hands and closes his eyes; Anne Cromwell stands before him, ten or eleven years old, broad and resolute like a man at arms, her small eyes unblinking, sure of her power to make her fate.

He rubs his eyes. Sifts his papers. What is this? A list. A meticulous clerk's hand, legible but making scant sense.

 

Two carpets. One cut in pieces.

7 sheets. 2 pillows. 1 bolster.

2 platters, 4 dishes, 2 saucers.

One small basin, weight 12lbs @ 4d the pound; my Lady Prioress has it, paid 4 shillings.

 

He turns the paper over, trying to find its origin. He sees that he is looking at the inventory of Elizabeth Barton's goods, left behind at her nunnery. All this is forfeit to the king, the personal property of a traitor: a piece of plank which serves as a table, three pillowcases, two candlesticks, a coat valued at five shillings. An old mantle has been given in charity to the youngest nun in her convent. Another nun, a Dame Alice, has received a bedcover.

He had said to More, prophecy didn't make her rich. He makes a memorandum to himself: “Dame Elizabeth Barton to have money to fee the hangman.” She has five days to live. The last person she will see as she climbs the ladder is her executioner, holding out his paw. If she cannot pay her way at the last, she may suffer longer than she needs. She had imagined how long it takes to burn, but not how long it takes to choke at the end of a rope. In England there is no mercy for the poor. You pay for everything, even a broken neck.

Thomas More's family has taken the oath. He has seen them himself, and Alice has left him in no doubt that she holds him personally responsible for failing to talk her husband into conformity. “Ask him what in the name of God he's about. Ask him, is it clever, does he think it is, to leave his wife without company, his son without advice, his daughters without protection, and all of us at the mercy of a man like Thomas Cromwell?”

“That's you told,” Meg had murmured, with half a smile. Head bowed, she had taken his hand between her own. “My father has spoken very warmly of you. Of how you have been courteous to him and how you have been vehement—which he accounts no less a favor. He says he believes you understand him. As he understands you.”

“Meg? Surely you can look at me?”

Another face bowed under the weight of a gable hood: Meg twitches her veils about her, as if she were out in a gale and they would provide protection.

“I can hold the king off for a day or two. I don't believe he wishes to see your father in the Tower, every moment he looks for some sign of . . .”

“Surrender?”

“Support. And then . . . no honor would be too high.”

“I doubt the king can offer the sort of honor he cares for,” Will Roper says. “Unfortunately. Come on, Meg, let's go home. We need to get your mother on the river before she starts a brawl.” Roper holds out his hand. “We know you are not vengeful, sir. Though God knows, he has never been a friend to your friends.”

“There was a time you were a Bible man yourself.”

“Men may change opinions.”

“I agree entirely. Tell your father-in-law that.”

It was a sour note to part on. I shall not indulge More, he thinks, or his family, in any illusion that they
understand me
. How could that be, when my workings are hidden from myself?

He makes a note: Richard Cromwell to present himself to the Abbot of Westminster, to escort Sir Thomas More, prisoner, to the Tower.

Why do I hesitate?