not outlive me either. Back into the dimness, towards Henry. Only one thing checks him, the sight, whisking around a corner, of the hem of a scarlet robe; no doubt it is one of the judges, escaped from his procession.
The Venetian ambassador is blocking the entrance to Henry's box, but the king waves him aside, and says, ‘Cromwell, did not my wife look well, did she not look beautiful? Will you go and see her, and give her …’ he looks around, for some likely present, then wrenches a diamond from his knuckle, ‘will you give her this?’ He kisses the ring. ‘And this too?’
‘I shall hope to convey the sentiment,’ he says, and sighs, as if he were Cranmer.
The king laughs. His face is alight. ‘This is my best,’ he says. ‘This is my best day.’
‘Until the birth, Majesty,’ says the Venetian, bowing.
It is Mary Howard, Norfolk's little daughter, who opens the door to him.
‘No, you most certainly cannot come in,’ she says. ‘Utterly not. The queen is undressed.’
Richmond is right, he thinks; she has no breasts at all. Still. For fourteen. I'll charm this small Howard, he thinks, so he stands spinning words around her, complimenting her gown and her jewels, till he hears a voice from within, muffled like a voice from a tomb; and Mary Howard jumps and says, oh, all right, if she says so you can see her.
The bedcurtains are drawn close. He pulls them back. Anne is lying in her shift. She looks flat as a ghost, except for the shocking mound of her six-month child. In her ceremonial robes, her condition had hardly showed, and only that sacred instant, as she lay belly-down to stone, had connected him to her body, which now lies stretched out like a sacrifice: her breasts puffy beneath the linen, her swollen feet bare.
‘Mother of God,’ she says. ‘Can you not leave Howard women alone? For an ugly man, you are very sure of yourself. Let me look at you.’ She bobs her head up. ‘Is that crimson? It's a very black crimson. Did you go against my orders?’
‘Your cousin Francis Bryan says I look like a travelling bruise.’
‘A contusion on the body politic.’ Jane Rochford laughs.
‘Can you do this?’ he asks: almost doubting, almost tender. ‘You are exhausted.’
‘Oh, I think she will bear up.’ There is no sisterly pride in Mary's voice. ‘She was born for this, was she not?’
Jane Seymour: ‘Is the king watching?’
‘He is proud of her.’ He speaks to Anne, stretched out on her catafalque. ‘He says you have never looked more beautiful. He sends you this.’
Anne makes a little sound, a moan, poised between gratitude and boredom: oh, what, another diamond?
‘And a kiss, which I said he had better bring in person.’
She shows no sign of taking the ring from him. It is almost irresistible, to place it on her belly and walk away. Instead he hands it to her sister. He says, ‘The feast will wait for you, Highness. Come only when you feel ready.’
She levers herself upright, with a gasp. ‘I am coming now.’ Mary Howard leans forward and rubs her lower back, with an unpractised hand, a fluttering virginal motion as if she were stroking a bird. ‘Oh, get away,’ the anointed queen snaps. She looks sick. ‘Where were you last evening? I wanted you. The streets cheered for me. I heard them. They say the people love Katherine, but really, it is just the women, they pity her. We will show them something better. They will love me, when this creature is out of me.’
Jane Rochford: ‘Oh, but madam, they love Katherine because she is the daughter of two anointed sovereigns. Make your mind up to it, madam – they will never love you, any more than they love … Cromwell here. It is nothing to do with your merits. It is a point of fact. There is no use trying to evade it.’
‘Perhaps enough,’ Jane Seymour says. He turns to her and sees something surprising; she has grown up.
‘Lady Carey,’ Jane Rochford says, ‘we must get your sister on her feet now and back in her robes, so see Master Cromwell out and enjoy your usual confabulation. This is not a day to break with tradition.’
At the door: ‘Mary?’ he says. Notices the dark stains under her eyes.
‘Yes?’ She speaks in a tone of ‘yes, and what is it now?’
‘I am sorry the marriage with my nephew did not come off.’
‘Not that I was ever asked, of course.’ She smiles tightly. ‘I shall never see your house. And one hears so much of it.’
‘What do you hear?’
‘Oh … of chests bursting with gold pieces.’
‘We would never allow that. We would get bigger chests.’
‘They say it is the king's money.’
‘It's all the king's money. His image is on it. Mary, look,’ he takes her hand, ‘I could not dissuade him from his liking for you. He –’
‘How hard did you try?’
‘I wish you were safe with us. Though of course it was not the great match you might expect, as the queen's sister.’
‘I doubt there are many sisters who expect what I receive, nightly.’
She will get another child by Henry, he thinks. Anne will have it strangled in the cradle. ‘Your friend William Stafford is at court. At least, I think he is still your friend?’
‘Imagine how he likes my situation. Still, at least I get a kind word from my father. Monseigneur finds he needs me again. God forbid the king should ride a mare from any other stable.’
‘This will end. He will free you. He will give you a settlement. A pension. I'll speak for you.’
‘Does a dirty dishcloth get a pension?’ Mary sways on the spot; she seems dazed with misery and fatigue; great tears swell in her eyes. He stands catching them, dabbing them away, whispering to her and soothing her, and wanting to be elsewhere. When he breaks free he gives her a backward glance, as she stands in the doorway, desolate. Something must be done for her, he thinks. She's losing her looks.
Henry watches from a gallery, high above Westminster Hall, as his queen takes her seat in the place of honour, her ladies around her, the flower of the court and the nobility of England. The king has fortified himself earlier, and is picking at a spice plate, dipping thin slices of apple into cinnamon. In the gallery with him, encore les ambassadeurs, Jean de Dinteville furred against the June chill, and his friend the Bishop of Lavaur, wrapped in a fine brocade gown.
‘This has all been most impressive, Cremuel,’ de Selve says; astute brown eyes study him, taking everything in. He takes in everything too: stitching and padding, studding and dyeing; he admires the deep mulberry of the bishop's brocade. They say these two Frenchmen favour the gospel, but favour at François's court extends no further than a small circle of scholars that the king, for his own vanity, wishes to patronise; he has never quite been able to grow his own Thomas More, his own Erasmus, which naturally piques his pride.
‘Look
