a back staircase for boys like him, carrying wood or coals. Once he broke the rules; and when he reached the top, a fist came out of the darkness and punched the side of his head. Cardinal Morton himself, lurking?
He touches the stone, cold as a tomb: vine leaves intertwined with some nameless flower. Lady Shelton looks at him smiling, quizzical: why does he hesitate? ‘Perhaps we should change out of our riding clothes before we meet Lady Mary. She might feel slighted …’
‘So she might if you delay. She will make something of it, in either case. I say I pity her, but oh, she is not easy! She graces neither our dinner table nor supper table, because she will not sit below the little princess. And my niece the queen has laid down that food must not be carried to her own room, except the little bread for breakfast we all take.’
She has led him to a closed door. ‘Do they still call this the blue chamber?’
‘Ah, your father has been here before,’ she says to Gregory.
‘He's been everywhere,’ Gregory says.
She turns. ‘See how you get on, gentlemen. By the way, she will not answer to “Lady Mary”.’
It is a long room, it is almost empty of furniture, and the chill, like a ghost's ambassador, meets them on the threshold. The blue tapestries have been taken down and the plaster walls are naked. By an almost dead fire, Mary is sitting: huddled, tiny and pitifully young. Gregory whispers, ‘She looks like Malekin.’
Poor Malekin, she is a spirit girl; she eats at night, lives on crumbs and apple peel. Sometimes, if you come down early and are quiet on the stairs, you find her sitting in the ashes.
Mary glances up; surprisingly, her little face brightens. ‘Master Cromwell.’ She gets to her feet, takes a step towards him and almost stumbles, her feet entangled in the hem of her dress. ‘How long is it since I saw you at Windsor?’
‘I hardly know,’ he says gravely. ‘The years have been good to you, madam.’
She giggles; she is now eighteen. She casts around her as if bewildered for the stool on which she was sitting. ‘Gregory,’ he says, and his son dives to catch the ex-princess, before she sits down on empty air. Gregory does it as if it were a dance step; he has his uses.
‘I am sorry to keep you standing. You might,’ she waves vaguely, ‘sit down on that chest.’
‘I think we are strong enough to stand. Though I do not think you are.’ He sees Gregory glance at him, as if he has never heard this softened tone. ‘They do not make you sit alone, and by this miserable fire, surely?’
‘The man who brings the wood will not give me my title of princess.’
‘Do you have to speak to him?’
‘No. But it would be an evasion if I did not.’
That's right, he thinks: make life as hard as possible for yourself. ‘Lady Shelton has told me about the difficulty in … the dinner difficulty. Suppose I were to send you a physician?’
‘We have one here. Or rather, the child has.’
‘I could send a more useful one. He might give you a regimen for your health, and lay it down that you were to take a large breakfast, in your own room.’
‘Meat?’ Mary says.
‘In quantity.’
‘But who would you send?’
‘Dr Butts?’
Her face softens. ‘I knew him at my court at Ludlow. When I was Princess of Wales. Which I still am. How is it I am put out of the succession, Master Cromwell? How is it lawful?’
‘It is lawful if Parliament makes it so.’
‘There is a law above Parliament. It is the law of God. Ask Bishop Fisher.’
‘I find God's purposes obscure, and God knows I find Fisher no fit elucidator. By contrast, I find the will of Parliament plain.’
She bites her lip; now she will not look at him. ‘I have heard Dr Butts is a heretic these days.’
‘He believes as your father the king believes.’
He waits. She turns, her grey eyes fixed on his face. ‘I will not call my lord father a heretic.’
‘Good. It is better that these traps are tested, first, by your friends.’
‘I do not see how you can be my friend, if you are also friend to the person, I mean the Marquess of Pembroke.’ She will not give Anne her royal title.
‘That lady stands in a place where she has no need of friends, only of servants.’
‘Pole says you are Satan. My cousin Reginald Pole. Who lies abroad at Genoa. He says that when you were born, you were like any Christian soul, but that at some date the devil entered into you.’
‘Did you know, Lady Mary, I came here when I was a boy, nine or ten? My uncle was a cook to Morton, and I was a poor snivelling lad who bundled the hawthorn twigs at dawn to light the ovens, and killed the chickens for the boiling house before the sun was up.’ He speaks gravely. ‘Would you suppose the devil had entered me by that date? Or was it earlier, around the time when other people are baptised? You understand it is of interest to me.’
Mary watches him, and she does it sideways; she still wears an old-style gable hood, and she seems to blink around it, like a horse whose headcloth has slipped. He says softly, ‘I am not Satan. Your lord father is not a heretic.’
‘And I am not a bastard, I suppose.’
‘Indeed no.’ He repeats what he told Anne Shelton: ‘You were conceived in good faith. Your parents thought they were married. That does not mean their marriage was good. You can see the difference, I think?’
She rubs her forefinger under her nose. ‘Yes, I can see the difference. But in fact the marriage was good.’
‘The queen will be coming to visit her daughter soon. If you would simply greet her respectfully in the way you should greet your father's wife –’
‘– except she is his concubine –’
‘– then your father would take you back to court, you would have everything you lack now, and the warmth and comfort of society. Listen to me, I intend this for your good. The queen does not expect your friendship, only an outward show. Bite your tongue and bob her a curtsey. It will be done in a heartbeat, and it will change everything. Make terms with her before her new child is born. If she has a son, she will have no reason afterwards to conciliate you.’
‘She is frightened of me,’ Mary says, ‘and she will still be frightened, even if she has a son. She is afraid I will make a marriage, and my own sons will threaten her.’
‘Does anyone talk to you of marriage?’
A dry little laugh, incredulous. ‘I was a baby at the breast when I was married into France. Then to the Emperor, into France again, to the king, to his first son, to his second son, to his sons I have lost
