He puts his hand upon the royal person, on his sleeve of russet velvet, on his arm, and he grasps it hard enough to make himself felt. ‘You know the lawyers' saying “Le mort saisit le vif”? The dead grip the living. The prince dies but his power passes at the moment of his death, there is no lapse, no interregnum. If your brother visited you, it is not to make you ashamed, but to remind you that you are vested with the power of both the living and the dead. This is a sign to you to examine your kingship. And exert it.’
Henry looks up at him. He is thinking. He is stroking his sable cuff and his expression is lost. ‘Is this possible?’
Again Cranmer begins to speak. Again he cuts him off. ‘You know what is written on the tomb of Arthur?’
‘Rex quondam rexque futurus. The former king is the future king.’
‘Your father made it sure. A prince coming out of Wales, he made good the word given to his ancestors. Out of his lifetime's exile he came back and claimed his ancient right. But it is not enough to claim a country; it must be held. It must be held and made secure, in every generation. If your brother seems to say that you have taken his place, then he means you to become the king that he would have been. He himself cannot fulfil the prophecy, but he wills it to you. For him, the promise, and for you, the performance of it.’
The king's eyes move to Dr Cranmer, who says, stiffly, ‘I cannot see anything against it. I still counsel against heeding dreams.’
‘Oh, but,’ he says, ‘the dreams of kings are not like the dreams of other men.’
‘You may be right.’
‘But why now?’ Henry says, reasonably enough. ‘Why does he come back now? I have been king for twenty years.’
He bites back the temptation to say, because you are forty and he is telling you to grow up. How many times have you enacted the stories of Arthur – how many masques, how many pageants, how many companies of players with paper shields and wooden swords? ‘Because this is the vital time,’ he says. ‘Because now is the time to become the ruler you should be, and to be sole and supreme head of your kingdom. Ask Lady Anne. She will tell you. She will say the same.’
‘She does,’ the king admits. ‘She says we should no longer bow to Rome.’
‘And should your father appear to you in a dream, take it just as you take this one. That he has come to strengthen your hand. No father wishes to see his son less powerful than himself.’
Henry slowly smiles. From the dream, from the night, from the night of shrouded terrors, from maggots and worms, he seems to uncurl, and stretch himself. He stands up. His face shines. The fire stripes his robe with light, and in its deep folds flicker ochre and fawn, colours of earth, of clay. ‘Very well,’ he says. ‘I see. I understand it all now. I knew who to send for. I always know.’ He turns and speaks into the darkness. ‘Harry Norris? What time is it? Is it four o'clock? Have my chaplain robe for Mass.’
‘Perhaps I could say Mass for you,’ Dr Cranmer suggests, but Henry says, ‘No, you are tired. I've kept you from your beds, gentlemen.’
It is as easy as that, as peremptory. They find themselves turned out. They pass the guards. They walk in silence, back to their people, the man Brereton shadowing them. At last, Dr Cranmer says, ‘Neat work.’
He turns. Now he wants to laugh but he dare not laugh.
‘A deft touch, “and should your father appear to you …” I take it you don't like to be roused too often in the small hours.’
‘My household was alarmed.’
The doctor looks sorry then, as if he might have been frivolous. ‘Of course,’ he murmurs. ‘Because I am not a married man, I do not think of these things.’
‘I am not a married man, either.’
‘No. I forgot.’
‘You object to what I said?’
‘It was perfect in every way. As if you had thought of it in advance.’
‘How could I?’
‘Indeed. You are a man of vigorous invention. Still … for the gospel, you know …’
‘For the gospel, I count it a good night's work.’
‘But I wonder,’ Cranmer says, almost to himself. ‘I wonder what you think the gospel is. Do you think it is a book of blank sheets on which Thomas Cromwell imprints his desires?’
He stops. He puts a hand on his arm and says, ‘Dr Cranmer, look at me. Believe me. I am sincere. I cannot help it if God has given me a sinner's aspect. He must mean something by it.’
‘I dare say.’ Cranmer smiles. ‘He has arranged your face on purpose to disconcert our enemies. And that hand of yours, to take a grip on circumstance – when you took the king's arm in your grasp, I winced myself. And Henry, he felt it.’ He nods. ‘You are a person of great force of will.’
Clerics can do this: speak about your character. Give verdicts: this one seems favourable, though the doctor, like a fortuneteller, has told him no more than he already knew. ‘Come,’ Cranmer says, ‘your boys will be fretting to see you safe.’
Rafe, Gregory, Richard, cluster round him: what's happened? ‘The king had a dream.’
‘A dream?’ Rafe is shocked. ‘He got us out of bed for a dream?’
‘Believe me,’ Brereton says, ‘he gets one out of bed for less than that.’
‘Dr Cranmer and I agree that a king's dreams are not as other men's dreams.’
Gregory asks, ‘Was it a bad dream?’
‘Initially. He thought it was. It isn't now.’
They look at him, not understanding, but Gregory understands. ‘When I was small I dreamed of demons. I thought they were under my bed, but you said, it can't be so, you don't get demons our side of the river, the guards won't let them over London Bridge.’
‘So are you terrified,’ Richard says, ‘if you cross the river to Southwark?’
Gregory says, ‘Southwark? What is Southwark?’
‘Do you know,’ Rafe says, in a schoolmaster's tone, ‘there are times when I see a spark of something in Gregory. Not a blaze, to be sure. Just a spark.’
‘That you should mock! With a beard like that.’
‘Is that a beard?’ Richard says. ‘Those scant red bristles? I thought there was some negligence by the barber.’
They are hugging each other, wild with relief. Gregory says, ‘We thought the king had committed him to some dungeon.’
Cranmer nods, tolerant, amused. ‘Your children love you.’
Richard says, ‘We cannot do without the man in charge.’
It will be many hours till dawn. It is like the lightless morning on which the cardinal died. There is a smell of snow in the
