it. ‘If His Majesty’s brother Arthur had lived,’ Wolsey says, ‘then His Majesty would have been the cardinal, and not me. Now there’s a thought. Do you know, Thomas, I haven’t had a day off since … since I was on the boat, I suppose. Since the day I was seasick, starting at Dover.’
They had once crossed the Narrow Sea together. The cardinal had lain below, calling on God, but he, being used to the voyage, spent the time on deck, making drawings of the sails and rigging, and of notional ships with notional rigging, and trying to persuade the captain – ‘yourself not offended,’ he said – that there was a way of going faster. The captain thought it over and said, ‘When you fit out a merchant ship of your own, you can do it that way. Of course, any Christian vessel will think you’re pirates, so don’t look for help if you get in difficulties. Sailors,’ he explained, ‘don’t like anything new.’
‘Nor does anyone else,’ he’d said. ‘Not as far as I can see.’
There cannot be new things in England. There can be old things freshly presented, or new things that pretend to be old. To be trusted, new men must forge themselves an ancient pedigree, like Walter’s, or enter into the service of ancient families. Don’t try to go it alone, or they’ll think you’re pirates.
This summer, with the cardinal back on dry land, he remembers that voyage. He waits for the enemy to come alongside, and for the hand-to-hand fighting to begin.
But for now he goes down to the kitchens, to see how they are getting on with their masterpieces to impress the French envoys. They have got the steeple on their sugar-paste model of St Paul’s, but they are having trouble with the cross and ball on top. He says, ‘Make marzipan lions – the cardinal wants them.’
They roll their eyes and say, will it never end?
Since he returned from France their master has been uncharacteristically sour. It is not just the overt failures that make him grumble, but the dirty work behind the scenes. Squibs and slanders were printed against him and as fast as he could buy them up there was a new batch on the street. Every thief in France seemed to converge on his baggage train; at Compiègne, though he mounted a day-and-night guard on his gold plate, a little boy was found to be going up and down the back stairs, passing out the dishes to some great robber who had trained him up.
‘What happened? Did you catch him?’
‘The great robber was put in the pillory. The boy ran away. Then one night, some villain sneaked into my chamber, and carved a device by the window …’ And next morning, a shaft of early sun, creeping through mist and rain, had picked out a gallows, from which dangled a cardinal’s hat.
Once again the summer has been wet. He could swear it has never been light. The harvest will be ruined. The king and the cardinal exchange recipes for pills. The king lays down cares of state should he happen to sneeze, and prescribes for himself an easy day of music-making or strolling – if the rain abates – in his gardens. In the afternoon, he and Anne sometimes retire and are private. The gossip is that she allows him to undress her. In the evenings, good wine keeps the chills out, and Anne, who reads the Bible, points out strong scriptural commendations to him.
After supper he grows thoughtful, says he supposes the King of France is laughing at him; he supposes the Emperor is laughing too. After dark the king is sick with love. He is melancholy, sometimes unreachable. He drinks and sleeps heavily, sleeps alone; he wakes, and because he is a strong man and a young man still he is optimistic, clear-headed, ready for the new day. In daylight, his cause is hopeful.
The cardinal doesn’t stop work if he’s ill. He just goes on at his desk, sneezing, aching, and complaining.
In retrospect, it is easy to see where the cardinal’s decline began, but at the time it was not easy. Look back, and you remember being at sea. The horizon dipped giddily, and the shoreline was lost in mist.
October comes, and his sisters and Mercy and Johane take his dead wife’s clothes and cut them up carefully into new patterns. Nothing is wasted. Every good bit of cloth is made into something else.
At Christmas the court sings:
As the holly groweth green
And never changes hue
So I am, and ever hath been,
Unto my lady true.
Green groweth the holly, so doth the ivy.
Though winter blasts blow ever so high.
As the holly groweth green,
With ivy all alone,
When flowers cannot be seen
And green-wood leaves be gone,
Green groweth the holly.
Spring, 1528: Thomas More, ambling along, genial, shabby. ‘Just the man,’ he says. ‘Thomas, Thomas Cromwell. Just the man I want to see.’
He is genial, always genial; his shirt collar is grubby. ‘Are you bound for Frankfurt this year, Master Cromwell? No? I thought the cardinal might send you to the fair, to get among the heretic booksellers. He is spending a deal of money buying up their writings, but the tide of filth never abates.’
More, in his pamphlets against Luther, calls the German shit. He says that his mouth is like the world’s anus. You would not think that such words would proceed from Thomas More, but they do. No one has rendered the Latin tongue more obscene.
‘Not really my business,’ Cromwell says, ‘heretics’ books. Heretics abroad are dealt with abroad. The church being universal.’
‘Oh, but once these Bible men get over to Antwerp, you know … What a town it is! No bishop, no university, no proper seat of learning, no proper authorities to stop the proliferation of so-called translations, translations of scripture which in my opinion are malicious and wilfully misleading … But you know that, of course, you spent some years there. And now Tyndale’s been sighted in Hamburg, they say. You’d know him, wouldn’t you, if you saw him?’
‘So would the Bishop of London. You yourself, perhaps.’
‘True. True.’ More considers it. He chews his lip. ‘And you’ll say to me, well, it’s not work for a lawyer, running after false translations. But I hope to get the means to proceed against the brothers for sedition, do you see?’ The brothers, he says; his little joke; he drips with disdain. ‘If there is a crime against the state, our treaties come into play, and I can have them extradited. To answer for themselves in a straiter jurisdiction.’
‘Have you found sedition in Tyndale’s writing?’
‘Ah, Master Cromwell!’ More rubs his hands together. ‘I relish you, I do indeed. Now I feel as a nutmeg must do when it’s grated. A lesser man – a lesser lawyer – would say, “I have read Tyndale’s work, and I find no fault there.” But Cromwell won’t be tripped – he casts it back, he asks me, rather, have you read Tyndale? And I admit it. I have studied the man. I have picked apart his so-called translations, and I have done it letter by letter. I read him, of course, I do. By licence. From my bishop.’
‘It says in Ecclesiasticus, “he that toucheth pitch shall be defiled.” Unless his name’s Thomas More.’
‘Well now, I knew you were a Bible reader! Most apt. But if a priest hears a confession,
