face falls. ‘What, the same story?’
‘Mutatis mutandis. The servant isn’t called Robin.’
The king meets his eye. He smiles.
Leaving, he pushes past the gentlemen, and who should he meet but the king’s Secretary! ‘Good morning, good morning!’ he says. He doesn’t often repeat things, but the moment seems to call for it.
Gardiner is rubbing his great blue hands together. ‘Cold, no?’ he says. ‘And how was that, Cromwell? Unpleasant, I think?’
‘On the contrary,’ he says. ‘Oh, and he’s going out with Suffolk; you’ll have to wait.’ He walks on, but then turns. There is a pain like a dull bruise inside his chest. ‘Gardiner, can’t we drop this?’
‘No,’ Gardiner says. His drooping eyelids flicker. ‘No, I don’t see that we can.’
‘Fine,’ he says. He walks on. He thinks, you wait. You may have to wait a year or two, but you just wait.
Esher, two days later: he is hardly through the gateway when Cavendish comes hurtling across the courtyard. ‘Master Cromwell! Yesterday the king –’
‘Calmly, George,’ he advises.
‘– yesterday he sent us four cartloads of furnishings – come and see! Tapestry, plate, bed hangings – was it by your suit?’
Who knows? He hadn’t asked for anything directly. If he had, he’d have been more specific. Not that hanging, but this hanging, which my lord likes; he likes goddesses, rather than virgin martyrs, so away with St Agnes, and let’s have Venus in a grove. My lord likes Venetian glassware; take away these battered silver goblets.
He looks contemptuous as he inspects the new stuff. ‘Only the best for you boys from Putney,’ Wolsey says. ‘It is possible,’ he adds, almost apologising, ‘that what the king appointed for me was not in fact what was sent. That inferior substitutions were made, by inferior persons.’
‘That is entirely possible,’ he says.
‘Still. Even so. We are more comfortable for it.’
‘The difficulty is,’ Cavendish says, ‘we need to move. This whole house needs to be scrubbed out and aired.’
‘True,’ the cardinal says. ‘St Agnes, bless her, would be knocked over by the smell of the privies.’
‘So will you make suit to the king’s council?’
He sighs. ‘George, what is the point? Listen. I’m not talking to Thomas Howard. I’m not talking to Brandon. I’m talking to him.’
The cardinal smiles. A fat paternal beam.
He is surprised – as they thrash out a financial settlement for the cardinal – at Henry’s grasp of detail. Wolsey has always said that the king has a fine mind, as quick as his father’s, but more comprehensive. The old king grew narrow as he aged; he kept a hard hand on England; there was no nobleman he did not hold by a debt or bond, and he said frankly that if he could not be loved he would be feared. Henry has a different nature, but what is it? Wolsey laughs and says, I should write you a handbook.
But as he walks in the gardens of the little lodge at Richmond, where the king has allowed him to remove, the cardinal’s mind becomes clouded, he talks about prophecies, and about the downfall of the priests of England, which he says is foretold, and will now happen.
Even if you don’t believe in omens – and he doesn’t, personally – he can see the problem. For if the cardinal is guilty of a crime in asserting his jurisdiction as legate, are not all those clerics, from bishops downwards, who assented to his legacy, also guilty? He can’t be the only person who’s thinking about this; but mostly, his enemies can’t see past the cardinal himself, his vast scarlet presence on the horizon; they fear it will loom up again, ready for revenge. ‘These are bad times for proud prelates,’ says Brandon, when next they meet. He sounds jaunty, a man whistling to keep his courage up. ‘We need no cardinals in this realm.’
‘And he,’ the cardinal says, furious, ‘he, Brandon, when he married the king’s sister out of hand – when he married her in the first days of her widowhood, knowing the king intended her for another monarch – his head would have been parted from his body, if I, a simple cardinal, had not pleaded for him to the king.’
I, a simple cardinal.
‘And what excuse did Brandon make?’ the cardinal says. ‘“Oh, Your Majesty, your sister Mary cried. How she did cry and beg me to marry her myself! I never saw woman cry so!” So he dried her tears and got himself up to a dukedom! And now he talks as if he’s held his title since the Garden of Eden. Listen, Thomas, if men of sound learning and good disposition come to me – as Bishop Tunstall comes, as Thomas More comes – and plead that the church must be reformed, why then I listen. But Brandon! To talk about proud prelates! What was he? The king’s horsekeeper! And I’ve known horses with more wit.’
‘My lord,’ Cavendish pleads, ‘be more temperate. And Charles Brandon, you know, was of an ancient family, a gentleman born.’
‘Gentleman, he? A swaggering braggart. That’s Brandon.’ The cardinal sits down, exhausted. ‘My head aches,’ he says. ‘Cromwell, go to court and bring me better news.’
Day by day he takes his instructions from Wolsey at Richmond, and rides to wherever the king is. He thinks of the king as a terrain into which he must advance, with no sea coast to supply him.
He understands what Henry has learned from his cardinal: his floating diplomacy, his science of ambiguity. He sees how the king has applied this science to the slow, trackless, dubious ruin of his minister. Every kindness, Henry matches with a cruelty, some further charge or forfeiture. Till the cardinal moans, ‘I want to go away.’
‘Winchester,’ he suggests, to the dukes. ‘My lord cardinal is willing to proceed to his palace there.’
‘What, so near the king?’ Brandon says. ‘We are not fools to ourselves, Master Cromwell.’
Since he, the cardinal’s man, is with Henry so often, rumours have run all over Europe that Wolsey is about to be recalled. The king is cutting a deal, people say, to have the church’s wealth in exchange for Wolsey’s return to favour. Rumours leak from the council chamber, from the privy chamber: the king does not like his new set-up. Norfolk is found ignorant; Suffolk is accused of having an annoying laugh.
He says, ‘My lord won’t go north. He is not ready for it.’
‘But I want him north,’ Howard says. ‘Tell him to go. Tell him Norfolk says he must be on the road and out of here. Or – and tell him this – I will come where he is, and I will tear him with my teeth.’
‘My lord.’ He bows. ‘May I substitute the word “bite”?’
Norfolk approaches him. He stands far too close. His eyes are bloodshot. Every sinew is jumping. He says, ‘Substitute nothing, you misbegotten –’ The duke stabs a forefinger into his shoulder. ‘You … person,’ he says; and again, ‘you nobody from Hell, you whore-spawn, you cluster of evil, you lawyer.’
He stands there, pushing away, like a baker pressing the dimples
