VIII (25 page)

In a dark little room, stuffed with books
bound in deep shades of red and brown, the man’s clean, white, disc-shaped collar stands out, as if his head is sitting, like John the Baptist’s, on a plate. He says, “According to the law as it stands, refusal to swear the oath upholding the validity of Your Majesty’s marriage to Queen Anne and the succession of Your Majesties’ heirs carries the maximum sentence of life imprisonment. It cannot carry the death penalty.”

I sit back in my chair and regard him: Audley, my current Lord Chancellor, is an able if unappealing man, with a
salt-and-pepper
beard and an irritating attachment to legal niceties. Still, his care for detail, alongside Cromwell’s own, is what, day by day, makes possible this extraordinary task of swearing the entire nation.

Whole villages at a time are being assembled to take the oath. All males above the age of fourteen are called. And those with most responsibility have it driven home to them – by Cromwell himself – how closely they are watched.
Bishops, you are responsible for the obedience of your clergy; abbots and friars, for the brethren in your institutions; landowners, for your tenants. Most are stumbling over themselves in their hurry to submit. Most fear the consequences of refusal. Those consequences, then, cannot be anything less than terrifying. If I make a few grisly examples, it will be enough to steady any wavering minds that remain.

Through clenched teeth I say, “According to the law as it stands? Then change the law.”

Audley glances down at his hands. He seems to be hesitating. Then he says, “Begging Your Majesty’s pardon, might I put before your remembrance some of those who have refused to swear the oath? The Bishop of Rochester, Sir Thomas More—”

“Your point?”

He blinks at me. “Sir, the Bishop is an old man. Held, internationally, in high esteem. He was your grandmother’s confessor…”

I say under my breath, “My grandmother – what, that old witch?”

“He preached at your illustrious father’s funeral…”

“Oh, I see. He can be excused treason for, what, sentimental reasons? And I suppose Master More, too – because I have called him my friend, and have walked of an evening with my arm around his shoulders, discussing I-don’t-know-what – then he may lead a rebellion to depose me or do as he pleases? Is that what you think?”

“He has no intention—”

“Really? But his refusal to swear is as good as a declaration of intent. To support the Pope, to declare me a heretic, to deny the right of my son to rule.”

My son that is not yet born. Not yet even conceived.

I say, “That is acceptable, is it?”

Audley’s gaze drops to his hands again. “No, indeed not,” he says.

“Indeed not.”

I get up from behind my desk and walk to the window. It is dark outside; I see my silhouette reflected in the windowpanes. The candles behind me seem to flare out of the top of my head. What did they do with the dead foetus Anne was delivered of, that day I saw the boy under the stairs? It occurs to me suddenly that I never even asked. Did he – for it was a male child, I did ask that – did he end up on the fire, along with the blood-stained linen?

I take hold of the nearest curtain and pull it round me, so that I can see into the darkness outside. I say, “God makes trials of His chosen ones – my life is proof of that. The Devil looks about for hearts to enter, to test me, to smite me. Who will he choose? Those closest to me. My friends. Don’t you think?”

Audley doesn’t answer. Below, a short distance away, I can just make out a wherry ploughing its way across the black water of the Thames. On the far bank, torches blaze at the landing stairs by Lambeth Palace. The flames, the inky water – I might as well be looking at the gateway to the underworld.

I say, “Evil stalks the land. If you don’t believe it, you are a fool.” I turn back to Audley, tugging the curtain shut behind me. “So – what do you suppose evil looks like? It wears a mask. It looks like anyone – you.” I grin at him.

“Or you.” I approach a young man hovering by the door – a lutenist who was playing for me before Audley arrived. I have forgotten to dismiss him; he is looking now as if he would like to melt into the wall-hangings.

I say, “And it smiles.” The young man smiles automatically, nervously; an instant later his smile vanishes when he realises
what I’ve just said.

“And then it murders you in cold blood the first chance it gets,” I say, turning back to Audley.

A few minutes later we are walking along a gallery, beneath a ceiling fretted like a gilded cobweb. On the wall, frozen painted figures – Orpheus and the beasts, Death visiting a banquet – glow in the candlelight. The sound of laughter and the scent of spiced fruits drift to us from the rooms ahead. I have an appointment for supper, dancing and a few hands of primero in Anne’s apartments tonight.

I am saying to Audley, “So, it must be made high treason, punishable by death, not only to wish bodily harm to come to us, but also to deny us any of our titles, or to say or write that we are heretics or tyrants.”

Audley pulls at his lower lip, thinking as he walks. He says, “This will require a new Act of Treasons.”

“So speak to—”

Suddenly: Anne. Standing in the bulge of a bay window, she’s been out of sight as we’ve approached. Now all at once we are upon her; she is talking with her brother George and with Norris – laughing with them. She turns. Her mouth is open; I am too close. She is laughing in my face.

“—Cromwell,” I finish.

In the gap between two words – a measure of time no longer than a heartbeat – I have been hit by a stray thought.

The Devil looks about for hearts to enter, to test me, to smite me. Who will he choose? Those closest to me… Don’t you think?

I groan.

“Sir?”

For a moment I am dazed. I turn to Audley, struggling to remember what I’ve just said. “Um… Speak to Cromwell about it, would you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Audley leaves and I greet my wife. I watch her speaking; I do not hear what she says. Have I not noticed before how hard, how complaining her mouth is? The long neck seems grotesque; the pale, delicate-jointed fingers adjusting her cuffs are like white spiders’ legs. She is wearing dark fur and black velvet and damask. What did Wolsey call her? A night crow.

Just a moment ago, the world seemed entirely different. Absently, my hand moves to the crucifix pinned to the front of my doublet.

The quintain is in the shape of a cross, one arm
ending in a shield, the other in a hanging weight. The aim is to strike the shield with your lance – as you would your opponent in the tilt – and set the quintain spinning. The trick then is to avoid being struck by the weight as it swings round.

Today – a December morning – the tiltyard is a vast barren plain of frost-hardened sand. I am here with a dozen others, practising for the New Year tournaments. For me the quintain is a useful warm-up, but no test of my skills. For some of my younger companions, however, it is more of a challenge: a few hard knocks have already been taken, and a few falls endured, by the time I spot a stocky figure walking towards me from the outer courtyard gate. I pull up my horse to wait for him.

He is dressed in black, his cloak drawn close about him, his sable-lined bonnet pulled down over his ears.

“Well?” I say when he comes within range.

Cromwell doesn’t reply until, having bowed, he is standing right by my horse’s nose. He says, “Your Majesty,
the doctors fear for the Princess Dowager’s life.”

I’ve jettisoned my lance already. Now I dismount – without too much difficulty today – and pass the reins to a groom. I say, “How long? Months, weeks, days – what?”

“Days – weeks at most.”

“
Yes!
” I fling my head back. The shout floats heavenwards on a cloud of warm breath.

Cromwell doesn’t react, but others in the tiltyard look my way. I yell to them: “The Princess Dowager is dying! We’ll be free from the danger of war! There’ll be no reason for the Emperor to attack us when she’s gone!”

Energised, I put my arm around Cromwell’s neck – lead him away from the grooms and other riders. “So much for Catherine. Let the Almighty gather her to His bosom as soon as He likes. I want to talk to you on another subject.” I lower my voice: “I believe I may have had a sign from God, Thomas. About Queen Anne.”

We reach an empty corner of the yard. I turn to face Cromwell, keeping a grip on his shoulders. I say, “I may have been tricked into this marriage.”

“Tricked?”

I nod. “By witchcraft. Seduced. She is…” I shake my head; start again. “I have seen her true nature. I believe I might take another wife.” I touch my gloved finger to Cromwell’s mouth. “Shh. Our secret.”

He regards me thoughtfully. For a big man, he has small eyes – and they are as sharp as a rat’s. I suppose he is making quick calculations. He says, “Sir. One thing. In such a circumstance… would the Queen, do you think, retire quietly? To—” He pushes out his lower lip; a facial shrug. “To a life of honourable seclusion?”

I look at him. In the distance I hear a double impact as a rider takes a blow and falls heavily to the floor.

It is very cold, standing like this. Cromwell’s nose is red. I don’t answer his question. Instead I say, “There will be a further sign. She has told me she is pregnant again. This new child she is carrying will prove it. Surely? God will speak through this pregnancy.” And, patting Cromwell’s shoulder as I pass, I walk back to my horses.

Today, every step is painful. But movement is
a distraction; it is worse to sit and rest. Using my stick, I try to put as little weight on my left leg as possible as I walk.

Still, nothing prepares me for the pain that rips through me as I reach the middle of the room. I cringe against the nearest table, my weight on my elbows. I am panting, wondering if I will vomit, as saliva drips onto my hands. My attendants rush forward to help.

“Get away from me!”

They hover, uncertain. My stick has fallen; one of them makes a dash forward to pick it up. He slides it onto the table then backs off, fast.

I turn, still leaning on one elbow, my legs still buckled, and swipe the stick round at the lot of them, but they are standing just out of reach. “Don’t treat me like a bloody invalid!”

I snarl. “Leave me alone! Go and cower behind doors and spy on me through keyholes as I know you do!”

They blink at me stupidly.

“
Go on!
”

Hesitantly at first, and then all in a rush, they beat a retreat.

I am alone in the Privy Gallery, where I have come to try to walk off the pain. The old wound on my left leg is ulcerated and badly swollen. It needs to burst and discharge its evil humours. Until then it will not heal. Until then I am – intermittently – in agony.

The gallery is a long space – my private walkway – where decorations twist and creep up every available surface. On an evening like this it is lit with wax candles on the fireplace and in the windows, and torches in sconces on the walls. Behind the windows’ shimmering reflections, the night is black and bitterly cold.

For now the pain has subsided; I walk again, haltingly, to the end of the room, and stop, gathering the energy to turn.

Which is when I hear it. The sound of a slow, shuffling tread on the stairs. And something like…

A tapping. No, no – more like a scratching. Listen – there it comes again
.

Who said that once? My mother? I have no time to think. Fear makes my heart race; my head is pounding.

The staircase lies at this end of the room – a small spiral of stone steps leading up directly from my private garden. The door at the top stands ajar. The one at the bottom is – or should be – locked, and checked regularly by the guards of the night watch.

No one could possibly be climbing those stairs.

I listen, not breathing. There is a moment of silence, as if whoever is on the stairs is listening too. And then the footsteps resume.

I cannot move – and must move. I retreat crabwise, my
eyes on the door.

Slowly, the footsteps come nearer. It seems to take an eternity. Then I see thin fingers grasp the edge of the wood.

As the figure slips through the gap, it turns to look first in the wrong direction, at the empty end of the gallery.

I have a split second to see without being seen – and turn away.

Leaning on my stick, my back to the door, it takes me a moment to regain control. Then I say, “The quivering rabbit. Are you still quivering?” I turn to face her. “Yes, you are. Why did the guards let you through?”

The Seymour girl, Jane, has dropped into a deep curtsey. “I – I don’t know, Your Majesty,” she says. “My brother told me they would.”

“How interesting.”

Her brother, it seems, has convinced the guards I have authorised her admittance. What presumption. I find I am both amused and annoyed.

Thinking this, I am watching her. She squirms under the scrutiny; looks at her hands, the floor, the windows – then begins to fumble with the fastenings of her cloak.

I say, “I saw you the day the child died – remember?”

Her fingers freeze on the cloak’s lacings. “Yes.”

“I remember seeing you.”

Another silence. Jane resumes her task and succeeds in untying the bows. She takes the cloak off, in the smallest, most self-effacing movement possible, and hangs it over one forearm, like a lady’s maid carrying the garments of her mistress.

I say, “Are you here to seduce me, Jane?”

“No!” The shock jolts her; makes her look at me directly, if only for an instant. “No. Lord, no…” I watch as a deep blush spreads over her entire face and throat, and her hands
clutch each other, fingers twisting painfully.

I think:
Whatever her brother’s up to, he has kept her in the dark. Is she really so simple?

I say, “Then why are you here?”

She bites her lip. “I would like to… My brother says I should ask… if you would like me to play some songs on the virginals for you. He thinks it might help you rest…”

Christ. And she thinks this is what her brother genuinely means. Poor, artless cow.

I say, “Does he? And what do you think… Jane? Do you think it will help me rest?”

Her eyes flick up to me; return to the floor. She says, “I think perhaps you might find a little comfort in the quiet company of a simple girl who has no… no opinions or demands… who wants only to serve her sovereign in whatever way she can.”

Ah. Maybe not so artless after all.

For a moment I remain, watching her. Then I turn and walk to the far end of the gallery – to the door to my apartments.

I open the door without glancing back. I could shut it behind me – I almost do.

Almost, but not quite. For a moment I hesitate. Then I stand aside, holding the door open – leaving room for her to pass.