The Mirror and the Light

The king’s council is smaller now. It is compacted to an effective body, so there are no makeweights. But every man who sits has a strong will and strong interests. The king begs for concord amongst his advisers. But Henry himself cannot walk a line: he leans violently one way, then violently the other, and it takes a robust man to support him. Intemperate councillors fail. We have all seen Gardiner flouncing from the royal presence, looking like a plaice, with his mouth turned down and his underlip thrust out.

The king’s temper is no mystery. The astrologers say it is his moon in Aries that makes him explosive, confrontational – but really what matters is the state of his leg. Some days it hurts more, some days less, but there are no days it does not hurt at all. As the king’s doctors remark, the ailments of great men have too little credit, when their lives are passed in view. They inherit thrones, but so much else. When the Emperor speaks, his words rattle like pebbles in the cavern of his overshot jaw. François is paying for his sins: he has lost so many teeth to the mercury cure that his wishes are expressed as spit, and his parts are ulcerated in a fashion that would repulse the lowest whore.

He is repulsed by François himself. In Paris his new Bibles have been seized and his printers warned off. He thought he had bribed enough people to keep the Inquisitors at bay. Now, perhaps, they expect him to pay a ransom for the type? Perhaps he will, as he has paid out so much already. He calls in Ambassador Castillon, and asks that François, as a favour, release the unbound sheets. Perhaps the day may come when François wants a favour in turn?

In letters home Castillon begs for his recall. He is afraid that, if hostilities break out, Henry and Cromwell will kill him. He refers to ‘the king and his milord’ – as if there is only one milord in England.

Meanwhile he, the Vicegerent, arranges to set up his print shop at Greyfriars, where he can walk in and see what is done day by day. It will be safer, if slower. In one bad week, he says to Rafe, your life’s work can be shot out of the water.

Around Candlemas, coming in to the king, he finds him sitting at twilight over his books; Henry raises his head and looks at him with a faint puzzlement, as if he has never seen him before. Then the king seems to shake himself and says, ‘You look cold, Thomas, come to the fire. I was thinking that sometimes we should pray together. How do you pray, my lord? Do you begin with your Pater Noster, or do you repeat a psalm, or do you say words of your own devising?’

He looks closely at the king and sees the question is not a trap. He says, ‘I praise God as master of our ship. No tempest will sink us.’

The king grants licence for one John Misseldon, alchemist, to return to England from his stay beyond the seas. He may practise his craft as long as he does not resort to the dark arts. ‘Sooner or later,’ he warns the king, ‘all such men grow desperate, and then they turn to necromancy.’

I also, he thinks. I sit at my desk day after day, waiting for the cardinal to whisper in my ear.

Before February ends we are locked into crisis. Only Lord Lisle does not seem to know it. John Husee, salt-sprayed from the crossing, drips into his waiting chamber. ‘Husee,’ he says, ‘since Edward Seymour has been in Calais, I begin to form a picture of how your master falls short.’

‘You know he is not well,’ Husee says awkwardly.

‘Ill enough to be replaced?’

‘No, no, please …’ Husee says.

He takes pity on the man. ‘I shall send over my nephew Richard to help him.’

‘If it please you,’ Husee says, ‘Lord Edward, Master Richard – they would be described as gospellers –’

‘Lord Lisle objects to that?’

If war breaks out, Calais is the first place the enemy will attack. I should go myself and take charge, he thinks. But I don’t want to find that, in my absence, the king has panicked and called Norfolk back from the borders, or put a plaice in my seat at the council board.

France and the Emperor give notice that they are withdrawing their ambassadors. Chapuys comes to see him privately, twitching with tension. ‘Do not take it as an act of war, I beg you. The Emperor is recalling me only because I know your English manners, and can advise the Duchess Christina – how she should order herself, when she comes over to England to be crowned.’

When he, Lord Cromwell, conveys this to the councillors, the whole table bursts into laughter. Only Call-Me, and perhaps the king, still believe Christina will ever be his bride. Officially, talks are still open. But the Emperor is imposing conditions that make the match impossible. When the duchess’s servants visit Wriothesley these days, they flit in by owl-light.

He says, ‘The Emperor wants Chapuys back so he can report on our war preparations. But before we release the ambassador, we should make sure we get Wriothesley home safe.’