The Mirror and the Light

He remembers Barton on a public scaffold, her broad countrygirl’s face chafed by the wind, and a crowd of Londoners gaping up at her. He remembers Thomas More by his side, huddled into a cape and rubbing his raw blue hands; it must have been a winter like this. He says gently, ‘Well, they weren’t, were they? But thank you for telling me this. The king may think better of you than he does now. A mother’s heart. He will understand.’

She blows her nose. He says, ‘If you have anything else to tell me, I think confession would ease your soul. About Thomas More, for instance. Or Bishop Fisher.’

‘Why? They are dead.’

‘In Rome they talk about them as if they had just left the room.’

They take a cup of wine together, served in silver as befits their rank. He takes a courteous leave. A guard takes his arm and guides him down a twisted stair to where an Irish monk squats on straw. Taken on the sea with letters to the Emperor, the prisoner is waiting for the pains of Purgatory to commence. If invaders come, the king’s Irish subjects will let them in by the back door.

He asks the gaoler, ‘Is he talking?’

‘He cracks on he only speaks Irish.’

‘Send to Austin Friars. We have interpreters.’

He takes a breath. He walks in on the prisoner, holding the letters salvaged from his purse. Lucky he did not think to cast them into the sea.

If Wriothesley were here he would break the cipher in ten minutes. Wyatt, no doubt, would do it in less. But while they are in the Emperor’s hands, it is quicker to break men.

By an order from Brussels, English ships are detained in Lowland ports. But Spanish merchants are leaving London, and he knows how quickly panic spreads among traders; they may speak in different tongues, but money talks to them all.

The king says, if they hold my ships, I will hold theirs; I will board any Spanish vessel in our waters.

There is another way, he says; not better than your Majesty’s, but supplementary. He issues a fiat to lift dues and taxes on resident foreigners – put them on par with Englishmen. That, he believes, will induce aliens to see out this storm in harbour, and not to pack their wives and chattels on the next boat.

Call-Me reports a rumour that the young Duke of Cleves has been poisoned by agents of Rome. For God’s sake, Mr Wriothesley writes, implore our royal master to be careful who comes into his company or near his person. And you, sir, you be careful too.

Ambassador Chapuys is limping. ‘You. Me. Your king,’ he says. ‘You would think it was a nation of cripples, Thomas. It’s the climate.’

‘It rains as much in Brussels.’

Eustache concedes that. ‘I will not be capable of riding to Dover. I must arrange a horse litter –’

‘Allow me to take care of it. And your baggage too.’

The ambassador bows. They sit down to Lenten fare. Chapuys has little appetite. England has never been a popular posting: the barbarous tongue and, as Chapuys says, the weather. But when he imagined the end of his embassy, he imagined an orderly withdrawal, and the customary present from the king. ‘What do you hear of young Wriothesley?’ he asks. ‘I have written most earnestly – and Thomas, I am telling you the truth here – I have said to Brussels, “Do not for God’s sake mistreat this young man, who is a great favourite both with the King of England and with my lord Cremuel.” I trust they will heed me and your boy will soon be on the road.’

The aim is to have Call-Me pass through the gates of Calais as the ambassador’s ship docks. At some point, unseen, the two should pass each other. ‘Just as long as you do not steal away by night,’ he says to Chapuys. ‘I do not want to have to put soldiers outside your house.’

The ambassador holds up his hands. ‘I would not be sitting here, if I intended any such practice. Only I would not have chosen to leave before my successor is inducted. There is such scope for misunderstanding.’

Chapuys is to be replaced by the Dean of Cambrai: a good fellow, coarse-fibred and plain-spoken. He will probably misunderstand everything, and certainly misunderstand the king. ‘I have often pitied you, Cremuel,’ Chapuys says. ‘Henry is a man of great endowments, lacking only consistency, reason and sense. But at least you can meet him face to face. You can see what he makes of what you are telling him. With my master at such a distance, I always fear I will be misunderstood. Or that those who have the good fortune to come into the Emperor’s presence will exercise the art of interpretation against me. You lack old friends. I mean, men of great family. I do not come from a place as low as yours. But you know how it is – I am the boy who always had to send the money home. I have had a little luck, and I have striven to the utmost of my talent. But in the end I cannot help but feel that much of my career has been like yours, Thomas.’ He folds his napkin. ‘Accidental.’

Christophe and Mathew come in and clear dishes. Chapuys stares at Mathew. ‘Boy, did I not see you at Horsley?’

‘Horsley, sir?’