The Mirror and the Light

‘Still, it is a good show,’ the Frenchman says generously. A barge is fishing up the combatants from the water. ‘Their costumes I think will not be able to be used again.’ He chuckles. ‘But what does Henry care? You have made him rich, have you not?’

‘You see our navy is building,’ he says. ‘I myself will be pleased to escort you on a tour of our southern ports, if you care to ride out now the weather is better.’

A diplomatic pause. He eyes the new ambassador sideways. He is not above thirty but said to be astute: shrewd enough to quit his country some years back, when there were whispers that he favoured Luther. He went east with his cousin, who was ambassador to the Turk, and was presently made ambassador in his turn; now, whether he regards his sympathy with reform as a youthful folly, or whether François has picked him as likely to get on with Cremuel … who knows? He says, ‘We English have to put on a show for you. We do not want to be overshadowed by your last posting.’

The gallants are surging away, in the king’s wake. They are going to cross to Southwark to see a bear baited.

‘They remember you well, in Constantinople,’ Marillac says. ‘You are spoken of.’

He stifles his surprise. It will be some random Englishman, another rover called Thomas.

‘By the way,’ Marillac says, ‘officially I am not here. I have stayed away in protest.’

‘I understand. I am often in two places, or no place. And I agree it is not a seemly spectacle, though you will admit it is entertaining. You know, I miss your countryman Dinteville, he was always so gloomy he made me laugh. I thought your king might send him again.’ He adds hastily, ‘We are glad to have you, of course, that goes without saying.’

Marillac turns to look at him, astonished. ‘You have not heard? Of the great disgrace?’

He thinks back, to when the late dauphin was poisoned. ‘I understood there was some slander spoken – but the family were cleared, surely?’

‘Oh yes, as far as that goes. But there was a further scandal. The whole house is undone. Sodomy, I fear.’

His heart sinks. ‘Where is Dinteville now?’

Marillac shrugs: who cares? ‘Italy, I think.’

Murder first, then sodomy. It sounds like something Gardiner would dream up, to ruin a foe. He thinks of the ambassador, muffled in his furs, splendid as Hans painted him: the broken lute string, the skull badge he retained in his cap. He says, ‘If he were here with us today, he would be shivering, and hastening home to a good fire and spiced wine.’

Marillac laughs. ‘We are well able for the weather. So, shall we row across and see the bear?’

When Parliament closes and before the court disperses, the king orders a dinner. Cranmer is to give it: he is to hold it at Lambeth Palace; Norfolk is to attend, and Stephen Gardiner; Cranmer is to do his office as archbishop, and reconcile all parties, sitting them down in amity and feeding them junkets.

It is the beginning of a hot summer, much drier than in recent years – you would say almost a drought, if it did not tempt Heaven to drench you. It seems sometimes as if it has been raining ever since the cardinal came down.

They are not far into the dinner when Gardiner accuses him of murder. The talk has turned to Rome, and to the city’s monuments and squares, its faded glories. ‘You were there when Cardinal Bainbridge died,’ Gardiner says, wiping his mouth. ‘Interesting, that.’ He says to the guests at large, ‘It was given out that one of the cardinal’s household poisoned him.’

He leans forward: ‘You know different, do you?’

Along the board, knives are set down; guests stop chewing to listen. Gardiner turns to Wriothesley; he’s young, he doesn’t know these things. ‘They arrested a priest, name of Rinaldo. They crushed his legs till the marrow seeped out – which does throw doubt on the coherence of his confession.’

He – the Lord Privy Seal – sits back and surveys Gardiner. He knows he is baiting him, and that he must not take the bait. ‘It’s twenty-five years, Stephen. Most of the people who know about it are dead.’

‘Bainbridge took ill at the dinner table,’ Gardiner says. ‘A powder in his broth.’

‘Yes,’ Norfolk says helpfully. ‘Like when Bishop Fisher was poisoned. When the cook was boiled alive.’

A murmur of distaste runs around the table. ‘We are losing our appetites,’ the Lord Chancellor objects.

‘The powder was bought in Spoleto,’ Stephen says. ‘I know the shop.’

He laughs. ‘And does the shop know you?’

Norfolk says, ‘What would be the rate for a murder among the Romans? Because this priest, Rinaldo … I suppose somebody fee’d him?’

‘Naturally,’ Gardiner says. ‘Bishop Gigli.’

He can see Norfolk’s memory working. He’s chewing the name, as if it were overcooked: Gigli, Silvestro Gigli. ‘Bishop of Worcester,’ Norfolk bursts out. ‘Wolsey’s crony.’

‘Exactly,’ Stephen says. ‘Wolsey’s chief friend in Rome. Once Bainbridge was removed, Wolsey was clear to be the next English cardinal.’