The Mirror and the Light

Mary raises her eyebrows. ‘Yet he forced Meg Douglas out of marriage, to a man she swore she would die for.’

‘Oh, Tom Truth,’ he says. ‘He wasn’t worth a princess’s funeral.’

‘Love is blind,’ Mary says.

‘Not invariably. You should meet him. Philip.’

Rafe says, ‘You would like to come to court, wouldn’t you? I am sure you would.’

‘Master Sadler,’ she says, ‘why are you talking to me as if I were a nursing infant?’

Rafe snatches off his cap in exasperation. He, the Lord Privy Seal, says, ‘Because you enforce us.’ He crosses the room. He takes her hand. ‘I implore you, my lady. Act as a woman, not a child. Let fate lead you before it drags you.’

Outside, Rafe says, ‘She will meet him. She is curious, I can tell. And what would Chapuys advise her, if he were here? He would say, do not anger the king.’

He nods. He forgot to play his Chapuys card. But then, he has a great deal on his mind.

Back in London he sits down as bidden with Bishop Tunstall, and they work out terms. Philip can take Mary back with him, at his own expense. ‘Well,’ the bishop says, ‘you have wrestled her signature onto paper before now, my lord. God knows how you brought her to conformity before this, but you did.’

He throws down his pen. ‘But if she has to be carried to the priest for the blessing, I will not do it. The king must do it himself.’

‘He would not ask me,’ Tunstall says dryly. ‘I am in my sixty-sixth year. Age has some advantages. As you will learn, my lord, if as I pray God grants you long life.’

After his summer of recreation, his vivid autumn in forest and field, the king seems jaundiced: pinch-faced, pale as pastry. They sit over letters from abroad, in a room drained of light: the air is black-grey, water mixed with ink. Beyond is an imagined country, drowned pastures and sodden copses, drenched fields and woodland, cob walls and thatch, churches and farmsteads.

Wyatt, riding to Paris, has caught up with King François. An empty exchange of compliments has ensued: Wyatt congratulates François on his continuing friendship with the Emperor, and François, putting his hand on his heart, swears continuing devotion to his English brother, Henri.

Then Wyatt rides to overtake the Emperor on his progress. The same pointless swapping of pleasantries; but then someone raises the subject of Guelders, the territory the young Duke of Cleves claims as his own. Charles becomes impassioned. Henry should advise his new brother-in-law to obey his overlord and Emperor, and give way to his sovereign claim. Otherwise he will suffer, as the young and rash do suffer. Let him be warned.

Wyatt is shocked. Charles is a laconic, self-contained man. Almost never does he open his heart; he speaks behind the hand, works his will in crooked ways. So what does this vehemence mean? Will he turn his army on Henry’s new ally?

The Emperor and François have met face to face. It is said they will celebrate Christmas together and be in Paris for New Year. Even the Pope is afraid of the secret practices they will work between them. Wyatt detects Rome’s agents, lurking in corners. He says, I can find out what passes between these princes; but you in London must give me pretexts, for coming into their company every day.

‘This pretended alliance,’ Henry says. ‘Neither ruler dare turn his back on the other. That is what keeps them in the same town. It is not friendship but its opposite.’

‘All the same,’ he says, ‘their league has endured longer than we could imagine.’

‘Wolsey would have broken it up.’

He gives Henry a long look. ‘No doubt.’

‘We have people in France we retain,’ the king says. ‘But they are not loyal, they will turn for a halfpenny. We have few friends in either court.’ He sucks his lip. ‘Especially you, you have few friends, Cromwell.’

‘If I have incurred their malice, I count it well done. As it is for your Majesty’s sake.’

‘But are you sure about that?’ Henry sounds curious. ‘I think it is because of what you are. They don’t know how to deal with you.’

‘Likely not. Majesty,’ he says, ‘you must realise, they want me displaced, so that you might be the worse advised. That is why they try to poison your mind against me. Any fantastical story will serve.’

‘So you would recommend, if I hear you have exceeded your office, or that you have slacked my instructions or reversed them, I should ignore the bruit?’

‘You should speak to me before you believe anything.’

‘I will,’ Henry says.

He gets up. He is too restless to sit still. It is not like him. He can usually find some semblance of ease even when, as today, the king is fretful and morose.

Henry says, ‘You know, I think you have never forgiven me. For parting with Wolsey.’

Parting with him? Christ in Heaven.

‘I think you blame me for his death.’

He goes to the window. In the park the trees are marrying the darkness. You can’t see where the rain ends and the shadows begin.