The Mirror and the Light

The French ambassador reins in beside him: ‘Cremuel, I have simply never seen so many fat gold chains assembled in one place. I commend you, it is no small matter to keep five thousand people on time and in their ranks. Though frankly,’ he sniffs, ‘the whole of it does not equal even one of the ceremonial entries my king makes in the course of a year. And they would be, I believe, twenty or so in number.’

‘Truly?’ he says. ‘Twenty occasions like this? No wonder he has no time to govern.’

Marillac’s horse shifts under him, sidestepping. ‘What do you think of the lady? She is not as young as one expected.’

‘I do not like to contradict you, but she is exactly the age one expected.’

‘She is very tall.’

‘So is the king.’

‘True. On that account he wanted to marry Madame de Longueville, did he not? A pity he did not work harder at it. I hear she will give King James a child this spring.’

He says, ‘The king has good expectation of children with this lady.’

‘Of course. If she can rouse him to action. Be honest, she is no great beauty.’

He admits, ‘I have hardly seen her as yet.’ It is as if they are conspiring to keep him away from her. He can see only a stiff, bright-coloured figure, like a painted queen on an inn sign. She has ridden the last half-mile to meet the king, both of them on horses so splendidly trapped that you can hardly see their hooves as they tread the ground. Meg Douglas follows in first place, and after her Mary Fitzroy. The ladies of the court travel behind in a line of chariots. Gregory’s wife wears the revenue of two manors on her back, but it is his pleasure; it is a long time since he had a woman to dress, and he says to Marillac, ‘Look, my son’s wife, is she not handsome?’

‘A credit to you,’ Marillac says, and indicates with his whip: is that the Scottish princess? And is that Norfolk’s daughter, my lady Richmond? ‘No new husband for her yet?’

There was talk last year of marrying the girl to Tom Seymour, but nothing came of it, no doubt because her brother knocked it back; Wolf Hall is a hovel, as far as Surrey is concerned, and the Seymours are peasants who live by trapping rabbits.

He wonders, why does Marillac care about Norfolk’s daughter? Has he got a French husband in mind for her? The French give Norfolk a yearly pension but perhaps they are looking for closer ties?

Bess glances in his direction; he raises a hand, but in a stealthy way, in case he appears to be giving a signal for some démarche. In the next chariot come the maids of honour: Lady Lisle’s daughter Anne Bassett, and Mary Norris looking chilled, and Norfolk’s plump little niece Katherine, gawping about her as if she were in church.

The ground has been cleared to make a path for the king and queen right to the palace gates. They ride together into the inner court. There they dismount and the king, taking her arm, leads his bride into the palace, sweeping his great plumed hat about him to show her, all this is yours, madam, all that you see. The music from the river follows them: fading only as he, Lord Cromwell, follows them indoors, where the torches are already lit in welcome.

It is now that he sees her close for the first time. He has braced himself, his face fitted with a carefully neutral expression. But there is nothing to offend. Quite the opposite; he feels he knows her. It is true her complexion is dull, but it is as Gregory says, she is a pleasant-looking woman, who might be married to one of your friends; the city wife of a city merchant. You can imagine her rocking a cradle with one foot, while talking about the price of pork.

Anna looks him over. ‘Oh, you are Lord Cromwell. Thank you for the fifty sovereigns.’ One of her entourage speaks in her ear. ‘Thank you for everything,’ she says.

Sunday morning: he breaks it to the delegation from Cleves that the bridegroom wants a delay. They are taken aback. ‘We thought we had been through all this, Lord Cromwell. We have furnished copies of everything relevant.’

He maintains a civil stiffness; he does not want them to see he is as exasperated as they are. ‘The king is enquiring for the originals.’

We have explained again and again, they say, that we do not know what those would be: since the promises of a marriage, such as they were, were rolled up within a larger treaty, which was several times amended, and so …

‘I advise you to produce them,’ he says. He sits down, and, though it is early, indicates a jug of wine should come in. ‘Gentlemen, this should not be beyond our wit to solve.’

Not all the Cleves gentlemen are fluent in French. One nudges another: what did he say? ‘May I refer you to precedent? When Queen Katherine – I mean, the dowager Katherine, the late Princess of Wales –’

Oh yes, they say, Henry’s first wife …

‘– when her mother Isabella married her father Ferdinand, they needed a dispensation from the Pope, but it was delayed –’

Ah, we understand, they say. Rome angling for more money, was it not?