The Mirror and the Light

He walks back to his rooms, closes his door. Give a man a Tartar hat and he will try it on, whether he has a mirror or no. But he is out of heart. He leaves the hat on Christophe’s pallet, so when he wakes he will think he is still dreaming. All night, in his broken sleep, his countrymen fight Caesar’s legions: slow, dogged, their movements enmired.

He is up at dawn, sitting down in his chambers with Richard Riche to talk about the surrender of the abbey at Malvern. Riche is yawning. ‘I wonder …’ he says, and breaks off.

‘Shall we just keep our mind on the figures?’ Christophe comes in with pots of small beer. He is wearing the Tartar hat and Riche says, ‘Why is he …’ His sentences keep failing him, as if they are lost in mist.

A messenger comes in, sent straight up in his boots, blue-nosed and splashed from the road. ‘Urgent, my lord. From York, for your hand.’

‘Jesus spare us,’ Riche says. ‘Don’t tell me the countryside is up again?’

‘Too early in the year, I think.’ The seal is already broken; he wonders why. He reads: York’s treasurer says he will have to shut down his office if he does not get two thousand pounds by the week’s end and as much again to follow: the bills have come in for the harbour at Bridlington, and the northern lords are clamouring for the pay-out of their yearly grants and pensions.

Norfolk stamps in. ‘Cromwell? You see that from Tristram Teshe?’

He glares at Norfolk; then at the messenger, who avoids his eye. ‘By Our Lady,’ Norfolk says, ‘Teshe should take those barons by their napes and shake the living Jesus out of them. If it were me, I would make them wait for their money till Lady Day.’

Fitzwilliam is on Norfolk’s heels, sour and not yet shaven. ‘If he tries to hold them off, my lord, some of them may ride over to the Scots. Or exact payment by plundering it.’

Mr Wriothesley comes in. ‘From Wyatt, sir.’ He has opened the letter already. François and Charles are still together, prolonging the season of goodwill. ‘Wyatt says the Emperor looks like thunder whenever our realm is mentioned.’

‘Not surprising,’ he says. ‘Our king well-married, and no thanks to him.’

He strides out towards the king’s presence chamber and his arms fill with petitions from courtiers, with letters and bills. He hands them back to Wriothesley, to Rafe. A pity that neither Rafe nor Richard Cromwell was on the privy chamber rota last night; then he would have been sure of good information. Perhaps he should have arranged that? He says to himself, I cannot think of everything. He hears the king’s voice saying, why not?

The Cleves delegation is there before him. They are spry and hopeful, and declare they have heard Mass already. ‘And,’ they say, ‘we have a present for you, Lord Cromwell, to mark this auspicious day.’

The Duke of Saxony, Wilhelm’s brother-in-law, has sent him a clock. Taking it, he murmurs his appreciation. It is the neatest he has seen, perhaps the smallest – a drum-shaped object you can hold in your palm. The English gentlemen are playing with it, passing it from hand to hand, when the king comes in. ‘Sir, present it to him,’ Rafe whispers.

The Germans nod regretfully; they understand this sort of sacrifice. Henry takes the clock from his hand without looking at it. He goes on talking to one of his privy chamber gentlemen: ‘… fetch back Edmund Bonner, as I have promised, and send my brother of France an envoy more agreeable and modest.’ He breaks off. Turns to the Cleves ambassadors: ‘Gentlemen, you will be pleased to know …’

‘Yes, Majesty?’ They are eager.

‘… I have sent the queen her morgengabe, as I think you call it, a gift in accordance with the custom of your country. We will let you have written details of the value.’

They are hoping to hear more. But the king has closed his lips. He does not even mention the clock. Normally he would be delighted by such a novelty – would examine its workings and ask for another one, this time with his portrait in the lid. But instead he looks down at it with a sigh, a mechanical smile, and hands it on to one of his suite. ‘Thank you, my lord Cromwell, you always have something new. Though sometimes not as new as one would wish.’

There is a heartbeat’s pause. Henry nods to him: ‘Come apart.’

He stares at the king. Disassemble? Disperse? Then he recovers himself. ‘Yes. Of course.’ He follows.

Sometimes with the king it is best to be brisk and show yourself a good fellow. As if you were elbow to elbow at the Well with Two Buckets, sharing a pint of Spanish wine. He thinks, I’d knock it back if I had some. Or Rhenish. Aqua Vitae. Walter’s beer. ‘How liked you the queen?’

The king says, ‘I liked her not well before, but now I like her much worse.’

Henry glances back over his shoulder. No one has approached them. They are alone, as in a wasteland.

Henry says, ‘Her breasts are slack and she has loose skin on her belly. When I felt it, it struck me to the heart. I had no appetite for the rest. I do not believe she is a maid.’