The Mirror and the Light

She leaves a pause for him to say, Barnes is not my friend. He does not fill it. Anna walks beside him, blithe, unheeding, her fingertips on his coat. He feels as if the Lutheran clock is still in his palm, the fidget of its workings disturbing his pulse. Its case was made by an artist; its machinery, by a gunsmith.

‘What does Barnes expect?’ Mary says. ‘First he says he recants. Then he repeats his errors. Were you there?’

‘Yes, madam. Days and days of sermons.’

‘Let me have notes on them,’ she says. As if he were her clerk. He bows. She says, ‘I believe all is awry in Calais.’

‘Lord Lisle is expected here for the Garter feast. No doubt some reckoning will be made.’

‘Strange times, my lord. Two great lords dead.’

The gallery is hung with the king’s new tapestries, depicting the life of St Paul. A queen, a king’s daughter and a brewer’s son, they have walked the road to Damascus, blinded by the light; they have sailed the Middle Sea. Now they pause before the Sorcerers of Ephesus who, converted by the saint, are burning their books. He feels he would like to reach into the weave and pull them out of the fire.

At Gardiner’s house they have capons with figs, Crustade Lombarde and chopped chicken livers with hard-boiled eggs; they have spiced wine custards and jellied veal. He, Cromwell, is there at the king’s command, and he looks at his dinner because he does not want to look at the Bishop of Winchester. He does not want to look at Thomas Howard either. He did not even know he was going to be there, until he saw his barge moored.

Coming in, he says, ‘Why are you here, my lord duke? I thought there was plague in your household. You should not be near the king.’

‘I’m not,’ Norfolk says. ‘I’m near you.’

Gardiner seems inclined to emollience, like a good host. ‘I understand a servant died, but my lord had not been within fourteen miles of him.’

‘He didn’t die, and it wasn’t the plague,’ Norfolk says. ‘Nobody else in the house took sick. Nothing ails me, I assure you. At this time of year I eat a tansy pudding to purify my blood.’

‘You are always very tender of your person,’ he says. ‘You too, my lord bishop.’ They sit down. Wine is poured. He turns to Norfolk. ‘I remember when Stephen was secretary to my lord cardinal, and we both went to Ipswich, to prepare for the opening of my lord’s college. I put up the hangings myself because they were so slow, and I carried in benches and trestles – and this good companion of mine, he stood by and directed me, and advised me out of his charity not to strain my back.’

Gardiner says, smiling, ‘I only exert myself in a good cause.’

Norfolk bangs his goblet on the board. ‘Ipswich?’ Never was the word spat out, as the duke spits it. ‘To get funds for his wretched school at Ipswich, Wolsey pulled down the priory at Felixstowe – and that was my priory. I rejoiced when his college was closed. I hope it falls in ruins. By God, how is it this realm is so unjust? If it is not Wolsey cheating me, it is his worshipper here. Wolsey was your God, Cromwell. Your butcher God.’

‘I must agree.’ Gardiner puts down his knife. ‘It amazes me, Cromwell, that you still do not see Wolsey for what he was. He was corrupt and he was grandiose. You know yourself that when he lost the king’s favour he wrote to foreign princes, asking their aid. Without the king’s knowledge, over the king’s head, he set up his dealings as if he were a prince himself. What do we call such a man? We call him a traitor. If someone had given you the brief, you yourself would have convicted him.’

‘Aye,’ Norfolk says. ‘You would not have broken sweat. Still, I suppose it is something, that a man like you feels gratitude. What had you, when you came to court? Wolsey owned the shirt on your back. Now stir yourself, and show your gratitude to the king, who has done so much more for you. Take your Germans and kick them out of door.’

A boy approaches with a jug. Stephen frowns at him: the boy drops back to the wall. It is not like Thomas Howard to be the worse for drink, but he must have had a skinful before he left his house. It is to give him courage, he thinks: and by God he will need it.

He bunches his fist. He bangs it on the table. The dishes leap. ‘The whole council approved the match. You signed, Thomas Howard, as I did. As for the lady, the king could not get her here fast enough.’

‘No, by the saints,’ Norfolk says, ‘it is you who burdened and chained him. And I tell you, he wants to be free. Have you not seen him looking at my niece? He cast a fantasy to Katherine the first time ever he did see her.’

‘If you want power,’ he says, ‘get it like a man. It does not become your grey hairs, to play Pandar.’

‘God rot you!’ The duke stamps his feet, pushes back his chair, hauls his napkin loose from his person. Gardiner has opulent linen and it looks as if he is fighting his way out of a tent. ‘I’ll not sit here to be called a bawd!’