The Mirror and the Light

Handsome and leisured, his boy gazes down at Sir Richard as he toils. ‘Riche considers his name his destiny,’ Gregory says. ‘He can turn ink into cash. You have a fine mind, don’t you, Ricardo?’

‘Ingenious,’ Riche says. ‘Retentive. I would not lay a claim beyond that.’

Riche’s duty is to welcome the king, when he opens Parliament. ‘May I read to you, sir? I have got some way with it.’

He sits. ‘Pretend I am the king.’

‘Let me get you a better hat,’ Gregory suggests.

Riche says, ‘By your leave, I am ready to begin.’

He reads. Gregory fidgets: ‘You remember the hat Ambassador Chapuys had? We wanted to borrow it for our snowman?’

‘Hush,’ he says. ‘Give heed to Mr Speaker.’

‘I wonder what happened to it.’

Riche breaks off, frowning. ‘You do not like my beginning?’

‘I think the king will like it.’

‘I next compare him to Solomon for wisdom –’

‘You can’t go wrong with Solomon.’

‘– then Samson for strength, and Absalom for beauty.’

‘Wait,’ Gregory says, ‘Absalom had luxuriant hair, or else he could not have been caught by it in the boughs of a tree. The king’s hair is … well … it is less profuse. He may think you are mocking him.’

‘No one will suspect Mr Speaker of mockery,’ he says firmly.

‘Still,’ Gregory says. ‘The conduct of Absalom was often deplorable.’

‘Put your speech aside,’ he says to Riche. ‘Come and see Fitzroy with me.’

Riche is more than ready. Christophe runs up as they are leaving. ‘Do not go without me, sir. What if some ruffian accosts you? Now you are a lord, you must be attended with force at all times.’

‘And you are force, are you?’ Riche is amused.

‘Let him come with us, he likes to be useful.’

Increasingly, he thinks Christophe’s dull appearance an advantage. No one would be cautious in front of such a churl. As they go out, he takes him by the front of his livery coat, straightens him, dusts him. ‘You’re supposed to do this for me,’ he says. ‘Were you walking about in my room in the night?’

‘In the night I was asleep,’ Christophe says. ‘It was some old ghost, I suppose.’

‘Surely not,’ Riche says. ‘I never heard of ghosts that walk in June.’

There’s something in that. It was the veiled ladies – living women, as far as one knows – who attended him, till dawn came and they faded into the wall. He remembers the dappling of their garments, the streaks of darkness where they had wiped the queen’s blood on their robes.

The king has gone hunting; but because of some anxiety of his doctors, his son has stayed in London, at St James’s, the palace they have been carving out of the site of the old hospital. They have cleared and drained the ground, which was flooded by the Tyburn, and now a pleasant park stands all about. It is a retreat for the king and his family, away from the crowds that surge around Whitehall.

Inside the gateway, the courtyard is piled with scaffolding, and as they step inside workmen’s shouts greet them, and the noise of chipping and hammering. At the sight of lords, the clamour falls silent, but the space still echoes with the sounds of metal against stone. A labourer slides down a ladder and pulls off his cap. ‘We’re knocking down the HA-HAs, sir.’

The initials, he means, of Henry and the late queen: so fondly intertwined, like snakes breeding.

‘I want you to leave off for an hour, while I talk to my lord Richmond.’

The man knocks dust off his cap. ‘We dursn’t, sir.’

‘Obey this man,’ Christophe says.

‘You’ll be paid for the time,’ he urges.

‘The master of works will need it in writing.’

He drops his hand flat on the man’s head, draws him nose to nose. ‘Why don’t I write your gaffer a love letter? Tell me his name and I’ll put his initials in a heart.’ He can smell the man’s sweat. ‘Christophe, go out to the kitchen and ask for bread, ale and cheese for these fellows. Tell them Cromwell said so.’

The man rams his cap back on. ‘It’s dinner time anyway. When you see King Harry, tell him we’re raising a beaker to the new bride.’

Behind the presence chamber, in a small panelled cabinet, the young Duke of Richmond receives them as an invalid, wearing a long gown and a nightcap. ‘I ran a fever last night. So once again my physicians will not let me stir.’

A few spots of rain spatter the window. ‘It’s no sort of day, sir. Better indoors.’

‘It’s not the sweating sickness,’ Riche says reassuringly.

‘No,’ the boy says. ‘Or I would not have summoned you here, masters, lest you be infected.’

They bow, thankful that their lives are considered: common men, such as they be.

‘Nor the plague,’ Riche adds. ‘There is none in fifty miles. At least, not yet.’

He laughs out loud. ‘Remind me to keep you from my bedside, if ever I take sick. Is that the way to lift my lord’s spirits?’

Stiffly, Riche begs the duke’s pardon. But he is puzzled: what was the joke?

The boy says, ‘Riche, I thank you for your gentle attendance, but now I wish to confer with Master Secretary.’

Riche is inclined to stand his ground. ‘With respect, my lord, Master Secretary has no secrets from me.’