The Mirror and the Light

‘I want to be king,’ Richmond says. ‘I am fitted for it. Surrey says my father should recognise that. If he should die now, I am not afraid of the whelp Eliza, for she is only the concubine’s child – unless, as they say, she was a foundling picked up in the street. There is not a man in the nation who will lift a finger for her claim.’

He nods; this much is true.

‘As for the Lady Mary, if I am a bastard, so is she, and I am true English and she is half-Spanish, and I am a man. Besides, they say she will not swear to my father’s titles as head of the church. And if she will not, she is a plain traitor.’

‘Mary will swear,’ he says.

‘She may say the words. She may sign a paper, if you force her. But my lord father will see through her. Mary should not thrive, nor she will not.’

When he last spoke to Richmond, the boy was content with his situation. So who can be behind this surge of unholy ambition? His father-in-law Norfolk? Norfolk might scheme, but he does it silently. No, this is Norfolk’s son, that foolish, headstrong boy, pushing his friend towards a throne that is not empty. He says, ‘Did my lord Surrey suggest to you –’

‘I am my own man.’ The boy cuts him off. ‘Surrey is my friend and he gives me good counsel, but no man will dictate my actions when I am king, nor cozen me in the way my father is cozened. I will not have women lead me.’

He inclines his head. ‘My lord, I cannot remake the succession. The new arrangement reflects the king’s will. I do not see what I can do for you.’

‘You will find a way. Every man says you are master of the Parliament. When I am king I shall reward you.’

When you are king? ‘I shall hardly live so long.’

‘I think you will,’ Richmond says. ‘My father’s leg is sore, since he took his fall in January. I am advised an old wound has reopened and there is a channel in his flesh that lies open to the bone.’

‘If that is true, then he bears the pain with great fortitude.’

‘If that is true, it cannot remain clean. It will putrefy and he will die.’

With every breath he commits treason, and does not hear it. He sees the will stirring, inside the body becoming a man’s. The strand of hair that escapes from his cap is red, the Plantagenet colour. His great-grandfather Edward would own him; the house of York would claim him; King Edward’s disappeared sons, if they had lived, would have looked like this, the gleam in the eye like light on the blade of a sword; the fine skin, where the colour comes and goes, betraying every passion. Richmond says, ‘If my lord cardinal were still alive, he would have made me king. He advised that I should be King of Ireland, did he not? In this pass, he would have wanted me to be King of England too.’

He turns away. ‘You should rest, my lord, and let your indisposition pass.’

He thinks, lions sometimes eat their cubs. Is it any wonder?

The boy calls after him, ‘Do it, Cromwell.’

He is in a state of dull astonishment, like a man dealt a blow from out of the air. God help me, what are princes? They think on murder all day long. A patricide, now: as if the season does not hold enough surprises.

Riche is leaning against the wall, gossiping with Francis Bryan. They straighten up when they see him. Bryan’s jewelled eye-patch gives a knowing wink. ‘Greetings from France. Bishop Gardiner sends you his special love, kiss-kiss. I’m only back till the turn of the tide. Collect dispatches. Whisper in the king’s ear. Check up on you. Gardiner doesn’t believe it, that you’re to be a baron. He says your luck can’t last.’

‘Does he? Kiss him back for me.’

‘Oh, I will,’ Francis says. ‘He wonders why you are so fond of Katherine’s whelp. He claims you are protecting Mary, and it will undo you. He says – mark this – “For Henry’s daughter to deny he is head of the church is as great a treason as to deny he is king.” He says, “Believe me, Francis, Cromwell will go too far, this affair will bring him down.”’

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘You are a great aid to me, Francis.’

Riche looks uneasy. Is Master Secretary ironical? Riche can’t tell. He asks, ‘What did Fitzroy want, sir? I suppose he is in debt?’

‘How much?’ A veteran spendthrift, Bryan takes an interest in a promising youngster.

‘He spoke of the cardinal. He is in a fit of melancholy, I believe.’

Riche says, ‘If you are uneasy about his health, should we tell the king?’

‘He has the best advice. And the king will not go near him, you know how he is about any illness.’

‘But the king came to see you, sir, when you had a fever.’

‘Only when I was over it. And besides, it was a special Italian fever.’

A true, bone-shaking tertian: not like the little bouts of sweating and shivering that afflict those who’ve never been south of the Kent marshes.

‘It was a signal favour.’ Riche sounds envious.