The Mirror and the Light

He notices the Lesser Thomas is riding with Norfolk. Whatever the half-brothers were whispering about when he left them together, they are whispering still. ‘You see that?’ he says to Suffolk.

‘I do,’ Suffolk says. ‘Your man, Tom Truth. Walking/talking. Dipping/snipping. Wishing/fishing.’

Poor boy, he thinks. Even Suffolk knows how evil he rhymes. He recalls the young Howard’s stricken face, when he broke it to him that the ladies shared their verses. As if he never thought that could happen. As if he thought they read the poem then ate the paper.

In the great hall, Lady Shelton meets them; she has been Mary’s custodian these last three years, not a post anyone envies. Brandon strides in: she makes her reverence: ‘My lord Suffolk. And Thomas Cromwell, at last.’ She kisses him heartily, as if he were her cousin; whereas to Thomas Howard, who really is her cousin, she says, ‘May we hope your lordship will not abuse the furnishings? Inventory is kept, and the tapestry that was rent by your lordship, the other week, was worth a hundred pounds.’

‘Was it so?’ Norfolk says. ‘I wouldn’t use it to wipe my arse. Where’s John Shelton? Never mind, I’ll find him myself. Charles, come with me.’

The dukes exit, hallooing for their host. He says, ‘He attacked the arras? What else did he do?’

‘He threatened Lady Mary with a beating, and drove his fist into the wall, injuring himself.’ Lady Shelton raises a hand to hide her smile. ‘He was like a drunken bear. I thought Mary would faint from fright. I thought I would. Anyway, you are here now, thank God.’

‘Uglier than ever,’ he says. ‘While you, my lady, the more cares are heaped on you, the more gracefully you wear them.’

It is clear Lady Shelton bears him no ill will: which she might have, as the late queen was her niece. With a whisk of her hand she brushes his compliment away, but, ‘By Our Lady,’ she says, ‘we have wanted you here a long season. Lady Bryan, as you know, is solely in charge of the nursery and what appertains to the little child, but having nursed Mary herself when she was scarcely weaned, she thrusts her advice in at every turn, and she presumes to tell Shelton how to run the wider household, as if the whole world must revolve about my lady Eliza. We have no instructions about the baby, except that she is no longer to be called “the Princess Elizabeth”. What do you think, will the king disown her?’

He shrugs. ‘We dare not ask. His leg has been paining him and he is out of temper because he cannot ride three hours in the morning and play tennis all afternoon. It is never sweet dealing, when he wants exercise. But who knows – now he has Mary’s conformity, we may be able to approach him. What do you think? You see the child daily.’

‘I think she’s Henry’s. You should hear her bawl. Had any of Anne’s gentlemen red hair?’

‘None of the dead gentlemen,’ he says.

She hesitates. Then, ‘Ah, I see … there may have been others? Who were not brought to trial?’ He can see her mind ranging. ‘Wyatt you would call blond …’

‘Wyatt I would call bald.’

‘You men are cruel to each other.’

‘The king said Anne slept with a hundred men.’

‘Did he? Well, I suppose he could not be any ordinary cuckold.’ She glances over her shoulder. ‘Is it true Wyatt is released?’

He wants to say, the ground is closing over your niece, we are moving on. ‘No one is detained now – not in connection with that affair. You have heard of this letter come from Italy?’

‘Reynold. Yes. The great fool. I thought he had ruined Mary, I tell you. And what about John Seymour’s daughter? How does she do, now she is mistress of all?’

‘She is good for Henry. She soothes his temper.’

‘A wet cloth can do that. Still, good luck to her. She must have more about her than first appears, if she was able to displace my niece.’

Lady Shelton takes his hand and draws him into the house and calls for wine. ‘I will tell you how it was, when Sadler brought your letter. We may as well sit. Shelton will be an hour with the dukes, pouring out his complaints about Lady Bryan.’

He likes to be told a story by Lady Shelton. He feels it will be one he can keep a grip on. ‘You can go, Rob,’ she says to the waiting boy. The boy – it is Mathew, from Wolf Hall – turns at the door and catches his eye. He looks away. I shall say to him, he thinks, lonely though you be – in a strange house, serving under a strange name – you must make no signal, and certainly never in a woman’s presence: they see plenty that men miss.