And so for a year or two it became a question: what does England think? What will England do? France must solicit her: the Emperor must apply. War itself, the cardinal preferred to avoid. Henry on French soil, curvetting on his steed, his visor lowered, his armour a blaze of gold: that is as far as it went, if you add in a few sordid engagements that consisted in churning up the mud and blowing trumpets. If war is a craft, the cardinal would say, peace is a consummate and blessed art. His peace talks cost as much as most campaigns. His diplomacy was the talk of Constantinople. His treaties were the glory of the west.
But once Henry began divorcing his wife, spitting in the Emperor’s eye, all this advantage was lost. The Pope’s bull of excommunication hangs over Henry like a blade on a human hair. To be excommunicate is to be a leper. If the bull is implemented, the king and his ministers will be the target of murderers, who carry the Pope’s commission. His subjects will have a sacred duty to depose him. Invading troops will come with a blessing, and the sins incidental to any invasion – rapes, robberies – will be allowed for and wiped out in advance.
Lord Cromwell gets up every day – Austin Friars, his rooms at court, his house at Stepney, the Rolls House at Chancery Lane – and he tries to think of a way to stop this happening. This week, France and the Emperor are at war. Next week who knows? Circumstances alter fast, and before news can cross the Narrow Sea they have altered again. Even now – with the king twice widowed and newly-married – our people in Rome have a wedge in the door, keeping it open a crack: still maintaining a dialogue, and passing cash with a wink. The curia must keep hope alive, that England might return to the fold. The great thing is to make sure the bull remains in suspension. Meanwhile, we must assume the worst case: Charles or François, one or both, will walk in and wipe their boots in Whitehall.
There are now three kinds of people in the world. There are those who give Lord Cromwell his proper title. There are flatterers, who called him ‘my lord’ when he wasn’t. And there are begrudgers, who won’t call him ‘my lord’ now he is.
Gregory trails him: ‘Do you think if my mother had lived, she would have liked being called Lady Cromwell?’
‘I do suppose any woman would.’ He halts, papers in his hands: looks Gregory over. ‘How would it be if we were to stretch out a hand to the Duke of Norfolk, and help him in his trouble?’
The duke has said to him, for God’s sake, my lord, work something with the king, to put me back in his grace. Is it my fault Richmond is dead?
‘Call-Me,’ he says, ‘send our people to Norfolk’s people, and make them know that if they were to invite Gregory to hunt this summer, I would look favourably on such an invitation.’
‘What, me?’ Gregory says.
Richard says, ‘Not as if you were doing anything else.’
Gregory digests it. ‘They say it is good hunting country at Kenninghall. I suppose I can do it. But before I go, I would like to know when I am to get a stepmother.’
He frowns: stepmother?
‘You promised,’ Gregory says. ‘You swore to us, you would step out of here and wed the first woman you met, to clear yourself of any charge you mean to match with Lady Mary. So did you? Have you? Who was she?’
‘Oh, I remember,’ he says. ‘It was William Parr’s niece, Kate. Lady Latimer, as she is now. Unfortunately.’
‘We agreed a husband is no obstacle,’ Gregory says. ‘Though is not Latimer her second? She does not keep them when they are worn in, I warrant. What did she say to your suit?’
‘She asked him to dine,’ Rafe says. ‘We were witness.’
‘She took his hand,’ Richard says. ‘She drew him aside, most tender.’
‘I think,’ Mr Wriothesley adds, ‘she would have kissed him, if we had not been right behind them gaping and nudging each other, and grinning and mincing like apes.’
‘I have come,’ Lady Latimer had said, ‘to see the new queen. I have come to introduce my sister Anne Parr, and ask if she can have a position.’
‘I am glad to see you back at court, my lady. If your sister is as handsome as you, she will do well.’
There is a stifled giggle from his attendants. He pretends not to hear it. Kate Latimer is a sweet-faced, snub-nosed young woman, five-and-twenty. Her family are courtiers by blood. Maud Parr, her lady mother, served Queen Katherine for many a year; William her uncle is an Esquire of the Body.
‘I will speak to Lady Rutland for your sister, though I don’t know if Jane can take anyone else. Lady Lisle sends me a reminder by every boat. If her daughters are not placed, I shall soon feel her wrath, blowing out of Calais on a cutting wind.’
