‘One has heard of it before,’ he says. Their wives screaming, and country folk with torches aloft in their hands, threatening to fire the barns unless the gentlemen saddle up and lead them to the king. These broils begin the same, and from age to age they end the same. The gentry pardoned, and the poor dangling from trees.
He says, ‘I will send a message up-country to Lord Talbot. Tell him to turn out his people and get himself to Nottingham with the strongest company he can find. Hold the castle, and from there he can move either by Mansfield towards Lincoln, or up to Yorkshire if –’
The king says, ‘Sadler, send to Greenwich for my armour.’
There is a babble of protest: no, sire, do not risk your sacred person! For Lincolnshire? God forbid.
‘If the common folk are saying I am dead, what choice have I?’
Cranmer says, ‘The malcontents aim at your councillors, not your Majesty’s person. To whom they declare themselves loyal – but such rebels always do. I know what they intend for me. If they come south I shall be burned.’
‘Lord Cromwell’s head is their chief demand,’ Wriothesley says. ‘They believe my lord has practised some device or sorcery on the king. As the cardinal did before him.’
He says, ‘I am offended for my prince, that they deem him no more than a child to be led.’
‘By God, I am offended too,’ Henry says. He has read all the news that comes in, but only now does he seem to take it in – flushed, his fist thumping the table. ‘I take it ill to be instructed by the folk of Lincolnshire, which is one of the most brute and beastly shires in the realm. How do they presume to dictate what men I keep about me? Let them understand this. When I choose a humble man for my councillor, HE IS NO MORE HUMBLE. Who will advise me, when Lord Cromwell is put down? Will these rebels do it? Colin Clump and Peter Pisspiddle, and old Grandpa Gaphead and his goat?’
‘No, they will not,’ the archbishop murmurs.
‘Will Robin Ragbag raise the revenues?’ the king asks.
‘Or Simple Simon draft a law?’ Riche pipes up as if he cannot help himself. Henry glares at the interruption. His voice rises. ‘I made my minister, and by God I will maintain him. If I say Cromwell is a lord, he is a lord. And if I say Cromwell’s heirs are to follow me and rule England, by God they will do it, or I shall come out of my grave and want to know why.’
There is a silence.
The king rises. ‘Keep me informed.’
Master Wriothesley steps out of the king’s way, watching him with solemn eyes.
‘I go to shoot,’ Henry says. He rolls away with his gentlemen, to the archery butts below the royal apartments. ‘Keep my eye in,’ he calls. His voice trails after him, and is lost in the afternoon.
The council disperses, except the archbishop: except Fitzwilliam, and except Richard Riche, who sticks at the table, frowning and leafing through his papers, and Wriothesley, who leans over him, whispering. It is settled that Charles Brandon will stop whatever he is doing, take men and restore order in Lincolnshire. Charles is a brisk man for this sort of thing, and we rely on him not to be too heavy-handed with the poorer sort. Lord Chancellor Audley, now on his way to Windsor, should be sent back to his own parts, in case any spark blown south should start a fire in Essex.
‘So, Crumb, how does it feel?’ Fitzwilliam asks him. ‘To be the heir presumptive to England?’
He waves the joke away. ‘But he proclaimed you!’ Fitz says. ‘Sir Richard Riche, you are witness.’
A non-committal grunt from Riche, head low over his notes. Fitz says, ‘The king by himself can appoint you, since he made his new law for the succession. Certainly Parliament can make you king – what think you, Riche?’
‘It is since he came back from Kenninghall,’ he says. ‘He enjoyed his summer with Norfolk.’
‘If this business spreads,’ Fitz says, ‘we will have to unleash Uncle Norfolk, whether Harry wants him or no. He has the forces in the east, and he is a power in the north.’
Riche says, not pausing in his scribbling, ‘Anyone you can pull back from Ireland?’
‘We’re barely holding the Pale,’ he says. ‘I would abandon the wretched place, except it would let our enemies in Europe set up camp on our doorstep. My lord archbishop,’ he turns to Cranmer, ‘you must take your lady out of London. Keep her safe at some small house of yours –’
The archbishop emits a shriek – muffled, like Jonah’s inside the whale.
Riche cuts him off. ‘Oh, peace, my lord archbishop. We all know you have married a wife.’
Fitz says, ‘We all know.’
