‘No one here would betray you,’ Riche says. ‘The king holds you in high esteem, and if he does not choose to know, we do not choose to tell him.’
‘I pray God to move his heart,’ the archbishop says, ‘so he relents, and understands matrimony as a blessing no man should be denied.’
‘He likes it himself,’ Fitzwilliam says. ‘You would think he would like it for others.’
‘Give him time,’ he says. ‘And Riche, I know you are keen for work, you Augmentations men, and I am sorry I kicked you under the table, but I do not want the king to say we pushed him or led him where he did not want to go.’
‘But we have a plan?’ Riche says. ‘For the great houses to be dissolved?’
‘Oh, we always have a plan.’
Call-Me straightens up from his conference with Riche’s papers: glimpsing himself in the window, he studies his wavering shape and adjusts the angle of his cap. ‘My lord archbishop, you should comfort your lady that all will be well. I hear she does not speak our language. That must make her start at shadows. The rebels will not come here.’
‘No?’ Cranmer says. ‘You will not talk it away, Wriothesley. It is no light matter and I believe we are ill-prepared. I do not believe this is the action of a few malcontent men. You will find the Emperor’s finger in the pie. You will find certain familiars of his Majesty, who look to a future without him. They will proclaim Mary if they can get her, and then we shall have war. You need not mince matters with me, Mr Wriothesley. I have seen the worst men can do, to their fellow men and to women. In Germany I have seen a battlefield. I have not spent all my life at Cambridge.’
He turns his back on the archbishop and walks to the window. He can see the king and his gentlemen at their sport, in a haze of late sunshine. On the opposite bank, out of sight through the trees, the scholars of Eton are conning their book, and filing to oratory and chapel to pray for their founder, King Henry VI of blessed memory.
Riche has joined him, silent at his elbow. Far below them, he sees a shifting glitter, like salmon skin, against the afternoon: it is the queen in a dress of silver grey, brought out to watch the sport. ‘She looks – cushioned,’ Riche says.
‘She is a great doer at the table, that is all. She is not with child. Lady Rochford tells me when her courses come. No husband more anxious than I.’
‘The other one was skin and bone at the last. A thin old woman.’
The king looks up, as if he knows he is being watched. He turns and waves: Lord Cromwell, come out to play?
He holds up a letter, just arrived: scratches his head to show he is busy making sense of it. The sunshine has faded, and the river light is green; the king, swimming in it, thrusts out his lip to mimic a sulky child. Then he plucks off his hat and points with it towards Datchet: I shall come in when the light fails.
‘October already!’ people say. ‘Where did the summer go?’
Helen has sewn another kerchief, in place of that he carried to Shaftesbury. She has sewn the laurel, which lives for ever, and the ivy, continual in its green.
An order goes to the London guilds to muster men and arm them. Beacons set by the rebels are seen across the river Humber. It is certain Yorkshire will rise. ‘Rely on my lord Cromwell to placate them,’ Fitzwilliam says, smiling. ‘In Yorkshire they treasure his good word.’
The king raises an eyebrow. He must explain – an activity he dislikes. ‘In former times, Majesty, they used to threaten my life.’
Mr Wriothesley adds, ‘My lord Privy Seal was detested, for his service to the cardinal.’
‘Sir,’ Riche says, ‘had we not better heed the archbishop’s words, and secure the person of the Lady Mary?’
‘What do you suggest?’ he asks Riche. ‘Chaining her up?’
The king looks uneasy. ‘I would not for the world that rebels use my daughter against me. Keep watch on her, will you?’
He says, ‘She’s watched.’
In London they halt all large gatherings, including Sunday games. Horses are requisitioned, the garrison at the Tower reinforced. Let merchants buy up stocks of wool and finished cloth and keep the outworkers of Essex employed, as well as apprentices in the city: we know about idle hands. Masters should look well to their servants. All the priests and friars should deliver up any arms they possess to the city – save they may keep a knife for cutting their meat at table.
Wriothesley comes to him: you need to go to the Tower and get the king’s gold plate and start turning it into coin. Then back here to Windsor, quick as you can.
He says, I am going to see Chapuys.
It is said that a servant of his called Bellowe, a trusted clerk, has been captured and blinded. They have skinned a new-dead bull, sewn Bellowe in its hide, then loosed dogs.
He pictures Bellowe, as he was. Presumably his own father would not know him now. Only God will recognise him, restoring his features at the general resurrection.
He thinks, how can they know the dogs are hungry enough? Do they whip them into pens and starve them? Even his own watchdogs would not eat a living man.
