It is a question, really; but he turns aside, and says to the duke, ‘So the king’s pleasure is – as Master Wriothesley here hoped to explain – that you linger neither in London nor near his person, but repair to your own country, there to ensure quietness –’
The fiery pits glint. ‘What? There are no rebels in my country!’
‘You must see there are not,’ Rafe Sadler says. ‘For now, my lord Suffolk takes command of the king’s forces.’
‘Brandon? That horsekeeper? By St Jude,’ says the duke. ‘Am I to be set aside? Me, of the best blood this nation affords?’
‘It is all one, my lord,’ Rafe says. ‘Blood, I mean. We all come of the same parentage, if you go back far enough.’
‘Any priest will tell you,’ he says gravely.
The duke glares. He knows this is true. But he would prefer if there had been a special Adam and Eve, as forebears to the Howards. ‘What about my son?’ he says. ‘What about Surrey? It appears I have offended his Majesty, God knows how, but surely he will not rebuff my son’s service?’
‘He says he’ll see,’ Call-Me says.
‘See?’ The duke is simmering. ‘See? I had better ride to Windsor and meet my sovereign face to face. For I doubt not you misreport him.’ Call-Me opens his mouth, but the duke says, ‘One more word, and I’ll gralloch you, Wriothesley. The king knows he has no more faithful servant in England than Thomas Howard.’
‘My advice, my lord – if you will hear it –’
But the duke will not. ‘I have followed the Tudor’s words in every matter – as ever I shall, so help me God. Yet what fortune falls to me? The monasteries are pulled down, and every little jack and knave is paid. But where is my reward?’
‘If you want abbeys,’ Gregory says, ‘you must apply to Richard Riche. The Master of Augmentations.’
‘Apply?’ The duke fairly spits the word. ‘Why should I apply for what should be granted as of right?’
‘It reminds me,’ he says, ‘I have a letter from my lady your duchess. She says it is four years now since you separated.’
‘Aye. Best years of my life,’ the duke says.
‘She complains of scant living.’
‘Her choice.’
‘You don’t want her back, but you don’t want to maintain her?’
‘Let her family keep her.’
‘Sir, it is shameful,’ Rafe says. His face flushes. ‘Forgive me, but I cannot fail to speak, when I hear of a woman misused.’
The duke shoves his face into Rafe’s. ‘We all know about your woman, Sadler. We know you bought her out of a brothel, and so well-used they handed her over for the pence in a pauper’s pocket.’
Rafe says, ‘If you were not an old man, I would strike you.’
He, Lord Cromwell, steps between them. The duke says, ‘I’ll stick you, Sadler. I’ll spit you like a pullet.’
‘My lord,’ he says, ‘if there is anything I can do, to hasten your return to favour – count on me.’
The duke whirls away, cursing. ‘You know in the north parts they use your name to frighten children? Be quiet, they say, or we’ll fetch Cromwell.’
‘Do they?’ he says. ‘
‘Your title is still a novelty,’ the duke says, ‘and change is slow up there. Their view is, the fellow will be dead before we have to use it.’
As they cross the river on his barge, rain drives into their faces, and the flag with his coat of arms whips about its pole; the statue of Becket on the wall of the archbishop’s palace is barely visible through the spray, but Bastings his bargemaster salutes the saint just the same.
‘I’ll have that traitor down,’ he says. ‘One day soon.’
‘But sir, the rivermen hold him lucky.’
‘You make your own luck,’ he says.
They sit under the canopy. ‘That was ill-considered,’ he tells Rafe. ‘Face-and-brace with the duke?’
‘I have only done one foolish thing in my life,’ Rafe says. ‘I mean, in marrying Helen. And since those who have seen her know I was truly wise, I have not even that to set in my account. Therefore while I am still young enough, I am looking to run into danger. So I know how it feels.’
‘Because we are not fighting men,’ Wriothesley says, laughing. ‘We must try our manhood where we find the opportunity.’
‘Give me notice of the next time,’ he says. ‘And keep Uncle Norfolk out of it.’
He broods. He will stand up each one of his men against Norfolk’s – cooks or clerks or masons. He will stand up himself, against the duke. Norfolk has tenants, but he has cash. If the duke has ancient blood, he has stomach. If the duke is an impregnable fortress, then he is a siege engine, he is God’s catapult, he is the Warwolf; he is the trebuchet and the mangonel, crashing boulders into the walls and chucking body parts over them. People will tell him that the duke’s walls are unbreachable, like the walls of Caerphilly, like Maynooth. But he believes there is no fortress that cannot be undermined or betrayed from within. He doesn’t want Norfolk dead. He wants him alive and conformable. He wants him grateful.
He says to Wriothesley, ‘Tell Riche. Treat with the duke for his requirements. Find out what abbeys he has in view.’
