He is small; his belly is empty; he is far from home. Motherly, she takes his hand as they are jostled in the crowd: ‘Stick by me, sweetheart.’ She bats at the men in front of them, their solid wall of backs, and they part for her, saying, ‘Sister, watch out, you’ll have that child trampled!’
‘Let us through,’ she says, ‘he’s come a long way. Show him how the filthy creature dies, the enemy of God, so he gets a good view and remembers it when he is a man grown.’
Some memories from his childhood he can entertain. John in his kitchen, even Walter in his forge, all accompanied by the smell of burning. But when a memory like this rises up – and in truth there is no other like this – he slaps it down like a man killing a mole with a shovel.
The king tells his council – savouring the moment – ‘I mean to invite our chief Pilgrim to join us for Christmas.’
Aske? There are gasps of surprise – simulated, as Lord Cromwell has taken care to prepare the councillors. After all, it’s his idea.
‘It is Aske who has chief credit with the rebels,’ the king says. ‘I shall probe his heart and stomach. And he will see that I am a monarch both generous and just.’
The only danger – and we cannot get around it – is that Aske will also see that Henry is not the puissant warrior of ten years ago, and he will carry word back to Yorkshire. The king wishes to be known as Henry, Mirror of Justice. But perhaps he will be known as Henry the Bad Leg.
Still: the game is worth the candle, and there is nothing to lose from sport with the chief Pilgrim. In our forefathers’ time, the rebel Jack Cade had a good run before he was quartered, and his fractions sent back to his shire. The king will dandle Aske like an infant. Large presents, large promises: a gold chain and a crimson jacket. He will overawe him: trust the king for that. A man’s dealings with Henry are a measure of him. They are a mirror to his weaknesses and vanities. You believe you are a man of ready address, you have rehearsed the encounter in your mind, but such is the overwhelming effect of his presence that you are overcome by holy fear and not able to utter a word.
‘What shall I do, sir?’ he says. ‘I should not meet Aske.’
‘Keep the feast with your own people.’ The king adds: ‘Be at your Stepney house. Then if I want you, you can get to Whitehall in an hour.’
He, the Lord Privy Seal, instructs Bishop Gardiner in France to quash the rumours that are rolling abroad. It is not true that Henry is besieged in Windsor Castle. Nor that he, or any Cromwell, has been stabbed to death in London on Chancery Lane. On the contrary, Cromwells are looking forward to the feast. Richard returns from the north; he comes with the plaudits of his senior commanders, Suffolk and Fitzwilliam.
By mid-month the rebel armies are dissolving themselves. Aske is to come to court under safe-conduct. News comes that the King of Scotland has compacted for his match with the French king’s daughter; he and Madeleine will be married at Notre Dame on New Year’s Day. The match will see hearty accord between Scotland and France, which is much to our disadvantage. ‘What can I do but wish him joy?’ the king says. He dictates a letter, waving aside offers to phrase it for him. ‘Having certain knowledge … your determination and conclusion for marriage … daughter of our dearest brother and perpetual ally the French king …
‘Bravo, sir,’ Wriothesley says. ‘A wonderful powerful phrasing.’
The king says, ‘James has already nine bastards that I know of.’
Edward Seymour: ‘Majesty, I think he shall have no issue by Madeleine. I hear she is dying.’
‘Then why would Scotland want her?’
No one answers. Perhaps to have a daughter, any daughter, of so great a king. And to get a hundred thousand crowns, which is more money than James has seen in his life. The king says, ‘We will see how she likes the voyage to Caledonia, and the rough manners when she gets there.’ But his voice yearns for her: ‘They say she is beautiful …’
‘James must have wooed her with jewels,’ he says, ‘because he cannot speak the simplest word of French. All that shopping was not for nothing.’
‘So does Madeleine speak Scots?’ Henry says. ‘That seems hardly possible. Would you not want to talk to your wife? Have some companionship with her? Still, he will not need her instruction in the bedchamber. He seems to know his business there.’
