At the Charterhouse – the property now shuttered and barred – lights have appeared at night. Papists spread the word that ghosts walk abroad. ‘Probably thieves,’ he says to Wriothesley. ‘Tell them, set a good watch. All the movables belong to the king.’
But the watchmen see who holds the lights; it is the plague-stricken brothers themselves, tiptoeing the cloisters in their stinking shrouds. They bring dispatches from the world beyond, apparently: they have seen the martyred Bishop Fisher, seated at the right hand of God.
‘What about Thomas More?’ he says. ‘Anybody seen him?’
Revenues from the London Charterhouse should be £642.0
‘And fifteen shillings, four pence, and one farthing,’ says Richard Riche.
He says, ‘It seems to me, Sir Richard, that you have done service to the state. You can have the farthing, and spend it on your little pleasures.’
The Lisles’ man, John Husee, is never away from his door, jostling with other petitioners and begging for ten minutes. When Richard Cromwell waves him in at last, he has his arms full of maps and account books, but he has the face of a downtrodden spaniel. ‘Sir,’ he says, ‘Lord Lisle’s promised abbey – he is desperate to get it signed over.’
‘I’ve said I’ll see to it, Husee, and I will. Give all those papers to Master Richard.’
‘With respect, sir, my lord – you have been promising to attend to it since last November. My lord is so beleaguered, you would not imagine how his creditors press. And Sir Richard Riche has brought in a delay at every turn. Without a fee Riche will do nothing. And my lord cannot pay his prices.’
‘Sit down, Husee,’ he says. ‘Shall we have a glass to keep up our strength?’
Husee sits, but he shifts on his stool. ‘The abbey – my lord trusts to have the rents for the months he has been waiting?’
He sighs. ‘I’ll talk to Riche. No more delays, I swear. But now, look, Husee, I have always known you for an honest man, so give me an honest answer. Only this morning at early Mass the queen asked me, how does my lady in Calais, is she not a mother yet? By my reckoning, she said, the child should be teething by now.’
To his astonishment, tears fill Husee’s eyes. He says, ‘My lord, I do not dare to tell you.’
‘She has lost it?’ Richard says.
‘No.’ Husee looks wild. ‘It has gone away.’
He says, ‘I know that prodigies and wonders have been seen in Calais this year. But a child does not vanish before its birth.’
Richard says, ‘Is her belly down?’
‘No.’ Husee rubs his eyes. ‘She appears as ripe as ever woman was. But it comes not forth and it comes not forth, and now the midwives say they were in error.’
‘We thought she was carrying some fabulous beast,’ Richard says. ‘But she never conceived, is that not the truth?’
A tear drops on a map of Lisle’s new property. He leans across. ‘Tell Lord Lisle we will pray his lady will amend.’
‘Oh, she must,’ Husee says. ‘Were she to die, how would we settle her debts? She has wept a salt ocean. My lord set so much store by his heir. But good gentleman that he is, he will love her no less, he only asks her to stop grieving. If I could tell her the abbey were signed over, it would do her heart good.’
‘Husee, go away,’ Richard says. He sounds tired.
‘I will, Master Richard. But by your favour, do not forget the abbey.’
The door closes. ‘Christ,’ Richard says. ‘Who will tell the king?’
‘That lucky man sits not far from you.’ He lifts the topmost papers from the pile Husee has left. ‘If Lisle wants his abbey he needs to find money for the clerks’ fees, they will not give him credit.’ He scratches his chin. ‘I wish John Husee worked for me. He only gets eightpence a day with the Calais garrison, and I warrant Lisle never shows him gratitude. He is a tenacious man.’
Richard says, ‘This will strike Henry to the heart.’
He gets up, heavily. His feet seem reluctant to walk. ‘I’ll make sure he is sitting down, and help at hand.’
Henry does not stagger at the news. He just stares, mute, his colour rising, till he says, ‘Gone? Gone where? St Gabriel help and guide us.’
‘I have never heard of such a case,’ he says, ‘nor I suppose have the physicians.’
‘Oh, have you not?’ Henry’s tone is savage. ‘If your memory were longer you would know that Katherine misled me in the same fashion. God punish these women, they are serpents!’
‘I did not know,’ he says. ‘I was not here then.’ He feels like Tom Thumb, an inch high.
‘We were but newly wed,’ Henry says. ‘What did I know of women and their schemes? She miscarried of one child, but kept her chamber, and claimed she was carrying its twin. Till the imposture was found out.’
‘Majesty, was it not an honest mistake?’
‘Women are the beginning of all mistakes. Read any of the divines, and they will tell you.’ Henry turns and looks at him. ‘Always you, Cromwell, with the bad news.’
