The great abbey at Lewes brings with it a generous spread of houses and estates. Gregory will be sworn in as a justice of the peace, and he will have all the help and comfort and advice he needs while he feels his way into his role as one of the chief gentlemen of the region. The aim is for him to be able to host the king this summer, so rebuilding must hurtle along. Giovanni Portinari is assembling his demolition crew, ready to take down the church. He, Lord Cromwell, imagines the apple blossom shaking from the boughs, and the flight of the doves from their cotes: stone heads of devils and angels springing from the stonework as if fired from cannon, their shards rolling underfoot. The bell metal alone should fetch seven hundred pounds.
In March his grandchild Henry is born, and christened in the old font at Mortlake. Well, Master Gregory, the king says, you make a father with great speed! The child is healthy, the mother in good spirits, and Lady Mary is godmother. She does not come to Mortlake herself but she sends a gold cup and gifts to the midwife and nurses.
Lady Bryan has our prince safe, wrapped so tight in his gilded swaddling bands that no nail can pierce him nor pin sneak between his ribs. One day when Edward is King of England, we hope Henry Cromwell will be by his side, his first cousin.
By March, the Emperor is willing to open talks about Christina. The two Imperial envoys, Chapuys and Mendoza, are invited to Hampton Court as privileged guests. They visit the prince, and pay their respect to Lady Mary and Lady Eliza. Lady Mary plays proficiently on the lute. Asked for a private interview, she politely declines it. Eliza squeaks a pretty Latin verse, in which she has been rehearsed by Cat Champernowne, his appointee.
Next day Chapuys sends him a present of two hundred sweet oranges. He ships half down to Sussex for his son and grandson, and walks around Whitehall giving the rest out. The Bishop of Tarbes, newly arrived to join the French embassy, encounters him in air made lively by their zest. ‘Do not pretend to be glad to see me, Cremuel,’ the bishop says. ‘I know the Imperialists make you great offers –’
‘They give me oranges,’ he says.
‘I hear that since last year you are much enriched from spoiling the monks – you and your son and your nephew Mr Richard. In England you write the laws to suit the robber.’
Ambassador Castillon puts a restraining hand on his colleague. Then he turns, glad of a diversion. ‘My lord Norferk!’
Norfolk nods towards the king’s door: ‘He in there, Cromwell? Take me in.’
He says to the Frenchmen, ‘My lord is like a poor foundling these days. For ever wheedling and beseeching.
Norfolk leaps as if pricked with a bodkin. ‘Do you do this for pleasure, Cromwell? Do you obstruct me so you can work me into a fit of choler?’
‘You work yourself,’ he says coolly.
‘Who are you to advise on a royal wife? You are nothing but an old widower, you cannot get a woman because you think yourself fit for a princess and you will not take less.’
He sees, from the corner of his eye, the two Frenchmen exchange glances. He turns on the duke. ‘And is the king to be advised on marriage by a wife-beater?’
Sweat springs from Norfolk’s brow. This is what they have come to, for all the friendship they swore last autumn – standing outside the king’s privy chamber bawling insults.
‘Make way, make way!’ call the ushers. Henry emerges. He eyes Norfolk. The duke sinks to one knee. The king ignores him. ‘Messieurs, my lord Cromwell – come in.’
They begin well enough, Castillon hinting he has a surprise: ‘A proposal about the Lady Mary, that I think will be very gratifying to your Majesty.’
‘I am all ears,’ Henry says. ‘Lord Cromwell, likewise, is all ears.’
‘Majesty,’ Castillon says, ‘our dauphin is already wed – but could not Lady Mary marry my master’s second son?’
The king groans. ‘We have been here before. Cromwell, tell him.’
He says, ‘Your master wanted a guarantee that Lady Mary would succeed to the throne.’
Castillon bows. ‘You have a son and heir now, of course. But the Lady Mary’s virtues are known throughout Christendom. So what could be more pleasant than a double wedding, father and daughter? The king will be honoured to give you any French lady you choose.’
The king says, ‘Not excepting his daughter Marguerite?’
The ambassador is ready. ‘If a year or two were allowed, till she is sixteen, perhaps …’
‘I am forty-six,’ Henry says. ‘I am not seeking a companion for my old age. If I am to marry, I should do it now. Madame de Longueville would suit me. She cannot really mean to marry the King of Scots. Such a stupid, beggarly knave –’
Castillon is taken aback. ‘James will wed her before the summer. The promise is firm.’
‘But is it free?’ Henry asks. ‘Hearts should be free. Milord Cremuel will tell you. He is a great promoter of love matches.’
