‘And Norferk,’ he says. ‘And Guillaume Fitzguillaume.’
The dead queens blink at him, from behind their broken mirrors.
Did you ever hear of St Derfel? No shame to you if you did not. He is called ‘the strong’ or ‘the valiant’, and was one of Arthur’s knights; he built many churches in Wales, and at length retired to a monastery and died in his bed.
In a church in the diocese of St Asaph stands his effigy, a giant made of painted wood, astride a giant stag. Derfel is a jointed figure, with mobile eyes that blink. The Welsh believe he can bring souls out of Hell, and on his feast day in April they come five hundred strong, with cattle, horses, women and children to be blessed. For the priests it is a prime money-making proposition.
Hugh Latimer has suggested a bonfire of statues at Paul’s or Tyburn or Smithfield. But Derfel is a special case: his legend says that if you set fire to him, a forest will burn down. For safety’s sake you could just hack him up; but best not in front of the local people.
He sends his man Elis Price to deal with it. Elis comes of a noble Welsh house; he worked with his father, in the cardinal’s time. Just bring me Derfel, he tells him, leave the stag behind.
Monks go down fast this spring. Beaulieu. Battle. Robertsbridge. Woburn and Chertsey. Lenton, where the prior is executed for treason. The monks present themselves as having lived like beggars, in garments ragged and patched, and without firewood or food stores. They have sold the firewood, of course, they have sold the grain, and unless you are swift on their trail they will pawn or bury their treasures.
Objects retrieved are sent to him: seals with the faces of abbesses and bearded theynes; a crozier with a head of ivory, bearing the face of Christ; herbals and missals, and long-hoarded silver coins decorated with the heads of petty kings. He saves for himself a map of the world, its four corners stalked by lions. He keeps it for a memento of the earth as it used to be.
They bring him compendia of superstitions, the ghost-books kept by monks, and at Austin Friars (or wherever he finds himself this spring) they read aloud after supper: when the nights are growing lighter even the jittery can stand the strain. They make him laugh: a ghost in the form of a haystack? A ghost that helps a poor man carry a sack of beans?
The purpose of ghost stories is extortion, generally: to frighten poor folk into paying for prayers and charms to protect them. He reads of a man who, on pilgrimage to Spain, met the half-formed corpse of his son, miscarried at six months. The pilgrim does not know his child, but the child, a tallow-coloured object in a shroud, is able to speak out and claim his father.
He rolls up the parchment and says, destroy this tale. And let’s give thanks we have a living prince at last.
He thinks about Derfel, his powers. Why would you want the damned fetched back from Hell? There’s a reason God put them where they are.
The end of April, the king’s doctors seek a consultation with certain councillors: two earls and himself, Privy Seal. Fitzwilliam says, ‘Is this about the bad leg?’
‘The King’s Majesty’s wound,’ Dr Butts corrects. ‘We try to keep it open to keep it clean. But it tries to close.’
‘It is its nature,’ Dr Cromer explains. ‘We fear a crisis approaches. Dead matter trapped within.’
‘What do you advise?’ Edward Seymour asks.
The doctors look at each other. ‘What we always advise. We must thin his blood. He should keep a spare diet. Water his wine. Gentle motion only.’
‘Hopeless,’ Fitz says. ‘It is the hunting season.’
The king is planning a progress. Essex, then north as far as Hunsdon, to see the little prince.
‘He needs to keep the leg up,’ Cromer says. ‘Can you not talk to him, Lord Cromwell? You are very great with him these days, everybody says.’
‘So they do.’ Does Fitzwilliam sound galled, or is that imagination?
He says, ‘There was a professor at Padua who worked out the recipe for a long life.’
‘I suppose it did not involve jaunting around Essex,’ Cromer says.
‘One must eat the meat of the viper, nutritious and light. And drink blood.’
‘Animal blood?’ Edward Seymour is repelled.
‘No, human. And when you have got your foaming beaker of it, you powder it with gemstones, just as one powders milk with nutmeg. The professor was called to Constantinople, where –’
‘He lived to be 120 and became the Sultan?’ Fitzwilliam asks.
‘Sadly not. He failed in one of his cures and the Ottomans sawed him in half.’
‘St Luke protect us!’ Cromer exclaims.
He thinks, I must be ready for Henry’s death. But how shall I be ready? I cannot imagine.
In the king’s absence, he sits down to new duties. All over the realm our castles are being surveyed and repaired. The king will ride ten miles but his minister’s mind will range three hundred. Fortifying costs money and he has to find it.
Thomas Cranmer comes to see him. ‘Two items, Thomas.’
‘How are you?’ he asks. The archbishop still looks as if he has a pain behind his eyes.
