The Mirror and the Light: 2020’s highly anticipated conclusion to the best selling, award winning Wolf Hall series (The Wolf Hall Trilogy, Book 3)

by Hilary Mantel

  Lord Beauchamp frowns at the boy Mathew. ‘Did you not use to be my man, down at Wolf Hall?’

  ‘Aye, sir. But I came to seek my fortune, and I have found it.’

  ‘I am at fault,’ he says. ‘I drew the boy from his rustic innocence.’

  ‘Country mouse to town rat,’ Dick Purser says, shoving Mathew in the back.

  ‘Stop that,’ he says. ‘Arrange your faces. Here is Norfolk’s boy.’

  A blazing day, a young lord in orange satin: Surrey advances, his long limbs flying, his eyes screwed up, his hands beating the air like a man in a cloud of mosquitoes; the court is swarming with rumours about his father, and all of them sting.

  ‘Seymour!’ the young man yells.

  I shall speak first, he thinks, the soul of courtesy – ‘My lord, I see you have quit Kenninghall –’

  ‘You are not wrong,’ Surrey says.

  ‘– and the court is the gainer.’

  Surrey is upon them. His father is right, he looks ill: his face has fallen in. ‘My business is with Lord Beauchamp. I have nothing to say to you.’

  Edward Seymour says, ‘Surrey, stand where you are.’

  ‘Or take a pace back,’ Richard Cromwell says. ‘I sincerely advise it.’

  ‘I stop where I please,’ Surrey says. ‘Do not tell me where to stop.’

  ‘Armed like a man,’ Richard says, ‘yet talks like a three-year-old.’

  Surrey does step back, as if he wants to view them better: the servants in their grey marbled coats, Gregory and Richard and Seymour in their peacock silks, and Lord Cromwell in his indigo gown, body solid beneath its soft folds. The greyhound steps sideways, grizzles and yaps, and Dick Purser bundles her backwards for fear she should snap: how tempting must be Surrey’s thigh, the tender flesh in its flashing hose. Surrey jerks a thumb at him – at the Lord Privy Seal: ‘Seymour, are you so in love with this churl’s money that you drag your family name through the mire? When they told me of this match you have made I could scarce believe it – not even of you.’

  ‘He means me,’ Gregory says. ‘I am the match.’

  ‘Aye, you,’ Surrey says, ‘you squat little clod.’ He whips around, long body glinting like a viper’s and ready to bite. ‘What evil persuasion is this, Seymour, to marry your sister to these shearsmen, these sheep-runners – I ask you, what disparagement is it, to your own family’s coat of arms, and to the name of the late Oughtred, so worthy a man –’

  ‘Oughtred is dead,’ Gregory says. ‘He is well dead, worthy or not.’

  ‘He sees you!’ Surrey yelps.

  ‘And I see you, you sorry piece of work.’ Now Richard Cromwell steps forward. He does not touch Surrey, but he locks his gaze.

  He, Lord Cromwell, pats a hand to his own chest: there is his knife, but no man must draw. He sees the pain that clouds Surrey’s face – belligerence, bewilderment. ‘Surrey, you are not yourself.’ As he speaks he takes Richard by the elbow to hold him back. ‘Your lord father has told me you are mourning still for young Richmond, God rest him.’

  ‘It is a year,’ Surrey says, ‘a year my friend has been mouldering in his tomb at Thetford – and blackguards like you left to run above ground. I come here and the whole court is buzzing like a muckheap in a sty. I dare say there are a score of rascals who would perjure themselves to pull the Howards down. They are so eaten by envy that they would consent to have both their legs broken if they could see us take a fall.’

  ‘You will take a fall anyway,’ Richard says, ‘if you do not back off.’

  ‘My father could be king of the north. All the great families support him. But witness his loyalty. He has refused all offers to turn his coat –’

  ‘Has he?’ Edward says. ‘Offers from whom?’

  ‘And where are the rewards for him? Does he not deserve more rewards and greater than any other subject? Instead, we of noble blood must stand by and watch knaves filching manors from those who have owned them time out of mind, and trusting to mingle their seed with the finest blood this land affords. What does the king do, keeping about him such a set of common thieves and dip-pockets? Thrusting out of his council gentlemen of high birth –’

  He puts his hand on Surrey’s arm. Surrey dashes it away. ‘Cromwell, you plan to murder all noblemen. One by one you will cut off our heads till only vile blood is left in England, and then you will have all to rule.’

  ‘This is my quarrel,’ Edward Seymour says. He steps up to Surrey, lays a soldier’s hand on orange satin and silver fringing. Surrey lurches forward, hand on his dagger. The dog barks in panic. The boy Mathew shouts, ‘No blades, Spindle-shanks.’

  My lord Privy Seal roars, ‘Drop your hands all. Hands at your sides.’ Shocked, they do it – but Surrey flails overarm, and the boy Mathew throws up a hand and then sags against his master. A bright spatter of blood drops to the tiles.

  Surrey steps back, aghast. His face is smeared with sweat and tears. Richard twitches the dagger out of his hand. It was like disarming a child, he will say later. He will recall how the young man’s fingers felt: numb, cold and blue.

  Mathew has righted himself. Furiously he sucks the wound in his palm. The greyhound licks the floor: vile blood. ‘A scratch,’ the boy claims, but his blood runs down his chin.

  Gregory takes out a handkerchief. ‘Here, Mathew.’ The youth Culpeper has appeared, alarmed, and other gentlemen, sprinting from gallery and guard chamber.

  Richard says, ‘Are the tendons cut?’

  ‘Culpeper, run and seek a surgeon,’ Gregory says. In the hubbub he notes his son’s ease of manner.

  Edward says, ‘An inch, Surrey, and you would have severed his veins at the wrist, a defenceless lad who never did you harm.’

  ‘Well, he called him spindle-shanks,’ Gregory says. ‘And so do I.’

  Surrey rubs his face and glares at Gregory. ‘Meet me in the fields, Cromwell – or no, I will not fight you, you are not my match, find some nobleman to fight for you if you can, and I will skewer him and you may come and collect his carcass at your pleasure.’

  ‘You’ll skewer nobody, boy,’ Richard says. ‘You won’t be able to skewer your own dinner. You won’t have a right hand to pick your nose with.’

  ‘What?’ Surrey says.

  Edward says, ‘It is forbidden to draw blood within the precincts of the court. Any such action is a threat to the sovereign.’

  ‘He’s not here,’ Surrey says stupidly.

  ‘The queen is here,’ Richard says. ‘With a child in her womb. So is the king’s maiden daughter.’

  He says soberly, ‘My lords, gentlemen, you are all witness. One blow was struck, and my lord Surrey struck it.’

  Edward says, ‘Surrey, you know the penalty.’

  The dog’s tongue diligently polishes the tiles at their feet. Surrey gazes at his right hand, holding it before him. It is limp, as if already it does not belong to him. ‘I did not mean to wound him. I only meant to make a show. And he is not much hurt, is he?’

  Mathew begins to agree. But Surrey turns on him: ‘Mathew – is that your name? I am sure I know you under another.’

  No doubt, he thinks. From some household under suspicion, where he waits at table or carries coals: hands clean or hands dirty, working for the safety of the realm.

  Richard says, ‘It does not matter if he has as many names as the God of the Jews. It is not a servant you have injured, it is the king’s peace.’

  Surrey’s hand goes to his purse. ‘Let me give the boy some recompense.’

  ‘Offer it to the king.’ Seymour looks as grim as if he is presiding over the punishment already. ‘Your father will be shocked to his marrow when he hears this. He will know the punishment laid down – and you Howards, you always say that old customs should be kept.’

  There is a method for it: ten men are required. The sergeant surgeon with his ins
trument; the sergeant of the wood-yard with mallet and block. The master cook, who brings the butcher’s knife; the sergeant of the larder, who knows how meat should be cut; the sergeant ferrer, with irons to sear the wound; the yeoman from the chandlery, with waxed cloths; the yeoman of the scullery, with a dish of coals to heat the searing iron, a chafing dish to cool them; the sergeant of the cellar with wine and ale; the sergeant of the ewery with basin and towels. And the sergeant of the poultry, with a cock, its legs strung, struggling and squawking as he holds it against the block and strikes off its head.

  When the fowl has been sacrificed the right arm of the offender is bared. His forearm is laid down. The butcher fits the blade to the joint. A prayer is said. Then the sword hand is severed, the veins seared, and the body of the collapsed offender is rolled onto a cloth and carried away.

  He takes two days off for the wedding, as promised: leaving the king at his hunting lodge in Sunninghill on 1 August, heading to Mortlake on 2 August for the ceremony next day, and back with the king in Windsor by the fifth. It is a modest wedding, not one of those that ape the nobility; but the sun shines on the bride and groom, and the guests are in high good humour. ‘Where’s Call-Me?’ Gregory asks.

  He has to draw his son aside. ‘At home. His little boy has died.’

  ‘God save us. Does the king know?’

  Gregory is a courtier, he thinks: he is what I have made him: his mind goes first to the king, to whether the news might frighten him or put him in a bilious humour.

  He says, ‘The king need not be told. He does not usually enquire after our sons and daughters.’ He has not, for instance, alluded to Jenneke, though someone must have told him all about her. ‘I do not think he knows how many children Wriothesley has, and it would be a pity if the first he heard of William was his decease.’

  They are at Mortlake: Cromwells en fête, in their old country. What would Walter say, if he knew his grandson was the king’s brother-in-law? Though it was Walter who used to claim the Cromwells were gentry. He said he could show parchments about it, but then he said that rats had eaten them. Walter said, your mother came from good stock, Staffordshire, Derbyshire, places up north; no paupers they. This may be true. But these strangers who write to him, claiming kin; what if he had made a claim on them, when he was a boy? They would likely have kicked him downstairs. Prised his fingers from the ironwork of their gate.

  Gregory says, ‘Surrey lies under a heavy sentence. Perhaps the king would pardon him, as a wedding gift to me?’

  ‘Three points,’ he says. ‘First, I am hoping he will give you an abbey. Second, you are not the person offended – it is the crown that is offended, this is not a private matter. Third – I thought you hated Surrey.’

  ‘He hates me,’ Gregory says. ‘That is different. Though I am not squat, am I?’

  ‘By no measure,’ he says. ‘You are happy? You and Bess do not seem shy of each other.’

  ‘Yes, I am happy,’ his son says. ‘We are both happy. So please not to look at her, sir. Converse with her when others are present, and do not write to her. I ask this of you. I have never asked anything much.’

  His heart misgives. She has told him, then. ‘Gregory,’ he says, ‘I do not defend myself. I should have made myself clear.’ He looks at his son and sees he must say more. ‘It was only out of duty she consented, when she thought I was the groom, for surely I could never be preferred, not to a goodly young man like you – and as for how the muddle came about – Seymour, you know he can be brisk. One gentleman going past another in conversation, it can happen.’

  ‘Other things can happen. But do not let them.’

  He feels himself flush. ‘I am a man of honour.’

  Gregory will say, what honour is that? The Putney sort?

  ‘I mean,’ he says, ‘I am a man of my word.’

  ‘So many words,’ Gregory says. ‘So many words and oaths and deeds, that when folk read of them in time to come they will hardly believe such a man as Lord Cromwell walked the earth. You do everything. You have everything. You are everything. So I beg you, grant me an inch of your broad earth, Father, and leave my wife to me.’

  Gregory is going. But then he turns. ‘Bess says she could not eat her breakfast.’

  ‘It is a big day for her.’

  ‘She says it means she has conceived already. It is how it took her before, when she was carrying both her children.’

  ‘Congratulations, Gregory. You are a man of action.’

  He wants to stand up and embrace his son, but perhaps not. They have never had a harsh word till today, he thinks, and perhaps what has passed is less harsh than sad: that a son can think evil of his father, as if he is a stranger and you cannot tell what he might do; as if he is a traveller on the road, who might bless your journey and cheer you on, or equally rob you and roll you in a ditch. ‘Gregory, I am glad with all my heart. Do not tell Bess I know, she might take it amiss.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Gregory says.

  ‘Yes. It will be the back end of the year before the world needs to know, and meanwhile, it is another thing not to tell the king.’

  Henry will think, why so easy for some? How are children so cheap they are left on doorsteps to be scooped up and parented by the parish, and yet the King of England is begging God for one solitary boy? How are they got so easy that a hot kiss in a garden arbour springs fertile desire, and leads to the font and the chrisom cloth when we have scarcely blessed the wedding bed?

  ‘And also,’ he says, ‘we do not want it said, Cromwell’s son is so keen to be at his bride he does not wait for the blessing of holy church.’

  ‘It would be true,’ Gregory says. ‘I did not wait for it. I do not give a fig for their blessing. What do priests know about marriage? The king bars them from it. It is time they were put out of the business entirely. They have no more to do there than cripples in a footrace.’

  ‘I’ll not argue with that. Though I wish them able-bodied.’

  ‘Oh, the archbishop is your friend,’ Gregory says. ‘I sometimes wonder what Cranmer will do in Heaven, where there is no marriage or giving in marriage. He will have no pastime.’

  ‘Do not talk about Cranmer’s wife.’

  ‘I know,’ Gregory says. ‘It goes into the big box of secrets, where an ogre squats on the lid.’

  A late-spring child, he thinks. I shall be a grandfer. If we can get through next winter.

  ‘Go and find your bride,’ he says. ‘You have left her too long.’ But then: ‘Gregory? You are the master in your household – you are the head of it and there is not a soul will doubt it.’

  And I like wandering Odysseus, salt-hardened, befogged, making my long way home to a house full of raucous strangers. When I see ordinary happiness the horizon tilts and I see something else. And now I sound like a dotard, saying ‘If we can get through next winter.’ As if I were Uncle Norfolk, claiming the damp will finish me.

  On his next mission he takes Fitzwilliam with him: they chase Henry up-country, find him sulking indoors on a wet day, and looking, except that he is seated, much as he does on the mural at Whitehall: less ornamented, but with the same glare. All the same, he seems glad to see them: ‘Thomas! You were to hunt with me, I thought. I have been expecting you. But now the weather turns.’

  He opens his mouth to tell the king about the heap of papers on his desk at home. Henry says, ‘What is this we hear, that France and the Emperor have stopped fighting? Can it be true?’

  ‘They will be fighting again next week,’ Fitzwilliam says, ‘depend upon it. But Majesty, we are here about young Surrey. You cannot cut off his hand, you know.’

  The king says, ‘I expect Thomas Howard has written to you? Begging?’

  True. You can see the stains seeping through the paper: sweat, tears, bile. Good Lord Cromwell, stand my friend: exert yourself for Thomas Howard, who is your daily beadsman, your debt
or for life. Let my foolish son suffer any punishment, but not maiming, a Howard cannot live without his sword hand …

  ‘Norfolk thinks you bear much credit with me,’ Henry says. ‘That whatever you say, I will do. He thinks me your minion, my lord Privy Seal.’

  He cannot think of an answer. Not a safe one.

  Henry says, ‘Why should I not punish Surrey according to custom? Let me hear your reasoning.’

  Because, Fitzwilliam says. Because it is almost worse to maim a nobleman, than to kill him. It savours of barbarity, or at best of an alien code.

  He, Thomas Cromwell, takes up the theme: because he is young, and experience will temper his pride. Because your Majesty is far-seeing, sagacious, and merciful.

  ‘Merciful,’ Henry says. ‘Not soft-hearted.’ He stirs crossly. ‘I know the Howards and what they are. They expect prizes, when they should expect forfeits. I have kept Tom Truth alive, have I not, when I might have cut off his head for his knavery with my niece?’

  He says, ‘My advice, sir – let Surrey sweat for a space. It is a lesson he will not forget. And he will be in your debt thereafter.’

  ‘Yes, but you always say this, Cromwell. You say, remit them, and they will behave better. Three years back Edward Courtenay’s wife entertained that false prophetess, Barton – ah, you said, forgive her, she is but a woman and weak. I believe now she intrigues again.’

  Fitzwilliam says, ‘Courtenay’s wife is clear of present offence, to my mind. And if she is not, Cromwell will soon know, for he has a woman in her household.’

  ‘And the Pole family? Whom I prospered? Whom I restored in blood, whom I plucked from penury and disgrace? How am I repaid? By Reginald parading around Europe calling me the Antichrist.’

  He says, ‘Perhaps there must be a new policy. But – craving your Majesty’s favour in this – we will not start it by cutting off Surrey’s hand.’