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

  He too drops the letter. Then he picks it up and gives it to the boy Mathew to file. His mind travels the road, the river. There is banked filthy mud, there is snow on the ground, there is thaw water running and the Thames overstraining its banks: the cardinal is at Esher, the Parliament is planning to ruin him, and he, a square plain figure in worsted, tries to keep his hat on his head and his head down, while the black north wind plunders and beats him like a thief, and rolls him nightly, howling, in a ditch.

  ‘What time is it?’

  Christophe looks at him in pity: ‘You hear the midnight bell?’

  He thinks, if Jane had married me, she would be alive now; I would have managed it better.

  When he gets back from court he walks into his workroom and sits unspeaking at his table. Mr Wriothesley says, ‘You seem angry, sir?’

  Call-Me has arrived with scant ceremony, tossing his hat down on a stool and rummaging in a chest for papers. Rafe says, ‘Who would not be angry, at the loss of so fair a creature? My lord considers her keepers to have been negligent. He believes they suffered her to take cold, and eat such things as her fancy dictated.’

  ‘I wish I had been at Hampton Court,’ he says. ‘When they told me to stay away I should not have listened.’

  Wriothesley says, ‘Perhaps, sir, you are angry because you wish you had kept Gregory in reserve, where his marriage could do you most good. As the prince’s uncle he will of course be of consequence, but if the queen had lived, and given the king more sons, then you and all your house would have been great men for ever.’

  Call-Me knocks together his bundles of papers and nods himself out. ‘I am going to write to Tom Wyatt,’ he says, turning and holding the doorframe. ‘He had better see to his duties, for I cannot do my duty if I cover for him any more. And I shall give him notice his dispatches make my head ache – there is no need to put every triviality in cipher.’

  ‘Right,’ Rafe says. ‘Save it for the big lies?’

  Wriothesley says, ‘Wyatt scrambles his wits without point or purpose. Everything is a plot, to him.’

  Rafe calls, ‘Close the door.’

  They wait till they hear he has gone downstairs. Rafe says, ‘We must forgive him. I wonder how he would be if his wife had died, and not his son.’

  He says, ‘He looks older. Or am I imagining it?’

  ‘I am very sorry for him. I remember when my first Thomas died. But even so …’

  Wriothesley has entered into public duties, where you cannot let your private sorrows show, not even by an increased hauteur with petitioners, or impatience with women and underlings: still less with the Lord Privy Seal. He shrugs it off. He says, ‘I give thanks that Helen is safely delivered, Rafe. And I hope your new son will live to serve his prince as you have served the king, so happily and well.’

  For Rafe has slipped back to his place at the king’s side, drawing only a distant nod and ‘All better at home, Sadler?’ It was the king himself, solicitous for a mother-to-be, who had advised Rafe to send Helen to Kent, away from the pestilence: but now he has forgotten to ask after her. Rafe’s child is a boy, and they are calling him Edward, but all other Edwards are naught, in the king’s exultation at his heir: he stands over the cradle, marvelling at what God has bestowed. But then he remembers the queen, a husk now eviscerated by the embalmers, tapers burning day and night around her bier, the prayers never ceasing, the syllables pit-pattering, the sorrows and joys of Our Lady, her mysteries, her worship and praise.

  Already Jane’s household is being broken up. Her brooches and bracelets, her jewelled buttons, girdles, pomanders, her miniature pictures set in tablets; the Wardrobe takes them back, or they are given to her friends. Her manors and farms, her woodlands, chases and parks, go back to the king from whom they came, and her body, after her embalming and lying in state, goes back to God her maker. It is a long time since I first saw her, the king says, a lily among roses: I consider all the time wasted, till I made her my bride.

  It is only two summers past that the king held her hand in the garden at Wolf Hall, her small paw swallowed in his palm: two summers since he, my lord Privy Seal, greeted her in a slippery dawn light, stiff and timid in her new carnation gown. This winter he will see the carnation cloth again, worn by Gregory’s wife, as she lets out her bodices to accommodate her growing child. Bess says she is not afraid. Jane was lucky and unlucky, she says: lucky to become queen of England, unlucky to die of it. They will always make ballads about her, Bess says. And the king will give her a magnificent tomb, he says, in which he may lie with her in time to come. But I would rather be alive, Bess says, than have a great name: would not you, Lord Cromwell?

  Gregory says, ‘My lord father, who will you let the king marry next?’

  PART FOUR

  I

  Nonsuch

  Winter 1537–Spring 1538

  ‘My lord?’ a boy says. ‘A gravedigger is here.’

  He looks up from his papers. ‘Tell him to come back for me in ten years.’

  The boy is flustered. ‘He’s brought a sack, sir. I’ll send him up.’

  His neighbours at Austin Friars think he is in charge of everything, from framing the laws to propping cellars and cleaning drains. Go to the city surveyors, he says: but they say, Yes, sir, but if you would just walk around the corner and cast an eye? For I swear my boundary stone has been moved, my foundations are cracking, my lights are obscured.

  Today’s will be a problem of bodies stacking up, the ground too hard to dig. You should try not to die at the turn of the year. Hang on through the season of marzipan and mulled ale. You might even see spring.

  The visitor pulls off his cap. He stares around; he sees a low-lit expanse, with nothing in it but Lord Cromwell before the barber gets to him, the Queen of Sheba hanging on the wall behind. Painted on the ceiling, the stars in their courses; on his desk, like a low winter sun, a dried orange.

  The gravedigger has left the door open to a rising babble from below. ‘It sounds as if you’ve brought the whole street with you. What’s in your sack?’

  The man huddles it against him. He wants to tell his tale and tell it in order. ‘My lord, I woke up this morning about four o’clock. I had such a wambling in my belly …’

  Lord Cromwell settles himself inside his furs, with a soft grunt like a heavy cat. He unwinds in his imagination the sexton’s morning. The sloth with which he pushes off his blanket and rises from pallet bed. The odiferous splash of his urine. The icy shock of water to his face. His mumbled prayers, Salve Regina and God bless our king. His shirt and jerkin and patched coat, his draught of small ale. Then out he goes, spade in hand, to break the ground in the frozen hour.

  In the churchyard a dozen neighbours are gathered. ‘Get over here with that shovel,’ they shout. One poor torch gives a wavering light. The parish clerk is pulling and tugging at a bundle, half in and half out of the ground.

  The sexton hastens over. One swipe and he has the thing out. It is a winding sheet, muddied and torn. ‘We took it for a babe, my lord,’ he says. ‘New-born and scantly buried.’

  ‘That is not the infant, in your sack?’

  Clods of earth shake to the floor as the man lays the sack on the table. He opens its neck and, like a witch midwife, extracts a baby, naked and cold to the touch. It is life-sized and made of wax.

  Lord Cromwell rises. ‘Let me see it.’ His palm follows the curve of the skull. The face is a blank slope, as if its features have been sheared off. He touches the blunt hands, the toeless feet like tiny hooves. Below the slope of the belly the wax has been crudely scooped and scrolled to make a cock and balls. Iron nails have been forced into the flesh where heart and lungs would be. They have been skewered deep, leaving a friable rim around each entry point.

  The man is afraid. ‘Turn it about, sir.’

  Into the back’s broad plane, its maker has ripped a Tudor rose.


  ‘It is the prince,’ the sexton says. His voice is awed. ‘It is his image. It is made to waste and kill him.’

  ‘You know conjurers, then?’

  ‘Not I, sir. I am an honest man.’

  He goes to the door. ‘Christophe! Is Mr Wriothesley out of bed? My compliments to him, and will he go with this fellow and see where this thing was discovered, and find out who put it there?’

  He pulls the sack over the babe’s head. Says to the sexton, ‘Spread word no further.’

  Christophe comes in. ‘Half London knows. You hear the canaille below, making moan as if their mothers were dead.’

  ‘Give them bread and ale, and get them back to their occupations.’

  ‘I can see the monster?’ Christophe peers into the sack. He makes a face.

  He, Lord Cromwell, goes to the window, opens the shutter. A diffident area of grey; you cannot call it light. ‘Christophe?’ he says. ‘Tell Mr Wriothesley to wrap up warm.’

  In less than two years, two queens have died in England, but under circumstances that have prevented the usual rites. There has been no court mourning since the king lost his mother, which must be some thirty-five years ago. Fortunately, his grandmother Margaret Beaufort left us full notes on what to do: weddings, christenings, funerals, she had it pat. The Duke of Norfolk is called on to supervise the rites, with the help of Garter Herald. The king goes into white, his courtiers into black.

  On All Souls’ Eve, while Jane the Queen is still lying in state, news comes from the Tower of the death of Lord Thomas Howard. He was out of hope, his keepers say, which made him prey to any passing malaise. Lady Meg Douglas, his paramour, has been permitted by the king to join the court for the mourning period. If through the first week of November her face is swollen and blurred by tears, we need not take it that she was still attached to the late Lord Thomas; we can interpret it as sorrow for our gentle mistress. All the ladies are needed for the vigil, svelte in black, their heads bowed. They kneel on silk cushions, their closed eyelids fluttering, incense floating around them in clouds. Their hands are joined, except when two fingers delicately tap their breasts, or sign a cross at forehead and lips. In what manner they pray for the late queen, no one should enquire. The dead woman’s body is never left alone. Lady Mary leads the prayers by day. By night they leave her to the priests.

  By the time Jane is taken to Windsor for her burial, the rumour outside the gates is that the king had her cut open while she was alive. She could not be delivered of her child, so ‘Save my son!’ he ordered. From Cornwall to Durham, they are singing ballads about it. How the babe and his father prosper, and the mother lies in clay.

  In the first days of mourning the king has sequestered himself, as a king ought, seeing no one but his confessors and the archbishop, who comes to pray with him.

  The council conduct their business alone. Wanting to ask one question and ask it urgently, they look nobly intent, like men trying to hold back a fart. Finally, some lord pipes up: ‘My lord Cromwell, when might our noble sovereign, having regard to the parlous state of the succession –’

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘I’ll go and ask him, shall I?’

  He gets up heavily. ‘Mind my papers,’ he says to Edward Seymour. Collecting Call-Me to watch his back, he sets off towards the privy chamber. Marching smartly by his side, the Duke of Norfolk; beside him, the duke’s son Surrey, so elongated by black that his legs seem to be multiplied like the legs of a great spider.

  ‘Well,’ Norfolk says, ‘it falls to you to get him through this, Cromwell. Through it and out the other side and a married man again. No disrespect to our lord prince, but we all know how easily a babe is snuffed out.’ He scowls. ‘So have you got a list?’

  ‘Of course he has a list,’ Call-Me says. ‘But he has more reverence than to produce it, my lord.’

  Surrey is treading on his father’s heels. Like Meg Douglas, he has been permitted to return to court to join the mourning. ‘Do not speak to the Lord Privy Seal,’ Norfolk orders him. ‘Do not even glance at him, boy, or you will incur my displeasure.’

  Surrey casts up his eyes to the gilded roses on the ceiling. He sighs, shifts from foot to foot, fidgets his dagger in its scabbard. Short of taking out his privy member and waving it, there is no more he could do to establish his presence.

  ‘It seems to us,’ Mr Wriothesley says, ‘the king is not ready to talk about a new wife. As your lordship says, it falls on my lord Cromwell, so let him pick his time.’

  ‘Let that time be soon,’ young Surrey snaps. ‘Or my father will force the point.’

  ‘What did I tell you? Silence!’ Norfolk glares at his son. ‘The king’s grieving. Of course he’s grieving. Lovely lady, who wouldn’t? But the Emperor and France are creeping close to a treaty, which is very displeasant to us; what would make them quarrel, faster than a marriage? Let Henry claim a bride from France. We can stipulate not only a good sum of money with the girl, but military aid, should Charles attempt anything against us.’ He rubs the tip of his nose. ‘We are all very sorry about the queen, of course. But it can turn to advantage. All is for the taking, Cromwell.’

  ‘Though not your taking,’ Surrey says.

  ‘Cease, sirrah!’ Norfolk roars.

  ‘My lord Privy Seal would prefer –’ Wriothesley says.

  Norfolk cuts him off. ‘We know what he’d prefer. Marriage with some gospeller’s daughter. But that will not happen, and you know why? Because it derogates from the honour of our sovereign. Henry wears a crown imperial. He is beholden to none. But the best of these Germans is a mere prince’s daughter, and the Emperor is their overlord – whatever they pretend.’

  ‘The king is free to choose a lady of any rank,’ Mr Wriothesley says. ‘He could choose one of his own subjects. That has been known.’

  He says to Norfolk, ‘I will not put a foot forward in this matter unless I have the council behind me, and Parliament too.’

  ‘Oh, I trust you,’ Norfolk says. ‘I do not think you will go venturing on your own, my lord Privy Seal.’

  ‘Or your head will fly off,’ Surrey says.

  ‘My lord –’ he is hovering, ‘– I must go in to the king.’

  ‘Let me come in with you,’ the duke says.

  ‘Introduce you suddenly?’ he says. ‘Like a surprise?’

  ‘Say I am right outside. Say I offer fatherly comfort and counsel.’

  ‘My lord father,’ Surrey says, ‘do not let these fellows impede –’

  Irritated, he puts his palm on Surrey’s chest, stops him dead. ‘And look, I need no blade,’ he says.

  They walk away. He shrugs. ‘I’m human.’

  ‘Of course.’ Call-Me makes it sound like a warm endorsement. ‘What do you hear from Cleves?’

  ‘No great praise, neither of the lady’s face nor person. Though I am not discouraged. No one has had much opportunity of seeing her, these people keep their women very close. She sounds amiable. The age is right. And the Cleves councillors are keen, I hear.’

  Keen enough to keep her off the market. Anna. Twenty-two years old. Never married.

  The king is waiting: heavy-faced, heavy-eyed. He turns his head, and it seems like an effort. ‘There you are, Crumb.’

  ‘Norfolk would like an audience. He threatens to talk to you like a father.’

  ‘Does he?’ Henry dredges up a smile. ‘Let us hope I turn out better than young Surrey. I shall try to be a credit to him.’

  ‘He says it is your duty to marry again.’

  Henry looks into the middle distance. ‘I could be well content to live chaste my remaining days.’

  ‘Parliament will also petition your Majesty.’

  ‘Then I must set aside my own wishes, I suppose.’ The king sighs. ‘What do we hear of the widow, Madame de Longueville? I feel I could be interested in her, if in any lady. The noble house of Gui
se would be flattered by an approach.’

  Marie de Guise has been described to him: a bouncing, vivid redhead with two young sons, her husband six months buried. ‘They say she is very tall.’

  ‘I am very tall myself.’

  He thinks, we could send Hans to paint her, and measure her at the same time. ‘There is a difficulty, Majesty. The King of Scots wants her.’

  Henry is glacial. ‘I do not call that a difficulty.’

  ‘Her family might stick over the dowry.’

  ‘What, haggle with me?’ The king is annoyed. ‘There are other Frenchwomen. And I have not yet said I will marry at all. I will not get such a pearl as Jane again.’ He rubs his eyes. ‘Talk to me again in a week, my lord. I will try to make you a better answer.’

  Fresh from watching by the corpse, stiff-kneed and bored and cross, Jane Rochford steps into his path. ‘I have need of instruction.’

  He stops. Smiles slowly at her. ‘Will you take it?’

  ‘We ladies do not know how to order ourselves without a mistress. Do we stay or go?’

  The queen’s household is broken up, and Lady Mary set to withdraw to Hunsdon, or some other place. If there is no queen’s side at court, there is no need for women at all. ‘But if we are all sent away,’ Lady Rochford says, ‘what will we do in case of a sudden bride?’

  ‘Look to the direction of your seniors,’ he says. ‘Lady Surrey. Lady Rutland.’

  ‘When shall I be senior enough to count?’ She is waspish. ‘I have served three queens now, and I trust to serve a fourth.’

  ‘Uncle Norfolk wants a Frenchwoman,’ he says.

  She laughs. ‘The French must have bribed him. I thought he would offer a Howard. The old dowager duchess, across the river at Lambeth, she has a houseful of girls.’

  ‘Perhaps none of them are ripe for breeding?’

  ‘I dare say the king would be trying to marry Bess Seymour, if she had not wed your son. One woman in a family is never enough for him. Has not Jane other sisters? I know there are Bible texts against it. But the king rules over the church now. And we know what he thinks of the scriptures. “Read on, masters, there’s always another verse!”’