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

  Besides, there is reason to be cheerful. Even when the king has expressed a desire to be alone, he will call in Lord Cromwell to debate a text with him, or idly throw dice. Those councillors are unwelcome now, who hulloo as if they were on the hunting field, or talk to a solitary and sorrowing man as if they were addressing a troop from horseback. He needs a voice pitched low, a listening ear: when he talks of how women have made him suffer, he needs someone who will not show incredulity.

  If you wonder if Lord Cromwell is succeeding, look how he and his people are augmented. Mr Richard is seized of abbeys in the county of Huntingdon. He means to seat himself at Hinchingbrooke Priory, after rebuilding work of course, and establish himself in that county as a beacon of loyalty to the king; while at the same time, Mr Gregory is set up in east Sussex.

  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. Take me in, take me in.’

  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.’

  Tarbes says, ‘Try to understand this. My king regards James of Scotland as his own son. He will not break a promise that knits our two lands in their ancient amity.’

  Castillon urges, ‘Why not consider the Duchess of Vendôme?’

  He does not wait for the king, but cuts in: ‘James saw her and did not like her. Why should we?’

  The king says, ‘I do not want to take a lady I have not seen. The thing touches me too near.’ He raises a finger, and lays it precisely beneath his collarbone, on the puff of white linen that shows above the buttercup yellow of his jacket. ‘Perhaps she and some other ladies could come to Calais? Then I might make the crossing, and see them for myself.’

  ‘What?’ Castillon can no longer contain himself. ‘Do you think it is a horse fair? You want us to trot them out like fillies, the noblest dames of France? Perhaps your Majesty would like to mount them too, before making choice?’

  He says, solemn, ‘If they are virgins on arrival, we will send them back intact. I swear it.’

  ‘Excuse,’ Tarbes says curtly. Red in the face, the ambassadors turn aside to mutter to each other. He wishes now that Norfolk were here, to see his show.

  The ambassadors turn back. ‘No,’ Tarbes says. ‘No meeting.’

  ‘A pity,’ he says, ‘since the king and I are going to Calais anyway. From there we will pass to the Emperor’s territory, to meet with Christina and her councillors. We mean to take Lady Mary – and Lady Eliza too, if her keepers do not object to the voyage for her.’

  He feels Henry’s gaze swivel to him: will we, do we?

  ‘Then I wish you joy of the Duchess of Milan,’ Castillon says. ‘I hear she is very much afraid of what awaits her, and is begging the Emperor to marry her anywhere but England. Has your Majesty considered that it might be difficult to find any lady to marry you at all?’

  ‘Why?’ the king asks.

  ‘Because you kill your wives.’

  ‘Take that back,’ he says. He is standing, so are the ambassadors; he thinks, there may be two of you, but I kill giants.

  Castillon turns to Henry. His voice shakes. ‘You say your first wife died in the course of nature, but many b
elieve you poisoned her. Your second match was widely deplored, but no one imagined you would end it with a beheading. Now it is said – even by Cremuel, in fact especially by he – that your third wife perished of neglect in her childbed.’

  He says, ‘I should not have said that.’

  ‘No, you should not,’ Henry says mildly. ‘My dear ambassadors, you cannot understand – you do not know our court or our ways – Cremuel worked not a little in the making of my marriage with Jane.The whole realm has reason to be grateful that he did so. Cremuel’s son is married to the queen’s sister. He feels to her as to his own kin. After her death, his shock and sorrow caused him to speak in haste. There was no neglect. How could there be?’

  ‘Our position is –’ Tarbes begins.

  ‘Your position is back on the boat,’ he says, ‘unless we hear an abject and prompt apology.’

  Henry holds up a hand. ‘Peace. The ambassadors have some right on their side. I have been ill-fated.’ He bows his head, then looks up from under his brows. ‘But I do not lack offers.’

  He says, ‘Be assured, gentlemen – we are at a point, with the Duchess of Milan.’

  ‘At a point?’ Castillon is outraged. ‘Cremuel, why do you not pack your bags and present yourself to the Emperor as his own true servant? You serve him better than you serve the King of England.’

  Henry says dryly, ‘I find myself satisfied.’

  He says, ‘Even if my king does not take Christina, he will marry into Portugal. And Lady Mary will wed their prince Dom Luis. What could be more pleasant than a double wedding?’

  It is hard to know whether the ambassadors are dismissed, or whether they dismiss themselves. But on the threshold, Castillon stops, defiant: ‘My master and the Emperor mean to extend their truce till midsummer. Mary will lose her chance. Dom Luis will marry my master’s daughter – with whom, I tell you, he will be delighted.’

  They are gone. The door closes after them. The king says, ‘They should stop trying to frighten me. I have been king nearly thirty years and they should know it does no good.’

  They have been speaking French, and continue to do so, as the footsteps fade.

  ‘So, Cremuel,’ Henry says, ‘I hope you will not run away to Charles, but stay.’

  Henry’s eyes are on his portrait of himself, massive, on the wall of the chamber. His own eyes consult the image of his master. ‘What should I want with the Emperor, were he emperor of all the world? Your Majesty is the only prince. The mirror and the light of other kings.’

  Henry repeats the phrase, as if cherishing it: the mirror and the light. He says, ‘You know, Crumb, I may from time to time reprove you. I may belittle you. I may even speak roughly.’

  He bows.

  ‘It is for show,’ Henry says. ‘So they think we are divided. But take it in good part. Whatever you hear, at home or abroad, I repose my faith in you.’ He smiles. ‘When one speaks French, one finds oneself saying Cremuel. It is hard to resist.’

  ‘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. Fortify
ing 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.

  Cranmer puts down his folios: no small talk. ‘First, Mary Fitzroy. Her husband Richmond has been dead a year and she has not had her settlement. The king has said to me, Look here, my lord archbishop, you know the marriage was not consummated? So she and my son were not properly married, and I need not pay out.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I said, “Of course they were married – in the sight of God and man. You must pay what is due, and do it quickly.” So he sulked.’ Cranmer opens his folio. ‘They say that as his lord father got older, he cared for nothing but money. Henry is going the same way.’

  Even the cardinal had his areas of illusion where Henry was concerned. It seems Cranmer has none. Yet he agrees to carry Henry’s conscience, which is burden enough for a whole bench of bishops.

  ‘Second item, Father Forrest,’ Cranmer says. ‘Katherine’s confessor, when she was queen. He praises all popish ceremonies, and preaches clean contrary to scripture. He has abused the king’s patience these five years and more. Now I fear he must burn. I will bring him to Paul’s Cross. Hugh Latimer begs to preach to him. He believes he can bring the sinner to Christ. And at a hopeful sign, we will unloose his bonds.’ Cranmer’s tone is dry, precise; but his hands shake. ‘I hope he will abjure. He is a man near seventy.’