He is repulsed by François himself. In Paris his new Bibles have been seized and his printers warned off. He thought he had bribed enough people to keep the Inquisitors at bay. Now, perhaps, they expect him to pay a ransom for the type? Perhaps he will, as he has paid out so much already. He calls in Ambassador Castillon, and asks that François, as a favour, release the unbound sheets. Perhaps the day may come when François wants a favour in turn?
In letters home Castillon begs for his recall. He is afraid that, if hostilities break out, Henry and Cromwell will kill him. He refers to ‘the king and his milord’ – as if there is only one milord in England.
Meanwhile he, the Vicegerent, arranges to set up his print shop at Greyfriars, where he can walk in and see what is done day by day. It will be safer, if slower. In one bad week, he says to Rafe, your life’s work can be shot out of the water.
Around Candlemas, coming in to the king, he finds him sitting at twilight over his books; Henry raises his head and looks at him with a faint puzzlement, as if he has never seen him before. Then the king seems to shake himself and says, ‘You look cold, Thomas, come to the fire. I was thinking that sometimes we should pray together. How do you pray, my lord? Do you begin with your Pater Noster, or do you repeat a psalm, or do you say words of your own devising?’
He looks closely at the king and sees the question is not a trap. He says, ‘I praise God as master of our ship. No tempest will sink us.’
The king grants licence for one John Misseldon, alchemist, to return to England from his stay beyond the seas. He may practise his craft as long as he does not resort to the dark arts. ‘Sooner or later,’ he warns the king, ‘all such men grow desperate, and then they turn to necromancy.’
I also, he thinks. I sit at my desk day after day, waiting for the cardinal to whisper in my ear.
Before February ends we are locked into crisis. Only Lord Lisle does not seem to know it. John Husee, salt-sprayed from the crossing, drips into his waiting chamber. ‘Husee,’ he says, ‘since Edward Seymour has been in Calais, I begin to form a picture of how your master falls short.’
‘You know he is not well,’ Husee says awkwardly.
‘Ill enough to be replaced?’
‘No, no, please …’ Husee says.
He takes pity on the man. ‘I shall send over my nephew Richard to help him.’
‘If it please you,’ Husee says, ‘Lord Edward, Master Richard – they would be described as gospellers –’
‘Lord Lisle objects to that?’
If war breaks out, Calais is the first place the enemy will attack. I should go myself and take charge, he thinks. But I don’t want to find that, in my absence, the king has panicked and called Norfolk back from the borders, or put a plaice in my seat at the council board.
France and the Emperor give notice that they are withdrawing their ambassadors. Chapuys comes to see him privately, twitching with tension. ‘Do not take it as an act of war, I beg you. The Emperor is recalling me only because I know your English manners, and can advise the Duchess Christina – how she should order herself, when she comes over to England to be crowned.’
When he, Lord Cromwell, conveys this to the councillors, the whole table bursts into laughter. Only Call-Me, and perhaps the king, still believe Christina will ever be his bride. Officially, talks are still open. But the Emperor is imposing conditions that make the match impossible. When the duchess’s servants visit Wriothesley these days, they flit in by owl-light.
He says, ‘The Emperor wants Chapuys back so he can report on our war preparations. But before we release the ambassador, we should make sure we get Wriothesley home safe.’
‘Hostages!’ the Lord Chancellor says. ‘Oh, Mother Mary! What about Wyatt in Spain? I hear the Inquisitors are at his back.’
He has Wyatt’s letter in his pocket. Our ambassador writes, I am at the wall. I cannot endure till March.
He goes home. His leg is aching and his people have made a special stool to set it on. ‘Decrepit,’ he says to his nephew Richard.
He sees himself from without, a miniature on vellum: Lord Cromwell in his Later Years. A Flemish tiled floor, a chequerboard of blue and gold; a red velvet gown and inside it a hunched invalid. Richard leans over his chair, a hand on his shoulder. ‘What if you are not in your first youth? I shall be glad if at your age I am as sound.’
Christophe says, ‘Compare with the king! My lord Admiral, he has been ill since Christmas. Norferk, he is shrivelled like a dried bean.’
Richard says, ‘Christophe, respect your betters.’
Christophe says, ‘One fears for Call-Me. Suppose they kill him? Or drop him in a deep dungeon?’
This has occurred to him. They could lock the boy in Vilvoorde where they kept Tyndale. Richard Cromwell says, ‘You used to have a plan of that fortress. Would we send a troop of men to break him out?’
They glance at each other, turn away again. Probably not.
He limps along to the Tower, where in a broad and pleasant room, a pale fire in the hearth, he converses with Gertrude, Courtenay’s widow. For a woman who has just lost her husband to the headsman, she is self-possessed: dry-eyed, and eating almonds from a platter. ‘No doubt you fortified yourself with prayer?’ he says. ‘You cannot have been surprised. You knew everything my lord Exeter said and did against the king. You were in his inner councils.’
‘A woman has her own soul to save,’ Gertrude says. ‘Her husband will not do it for her.’
‘Do you know the traitor Pole is now in Spain?’
She offers him an almond. ‘Why would I know?’
‘He is with the Emperor, urging a crusade against his native land. Then he will go to France again, urging the same. So he turns about and about, snared in his treason.’
Her gaze drifts over his shoulder, as if the wall is more interesting.
‘Our ambassador in Spain has begged to return home, but they say, “Tarry, Mr Wyatt.” The Inquisitors have begun a process against him. You would not like to be in Wyatt’s place.’
‘Why would I be? I am not a heretic.’
‘Once they detain a suspect he cannot answer to the charge, because he is not allowed to know what it is. Nor is he told who has laid information. He is tortured by methods – well, my lady, I would not sully your ears. In Castile these days, every soul lives in fear.’
‘They have nothing to fear from the Holy Office,’ she says. ‘Not if they are good livers, and go to Mass.’
‘They fear their neighbours. Old enemies bring each other down.’
Her eyes move over him. She sees the king’s councillor: a genial man, comfortable in his skin. She doesn’t see the other man, whom he keeps short-chained to the wall: the man for whom the work of forgetting is strenuous, who dreams of dungeons, cavities and oubliettes. Such men are subject to uprushes of fear which wake them in the night; when they are frightened, they laugh.
‘My lord,’ she says, ‘where is Bess Darrell?’
Judging by her tone, she does not know Bess’s evidence helped to ruin her family. He says, ‘She is in a happier place.’
Her hand flies to her throat. ‘God forgive you – you have not killed her?’
‘Do you think I am a brute?’
He is interested in her answer. She says, ‘I have wondered why I am still alive myself. They say you do not like killing women, but you killed Anne Boleyn.’
‘You do not quarrel with me for that, I suppose?’
‘If you are trying to bargain – if you were thinking of trading me, for Mr Wyatt – I am afraid that the Emperor might not …’
‘Perhaps you and Margaret Pole?’ he says. ‘You are right, madam. You make little weight on the scales. Your son is of more interest.’
She looks up. ‘Please do not take him from me.’
‘When the Emperor decides on his policy to England, we hope that h
e will consider your welfare, and that of your boy. He says he is always solicitous for the old blood of England.’
She says, ‘The Holy Maid – you remember her? You blame me still, because I had dealings with her. I swore then and will swear now, I meant no malice.’
She begins to cry. He gives her a handkerchief. ‘You know I have lost little children. My lord husband used to fault me – “Heirs frail as they are, the times so cruel, one son is not enough.” She, the Maid – she said she would speak to Our Blessed Lady. She claimed her prayers were heard.’
He remembers Barton on a public scaffold, her broad countrygirl’s face chafed by the wind, and a crowd of Londoners gaping up at her. He remembers Thomas More by his side, huddled into a cape and rubbing his raw blue hands; it must have been a winter like this. He says gently, ‘Well, they weren’t, were they? But thank you for telling me this. The king may think better of you than he does now. A mother’s heart. He will understand.’
She blows her nose. He says, ‘If you have anything else to tell me, I think confession would ease your soul. About Thomas More, for instance. Or Bishop Fisher.’
‘Why? They are dead.’
‘In Rome they talk about them as if they had just left the room.’
They take a cup of wine together, served in silver as befits their rank. He takes a courteous leave. A guard takes his arm and guides him down a twisted stair to where an Irish monk squats on straw. Taken on the sea with letters to the Emperor, the prisoner is waiting for the pains of Purgatory to commence. If invaders come, the king’s Irish subjects will let them in by the back door.
He asks the gaoler, ‘Is he talking?’
‘He cracks on he only speaks Irish.’
‘Send to Austin Friars. We have interpreters.’
He takes a breath. He walks in on the prisoner, holding the letters salvaged from his purse. Lucky he did not think to cast them into the sea.
If Wriothesley were here he would break the cipher in ten minutes. Wyatt, no doubt, would do it in less. But while they are in the Emperor’s hands, it is quicker to break men.
By an order from Brussels, English ships are detained in Lowland ports. But Spanish merchants are leaving London, and he knows how quickly panic spreads among traders; they may speak in different tongues, but money talks to them all.
The king says, if they hold my ships, I will hold theirs; I will board any Spanish vessel in our waters.
There is another way, he says; not better than your Majesty’s, but supplementary. He issues a fiat to lift dues and taxes on resident foreigners – put them on par with Englishmen. That, he believes, will induce aliens to see out this storm in harbour, and not to pack their wives and chattels on the next boat.
Call-Me reports a rumour that the young Duke of Cleves has been poisoned by agents of Rome. For God’s sake, Mr Wriothesley writes, implore our royal master to be careful who comes into his company or near his person. And you, sir, you be careful too.
Ambassador Chapuys is limping. ‘You. Me. Your king,’ he says. ‘You would think it was a nation of cripples, Thomas. It’s the climate.’
‘It rains as much in Brussels.’
Eustache concedes that. ‘I will not be capable of riding to Dover. I must arrange a horse litter –’
‘Allow me to take care of it. And your baggage too.’
The ambassador bows. They sit down to Lenten fare. Chapuys has little appetite. England has never been a popular posting: the barbarous tongue and, as Chapuys says, the weather. But when he imagined the end of his embassy, he imagined an orderly withdrawal, and the customary present from the king. ‘What do you hear of young Wriothesley?’ he asks. ‘I have written most earnestly – and Thomas, I am telling you the truth here – I have said to Brussels, “Do not for God’s sake mistreat this young man, who is a great favourite both with the King of England and with my lord Cremuel.” I trust they will heed me and your boy will soon be on the road.’
The aim is to have Call-Me pass through the gates of Calais as the ambassador’s ship docks. At some point, unseen, the two should pass each other. ‘Just as long as you do not steal away by night,’ he says to Chapuys. ‘I do not want to have to put soldiers outside your house.’
The ambassador holds up his hands. ‘I would not be sitting here, if I intended any such practice. Only I would not have chosen to leave before my successor is inducted. There is such scope for misunderstanding.’
Chapuys is to be replaced by the Dean of Cambrai: a good fellow, coarse-fibred and plain-spoken. He will probably misunderstand everything, and certainly misunderstand the king. ‘I have often pitied you, Cremuel,’ Chapuys says. ‘Henry is a man of great endowments, lacking only consistency, reason and sense. But at least you can meet him face to face. You can see what he makes of what you are telling him. With my master at such a distance, I always fear I will be misunderstood. Or that those who have the good fortune to come into the Emperor’s presence will exercise the art of interpretation against me. You lack old friends. I mean, men of great family. I do not come from a place as low as yours. But you know how it is – I am the boy who always had to send the money home. I have had a little luck, and I have striven to the utmost of my talent. But in the end I cannot help but feel that much of my career has been like yours, Thomas.’ He folds his napkin. ‘Accidental.’
Christophe and Mathew come in and clear dishes. Chapuys stares at Mathew. ‘Boy, did I not see you at Horsley?’
‘Horsley, sir?’
‘The Courtenays’ house, in Surrey. As I think you know well.’
‘Mathew came to me from Wolf Hall,’ he explains.
‘I am more concerned with where he has been since. And how a waiting-boy comes to speak French, though with such a countryman’s accent I can hardly understand him.’
‘He is a quick learner,’ he says easily. ‘I am sending him to Calais soon, where he may polish himself up a little.’
Mathew is so shocked he treads on Christophe’s foot. ‘Oaf,’ Christophe mutters. ‘Bon voyage.’
‘You mean, you are sending him to Calais where he may spy on Lord Lisle.’ Chapuys sighs. ‘Well, I must …’ He crosses himself, murmuring a Latin grace. Painfully he levers himself to his feet, and gathers his gown as if he feels a draught.
He, Lord Cromwell, extends his hand. ‘I trust that when you reach the other side you will not complain of your treatment?’
He thinks of Eustache in his garden tower at Canonbury; the thundery evening when, quibble by quibble, a hair’s-breadth at a time, they edged the Lady Mary from wreckage to salvage. He remembers Christophe squatting at the base of the tower, his knife in his hand.
Richard Cromwell comes in. ‘Ambassador, your people are here.’
Chapuys hesitates. ‘Mon cher, I do not know when I shall return. Should we by some mischance, never again …’
‘Oh, none of that,’ he says. ‘We are stout of heart, Eustache, if not sound in limb.’
They embrace. The ambassador goes out, dispensing largesse to the household. He sits down at his desk. There is a letter from Carew’s widow Eliza, asking him to sort out her affairs. He owes her gratitude, he feels. Carew’s death has opened up opportunities to promote his own folk. When Richard comes back he asks him, ‘You would not like to go into the privy chamber, nephew? The king is sending Rafe to Scotland again, and I need people as close as I can get them.’
A clerk puts his head around the door. ‘Nothing from Wriothesley.’
‘We will not hear tonight.’ Any messenger on the road will be storm-lashed into shelter. Call-Me is in transit, we trust. He is at an inn: tallow candles, a cold bed; strangers’ faces; Imperial guards on the door.
‘I feel sorry for Chapuys,’ he says to Richard. ‘Going out into the rain.’
He feels someone has attached a weight to his heart. Not a big weight: just a small leaden bob, so he feels the
drag. He turns back to his paperwork. He is occupied in setting up a new council, the Council of the West, to govern the parts beyond Bristol. He says to Wolsey – le cardinal pacifique – trust me, your Grace, I keep my mind on what I shall do come the peace. I am going to secure this German alliance for the king, and a bride.
Surely that will tempt the old ghost out? But the cardinal shows no sign of listening at all. He doesn’t even ask, what about Duke Wilhelm in Cleves? Is he dead of papal poison, as your man Wriothesley says?
He is not. He is alive and willing to talk.
The dukedom of Cleves-Mark-Jülich-Berg lies on both sides of the Rhine. Its ruler Wilhelm is twenty-two years old, and through his mother has a claim, which he is pressing, to the land and seacoast of Guelders: a claim which the Emperor disputes. Duke Wilhelm shows great independence of mind. He is a reformer, but not a Lutheran. His church is under his own control. He guards some of Europe’s vital trade routes.
He, Cromwell, sits down with the king’s council and lays before them certain facts. He introduces them to the substance called alum, without which we cannot dye cloth.
In our grandfathers’ time we bought alum from the Turk, who would never take cash alone, he wanted arms – thus equipping himself for war on Christians, using their own money. Then sixty years back a deposit was found at Tolfa near Rome, a deposit so rich that they say it will never run out till the Day of Judgement. The Vatican brought in the Medici to run the trade and invented a new and grave sin: trading in alum without a licence. Later it was Agostino Chigi, that prince of bankers, who ran the monopoly: and you should see the villa he built, on Tiber’s shores.
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) Page 70