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

  Then one day the master whistled him to the counting house, and he left his apron on the peg. After that, among the Frescobaldis he became a confidential aide. Visiting the Portinari family, he was a friend of the young men of the house. No one said, here’s the blacksmith’s boy, don’t let him in. When he left the Frescobaldi bank he went to Venice. There at his workplace they had a long chest with carved panels, showing St Sebastian stuck with arrows. Every night he used to pack the ledgers away, dropping the key into his pocket; he had never given the martyr a glance. So how is it he can see him now? There are longbowmen on one side. Crossbowmen on the other. He is pierced from every angle.

  He walks away from the king’s rooms. I kissed her sweet, and she kissed me …

  In the next days he finds his benevolence is tested and his patience is running short. When a spy is taken and proves resistant, he does not go along to the Tower to bribe or cajole or trick him; he values speed. Rack him, he says: and appoints three men to take down the result. Come to me first thing in the morning, he says, and tell me of your success.

  Before Norfolk arrives home from France, he has invaded the duke’s own country. He has closed Thetford Priory, where the duke’s forebears lie. They have been witnessing miracles at Thetford for three hundred years, ever since they turned up a cache of relics, neatly labelled, that included rocks from Mount Calvary, part of Our Lady’s sepulchre, and fragments of the manger in which the child Jesus was laid. Now comes the greatest miracle of all, Thomas Cromwell, the Putney boy: who holds that the passage of time does not add lustre to fakes, and that there is no need to reverence a lie because of its antiquity.

  What is to happen to the honoured dead? John Howard is buried here, shot out of his saddle at Bosworth and dead before he hit the ground. So is the duke’s father, that same Thomas Howard who pulped the Scots at Flodden, and spread their broken limbs over the fields. And this is where, more recently, young Richmond was deposited, the king’s bastard and the duke’s son-in-law.

  Will the family have to build new tombs? It is an insult to the Howard name, Norfolk shouts, and a crippling expense as well. He comes to him with a question: ‘Cromwell, do you hold me in contempt? Mind yourself. I shall have your guts.’

  ‘Fighting talk,’ he says. ‘We haven’t had such talk since the cardinal’s day.’

  ‘My father must be prayed for,’ the duke roars. ‘If not at Thetford, then somewhere else.’

  Riche says, ‘What, you mean at Lord Cromwell’s expense?’

  He thinks, why don’t you just give up on him, your old dad? Let him take his chances?

  ‘“Flodden Norfolk”, they called him,’ the duke says. ‘A father named after a battle. How do you like that, Cromwell?’

  Howard takes himself off, cursing. He has been cursing since he returned from France; once there, he had been advised to cultivate François’s mistress, as the way to the king’s confidence, and he is still peppered with shame at having to beg favour from a woman.

  Wriothesley says, ‘He takes such pride in his ancestors, I do not think he will forgive you for turning them out. And I do not think he has disclosed all the dealings he had with the French, not by a long way.’

  Richard Riche says, ‘The French hate you. And Norfolk encourages them.’

  Wriothesley says, ‘Did I not advise you, sir, when the Boleyns came down? Break Norfolk, I said, while you have the chance.’

  Robert Barnes comes to Austin Friars: once again the drowned man, washed up his stairs. If he had known Barnes was coming, he would have had them stop him at the gate.

  Barnes says, ‘Winchester thinks, if he pulls me down, you go down with me.’

  He nods: that seems a fair summary. ‘You could run,’ he suggests.

  ‘Not this time,’ Barnes says. ‘I am too tired. You always say, prudence. Circumspection. How long must God wait, for England to embrace true religion?’

  ‘Another decade,’ he says. ‘Not long, by His standards.’

  Barnes stares at him. ‘You mean till Henry is dead? But what if the prince never reigns? What if Mary comes in?’

  ‘Then we’re all dead,’ he says.

  On 12 March, the Earl of Essex, Henry Bouchier, falls from his horse, breaks his neck, and dies on the spot. ‘God forgive me,’ Charles Brandon says. ‘On the king’s wedding day I made a jest about him, that he was not long for this world.’

  ‘My lord,’ he says, ‘it is nowise your doing.’

  Where will old Essex go? Straight to Judgement? Or will he lie quiet in his grave till the Last Day? Will he work off his sins in Purgatory for half a million years, or is he already at his destination – at the top of the Stairway to Heaven, or in a pit of the Inferno reserved for earls?

  The most part of the court does not care. Except on Sundays or if they are taken sick, they do not give a fig for the disputes of Gardiner or Barnes. They only want to know what will happen to Essex’s title. The earl had no heir. His son-in-law expects to get the nod, but no one knows where to lay their bets.

  Palm Sunday, news comes of the death of John de Vere, fifteenth Earl of Oxford. This death is not a shock; Vere has been unwell for months. His heir is of full age and will succeed as sixteenth earl; and it is assumed he will also be appointed to his father’s office of Lord Great Chamberlain, the head of the king’s household.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Mr Wriothesley says. His family being heralds, he has these matters at his fingertips. ‘Vere was named to that office in the year 1133, in the reign of the first Henry. And there have been very few chamberlains since who were not of that blood. But it is not theirs of right. The king can appoint whom he pleases.’

  He has no time to discuss it. There is a new ambassador he must receive. Cleves has sent us a resident at last. His name is Dr Carl Harst and he has previously represented Duke Wilhelm in Spain. He has no English, and no documents: also no lodging, a meagre allowance and very little style about his clothes or his person. He says to Wriothesley, ‘I wish they had sent a better sort of man – I am afraid the court will laugh at him.’

  ‘At his expectations,’ Wriothesley says, ‘certainly – for they are all wrong.’

  By now, Duke Wilhelm will have had a letter from his sister. Writing herself in her native tongue, Anna has told her brother she could wish for no better husband: she thanks her family for promoting her happiness.

  Lady Rochford has spoken to him. ‘She does not know what to do. She pretends all is well but she is like a jackdaw waiting for figs to ripen, living on hope.’ Rochford laughs. ‘Lent is over, and no man however pious can refuse his wife. We say to her, “Madam, what does he do? Once the candle is out?” She says, he kisses me and says, “Good night, darling.” Then in the morning, he rises and says, “Farewell, sweetheart.” We said to her, madam, if this is all that occurs, it will be a long time before we have a Duke of York.’

  ‘Hush, Jane,’ he says.

  ‘Everybody is talking. How long do you suppose you can keep it from the Germans?’

  Footsteps behind them: one of the maids. ‘You seem to be everywhere, Mistress Howard.’

  Katherine gazes up at him. ‘Yes.’

  He prices her up. ‘New dress?’

  ‘Uncle Norfolk.’

  ‘Do you bear a message, or have you come here to dazzle my senses?’

  She dips her head. ‘The queen and Lady Mary will walk in the gallery with you. My lord.’

  Outside the rain runs down the windows: lead men on rooftops spout it from their maws.

  The ladies of Anna’s privy chamber have already told him that her meeting with the Lady Mary has not been a success. Against all the evidence, Mary takes Anna to be a Lutheran; while Anna has been made wary by her own people, who have long assumed Mary spies for the Emperor.

  In the gallery he walks with a lady on either hand: Anna spring-like in yellow, Mary in her favoured crimson. ‘
Rain again,’ Anna says, showing off her English.

  ‘I fear so,’ he says.

  Henry has said to him, talk to her, Cromwell: can’t you talk to her? I dare not, he said, and Henry said, why not, if I give you leave? He had thought, because I do not know what you want me to fetch away from the conversation. Do you want her to turn herself into a woman you can love, or a woman you can repudiate?

  Mary says, ‘I understand your friend Dr Barnes will soon be in ward. And other preacher friends of yours.’

  She leaves a pause for him to say, Barnes is not my friend. He does not fill it. Anna walks beside him, blithe, unheeding, her fingertips on his coat. He feels as if the Lutheran clock is still in his palm, the fidget of its workings disturbing his pulse. Its case was made by an artist; its machinery, by a gunsmith.

  ‘What does Barnes expect?’ Mary says. ‘First he says he recants. Then he repeats his errors. Were you there?’

  ‘Yes, madam. Days and days of sermons.’

  ‘Let me have notes on them,’ she says. As if he were her clerk. He bows. She says, ‘I believe all is awry in Calais.’

  ‘Lord Lisle is expected here for the Garter feast. No doubt some reckoning will be made.’

  ‘Strange times, my lord. Two great lords dead.’

  The gallery is hung with the king’s new tapestries, depicting the life of St Paul. A queen, a king’s daughter and a brewer’s son, they have walked the road to Damascus, blinded by the light; they have sailed the Middle Sea. Now they pause before the Sorcerers of Ephesus who, converted by the saint, are burning their books. He feels he would like to reach into the weave and pull them out of the fire.

  At Gardiner’s house they have capons with figs, Crustade Lombarde and chopped chicken livers with hard-boiled eggs; they have spiced wine custards and jellied veal. He, Cromwell, is there at the king’s command, and he looks at his dinner because he does not want to look at the Bishop of Winchester. He does not want to look at Thomas Howard either. He did not even know he was going to be there, until he saw his barge moored.

  Coming in, he says, ‘Why are you here, my lord duke? I thought there was plague in your household. You should not be near the king.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Norfolk says. ‘I’m near you.’

  Gardiner seems inclined to emollience, like a good host. ‘I understand a servant died, but my lord had not been within fourteen miles of him.’

  ‘He didn’t die, and it wasn’t the plague,’ Norfolk says. ‘Nobody else in the house took sick. Nothing ails me, I assure you. At this time of year I eat a tansy pudding to purify my blood.’

  ‘You are always very tender of your person,’ he says. ‘You too, my lord bishop.’ They sit down. Wine is poured. He turns to Norfolk. ‘I remember when Stephen was secretary to my lord cardinal, and we both went to Ipswich, to prepare for the opening of my lord’s college. I put up the hangings myself because they were so slow, and I carried in benches and trestles – and this good companion of mine, he stood by and directed me, and advised me out of his charity not to strain my back.’

  Gardiner says, smiling, ‘I only exert myself in a good cause.’

  Norfolk bangs his goblet on the board. ‘Ipswich?’ Never was the word spat out, as the duke spits it. ‘To get funds for his wretched school at Ipswich, Wolsey pulled down the priory at Felixstowe – and that was my priory. I rejoiced when his college was closed. I hope it falls in ruins. By God, how is it this realm is so unjust? If it is not Wolsey cheating me, it is his worshipper here. Wolsey was your God, Cromwell. Your butcher God.’

  ‘I must agree.’ Gardiner puts down his knife. ‘It amazes me, Cromwell, that you still do not see Wolsey for what he was. He was corrupt and he was grandiose. You know yourself that when he lost the king’s favour he wrote to foreign princes, asking their aid. Without the king’s knowledge, over the king’s head, he set up his dealings as if he were a prince himself. What do we call such a man? We call him a traitor. If someone had given you the brief, you yourself would have convicted him.’

  ‘Aye,’ Norfolk says. ‘You would not have broken sweat. Still, I suppose it is something, that a man like you feels gratitude. What had you, when you came to court? Wolsey owned the shirt on your back. Now stir yourself, and show your gratitude to the king, who has done so much more for you. Take your Germans and kick them out of door.’

  A boy approaches with a jug. Stephen frowns at him: the boy drops back to the wall. It is not like Thomas Howard to be the worse for drink, but he must have had a skinful before he left his house. It is to give him courage, he thinks: and by God he will need it.

  He bunches his fist. He bangs it on the table. The dishes leap. ‘The whole council approved the match. You signed, Thomas Howard, as I did. As for the lady, the king could not get her here fast enough.’

  ‘No, by the saints,’ Norfolk says, ‘it is you who burdened and chained him. And I tell you, he wants to be free. Have you not seen him looking at my niece? He cast a fantasy to Katherine the first time ever he did see her.’

  ‘If you want power,’ he says, ‘get it like a man. It does not become your grey hairs, to play Pandar.’

  ‘God rot you!’ The duke stamps his feet, pushes back his chair, hauls his napkin loose from his person. Gardiner has opulent linen and it looks as if he is fighting his way out of a tent. ‘I’ll not sit here to be called a bawd!’

  As the duke stands up, he stands up too. The servants flatten themselves against the wall. There is a red blink in the corner of his eye. There is the knife at his heart: cold under his coat, ready in its sheath, and his hand moves to it, as if it acts by its own will.

  But Gardiner steps between them. ‘No fists today, my lords.’

  Fists? he thinks. You don’t know me. I could carve him like a goose, before you were out of your seat.

  Smiling as if it were a ladies’ bowling match, Gardiner flings his hands in the air. ‘Well, my lord Norfolk, if you must leave us, you are a busy man.’ He smiles. ‘We will give your dinner to the poor.’

  When the duke has made his noisy exit, shouting for his guard and his bargemen, they sit down again, and Stephen reaches across the table and pats his arm.

  ‘Say it, Stephen.’ He is glum. ‘“Cromwell, you forget yourself, we’re not in Putney now.”’

  Stephen signals for the wine jug. ‘Insult is a fine art. I wondered for a moment if he knew who Pandar was. I thought you might have been too subtle.’

  ‘No, not today,’ he says. ‘I’m not feeling subtle at all. Forgive me. I see we must make efforts towards each other, and I can do better, and will. I am sure I have things you want, where I could oblige you, and there are things I want –’

  ‘You want Barnes let out,’ Gardiner says. ‘Is he reformable, do you think? I am always sorry to see a Cambridge man go into the fire. I spoke for him, you remember, years back, when he came before Wolsey.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Otherwise he would have gone straight to the Tower. Which would have saved time, I suppose. I see no good he has brought to England, for all his traffic as ambassador. The king repents him that Barnes was ever employed.’

  They bring in pickled greens, and pears in an aromatic syrup, and quince marmalade. Stephen says, ‘Norfolk is precipitate, but he is right. Don’t you feel the wind changing? You told the king that without the Germans he was destitute of friends. And that was true. But once the alliance melts away, Henry will be courted again, by France and Emperor both.’

  ‘I do not understand how Norfolk thinks he can see the future. When usually he cannot see the end of his nose.’

  ‘You forget, it is only weeks since he was in France himself. I believe that François made overtures of friendship that were – I will not say hidden – but they were private. Entrusted to the duke, but not to you.’

  So, he says.

  ‘I know you have people of yours in every m
an’s service, at home and abroad. I know they are spying and prying and copying and purloining from chests and thieving keys. I have suffered from them in my own house.’

  ‘As I have suffered, Stephen. From your men.’

  ‘But you are not omniscient. Nor are you omnipresent. Have you been thinking you were? Did you think you were God?’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘God’s spy.’

  ‘Then spy out the facts,’ Stephen says. ‘If the king believes he does not need the friendship of Cleves, then considering his intractable dislike of the lady, there is only one course, which is to work out how to free him.’

  He pushes his glass away. Like Norfolk, but less hastily, he extracts himself from the table linen. Gardiner is no fool. A demon, but no fool. ‘Good marmalade,’ he says. ‘I think it is Lady Lisle’s recipe? The king often praises it.’

  ‘She sends it to us all,’ Gardiner says, as if excusing himself.

  ‘To all those she wishes to please. Does she wrap letters around it?’

  Gardiner looks at him with appreciation. ‘By God, nothing gets by you, does it? Not even the preserves.’ He sighs. ‘Thomas, we both know what it is to serve this king. We know it is impossible. The question is, who can best endure impossibility? You have never lost his favour. I have lost it many times. And yet –’

  ‘And yet here you are. Looking to be back on the council.’

  Stephen ushers him out: the open air. ‘You know what the king wants. That we should sink our differences in service to him. That we should declare ourselves entire perfect friends.’

  They touch palms, coldly. As he runs down the steps to the wharf, Stephen calls, ‘Cromwell? Mind your back.’

  It is a raw day of splintering sunlight, the first sign of the season changing. His barge takes him back across the river. On his flag, little black birds flutter: the cardinal’s choughs, dancing about their pole.