Bring Up the Bodies (50 page)

He nods. ‘I always enjoy hearing the French praise themselves. Will you dine with me later this week? Once this is over? And your queasiness has settled down?'

The ambassador inclines his head. His cap badge glitters and winks; it is a silver skull. ‘I shall report to my master that sadly I have tried and failed in the matter of Weston.'

‘Say you came too late. The tide was against you.'

‘No, I shall say Cremuel was against me. By the way, you know what Henry has done, don't you?' He seems amused. ‘He sent last week for a French executioner. Not from one of our own cities, but the man who chops heads in Calais. It seems there is no Englishman whom he trusts to behead his wife. I wonder he does not take her out himself and strangle her in the street.'

He turns to Kingston. The constable is an elderly man now, and though he was in France on the king's business fifteen years ago he has not had much use for the language since; the cardinal's advice was, speak English and shout loud. ‘Did you get that?' he asks. ‘Henry has sent to Calais for the headsman.'

‘By the Mass,' Kingston says. ‘Did he do it before the trial?'

‘So monsieur the ambassador tells me.'

‘I am glad of the news,' Kingston says, loudly and slowly. ‘My mind. Much relieved.' He taps his head. ‘I understand he employs a…' He makes a swishing motion.

‘Yes, a sword,' Dinteville says in English. ‘You may expect a graceful performance.' He touches his hat, ‘
Au revoir
, Master Secretary.'

They watch him go out. It is a performance in itself; his servants need to truss him in further wrappings. When he was here on his last mission, he spent the time sweltering under quilts, trying to sweat out a fever picked up from the influence of the English air, the moisture and the gnawing cold.

‘Little Jeannot,' he says, looking after the ambassador. ‘He still fears the English summer. And the king – when he had his first audience with Henry, he could not stop shaking from terror. We had to hold him up, Norfolk and myself.'

‘Did I misunderstand,' the constable says, ‘or did he say Weston was guilty of poems?'

‘Something like that.' Anne, it appears, was a book left open on a desk for anyone to write on the pages, where only her husband should inscribe.

‘Anyway, there's a matter off my mind,' the constable says. ‘Did you ever see a woman burned? It is something I wish never to see, as I trust in God.'

 

When Cranmer comes to see him on the evening of 16 May, the archbishop looks ill, shadowed grooves running from nose to chin. Were they there a month ago? ‘I want all this to be over,' he says, ‘and to get back to Kent.'

‘Did you leave Grete there?' he says gently.

Cranmer nods. He seems hardly able to say his wife's name. He is terrified every time the king mentions marriage, and of course these days the king mentions little else. ‘She is afraid that, with his next queen, the king will revert to Rome, and we shall be forced to part. I tell her, no, I know the king's resolve. But whether he will change his thinking, so a priest can live openly with his wife…if I thought there was no hope of that, then I think I should have to let her go home, before there is nothing there for her. You know how it is, in a few years people die, they forget you, you forget your own language, or so I suppose.'

‘There is every hope,' he says firmly. ‘And tell her, within a few months, in the new Parliament, I shall have wiped out all remnants of Rome from the statute books. And then, you know,' he smiles, ‘once the assets are given out…well, once they have been directed to the pockets of Englishmen, they will not revert to the pockets of the Pope.' He says, ‘How did you find the queen, did she make her confession to you?'

‘No. It is not yet the time. She will confess. At the last. If it comes to it.'

He is glad for Cranmer's sake. What would be worse at this point? To hear a guilty woman admit everything, or to hear an innocent woman beg? And to be bound to silence, either way? Perhaps Anne will wait until there is no hope of a reprieve, preserving her secrets till then. He understands this. He would do the same.

‘I told her the arrangements made,' Cranmer says, ‘for the annulment hearing. I told her it will be at Lambeth, it will be tomorrow. She said, will the king be there? I said no, madam, he sends his proctors. She said, he is busy with Seymour, and then she reproached herself, saying, I should not speak against Henry, should I? I said, it would be unwise. She said to me, may I come there to Lambeth, to speak for myself? I said no, there is no need, proctors have been appointed for you too. She seemed downcast. But then she said, tell me what the king wants me to sign. Whatever the king wants, I will agree. He may allow me to go to France, to a convent. Does he want me to say I was wed to Harry Percy? I said to her, madam, the earl denies it. And she laughed.'

He looks doubtful. Even the fullest disclosure, even a complete and detailed admission of guilt, it would not help her, not now, though it might have helped before the trial. The king doesn't want to think about her lovers, past or present. He has wiped them out of his mind. And her too. She would not credit the extent to which Henry has erased her. He said yesterday, ‘I hope these arms of mine will soon receive Jane.'

Cranmer says, ‘She cannot imagine that the king has abandoned her. It is not yet a month since he made the Emperor's ambassador bow to her.'

‘I think he did that for his own sake. Not for hers.'

‘I don't know,' Cranmer says. ‘I thought he loved her. I thought there was no estrangement between them, up until the last. I am forced to think I don't know anything. Not about men. Not about women. Not about my faith, nor the faith of others. She said to me, “Shall I go to Heaven? Because I have done many good deeds in my time.”'

She has made the same enquiry of Kingston. Perhaps she is asking everybody.

‘She talks of works.' Cranmer shakes his head. ‘She says nothing of faith. And I hoped she understood, as I now understand, that we are saved, not by our works, but only through Christ's sacrifice, and through his merits, not our own.'

‘Well, I do not think you should conclude that she was a papist all this time. What would it have availed her?'

‘I am sorry for you,' Cranmer says. ‘That you should have the responsibility of uncovering it all.'

‘I did not know what I would find, when I began. That is the only reason I could do it, because I was surprised at every turn.' He thinks of Mark's boasting, of the gentlemen before the court twitching away from each other, and evading each other's eyes; he has learned things about human nature that even he never knew. ‘Gardiner in France is clamouring to know the details, but I find I do not want to write the particulars, they are so abominable.'

‘Draw a veil over it,' Cranmer agrees. Though the king himself, he does not shrink from the details, it seems. Cranmer says, ‘He is taking it around with him, the book he has written. He showed it the other evening, at the Bishop of Carlisle's house, you know Francis Bryan has the lease there? In the midst of Bryan's entertainments, the king took out this text, and began to read it aloud, and press it on all the party. Grief has unhinged him.'

‘No doubt,' he says. ‘Anyway, Gardiner will be content. I have told him he will be the gainer, when the spoils are given out. The offices, I mean, and the pensions and payments that now revert to the king.'

But Cranmer is not listening. ‘She said to me, when I die, shall I not be the king's wife? I said, no, madam, for the king would have the marriage annulled, and I have come to seek your consent to that. She said, I consent. She said to me, but will I still be queen? And I think, under statute, she will be. I did not know what to say to her. But she looked satisfied. But it seemed so long. The time I was with her. One moment she was laughing, and then praying, and then fretting…She asked me about Lady Worcester, the child she is carrying. She said she thought the child was not stirring as it should, the lady being now in her fifth month or so, and she thinks it is because Lady Worcester has taken fright, or is sorrowing for her. I did not like to tell her that this lady had given a deposition against her.'

‘I will enquire,' he says. ‘About my lady's health. Though not of the earl. He glared at me. I do not know for what cause.'

A number of expressions, all of them unfathomable, chase themselves across the archbishop's face. ‘Do you not know why? Then I see the rumour is not true. I am glad of it.' He hesitates. ‘You really do not know? The word at court is that Lady Worcester's child is yours.'

He is dumbfounded. ‘Mine?'

‘They say you have spent hours with her, behind closed doors.'

‘And that is proof of adultery? Well, I see that it would be. I am paid out. Lord Worcester will run me through.'

‘You do not look afraid.'

‘I am afraid, but not of Lord Worcester.'

More of the times that are coming. Anne climbing the marble steps to Heaven, her good deeds like jewels weighting wrists and neck.

Cranmer says, ‘I do not know why, but she thinks there is still hope.'

 

All these days he is not alone. His allies are watching him. Fitzwilliam is at his side, disturbed still by what Norris half-told him and then took back: always talking about it, taxing his brain, trying to make complete sentences from broken phrases. Nicholas Carew is mostly with Jane, but Edward Seymour flits between his sister and the privy chamber, where the atmosphere is subdued, vigilant, and the king, like the minotaur, breathes unseen in a labyrinth of rooms. He understands his new friends are protecting their investment. They watch him for any sign of wavering. They want him as deep in the matter as they can contrive, and their own hands hidden, so that if later the king expresses any regret, or questions the haste with which things were done, it is Thomas Cromwell and not they who will suffer.

Riche and Master Wriothesley keep turning up too. They say, ‘We want to give attendance on you, we want to learn, we want to see what you do.' But they can't see. When he was a boy, fleeing to put the Narrow Sea between himself and his father, he rolled penniless into Dover, and set himself up in the street with the three-card trick. ‘See the queen. Look well at her. Now…where is she?'

The queen was in his sleeve. The money was in his pocket. The gamblers were crying, ‘You will be whipped!'

 

He takes the warrants to Henry to be signed. Kingston has still received no word of how the men are to die. He promises, I will make the king concentrate his mind. He says, ‘Majesty, there is no gallows at Tower Hill, and I do not think it would be a good idea to take them to Tyburn, the crowds might be unruly.'

‘Why would they?' Henry says. ‘The people of London do not love these men. Indeed they do not know them.'

‘No, but any excuse for disorder, and if the weather stays fine…'

The king grunts. Very well. The headsman.

Mark too? ‘After some sort, I promised him mercy if he confessed, and you know he did confess freely.'

The king says, ‘Has the Frenchman come?'

‘Yes, Jean de Dinteville. He has made representations.'

‘No,' Henry says.

Not that Frenchman. He means the Calais executioner. He says to the king, ‘Do you think that it was in France, when the queen was at court there in her youth, do you think it was there she was first compromised?'

Henry is silent. He thinks, then speaks. ‘She was always pressing me, do you mark what I say…always pressing on me the advantage of France. I think you are right. I have been thinking about it and I do not believe it was Harry Percy took her maidenhead. He would not lie, would he? Not on his honour as a peer of England. No, I believe it was in the court of France she was first debauched.'

So he cannot tell if the Calais headsman, so expert in his art, is a mercy at all; or if this form of death, dealt to the queen, simply meets Henry's severe sense of the fitness of things.

But he thinks, if Henry blames some Frenchman for ruining her, some foreigner unknown and perhaps dead, so much the better. ‘So it was not Wyatt?' he says.

‘No,' Henry says sombrely. ‘It was not Wyatt.'

He had better stay where he is, he thinks, for now. Safer so. But a message can go to him, to say he is not to be tried. He says, ‘Majesty, the queen complains of her attendants. She would like to have women from her own privy chamber.'

‘Her household is broken up. Fitzwilliam has seen to it.'

‘I doubt the ladies have all gone home.' They are hovering, he knows, in the houses of their friends, in expectation of a new mistress.

Henry says, ‘Lady Kingston must stay, but you can change the rest. If she can find any willing to serve her.'

It is possible Anne still does not know how she has been abandoned. If Cranmer is right, she imagines her former friends are lamenting her, but really they are in a sweat of fear until her head is off. ‘Someone will do her the charity,' he says.

Henry now looks down at the papers before him, as if he does not know what they are. ‘The death sentences. To endorse,' he reminds him. He stands by the king while he dips his pen and sets his signature to each of the warrants: square, complex letters, lying heavy on the paper; a man's hand, when all is said.

 

He is at Lambeth, in the court convened to hear the divorce proceedings, when Anne's lovers die: this is the last day of the proceedings, it must be. His nephew Richard is there to represent him on Tower Hill and bring him the word of how it was accomplished. Rochford made an eloquent speech, appearing in command of himself. He was killed first and needed three blows of the axe; after which, the others said not much. All proclaimed themselves sinners, all said they deserved to die, but once again they did not say for what; Mark, left till last and slipping in the blood, called for God's mercy and the prayers of the people. The executioner must have steadied himself, since after his first blunder all died cleanly.