Wolf Hall (43 page)

“You're wasting your jokes on me, Patch. Wearing out your stock-in-trade.”

“Fools can say anything.”

“Not where my writ runs.”

“And where is that? Not even in the backyard where you were christened in a puddle. Come and meet me here, ten years today, if you're still alive.”

“You would have a fright if I was dead.”

“Because I'll stand still, and let you knock me down.”

“I could crack your skull against the wall now. They'd not miss you.”

“True,” Master Sexton says. “They would roll me out in the morning and lay me on a dunghill. What's one fool? England is full of them.”

He is surprised there is any daylight left; he had thought it was deepest night. In these courts, Wolsey lingers; he built them. Turn any corner, and you will think you will see my lord, with a scroll of draftsman's plans in his hands, his glee at his sixty turkey carpets, his hope to lodge and entertain the finest mirror-makers of Venice—“Now, Thomas, you will add to your letter some Venetian endearments, some covert phrases that will suggest, in the local dialect and the most delicate way possible, that I pay top rates.”

And he will add that the people of England are welcoming to foreigners and that the climate of England is benign. That golden birds sing on golden branches, and a golden king sits on a hill of coins, singing a song of his own composition.

When he gets home to Austin Friars he walks into a space that feels strange and empty. It has taken hours to get back from Hampton Court and it is late. He looks at the place on the wall where the cardinal's arms blaze out: the scarlet hat, at his request, recently retouched. “You can paint them out now,” he says.

“And what shall we paint else, sir?”

“Leave a blank.”

“We could have a pretty allegory?”

“I'm sure.” He turns and walks away. “Leave a space.”

CHRISTMASTIDE 1530

 

The knocking at the gate comes after midnight. His watchman rouses the household, and when he goes downstairs—wearing a savage expression and in all other respects fully dressed—he finds Johane in her nightgown, her hair down, asking, “What is this about?” Richard, Rafe, the men of the household steer her aside; standing in the hall at Austin Friars is William Brereton of the privy chamber, with an armed escort. They have come to arrest me, he thinks. He walks up to Brereton. “Good Christmas, William? Are you up early, or down late?”

Alice and Jo appear. He thinks of that night when Liz died, when his daughters stood forlorn and bewildered in their night-shifts, waiting for him to come home. Jo begins to cry. Mercy appears and sweeps the girls away. Gregory comes down, dressed to go out. “Here if you want me,” he says diffidently.

“The king is at Greenwich,” Brereton says. “He wants you now.” He has ordinary ways of showing his impatience: slapping his glove against his palm and tapping his foot.

“Go back to bed,” he tells his household. “The king wouldn't order me to Greenwich to arrest me; it doesn't happen that way.” Though he hardly knows how it happens; he turns to Brereton. “What does he want me for?”

Brereton's eyes are roaming around, to see how these people live.

“I really can't enlighten you.”

He looks at Richard, and sees how badly he wants to give this lordling a smack in the mouth. That would have been me, once, he thinks. But now I am as sweet as a May morning. They go out, Richard, Rafe, himself, his son, into the dark and the raw cold.

A party of link-men are waiting with lights. A barge is waiting at the nearest landing stairs. It is so far to the Palace of Placentia, the Thames so black, that they could be rowing along the river Styx. The boys sit opposite him, huddled, not talking, looking like one composite relative; though Rafe of course is not his relative. I'm getting like Dr. Cranmer, he thinks: the Tamworths of Lincolnshire are among my connections, the Cliftons of Clifton, the Molyneux family, of whom you will have heard, or have you? He looks up at the stars but they seem dim and far away; which, he thinks, they probably are.

So what should he do? Should he try for some conversation with Brereton? The family's lands are in Staffordshire, Cheshire, on the Welsh borders. Sir Randal has died this year and his son has come into a fat inheritance, a thousand a year at least in Crown grants, another three hundred or so from local monasteries . . . He is adding up in his head. It is none too soon to inherit; the man must be his own age, or nearly that. His father, Walter, would have got on with the Breretons, a quarrelsome crew, great disturbers of the peace. He recalls a proceeding against them in Star Chamber, would be fifteen years back . . . It doesn't seem likely to furnish a topic. Nor does Brereton seem to want one.

Every journey ends; terminates, at some pier, some mist-shrouded wharf, where torches are waiting. They are to go at once to the king, deep into the palace, to his private rooms. Harry Norris is waiting for them; who else? “How is he now?” Brereton says. Norris rolls his eyes.

“Well, Master Cromwell,” he says, “we do meet under the strangest circumstances. Are these your sons?” He smiles, glancing around their faces. “No, clearly not. Unless they have divers mothers.”

He names them: Master Rafe Sadler, Master Richard Cromwell, Master Gregory Cromwell. He sees a flicker of dismay on his son's face, and clarifies: “This is my nephew. This, my son.”

“You only to go in,” Norris says. “Come now, he is waiting.” Over his shoulder, he says, “The king is afraid he may take cold. Will you look out the russet nightgown, the one with the sables?”

Brereton grunts some reply. Poor work, shaking out the furs, when you could be up in Chester, waking the populace, beating a drum around the city walls.

It is a spacious chamber with a high carved bed; his eye flickers over it. In the candlelight, the bed hangings are ink-black. The bed is empty. Henry sits on a velvet stool. He seems to be alone, but there is a dry scent in the room, a cinnamon warmth, that makes him think that the cardinal must be in the shadows, holding the pithed orange, packed with spices, that he always carried when he was among a press of people. The dead, for sure, would want to ward off the scent of the living; but what he can see, across the room, is not the cardinal's shadowy bulk, but a pale drifting oval that is the face of Thomas Cranmer.

The king turns his head toward him as he enters. “Cromwell, my dead brother came to me in a dream.”

He does not answer. What is a sensible answer to this? He watches the king. He feels no temptation to laugh. The king says, “During the twelve days, between Christmas Day and Epiphany, God permits the dead to walk. This is well known.”

He says gently, “How did he look, your brother?”

“He looked as I remember him . . . but he was pale, very thin. There was a white fire around him, a light. But you know, Arthur would have been in his forty-fifth year now. Is that your age, Master Cromwell?”

“About,” he says.

“I am good at telling people's ages. I wonder who Arthur would have looked like, if he had lived. My father, probably. Now, I am like my grandfather.”

He thinks the king will say, who are you like? But no: he has established that he has no ancestors.

“He died at Ludlow. In winter. The roads impenetrable. They had to take his coffin in an oxcart. A prince of England, to go in a cart. I cannot think that was well done.”

Now Brereton comes in, with the russet velvet, sable-lined. Henry stands up and sheds one layer of velvet, gains another, plusher and denser. The sable lining creeps down over his hands, as if he were a monster-king, growing his own fur. “They buried him at Worcester,” he says. “But it troubles me. I never saw him dead.”

Dr. Cranmer says, from the shadows, “The dead do not come back to complain of their burial. It is the living who are exercised about these matters.”

The king hugs his robe about him. “I never saw his face till now in my dream. And his body, shining white.”

“But it is not his body,” Cranmer says. “It is an image formed in Your Majesty's mind. Such images are
quasi corpora
, like bodies. Read Augustine.”

The king does not look as if he wants to send out for a book. “In my dream he stood and looked at me. He looked sad, so sad. He seemed to say I stood in his place. He seemed to say, you have taken my kingdom, and you have used my wife. He has come back to make me ashamed.”

Cranmer says, faintly impatient, “If Your Majesty's brother died before he could reign, that was God's will. As for your supposed marriage, we all know and believe that it was clean contrary to scripture. We know the man in Rome has no power to dispense from the law of God. That there was a sin, we acknowledge; but with God there is mercy enough.”

“Not for me,” Henry says. “When I come to judgment my brother will plead against me. He has come back to make me ashamed and I must bear it.” The thought enrages him. “I, I alone.”

Cranmer is about to speak; he catches his eye, imperceptibly shakes his head. “Did your brother Arthur speak to you, in your dream?”

“No.”

“Did he make any sign?”

“No.”

“Then why believe he means Your Majesty anything but good? It seems to me you have read into his face what was not really there, which is a mistake we make with the dead. Listen to me.” He puts his hand upon the royal person, on his sleeve of russet velvet, on his arm, and he grasps it hard enough to make himself felt. “You know the lawyers' saying
‘Le mort saisit le vif'
? The dead grip the living. The prince dies but his power passes at the moment of his death, there is no lapse, no interregnum. If your brother visited you, it is not to make you ashamed, but to remind you that you are vested with the power of both the living and the dead. This is a sign to you to examine your kingship. And exert it.”

Henry looks up at him. He is thinking. He is stroking his sable cuff and his expression is lost. “Is this possible?”

Again Cranmer begins to speak. Again he cuts him off. “You know what is written on the tomb of Arthur?”

“
Rex quondam rexque futurus
. The former king is the future king.”

“Your father made it sure. A prince coming out of Wales, he made good the word given to his ancestors. Out of his lifetime's exile he came back and claimed his ancient right. But it is not enough to claim a country; it must be held. It must be held and made secure, in every generation. If your brother seems to say that you have taken his place, then he means you to become the king that he would have been. He himself cannot fulfill the prophecy, but he wills it to you. For him, the promise, and for you, the performance of it.”

The king's eyes move to Dr. Cranmer, who says, stiffly, “I cannot see anything against it. I still counsel against heeding dreams.”

“Oh, but,” he says, “the dreams of kings are not like the dreams of other men.”