Wolf Hall (72 page)

He makes a mental note, and then concentrates his will on Anne: Anne not to stumble, as she folds herself toward the ground to lie facedown in prayer before the altar, her attendants stepping forward to support her for the crucial twelve inches before belly hits sacred pavement. He finds himself praying: this child, his half-formed heart now beating against the stone floor, let him be sanctified by this moment, and let him be like his father's father, like his Tudor uncles; let him be hard, alert, watchful of opportunity, wringing use from the smallest turn of fortune. If Henry lives twenty years, Henry who is Wolsey's creation, and then leaves this child to succeed him, I can build my own prince: to the glorification of God and the commonwealth of England. Because I will not be too old. Look at Norfolk, already he is sixty, his father was seventy when he fought at Flodden. And I shall not be like Henry Wyatt and say, now I am retiring from affairs. Because what is there, but affairs?

Anne, shaky, is back on her feet. Cranmer, in a dense cloud of incense, is pressing into her hand the scepter, the rod of ivory, and resting the crown of St. Edward briefly on her head, before changing for a lighter and more bearable crown: a prestidigitation, his hands as supple as if he'd been shuffling crowns all his life. The prelate looks mildly excited, as if someone had offered him a cup of warm milk.

Anointed, Anna withdraws, incense billowing around her, swallowed into its murk: Anna Regina, to a bedchamber provided for her, to prepare for the feast in Westminster Hall. He pushes unceremoniously through the dignitaries—all you, all you who said you would not be here—and catches sight of Charles Brandon, Constable of England, mounted on his white horse and ready to ride into the hall among them. He is a huge, blazing presence, from which he withdraws his sight; Charles, he thinks, will not outlive me either. Back into the dimness, toward Henry. Only one thing checks him, the sight, whisking around a corner, of the hem of a scarlet robe; no doubt it is one of the judges, escaped from his procession.

The Venetian ambassador is blocking the entrance to Henry's box, but the king waves him aside, and says, “Cromwell, did not my wife look well, did she not look beautiful? Will you go and see her, and give her . . .” he looks around, for some likely present, then wrenches a diamond from his knuckle, “will you give her this?” He kisses the ring. “And this too?”

“I shall hope to convey the sentiment,” he says, and sighs, as if he were Cranmer.

The king laughs. His face is alight. “This is my best,” he says. “This is my best day.”

“Until the birth, Majesty,” says the Venetian, bowing.

It is Mary Howard, Norfolk's little daughter, who opens the door to him.

“No, you most certainly cannot come in,” she says. “Utterly not. The queen is undressed.”

Richmond is right, he thinks; she has no breasts at all. Still. For fourteen. I'll charm this small Howard, he thinks, so he stands spinning words around her, complimenting her gown and her jewels, till he hears a voice from within, muffled like a voice from a tomb; and Mary Howard jumps and says, oh, all right, if she says so you can see her.

The bed curtains are drawn close. He pulls them back. Anne is lying in her shift. She looks flat as a ghost, except for the shocking mound of her six-month child. In her ceremonial robes, her condition had hardly showed, and only that sacred instant, as she lay belly-down to stone, had connected him to her body, which now lies stretched out like a sacrifice: her breasts puffy beneath the linen, her swollen feet bare.

“Mother of God,” she says. “Can you not leave Howard women alone? For an ugly man, you are very sure of yourself. Let me look at you.” She bobs her head up. “Is that crimson? It's a very black crimson. Did you go against my orders?”

“Your cousin Francis Bryan says I look like a traveling bruise.”

“A contusion on the body politic.” Jane Rochford laughs.

“Can you do this?” he asks: almost doubting, almost tender. “You are exhausted.”

“Oh, I think she will bear up.” There is no sisterly pride in Mary's voice. “She was born for this, was she not?”

Jane Seymour: “Is the king watching?”

“He is proud of her.” He speaks to Anne, stretched out on her catafalque. “He says you have never looked more beautiful. He sends you this.”

Anne makes a little sound, a moan, poised between gratitude and boredom: oh, what, another diamond?

“And a kiss, which I said he had better bring in person.”

She shows no sign of taking the ring from him. It is almost irresistible, to place it on her belly and walk away. Instead he hands it to her sister. He says, “The feast will wait for you, Highness. Come only when you feel ready.”

She levers herself upright, with a gasp. “I am coming now.” Mary Howard leans forward and rubs her lower back, with an unpracticed hand, a fluttering virginal motion as if she were stroking a bird. “Oh, get away,” the anointed queen snaps. She looks sick. “Where were you last evening? I wanted you. The streets cheered for me. I heard them. They say the people love Katherine, but really, it is just the women, they pity her. We will show them something better. They will love me, when this creature is out of me.”

Jane Rochford: “Oh, but madam, they love Katherine because she is the daughter of two anointed sovereigns. Make your mind up to it, madam—they will never love you, any more than they love . . . Cromwell here. It is nothing to do with your merits. It is a point of fact. There is no use trying to evade it.”

“Perhaps enough,” Jane Seymour says. He turns to her and sees something surprising; she has grown up.

“Lady Carey,” Jane Rochford says, “we must get your sister on her feet now and back in her robes, so see Master Cromwell out and enjoy your usual confabulation. This is not a day to break with tradition.”

At the door: “Mary?” he says. Notices the dark stains under her eyes.

“Yes?” She speaks in a tone of “yes, and what is it now?”

“I am sorry the marriage with my nephew did not come off.”

“Not that I was ever asked, of course.” She smiles tightly. “I shall never see your house. And one hears so much of it.”

“What do you hear?”

“Oh . . . of chests bursting with gold pieces.”

“We would never allow that. We would get bigger chests.”

“They say it is the king's money.”

“It's all the king's money. His image is on it. Mary, look,” he takes her hand, “I could not dissuade him from his liking for you. He—”

“How hard did you try?”

“I wish you were safe with us. Though of course it was not the great match you might expect, as the queen's sister.”

“I doubt there are many sisters who expect what I receive, nightly.”

She will get another child by Henry, he thinks. Anne will have it strangled in the cradle. “Your friend William Stafford is at court. At least, I think he is still your friend?”

“Imagine how he likes my situation. Still, at least I get a kind word from my father. Monseigneur finds he needs me again. God forbid the king should ride a mare from any other stable.”

“This will end. He will free you. He will give you a settlement. A pension. I'll speak for you.”

“Does a dirty dishcloth get a pension?” Mary sways on the spot; she seems dazed with misery and fatigue; great tears swell in her eyes. He stands catching them, dabbing them away, whispering to her and soothing her, and wanting to be elsewhere. When he breaks free he gives her a backward glance, as she stands in the doorway, desolate. Something must be done for her, he thinks. She's losing her looks.

Henry watches from a gallery, high above Westminster Hall, as his queen takes her seat in the place of honor, her ladies around her, the flower of the court and the nobility of England. The king has fortified himself earlier, and is picking at a spice plate, dipping thin slices of apple into cinnamon. In the gallery with him,
encore les ambassadeurs
, Jean de Dinteville furred against the June chill, and his friend the Bishop of Lavaur, wrapped in a fine brocade gown.

“This has all been most impressive, Cremuel,” de Selve says; astute brown eyes study him, taking everything in. He takes in everything too: stitching and padding, studding and dyeing; he admires the deep mulberry of the bishop's brocade. They say these two Frenchmen favor the gospel, but favor at François's court extends no further than a small circle of scholars that the king, for his own vanity, wishes to patronize; he has never quite been able to grow his own Thomas More, his own Erasmus, which naturally piques his pride.

“Look at my wife the queen.” Henry leans over the gallery. He might as well be down there. “She is worth the show, is she not?”

“I have had all the windows reglazed,” he says. “The better to see her.”

“Fiat lux,”
de Selve murmurs.

“She has done very well,” de Dinteville says. “She must have been six hours on her feet today. One must congratulate Your Majesty on obtaining a queen who is as strong as a peasant woman. I mean no disrespect, of course.”

In Paris they are burning Lutherans. He would like to take it up with the envoys, but he cannot while the odor of roast swan and peacock drifts up from below.

“Messieurs,” he asks (music rising around them like a shallow tide, silver ripples of sound), “do you know of the man Guido Camillo? I hear he is at your master's court.”

De Selve and his friend exchange glances. This has thrown them. “The man who builds the wooden box,” Jean murmurs. “Oh yes.”

“It is a theater,” he says.

De Selve nods. “In which you yourself are the play.”

“Erasmus has written to us about it,” Henry says, over his shoulder. “He is having the cabinetmakers create him little wooden shelves and drawers, one inside another. It is a memory system for the speeches of Cicero.”

“With your permission, he intends it as more than that. It is a theater on the ancient Vitruvian plan. But it is not to put on plays. As my lord the bishop says, you as the owner of the theater are to stand in the center of it, and look up. Around you there is arrayed a system of human knowledge. Like a library, but as if—can you imagine a library in which each book contains another book, and a smaller book inside that? Yet it is more than that.”

The king slips into his mouth an aniseed comfit, and snaps down on it. “Already there are too many books in the world. There are more every day. One man cannot hope to read them all.”

“I do not see how you understand so much about it,” de Selve says. “All credit to you, Maître Cremuel. Guido will only speak his own Italian dialect, and even in that he stammers.”

“If it pleases your master to spend his money,” Henry says. “He is not a sorcerer, is he, this Guido? I should not like Francis to fall into the hands of a sorcerer. By the way, Cromwell, I am sending Stephen back to France.”

Stephen Gardiner. So the French do not like doing business with Norferk. Not surprising. “His mission will be of some duration?”

De Selve catches his eye. “But who will do Master Secretary's job?”

“Oh, Cromwell will do it. Won't you?” Henry smiles.