Lord Cromwell bows his head.
“Do you know what he has called it?” Henry snaps.
I shake my head.
“Pro ecclesiasticae unitatis defensione,” Henry reads aloud. “Do you know what that means?”
I give him a long look. “Your Majesty, you know that I do. I used to teach you Latin.”
It is almost as if he loses his balance, as if I have recalled him to the boy that he was. For a moment only he wavers, then he swells into grandeur again. “For the defense of the unity of the Church,” he says. “But am I Defender of the Faith or not?”
I find that I can smile at him, my lips don’t tremble. “Of course you are.”
“And Supreme Head of the Church of England?”
“Of course you are.”
“Then is your son not guilty of insult, of treason, when he questions my right to rule my Church and defend it? The very title of his letter is treason, all on its own!”
“I have not seen his letter,” I say.
“He has written to her,” Lord Cromwell says quietly to the king.
“He is my son, of course he writes to me,” I reply to the king, ignoring Cromwell. “And he told me that he had written you a letter. Not a report, not a book, nothing to be published, nothing with a title. He told me that you had asked for his opinion on certain matters and he had obeyed you, studied, consulted, and written his opinion.”
“It’s a treasonous opinion,” the king says flatly. “He is worse than Thomas More, far worse. Thomas More should never have died for what he said, and he never said anything like this. More should be alive today, the best of my advisors, and your son beheaded in his place.”
I swallow. “Reginald should not have written anything that even approached treason,” I say quietly. “I must beg your pardon for him if he has done so. I had no idea what he was writing. I had no idea what he was studying. He has been your scholar for many years, working to your commands.”
“He says what you all think!” Henry rises to his feet and leans towards me. His little eyes are glaring. “Do you dare to deny it? To my face? To my face?”
“I don’t know what he says,” I repeat. “But none of my family in England speaks or thinks or even dreams a word of treason. We are loyal to you.” I turn to Cromwell. “We took the oath without delay,” I say. “You closed Bisham Priory, my own foundation, and I did not complain, not even when you appointed a prior of your choosing and turned out Prior Richard and all the canons and cleared the chapel. You took the Lady Mary’s jewels from the list that I made for you, and when you locked her up I obeyed you and never wrote to her. Montague is a loyal servant and friend, Geoffrey serves you in Parliament. We are kinsmen, loyal kinsmen, and we have never done anything against you.”
The king suddenly slaps the table with a heavy hand, which sounds like a pistol shot. “I can’t stand this!” he bellows.
I don’t jump, I hold myself very still. I turn towards him and face him full on, as the keeper at the Tower faces the wild beasts. Thomas More once told me: lion or king, never show fear or you are a dead man.
The king leans forward and shouts into my face. “Everywhere I turn there are people conspiring against me, whispering, writing . . .” He sweeps Reginald’s manuscript to the floor with another angry gesture. “Nobody thinks of what I do for the country, nobody thinks of how I suffer, leading the country onward, taking them out of darkness into light, serving God though everyone around me, everyone . . .” Suddenly, he rounds on Cromwell. “What are they doing in Lincoln? What are they doing in Yorkshire? What do they say against me? Why don’t you keep them silent? Why are they roaming the streets of Hull? And why did you allow Pole to write this?” he yells. “Why would you be such a fool?”
Cromwell shakes his head as if he is amazed at his own stupidity. And at once, since he is getting the blame for the bad news, he sets about diminishing it. A moment ago he was my prosecutor; now he is my codefendant, and the offense immediately becomes much less serious. I see him turn, like a dancer in a masque, to skip down the line in the opposite direction.
“The Duke of Norfolk will put down the uprising in the North,” he says soothingly. “A few peasants shouting for bread, it’s nothing. And this from your scholar Reginald Pole—this is nothing. It’s only a private letter,” he says. “It’s only the opinion of one man. If Your Majesty would deign to rebut it, how could it stand? Your understanding is naturally greater than his. Who would even read it if you denied it? Who cares what Reginald Pole thinks?”
Henry flings himself to the window and looks out into the soft twilight. The owls that live in the attics of this old building are hooting, and as he watches, a great white barn owl sweeps quietly by on silent snub wings. The bells are tolling all over the great city. I think for one moment what would happen to this king if the bells were to start to peal backwards and the people hear the signal to rise against him?
“You will write to your son,” Henry spits, without looking round. “And you will tell him to come to England and face me, like a man. You will disown him. You will tell him that he is no child of yours for he speaks against your king. I won’t have divided loyalties. Either you serve me, or you are his mother. You can choose.”
“You are my king,” I say simply. “You were born to be king, you always have been my king. I never deny that. You must judge what is the best for the whole kingdom and for me, as your most humble and loving servant.”
He turns and looks at me, and suddenly it is as if his temper is quite blown away. He is smiling, as if I have said something that makes complete sense to him. “I was born to be king,” he says quietly. “It is God’s will. To say anything else is to fly in the face of God. Tell your son that.”
I nod.
“God put Arthur aside to make me king,” he reminds me, almost shyly. “Didn’t he? You saw Him do it. You were a witness.”
I give no sign of what it costs me to speak of Arthur’s death to his younger brother. “God Himself put you on the throne,” I agree.
“The best choice,” he asserts.
I bow my head in assent.
The king sighs as if he has somehow got to a place where he can be at peace.
I glance at Cromwell; it seems that the audience is over. He nods, his face a little pale. I think that Cromwell must sometimes have to dig deep to find the courage to face this monster he has made.
I curtsey and I am about to turn to go to the door when a little warning gesture of the hand from the silent secretary at the end of the table reminds me that we are not allowed to turn our backs on the king anymore. His greatness is such that we have to leave his presence walking backwards.
I am of the old royal family in England. My father was brother to two kings. I think for a moment, for half a moment only, that I will look like a fool showing exaggerated respect for this fat tyrant, whose back is turned to me, who does not even see the homage that I am ordered to give him. Then I think that the only fool is the one who fails to survive in these dangerous times, and I give Thomas Cromwell a smile which says—if he could but read it—how low shall we stoop, you and I? To keep our heads on our shoulders? And I curtsey again and walk backwards six paces, curtsey, feel blindly behind my back for the handle, and slide out of the door.
Montague comes to my room after Compline, late at night. “What did he say to you?” he demands. His hair is sticking up as if he has run his hands through it in exasperation. I stroke it down and straighten his cap. He jerks his head away from my touch. “He tore into me, this letter of Reginald’s has all but ruined us. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive it. He can’t bear to hear criticism. He screamed at me.”
“He told me that I had to disown Reginald,” I admit. “He was angrier than I have ever seen him before.”