He begins to speak, but the king holds up his hand. ‘I cannot proceed. I cannot marry her till I am sure she is clear of all past promises.’
The king closes one fist in the other. ‘I find the lady nothing so well as she is spoken of. Fitzwilliam wrote from Calais and praised her outright. Lisle too. What made them do so?’
‘I have not seen her, sir.’
‘No, you have not seen her,’ the king says. ‘You have been at the mercy of reports, as have I, so you cannot be blamed. But when I encountered her yesterday, I tell you, I had much ado to master myself. A great outlandish bonnet with wings sticking out either side of her head – and with her height, and stiff as she is – I thought to myself, she looks like the Cornhill Maypole. I believe she had painted her mouth, which if true is a filthy thing.’
‘Her attire can be changed, sir.’
‘Her complexion is sallow. When I think of Jane, so white and clear, a pearl.’
Golden lights waver on the ceiling. They play on the crimson plaster roses, the green leaves between, the blood-washed thorns. ‘It is the journey,’ he says. ‘All those tedious miles with a baggage train, then the delays, and the voyage.’ He thinks of the hail in her face on the Dover road. ‘As for the papers, I cannot guess why the ambassadors have not brought them. But we are assured the lady is completely free. We know there was no pre-contract. We know the parties were not of age. You said yourself, sir, it is no great matter.’
‘It is a great matter, if I think I am married, and find I am not.’
‘Tomorrow,’ he promises, ‘I will talk with the queen’s people.’
‘Tomorrow I meet her at Blackheath,’ the king says. ‘We start at eight o’clock.’
It is forty years since a bride came here from a far country: the Infanta Catalina, who brought Moorish slaves in her entourage when she left Spain to marry Arthur. That wedding was public and splendid. This time the marriage celebrations must give way to the church’s rites for Epiphany. All hangs, therefore, on the public welcome he has devised for Anna.
At Greenwich he lies in bed, listening to the wind.
What means this when I lie alone?
I toss, I turn, I sigh, I groan.
My bed to me seems hard as stone
What means this?
He wonders, where does Wyatt lie tonight? With whom? I dare swear he is not alone.
I sigh, I plain continually.
The clothes that on my bed do lie
Always methinks they lie awry
What means this?
Only a raging storm will stop tomorrow’s reception. The king may decide to delay the marriage, but he cannot leave his bride out on the heath. He cannot undo the anticipation of the countryside, when it has been stirred up by heralds, and the welcome proclaimed through London.
Three times he rises and opens the shutter. There is nothing to see but a muffled, starless black. But the drumbeat of rain falters, dawn stripes the sky in shades of ochre, and the sun feels its way out of banks of cloud. By nine o’clock, when he is at Blackheath on horseback, there is a white haze over the fields: in that haze, the freefolk of England. A steady roar comes from the river, where hundreds have turned out in any craft they can command, their home-made flags and banners hanging limp in the still morning. They are bashing drums and tootling fifes, bawling out songs and sporting on their persons knitted roses. Some are toddling along the banks inside pasteboard castles, their heads sticking out from the crenellations, and others have fabricated a canvas swan of monstrous size, which turns its neck from side to side and waddles along, a dozen pair of feet in workmen’s boots emerging beneath its feathers. Harness bells jingle. Men and horses breathe vapour into the air. He finds he is sweating inside his velvet. He is irritating even himself, trotting up and down, on and off his horse, his eyes everywhere, mouthing pointless exhortations: stand here, move along, attend, follow, kneel!
Charles Brandon tips his hat to him. ‘Weather a credit to you, Lord Cromwell!’ He laughs, and spurs off to join the other dukes.
The chaplains, the councillors, the great officers of the royal household, file in their ranks: the gentlemen of the privy chamber, and the bishops in black satin; the peers, the Lord Mayor, the heralds, the Duke of Bavaria wearing the collar of the Golden Fleece; the king himself, in a wide expanse of light, mounted on a great courser, in purple and cloth of gold, his garments slashed and puffed, sashed and swagged, so studded and slung with belts of gemstones that he seems to be wearing a suit of armour forged and welded for Zeus.
The queen waits for the royal party in a silken pavilion. He prays the wind will not get up and toss it in the river. Anna is dressed in the best fashion of her country, her caul topped by a bonnet stiff with pearls, her gown cut full and round, without a train. She glitters as they enthrone her on her mount, side-saddle and facing left in the English fashion. No one knew what to expect from a German: Spanish ladies ride to the right; he hears the Lord Chancellor say, thank God for that, we do not want him to think of Spaniards. He says stiffly, ‘Nothing has been left to chance, my lord. I have spoken with her Master of Horse.’
By afternoon – drums, artillery, several changes of clothes – the glow has gone from the sky and the air is dank and greenish. Gardiner rides up: ‘How did you hold the rain off?’
‘I sold my soul,’ he says calmly.
‘I hear there was an upset at Rochester.’
‘You know more than I do.’
‘So I do. High time you admitted it.’ Gardiner smirks and rides away.
The French ambassador reins in beside him: ‘Cremuel, I have simply never seen so many fat gold chains assembled in one place. I commend you, it is no small matter to keep five thousand people on time and in their ranks. Though frankly,’ he sniffs, ‘the whole of it does not equal even one of the ceremonial entries my king makes in the course of a year. And they would be, I believe, twenty or so in number.’
‘Truly?’ he says. ‘Twenty occasions like this? No wonder he has no time to govern.’
Marillac’s horse shifts under him, sidestepping. ‘What do you think of the lady? She is not as young as one expected.’
‘I do not like to contradict you, but she is exactly the age one expected.’
‘She is very tall.’
‘So is the king.’
‘True. On that account he wanted to marry Madame de Longueville, did he not? A pity he did not work harder at it. I hear she will give King James a child this spring.’
He says, ‘The king has good expectation of children with this lady.’
‘Of course. If she can rouse him to action. Be honest, she is no great beauty.’
He admits, ‘I have hardly seen her as yet.’ It is as if they are conspiring to keep him away from her. He can see only a stiff, bright-coloured figure, like a painted queen on an inn sign. She has ridden the last half-mile to meet the king, both of them on horses so splendidly trapped that you can hardly see their hooves as they tread the ground. Meg Douglas follows in first place, and after her Mary Fitzroy. The ladies of the court travel behind in a line of chariots. Gregory’s wife wears the revenue of two manors on her back, but it is his pleasure; it is a long time since he had a woman to dress, and he says to Marillac, ‘Look, my son’s wife, is she not handsome?’
‘A credit to you,’ Marillac says, and indicates with his whip: is that the Scottish princess? And is that Norfolk’s daughter, my lady Richmond? ‘No new husband for her yet?’
There was talk last year of marrying the girl to Tom Seymour, but nothing came of it, no doubt because her brother knocked it back; Wolf Hall is a hovel, as far as Surrey is concerned, and the Seymours are peasants who live by trapping rabbits.
He wonders, why does Marillac care about Norfolk’s daughter? Has he got a French husband in mind for her? The French give Norfolk a yearly pension but perhaps they are looking for closer ties?