Will the family have to build new tombs? It is an insult to the Howard name, Norfolk shouts, and a crippling expense as well. He comes to him with a question: ‘Cromwell, do you hold me in contempt? Mind yourself. I shall have your guts.’
‘Fighting talk,’ he says. ‘We haven’t had such talk since the cardinal’s day.’
‘My father must be prayed for,’ the duke roars. ‘If not at Thetford, then somewhere else.’
Riche says, ‘What, you mean at Lord Cromwell’s expense?’
He thinks, why don’t you just give up on him, your old dad? Let him take his chances?
‘“Flodden Norfolk”, they called him,’ the duke says. ‘A father named after a battle. How do you like that, Cromwell?’
Howard takes himself off, cursing. He has been cursing since he returned from France; once there, he had been advised to cultivate François’s mistress, as the way to the king’s confidence, and he is still peppered with shame at having to beg favour from a woman.
Wriothesley says, ‘He takes such pride in his ancestors, I do not think he will forgive you for turning them out. And I do not think he has disclosed all the dealings he had with the French, not by a long way.’
Richard Riche says, ‘The French hate you. And Norfolk encourages them.’
Wriothesley says, ‘Did I not advise you, sir, when the Boleyns came down? Break Norfolk, I said, while you have the chance.’
Robert Barnes comes to Austin Friars: once again the drowned man, washed up his stairs. If he had known Barnes was coming, he would have had them stop him at the gate.
Barnes says, ‘Winchester thinks, if he pulls me down, you go down with me.’
He nods: that seems a fair summary. ‘You could run,’ he suggests.
‘Not this time,’ Barnes says. ‘I am too tired. You always say, prudence. Circumspection. How long must God wait, for England to embrace true religion?’
‘Another decade,’ he says. ‘Not long, by His standards.’
Barnes stares at him. ‘You mean till Henry is dead? But what if the prince never reigns? What if Mary comes in?’
‘Then we’re all dead,’ he says.
On 12 March, the Earl of Essex, Henry Bouchier, falls from his horse, breaks his neck, and dies on the spot. ‘God forgive me,’ Charles Brandon says. ‘On the king’s wedding day I made a jest about him, that he was not long for this world.’
‘My lord,’ he says, ‘it is nowise your doing.’
Where will old Essex go? Straight to Judgement? Or will he lie quiet in his grave till the Last Day? Will he work off his sins in Purgatory for half a million years, or is he already at his destination – at the top of the Stairway to Heaven, or in a pit of the Inferno reserved for earls?
The most part of the court does not care. Except on Sundays or if they are taken sick, they do not give a fig for the disputes of Gardiner or Barnes. They only want to know what will happen to Essex’s title. The earl had no heir. His son-in-law expects to get the nod, but no one knows where to lay their bets.
Palm Sunday, news comes of the death of John de Vere, fifteenth Earl of Oxford. This death is not a shock; Vere has been unwell for months. His heir is of full age and will succeed as sixteenth earl; and it is assumed he will also be appointed to his father’s office of Lord Great Chamberlain, the head of the king’s household.
‘Not necessarily,’ Mr Wriothesley says. His family being heralds, he has these matters at his fingertips. ‘Vere was named to that office in the year 1133, in the reign of the first Henry. And there have been very few chamberlains since who were not of that blood. But it is not theirs of right. The king can appoint whom he pleases.’
He has no time to discuss it. There is a new ambassador he must receive. Cleves has sent us a resident at last. His name is Dr Carl Harst and he has previously represented Duke Wilhelm in Spain. He has no English, and no documents: also no lodging, a meagre allowance and very little style about his clothes or his person. He says to Wriothesley, ‘I wish they had sent a better sort of man – I am afraid the court will laugh at him.’
‘At his expectations,’ Wriothesley says, ‘certainly – for they are all wrong.’
By now, Duke Wilhelm will have had a letter from his sister. Writing herself in her native tongue, Anna has told her brother she could wish for no better husband: she thanks her family for promoting her happiness.
Lady Rochford has spoken to him. ‘She does not know what to do. She pretends all is well but she is like a jackdaw waiting for figs to ripen, living on hope.’ Rochford laughs. ‘Lent is over, and no man however pious can refuse his wife. We say to her, “Madam, what does he do? Once the candle is out?” She says, he kisses me and says, “Good night, darling.” Then in the morning, he rises and says, “Farewell, sweetheart.” We said to her, madam, if this is all that occurs, it will be a long time before we have a Duke of York.’
‘Hush, Jane,’ he says.
‘Everybody is talking. How long do you suppose you can keep it from the Germans?’
Footsteps behind them: one of the maids. ‘You seem to be everywhere, Mistress Howard.’
Katherine gazes up at him. ‘Yes.’
He prices her up. ‘New dress?’
‘Uncle Norfolk.’
‘Do you bear a message, or have you come here to dazzle my senses?’
She dips her head. ‘The queen and Lady Mary will walk in the gallery with you. My lord.’
Outside the rain runs down the windows: lead men on rooftops spout it from their maws.
The ladies of Anna’s privy chamber have already told him that her meeting with the Lady Mary has not been a success. Against all the evidence, Mary takes Anna to be a Lutheran; while Anna has been made wary by her own people, who have long assumed Mary spies for the Emperor.
In the gallery he walks with a lady on either hand: Anna spring-like in yellow, Mary in her favoured crimson. ‘Rain again,’ Anna says, showing off her English.
‘I fear so,’ he says.
Henry has said to him, talk to her, Cromwelclass="underline" can’t you talk to her? I dare not, he said, and Henry said, why not, if I give you leave? He had thought, because I do not know what you want me to fetch away from the conversation. Do you want her to turn herself into a woman you can love, or a woman you can repudiate?
Mary says, ‘I understand your friend Dr Barnes will soon be in ward. And other preacher friends of yours.’
She leaves a pause for him to say, Barnes is not my friend. He does not fill it. Anna walks beside him, blithe, unheeding, her fingertips on his coat. He feels as if the Lutheran clock is still in his palm, the fidget of its workings disturbing his pulse. Its case was made by an artist; its machinery, by a gunsmith.
‘What does Barnes expect?’ Mary says. ‘First he says he recants. Then he repeats his errors. Were you there?’
‘Yes, madam. Days and days of sermons.’
‘Let me have notes on them,’ she says. As if he were her clerk. He bows. She says, ‘I believe all is awry in Calais.’
‘Lord Lisle is expected here for the Garter feast. No doubt some reckoning will be made.’
‘Strange times, my lord. Two great lords dead.’
The gallery is hung with the king’s new tapestries, depicting the life of St Paul. A queen, a king’s daughter and a brewer’s son, they have walked the road to Damascus, blinded by the light; they have sailed the Middle Sea. Now they pause before the Sorcerers of Ephesus who, converted by the saint, are burning their books. He feels he would like to reach into the weave and pull them out of the fire.
At Gardiner’s house they have capons with figs, Crustade Lombarde and chopped chicken livers with hard-boiled eggs; they have spiced wine custards and jellied veal. He, Cromwell, is there at the king’s command, and he looks at his dinner because he does not want to look at the Bishop of Winchester. He does not want to look at Thomas Howard either. He did not even know he was going to be there, until he saw his barge moored.