‘Yes, the doublet,’ Riche says. ‘We will begin there, and return to the treasonous correspondence when Mr Wriothesley is more himself. In the cardinal’s day you owned, and were seen to wear, a doublet of purple satin.’
He does not laugh, because he sees where this is tending.
Norfolk demands, ‘What gave you the right to wear such a colour? It is the preserve of royal persons and high dignitaries of the church.’
Riche says, ‘Was it perhaps violet? If violet, it can be excused.’
Wriothesley says, ‘I saw it myself. It was purple. And moreover, you had sables.’
He thinks, not like the beautiful sables I have bought since. ‘I feel the cold. Besides, they were a gift. From a foreign client who did not know our rules.’
Riche’s brow furrows. This answer takes him in so many promising directions he hardly knows which to follow. ‘When you say a client, you mean a foreign prince?’
‘Princes did not send me gifts. Not at that date.’
‘Still,’ Gardiner says, ‘if your client did not know the rules, you knew them.’
Norfolk sticks to his point: ‘It was above your rank and station, to dress as if you were an earl already.’
‘True,’ he says, ‘but why would your lordship object, if the king did not? He would not like to see his ministers go in homespun.’
Norfolk says, ‘The doublet is only a single example, of your insensate ungodly pride. It’s not just your attire that offends. It’s the way you talk. The way you put yourself forward. Interrupt the king’s discourse. Interrupt me. Scorn ambassadors, the envoys of great princes. They come to your house, and you give out you’re not in, when you are in. Then they hear you in the garden playing bowls! They know when they are held in contempt.’
‘Speaking of ambassadors …’ Riche says.
Gardiner snaps, ‘Not yet.’
Norfolk says, ‘The king has entrusted you with high office. And you scant the procedures that are laid down. You reach across and put your signature to some scrap of paper, and thousands are paid out without a warrant. There is no part of the king’s business you do not meddle in. You override the council. You pull state policy out of your pocket. You read other men’s letters. You corrupt their households to your own service. You take their duties out of their hands.’
‘I act when they should act,’ he says. ‘Sometimes government must accelerate.’ He thinks, I cannot wait for the slow grindings of your brain. ‘We must move in anticipation of events.’
‘I do not see how,’ Riche says. ‘Unless you consult sorcerers.’
The gentlemen glance at each other. He says, ‘Are you done about the doublet?’
Messengers come in and whisper in Gardiner’s ear. A paper is given him, and shuffled surreptitiously to the duke, but not before he, Thomas Essex, catches a glimpse of the seal of the King of France. Norfolk seems pleased by what he reads – so pleased he cannot keep it to himself. ‘François congratulates our king on his initiative.’
‘Your putting down,’ Gardiner clarifies. ‘The French have much to tell us, regarding your ambitions. Not to mention your methods of discharging our sovereign’s trust.’
It is then he grasps what has eluded him: the timing, the personnel. It must have been in early spring, when Norfolk was so keen to cross the sea, that François first hinted at an alliance and named his price. The price was me, and the king baulked at it: until now.
He says, ‘The French like to deal with you, my lord Norfolk.’
Norfolk looks as if he has been congratulated. By the living God, he thinks, I do not know which is greater: Norfolk’s vanity, or his stupidity. Of course the French prefer a minister who they can bewilder and trick and – if it comes to it – purchase.
‘I want to take us back …’ Riche says.
‘I am sure you do,’ he says. ‘You had better change the subject, because you are in danger of proving how bad a minister I have been for François.’
Riche is leafing through an old letter-book. ‘You made a great deal of money in the cardinal’s day.’
‘Not so much from Wolsey. From my legal practice, yes.’
‘How did you do that?’
‘Long hours.’
‘Wolsey commonly enriched his servants,’ Wriothesley says.
‘He did – as Stephen here can testify. But one had expenses. The cardinal fell from grace before his debts could be paid. His enemies fell on his assets. He cost me money, in the end.’
‘When you say his enemies, you mean the king?’
‘Oh, give me some credit, Gardiner. Am I likely to gratify you by calling the king a thief?’
‘You adhered to Wolsey,’ Riche says, ‘even when he was a proven traitor.’
‘What you call “adherence” is what the king called loyalty.’
‘He does,’ Wriothesley says. He sounds almost tearful. ‘I have heard him.’
He looks up at Call-Me. I don’t care how you cry. You’ve picked your side. He says, ‘The king regrets the cardinal. He misses him to this day.’
Gardiner says, ‘Can we leave the cardinal out of this? It is a living traitor we seek.’
Riche says testily, ‘I want to get on, I want to get on to Lady Mary, but I cannot do that without mentioning …’
Gardiner sighs. ‘If you must.’
Riche says, ‘You wore a ring, which Wolsey gave you. It was said to possess certain properties …’
‘You covet it, Ricardo? I can have it sent to you. It will save you from drowning.’
‘You see!’ Norfolk says. ‘It is a sorcerer’s ring. He admits it.’
He smiles. ‘It preserves the wearer from wild beasts. It also secures the favour of princes. It doesn’t seem to be working, does it?’
‘It also …’ Riche is embarrassed. He rubs his upper lip. ‘It also, allegedly, makes princesses fall in love with you.’
‘I’m turning them away daily.’
Wriothesley says, ‘You didn’t turn the Lady Mary away.’
Riche says, ‘You presumed, and the king knows it, you presumed to practise upon her, to insinuate yourself with her, to ingratiate yourself, so that she referred to you as,’ he consults his notes, ‘my only friend.’
‘If we are speaking of the days after the death of Anne Boleyn, then I think it is true, I was her only friend. Mary would be dead now, if I had not persuaded her to obey her father.’
‘And why were you so interested in saving her life?’ Gardiner asks.
‘Perhaps because I am a Christian man.’
‘Perhaps because you hoped she would reward you.’
‘She was a powerless girl. How could she reward me?’
Norfolk says, ‘It was your dreadful presumption, offensive to Almighty God, to attempt to marry her.’
‘For instance,’ Riche says, ‘upon a certain occasion, you were her Valentine and made her a gift.’
He is impatient. ‘You know how that works. We draw lots.’
‘Yes,’ Wriothesley says, ‘but you rigged the ballot. You have boasted of your ways to manipulate elections of any sort. Even the draw at a tournament – I offer this, and my recollection is perfectly clear – the day your son made his debut in the field, you told him, never fear, I can get you on the king’s team, then you will not have to run against his Majesty.’
‘Gregory told you that?’
‘He told me that very day. You hurt his pride.’
‘He spoke in innocence. And to you, Call-Me, because he took you for his friend. But I suppose you must use what you have. Valentines? Sorcerers? Any jury would laugh you out of court.’
But, he thinks, there will be no jury. There will be no trial. They will pass a bill to put an end to me. I cannot complain of the process. I have used it myself.
Riche is frowning. ‘There was a ring,’ he says. ‘I think you offered Mary a ring, summer of 1536.’
‘It was not a lover’s ring. And in the end it was not a ring at all, it was a piece to wear at her girdle.’ He closes his eyes. ‘Because it was too heavy. There were too many words.’