Wolf Hall and Bring Up The Bodies. Hilary Mantel

send messages but don’t want them put into writing.

      I understand, Cavendish says; but Thomas, he wails, you can’t imagine what it’s like here at Esher. What time is it? my lord cardinal says. What time will Cromwell be here? And in an hour, again: Cavendish, what time is it? He has us out with lights, and reporting on the weather; as if you, Cromwell, were a person to be impeded by hailstorms or ice. Then next he will ask, what if he has met with some accident on the road? The road from London is full of robbers; wasteland and heathland, as the light fails, are creeping with the agents of malefice. From that he will pass on to say, this world is full of snares and delusions, and into many of them I have fallen, miserable sinner that I am.

      When he, Cromwell, finally throws off his riding cloak and collapses into a chair by the fire – God’s blood, that smoking chimney – the cardinal is at him before he can draw breath. What said my lord of Suffolk? How looked my lord of Norfolk? The king, have you seen him, did he speak to you? And Lady Anne, is she in health and good looks? Have you worked any device to please her – because we must please her, you know?

      He says, ‘There is one short way to please that lady, and that is to crown her queen.’ He closes his lips on the topic of Anne and has no more to say. Mary Boleyn says she has noticed him, but till recently Anne gave no sign of it. Her eyes passed over him on their way to someone who interested her more. They are black eyes, slightly protuberant, shiny like the beads of an abacus; they are shiny and always in motion, as she makes calculations of her own advantage. But Uncle Norfolk must have said to her, ‘There goes the man who knows the cardinal’s secrets,’ because now when he comes into her sight her long neck darts; those shining black beads go click, click, as she looks him up and down and decides what use can be got out of him. He supposes she is in health, as the year creeps towards its end; not coughing like a sick horse, for instance, nor gone lame. He supposes she is in good looks, if that’s what you like.

      One night, just before Christmas, he arrives late at Esher and the cardinal is sitting alone, listening to a boy play the lute. He says, ‘Mark, thank you, go now.’ The boy bows to the cardinal; he favours him, barely, with the nod suitable for a burgess in the Parliament. As he withdraws from the room the cardinal says, ‘Mark is very adept, and a pleasant boy – at York Place, he was one of my choristers. I think I shouldn’t keep him here, but send him to the king. Or to Lady Anne, perhaps, as he is such a pretty young thing. Would she like him?’

      The boy has lingered at the door to drink in his praises. A hard Cromwellian stare – the equivalent of a kick – sends him out. He wishes people would not ask him what the Lady Anne would and would not like.

      The cardinal says, ‘Does Lord Chancellor More send me any message?’

      He drops a sheaf of papers on the table. ‘You look ill, my lord.’

      ‘Yes, I am ill. Thomas, what shall we do?’

      ‘We shall bribe people,’ he says. ‘We shall be liberal and open-handed with the assets Your Grace has left – for you still have benefices to dispose of, you still have land. Listen, my lord – even if the king takes all you have, people will be asking, can the king truly bestow what belongs to the cardinal? No one to whom he makes a grant will be sure in their title, unless you confirm it. So you still have, my lord, you still have cards in your hand.’

      ‘And after all, if he meant to bring a treason …’ his voice falters, ‘if …’

      ‘If he meant to charge you with treason you would be in the Tower by now.’

      ‘Indeed – and what use would I be to him, head in one place, body in another? This is how it is: the king thinks, by degrading me, to give a sharp lesson to the Pope. He thinks to indicate, I as King of England am master in my own house. Oh, but is he? Or is Lady Anne master, or Thomas Boleyn? A question not to be asked, not outside this room.’

      The battle is, now, to get the king alone; to find out his intentions, if he knows them himself, and broker a deal. The cardinal urgently needs ready cash, that’s the first skirmish. Day after day, he waits for an interview. The king extends a hand, takes from him what letters he proffers, glancing at the cardinal’s seal. He does not look at him, saying merely an absent ‘Thanks.’ One day he does look at him, and says, ‘Master Cromwell, yes … I cannot talk about the cardinal.’ And as he opens his mouth to speak, the king says, ‘Don’t you understand? I cannot talk about him.’ His tone is gentle, puzzled. ‘Another day,’ he says. ‘I will send for you. I promise.’

      When the cardinal asks him, ‘How did the king look today?’ he says, he looks as if he does not sleep.

      The cardinal laughs. ‘If he does not sleep it is because he does not hunt. This icy ground is too hard for the hounds’ pads, they cannot go out. It is lack of fresh air, Thomas. It is not his conscience.’

      Later, he will remember that night towards the end of December when he found the cardinal listening to music. He will run it through his mind, twice and over again.

      Because as he is leaving the cardinal, and contemplating again the road, the night, he hears a boy’s voice, speaking behind a half-open door: it is Mark, the lute-player. ‘… so for my skill he says he will prefer me to Lady Anne. And I shall be glad, because what is the use of being here when any day the king may behead the old fellow? I think he ought, for the cardinal is so proud. Today is the first day he ever gave me a good word.’

      A pause. Someone speaks, muffled; he cannot tell who. Then the boy: ‘Yes, for sure the lawyer will come down with him. I say lawyer, but who is he? Nobody knows. They say he has killed men with his own hands and never told it in confession. But those hard kinds of men, they always weep when they see the hangman.’

      He is in no doubt that it is his own execution Mark looks forward to. Beyond the wall, the boy runs on: ‘So when I am with Lady Anne she is sure to notice me, and give me presents.’ A giggle. ‘And look on me with favour. Don’t you think? Who knows where she may turn while she is still refusing the king?’

      A pause. Then Mark: ‘She is no maid. Not she.’

      What an enchanting conversation: servants’ talk. Again comes a muffled answer, and then Mark: ‘Could she be at the French court, do you think, and come home a maid? Any more than her sister could? And Mary was every man’s hackney.’

      But this is nothing. He is disappointed. I had hopes of particulars; this is just the on dit. But still he hesitates, and doesn’t move away.

      ‘Besides, Tom Wyatt has had her, and everybody knows it, down in Kent. I have been down to Penshurst with the cardinal, and you know that palace is near to Hever, where the lady’s family is, and the Wyatts’ house an easy ride away.’

      Witnesses? Dates?

      But then, from the unseen person, ‘Shh!’ Again, a soft giggle.

      One can do nothing with this. Except bear it in mind. The conversation is in Flemish: language of Mark’s birthplace.

      Christmas comes, and the king, with Queen Katherine, keeps it at Greenwich. Anne is at York Place; the king can come upriver to see her. Her company, the women say, is exacting; the king’s visits are short, few and discreet.

      At Esher the cardinal takes to his bed. Once he would never have done that, though he looks ill enough to justify it. He says, ‘Nothing will happen while the king and Lady Anne are exchanging their New Year kisses. We are safe from incursions till Twelfth Night.’ He turns his head, against his pillows. Says, vehement, ‘Body of Christ, Cromwell. Go home.’

      The house at the Austin Friars is decorated with wreaths of holly and ivy, of laurel and ribboned yew. The kitchen is busy, feeding the living, but they omit this year their usual songs and Christmas plays. No year has brought such devastation. His sister Kat, her husband Morgan Williams, have been plucked from this life as fast as his daughters were taken, one day walking and talking and next day cold as stones, tumbled into their Thames-side graves and dug in beyond reach of the tide, beyond sight and smell of the river; deaf now to the sound of Putney’s cracked church bell, to the smell of wet ink, of hops, of malted