It was the week where John Lambert could not keep the truth to himself, and Cromwell could not stop lying to his king. Lambert was swept up again, and Cromwell could not get the same heresy charges dismissed twice, not with the Six Articles. So, he bribed Lambert's judges. The young preacher walked out of court and a rather expensive "not guilty," rented a boat, and pelted dock workers with bread, asking them if it was raining Christ.
Cromwell thought there had to be less wasteful ways to make a point.
So, when Gardiner had Lambert committed to the Tower, Cromwell was not the least bit surprised when the king came looking for his minister. He was ready to spin some wool into thread for Henry. But before he could spin a real yarn for Henry, the French had to botch their chances. Exactly as Cromwell had planned.
Henry would have no one else around him but his chief hunting bitch when the French ambassador came calling. Cromwell dug his hands into his thick sleeves and gritted his teeth at the charade: the king was treating this whole marriage business as if he were some lovelorn Tristan searching for his Isolde. Just choose a lady and get a damn baby on her, Cromwell thought as Henry waxed and waned over which French princess to share his bed.
"There are so many candidates for our hand," Henry told the French ambassador.
"Indeed," Castllion agreed. "A warren of honorable ladies."
"Quite." Henry studied his ivory cane. "But the fact is because so many appear attractive; I don't see how I can approach them individually."
Cromwell bit down hard on what was left of that morning's cinnamon stick. Why should Henry bother himself with who was the most attractive lady? Who cares if she is a pig in a crown? That is what the royal mistresses are for.
"So," Henry continued. He jumped up from his throne, eager to demonstrate his fitness. "Perhaps King Francis can assemble seven or eight of them at Calais…then I could go there and make their acquaintances all at the same time."
Cromwell held his cheeks in to keep from smiling. Last night he had suggested to Henry that it would be a prudent idea to tell Francis to haul his womenfolk out and display them, so the king would not buy sight unseen. Castllion took the bait immediately.
"But it is not of French custom to send ladies of such noble and princely families to be passed in…review…as if they were prized horses." Castllion's honeyed accent did little to sweeten the tartness of his reply. Cromwell knew he liked the French for a reason. "Perhaps if your Majesty desires one of these ladies, you could send an envoy to report on their manner and appearance?" the ambassador suggested. "In the traditional way."
Henry stalked across the room, circling around Cromwell. He braced himself for a blow, for Henry to hit him upside the head. As if it were Cromwell's fault that a princess thought her pedigree should speak more than her dimples.
"I trust no one but myself," Henry shot back. He brushed against Cromwell, but at least the royal ire pointed towards France. Cromwell fixed a scowl on his face and glared at the French ambassador on behalf of Henry. Let Chapuys and the Emperor hear that Cromwell was still very much an Imperial man, not to be taken in by French entreaties to friendship.
"The thing touches me too near," Henry said with strained patience.
"Perhaps your Majesty would like to mount them one after another and then," Castllion whirled his hands in a French gesture. "Pick the one you find best broken in."
By Christ, I love the French, Cromwell thought.
Henry approached slowly, in no hurry to strike. "Monsieur Castllion," he said quietly. "You have ten seconds to get out of my court, or I will beat you like dog that you are."
The French ambassador was so shocked that he forgot to bow and simply turned his back on the king. The ensuing silence hung in the air. A bird chirped. Henry breathed. Cromwell winced inside of his plush robes when the king snapped, "Mr. Cromwell!"
"Majesty!" Cromwell could afford to be sunny. The danger of a French marriage had just walked out of the room, disgusted and insulted. Henry focused his intense gaze on his minister.
"An incorrigible heretic called John Lambert is not imprisoned in the Tower and is likely set to be burned." Henry was in front of his face almost immediately. Cromwell kept his head cocked at a deferential angle, then allowed himself to glance up, as if in surprise at the news.
"Do you know this man?" Henry asked. He leaned in close, playing at intimacy.
"I knew him," Cromwell lied easily. "Many years ago at Cambridge." Another lie fell out.
"Not since?" Henry's eyes never left his.
"Not to my knowledge, Majesty," Cromwell lied again. He wondered if he ought to be concerned about his ability to tell an outright falsehood, and look his prince square in the eye while he did it.
"And whilst you were at Cambridge together, did you share some of his opinions?" Henry pursued. Cromwell paused. He did not want to admit he actually had no formal education, and the Cambridge story was yet another lie that he told to put people more at ease around him. "Tell me, Mr. Cromwell, what do you believe now." Henry gave Cromwell another heavy look.
"As the world stands, I believe what you believe." His eyes never left Henry's, never flickered in doubt.
"So you think it right that he be burned?"
"Yes," Cromwell said quickly so he would not think about the lie. "Unless he recants," he added. But then that did not seem like a safe amendment. So he added another decisive, "Yes."
Henry's cruel, full lips curved into a slight smile. He turned to leave. "Oh, I forgot," he said absently. "What were their names again?"
Cromwell froze. Whose names? What all did Henry know? Did he know Cromwell had smuggled Cranmer's wife and son out of England?
"Majesty?"
"The sisters of the Duke of Cleves?"
Cromwell recovered quickly. "Oh. Amelia and Anne."
"Amelia and Anne." Henry tasted the names. He smiled at Cromwell. "Send someone to take a look at them. We'll have a second opinion."
Thus, Cromwell bartered one Lambert for two German princesses. The choice still sat sour in Cromwell's stomach, and he could not eat for the rest of the day. He supposed he owed it to Lambert to help him save himself after Cromwell had just tossed him to the dogs. At the Tower, Cromwell paid for Lambert to be lodged in one of the better cells that was big enough to fit a desk and bed. George Boleyn had spent his last night on earth here. Ever a man of God's love, Lambert greeted Cromwell with nothing but warmth as the jailers opened the door.
"It is good to see you, Thomas," he smiled. Lambert was a good-looking man with sandy brown hair and kind eyes. He appraised Cromwell's fur trimmed robes. "And how well you have done in the world."
"I wish our reunion was in a better place." Cromwell glanced behind him anxiously before saying more.
"Ah, I shall be quit of this place soon enough, to a far better place," Lambert said. He pulled out a stool and invited Cromwell to sit, as if this were a social call.
Cromwell looked over his shoulder again before he sat, just to be sure no one was hovering outside, listening. He rubbed his palms and leaned forward.
"John, you do not have to die. All you have to say to satisfy the king is that after consecration, the wafer and the wine are truly the body and the blood of Christ."
"But you and I know they are not." Lambert said it as if Cromwell had tried to tell him that unicorns were galloping down Fleet Street.
"You don't have to believe it, you just have to say it," Cromwell corrected.
Lambert's mild features hardened. "Oh, Thomas, I see now what it takes for man to make his way in the world. He must make a practice of hypocrisy."
He stood up, offended. "There is no harm in discretion." Cromwell went to the window and thought, I can see my house. His stomach burned with the separation from his family, from the lonely nights that he thought he had left behind.
"Believe me I want to spare you the awful pains that have been prepared for you," he went on.
"Did Christ himself not suffer awful pains?" Lambert retorted.
Not another Thomas More, he inwardly groaned. "We do not need martyrs!" he hissed. " We need living men who will go on about quietly spreading the business of our reformation."
"But they won't believe a word I say. If I alter my opinion on such a fundamental matter-"
"John, I say to you again while you still have a free choice, will you live or die?" Cromwell was reaching the end of his charity. Lambert paced a moment before turning on the black figure before him.
"My dear lord Cromwell, I see all this while we have not been talking about me but about you. Not about my poor conscience but about yours. I see that you are afraid of guilt by association, and would rather I perjured my own soul. Alas, it is the only thing in this world I have left."
Lambert's words hit their intended target. He swallowed a lump of bile. Cromwell had to think of more temporal concerns, like the price of grain or the swelling ranks of the poor in the City.
"I am sorry you choose not to save yourself."
He was not sure if Lambert could see him watching from the walls. A good sized crowd had braved the dangers and showed up to witness Lambert's immolation. Cromwell almost left, supposing that one more well-wisher did not matter. But when Lambert looked up at Cromwell from his stake, with sad, pleading eyes, he knew he had to see the grisly scene through. The fire burned too slow and the sharp Lenten wind blew the smoke away, so Lambert did not even have the benefit of suffocation before the flames reached him.
When the fire crawled up his shins, he screamed out, "All for Christ! All for Christ!" No last minute recantation, no eleventh hour perjury. The wind pushed the flames and smoke away to reveal Edward Seymour with the crowd. Cromwell could not read Edward's features as emotions piled on top of one another: horror, fascination, disgust, excitement.
Lambert started to smoke, and Cromwell could not see him through the stinking haze. But even from his high perch, Cromwell heard the unmistakable pop of gristle and fat clashing with fire. He had not smelled burning flesh in years, not since he was a boy in the French army. So many dead men had littered the field that his captain told him to just burn the bodies and save his strength for wielding the battle axe. He had asked the captain if he might have a sword instead because he was so thin, but the captain said swords cost extra. After the city walls fell and the other young boys of his battalion busily forced themselves on sobbing Italian virgins, Cromwell rifled through the gold plates and jewelry boxes, desperate for enough coins to buy a sword.
He found the king slurping oysters beside the fire. Henry sucked the grey, fishy flesh from the shells. Cromwell's stomach rose up to his heart only to come crashing down to his bowels. His contempt for Henry had quieted from a smoldering fire to a dull ache that Cromwell supposed he could learn to tolerate. But why did the king have to make his wet, eating noises so…intimate?
"Mr. Lambert has gone to his execution," he informed Henry.
"And to hell!" The king pried another shell open. He fished for a pearl before swallowing it. Cromwell faltered but recovered in a second.
"Lady Mary begs Your Majesty to spare Lady Salisbury, who was like a mother to her."
"She was also mother to that monster, Reginald Pole, who even heaven can't forgive." Another slurp. Cromwell wanted to ask how Henry could presume to know the limits of God's mercy. The Gospels were as silent on the subject as they were about saints, apostles, and popes.
"Duke William says his painter is ill. He cannot furnish images of his sister, Anne."
"Send Master Holbein. I must see her image," Henry instructed.
Cromwell hated Henry all over again. What sort of king cares more about his bride's face than the treaties and alliances she brought? He took his leave of Henry before his tongue slipped. Suppose Henry asked him to dictate a letter? And Cromwell accidentally responded: "You prick."
In the great hall at Greenwich, servers carried out sizzling platters of roasted fowl. The greasy, pungent odor of roasted meat sickened Cromwell. Beads of sweat snaked down his cotton undershirt, and he feared the fever he brought back from Italy was surfacing. He stepped out into the gardens for air, but discovered the smell had attached itself to his hair and clothing. He gagged and retched, but he could not escape the stench. Ralph Sadler ran towards him, holding out his leather overcoat as a canopy. Cromwell had not even realized it had begun to rain.
II.
Stories and gossip from court floated through the air, and if Elizabeth was lucky, the wind would blow her way. Juicy tid-bits trickled down through the valets and chambermaids, only to make their way back up the social stratum to the lawyers and merchants of London. They told their wives, their wives told Kit. Sometimes Kit told Elizabeth. She wondered how her fifth hand version compared with the original, and she wanted to ask Cromwell. But if she saw him twice in one month, she was surprised.
The gossips and tattle-tales had it that Cromwell's place by the king's side was slipping. The king and his minister must have had a lover's quarrel, they laughed. The dour lawyer was assuming control of Henry's marriage bed, and the king was beginning to tire of Cromwell's unsolicited advice. Elizabeth would not have believed it unless he showed up one rainy evening. A small cart carrying his trunks lumbered behind him. Even if it were not for the rain, Cromwell brought his own cool weather. He brushed past her without a glance and only a pat on the head for Harr. Bewildered, she stood in the doorway watching the rain pelt the cobblestones. She felt a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.
"I would not take it to heart if I were you," Gregory said. "He gets like that sometimes. Withdraws into himself, goes melancholy. My mother used to blame it on a fever he picked up in Italy." He held out his arms for Harr, who wiggled and kicked in excitement. Now that Harr could sit up on his own, his favorite thing to do was stack blocks with his brother, Gregory.
"He treated me like a stranger."
"Like I said: do not take it to heart. After he joined Wolsey's service he was as good as a stranger to me for as often we saw him. I think my sisters were probably too young to know the difference."
"And your mother?"
"Cheerful." Gregory shrugged. "Whether or not my father was dispatched to York for weeks at a time. She knew he was about important business. She had wanted him to leave trading and enter politics. Better money in it."
The endless refrain in the Cromwell house: better money. Elizabeth suspected that Cromwell could devise a way to squeeze money out of anything he did. She knew she should just leave him be, not rankle him, not question him. But Elizabeth was not her predecessor. They shared a name and little else. She waited a half hour before speaking to him in what she now considered to be her room since Cromwell shared it so rarely. He stood shaving himself before her gilt mirror. She watched her reflection watch him.
"I have replaced you with another man in my bed." She pointed to Harr's crib, which stood at the foot of the bed. On the nights when Harr was inconsolable, she would place him on a pillow next to her and nurse him while she lay on her side. They both slept better that way.
"You have left me for someone short, plump, and flatulent? Better Harr than anyone else." Cromwell caught her stare through the mirror. His smile fell away. She moved closer and saw his neck was so frail she could count the delicate bones leading to his skull.
"Thomas, you seem…frayed. Are you well?"
He mumbled something to the effect that he planned to stay at the house for a while, and he was very tired, so feel free to eat without him. The only other sound in the room was the razor scraping against the sharp angles of his face. He caught her eye in the mirror again. Sighing, he explained himself by creating more questions for her.
"We are in a very different world now, Lissie. It is not safe for us anymore. From now on, we need to be ready."
"Ready for what?"
He glanced over his shoulder to look her full in the face. "Ready to leave," he said, as if it were perfectly obvious. "We need to always have a bag close on hand, with plain clothes and ready money, in case we must run."
"But why?"
"Like I always tell you, if your house is about to burn down, you take what you can carry."
"But flee to where?" She slumped against the wall. "Thomas, the whole of Europe is on fire."
They were supposed to be in the depths of Lent, but Cromwell's dinner table creaked under the weight of black market beef. Richard and Kit pounded on the wood; they had tormented Gregory to such an extent that neither of them could muster enough breath for laughter.
"And then, we signed the love letter in Gregory's name and sent it to the old dowager!" they screeched in unison.
"Very funny. You two are simply hilarious." Gregory rolled his eyes. "She's sixty years old—old enough to be my grandmother. Why would she honestly believe that I would send her such scandalous sentiments? In Latin…no less."
"Yes, Gregory," Kit smiled sweetly. "Why would she believe it was you? I mean we conjugated all the verbs correctly-" she turned to Elizabeth. "The look on Gregory's face when she came to our gates!"
"Because I honestly thought Father was going to make me marry her," Gregory tried to explain. He flicked a chick pea at Kit and it pinged off her bodice. "You are one to talk, Kit. So when is Lard on Legs next paying you a visit?"
"He means Kit's husband," Richard explained in an exaggerated whisper.
"His ship docks next Thursday." Cromwell spoke up. He had been so quiet throughout supper that Elizabeth almost forgot he was there. He pushed around the untouched ox tail on his plate. "And William is not that fat," he added. Richard shook his head and indicated the expanse of a house with his arms. Later, when Cromwell wandered upstairs, his brood clued Elizabeth in on the joke.
"He is a terrible matchmaker," Kit said.
"Oh, the worst," Richard agreed.
"My father is the best at everything, except the human heart," Gregory sighed. "I thank God every day that I remain a bachelor, rather than marry at my father's pleasure."
"You all seem happy enough," Elizabeth began unsteadily. She suspected they were right. Cromwell had not exactly come round strumming a lute to court her.
"My father seems to think that we all square up as neatly as his abacus beads or accounting figures. He does not understand how the equation can look so well on paper—"
"But so bloody fat and disgusting in life," Kit finished. She leaned in towards Elizabeth for a little female sympathy. "When my husband got Grace on me, I thought I would suffocate from his fat rolls smashed against my mouth."
"And Richard cannot stay faithful to his wife." Gregory pointed an accusatory finger.
"Mind you, there's nothing wrong with my Frances," Richard said. "There is just no…."
"Spark?" Elizabeth offered. They all nodded. "Well maybe it is something that can be learned in time, maybe…" She stopped herself. Her face flushed, and she didn't think it was the wine. The Cromwell children were right: a man and a woman could not learn to ache for each other. She tried to walk backwards through time, to the place when she first truly saw Cromwell. What had she thought of him? He had always been on the periphery of her vision, but that was only because he once he arrived at the English court, he settled over it like a cloud. No matter which way a courtier turned, there would be Cromwell. When did his outlines, obscured by thick black velvet and fur, converge into someone tangible? Into vulnerable flesh and blood? When she had been terrified of him, he had seemed more idea than man. The unseen monster in a dream whose footsteps outpaced her own. Yet, he became substantially mortal when he made her climax first with his tongue, and then when he was inside her. Their marriage bed had always been jagged and sharp, never sweet.
"Not that my word counts for much around here," Gregory admitted. "But my father has no business playing matchmaker for our king."
When Elizabeth went to look for Cromwell, he was playing chess against himself. He balanced baby Grace on his knee as he pondered his next move. She watched them for a moment and wondered if he had done the same with his own daughters.
"I have a job for you." His eyes never wavered from the board.
"It's nice to see you too, Thomas. Thank you for stopping by this month."
He blinked slowly but said nothing. Grace wriggled in his arms and cut the silence with a little "blah" sound. When Elizabeth stepped closer, she saw he was shockingly thin without his thick robes on. As his face sank in on itself, it appeared the only structure holding it up were his lush eyes. Hunched over on the stool, he seemed…resigned.
"The Lady Mary has always been fond of you, yes?"
"I like to think so," Elizabeth replied.
"Pay her a visit, feel her out for me."
"Oh, you mean you want me to spy for you." She folded her arms and scowled. "I was wondering when you were going to let me into the family business. I've felt neglected." She waited for him to snap up the bait. His indifference maddened her, but worried her more.
"Which one of you is winning?" she asked after a while.
He knocked a pawn out of the way and didn't answer. "Grace," he said sternly. His long, white fingers pried a rook out of Grace's mouth. He wiped the slobber off the agate piece before replacing it on the square. Elizabeth sat decisively in the stool opposite him and yanked the board towards her.
"Lissie, are you challenging me?"
"Actually, I was attempting a conversation with you."She pulled a pink quartz queen from its square and inspected the finely wrought edges. "How go the negotiations for the king's marriage?" she asked as neutrally as possible. What she meant was, how is your search for my sister's replacement?
"The king dithers and dallies. He does not seem to take it seriously." Cromwell pulled Grace's sticky hands from a knight and instead gave her a bishop to gnaw on.
"Perhaps you press the matter too soon?"
Something flashed through Cromwell's eyes, but Elizabeth couldn't name it. "It is no disrespect to your sister," he said flatly. "This is a matter of state."
"Maybe to you."
"Lissie, when I want your counsel, I will ask for it," he scoffed. "And put that queen back where you found it. I like to record my moves."
"I swear to God, Thomas, sometimes there are things that are so near your nose, you take no notice." She wrung her skirt in her hands. "Does it not give you pause that the king has never married a woman sight unseen? When he came to the throne, any princess was his for the taking, but he wanted his brother's widow. When he didn't get an heir, Wolsey could have married him to a French princess, but the king wanted Anne. And when he tired of Anne, I am sure there were a great many Flemish ladies you would have rather he chosen than my sister."
"A king's marriage is borne from politics, not passion," he said tartly.
"Our king is different." Elizabeth knew she did not have Cromwell's subtle, formidable intellect. But her common sense often led her to the most obvious point that everyone was talking around. She threw up her hands. "Well, I leave you to your game."
Elizabeth took one lingering look at her husband and the map of Europe tacked to the wall behind him. Cromwell had outlined the German Protestant states in red. Their crimson borders formed a jagged wall between France and the Emperor. Cromwell's logic tracked perfectly on paper: sever Europe down the middle, prevent France and the Emperor from uniting, and cut the French out of the trade by accessing the Northern sea routes. That was all very well and good if a marriage was just ink on paper.
III.
According to witnesses, the Lord Privy Seal had gone a little mad. By the end of that day, Rich could not remember what took them down to Putney in the first place, and it scarcely mattered. Like so many days that ended terribly, a series of small details had already gone wrong. The sky dawned open and sunny, but by early afternoon, the rain drove sideways into the dark-clad retinue. They returned to the stinking, muddy riverbanks, only to find that Cromwell's barge had drifted out into the middle of river traffic because his oarsmen were brawling with the Putney boatmen. Several of the oars floated helplessly in the brown water, while the men threw fists—and each other—overboard.
"Putney must bring it out in people." Rich nudged Cromwell's rib cage, expecting a polite laugh for his joke. Cromwell turned his dark head towards Rich. He arched an eyebrow, tightened his lips. Then he turned on his heel and set off at a punishing pace. Rich and the rest of the armed escort struggled to keep up with Cromwell's long strides through the mud. Every so often, Cromwell raised his arm towards the river.
"Thomas, what are you doing?' Rich asked after a while.
"Trying to hail a boat. What else would I be doing, Richard?" Cromwell said shortly.
"But the lot of us would not be able to fit in one of those small dinghies."
Cromwell turned another look on Rich. His face lost its usual alabaster and the skin appeared green-grey next to the white ruffle of his collar.
"Well, every man for himself, I suppose," Cromwell grumbled. He raised his arm again, and a craft slowed, only for the boatman to yell, "Fuck you and that ginger cunt standing next to ya!"
"Aye, that's what your mother told me last night!" Cromwell shouted back.
"Thomas, it's the Putney coming out in you," Richard laughed. Cromwell narrowed his eyes, unamused. Richard offered him a piece of the fried dough that he'd bought to munch along the way. Cromwell just grunted and marched on. Sometimes people waved their caps to him, calling out, "God Bless you, Tom!". Others sneered, "Prodigal son finally remembered where he came from, eh?" But Cromwell's blank expression never altered and his pace never checked.
Eventually, their route took them past a dilapidated inn with an attached stable and forge. The windows and doors were boarded over and cobwebs sparkled like crystals in the rain. The only sign of life so far as Rich could see was a sorry excuse for a pear tree. Cromwell stopped so short that Rich and the other men almost toppled over one another. The black figure went wholly still, and his long fox ears pricked up. The wind and rain slammed into the men. Rich shivered like a wet dog, but Cromwell stood alert and erect. Finally, he pivoted on his heel in a precise about face. Rich supposed they would be going back the way they came, but Cromwell walked right up to one of the guards towards the end of the column. The young boy froze, and gripped his battle axe tighter. Cromwell studied the lad's face for a moment before yanking the axe from his unsure paws. The men stood back a little, confused: didn't Cromwell usually pay other men to take up the axe for him? Then again, Cromwell never asked anyone to do what he himself could not.
Cromwell swung into the tree so hard that Rich though he might fell it in one stroke. Did the tree look at him wrong, Rich wondered. For such a thin man, Lord Cromwell handled the axe as deftly as any French swordsman. Perhaps one of them should have restrained the Lord Privy Seal, but they were too mutely fascinated. When Cromwell aimed, he aimed to hit, and his strikes landed precisely one on top of the other.
Rich only caught pieces of Cromwell's ranting. Something, something, I always hated this tree. Something, Something, Walter: you limp-dick brute. Try and get me now, Walter. Told you I would be back for you, Walter.
Once the tree fell, Cromwell's black figure advanced on the house. He hacked through the boards covering the windows and smashed into what was left of the glass. I hope no one is home, Rich thought. When Cromwell went for the door, Rich supposed he ought to put a stop to the scene.
"Thomas, Thomas…the hour is late. And we have accumulated enough property damage suits for one day."
Cromwell went on swinging and hacking. Even through the howling wind, Rich could hear the crack of blade sinking into wood. Their retinue fell back even further. No one wanted to be volunteered to restrain their master.
"Bastard! Drunk cunt bastard, that's what you are, Walter!" Cromwell yelled at the house. "Come near my sisters again—"
I don't think he's talking about the pear tree, Rich thought.
After several minutes, Cromwell staggered backwards. The axe fell from his hands. Rich ran up to him and spun him around. Cromwell's face had gone sickly grey. Then his black eyes rolled back in his skull. Rich caught him, and they sank into the mud together. A few of their escorts cautiously approached. Rich whipped his head around.
"Well don't just stand there like a useless twat! Get some help man, for God's sake, get help!"
IV.
Elizabeth saved up her social engagement in order to slowly dole it out to herself like a treat. This was the first opportunity she'd had since Jane died to leave Cromwell's London house. But Lady Mary would have to wait until after Easter; Elizabeth did not want to get stuck at a lengthy mass and a dinner of salted herring.
A detachment of Cromwell's grim faced retainers surrounded her as they rode outside the City walls to Mary's residence at Hunsdon. Usually, Cromwell did not like to fly his standard in public and possibly invite an assassination, but Elizabeth imagined that it suited Cromwell's agenda just fine to have the people see his wife and coat of arms headed towards Mary Tudor. Cromwell had sent Elizabeth with a gift for Mary: two pure white mares. They were from Andalusia, and their long grey manes fluttered behind them like proud flags.
She had no idea what sort of reception to expect. Mary's beloved Lady Salisbury had been put to the axe. Elizabeth's husband may have drawn up the death warrant, but it was her brother who presided over the grisly scene. She shivered under her lambskin riding habit. The old woman had tried to crawl away from the axe man, leaving him to chase her around the scaffolding. Edward probably laughed at that.
Sometimes, Edward frightened her.
Mary stood in front of the grand country manor with ambassador Chapuys in attendance. He stood behind Mary, yet a little too close. Cromwell would want to know if Chapuys was still in love with the Lady Mary, and the answer appeared to be yes. Elizabeth smiled broadly as she rode up the graveled road. Mary waved eagerly. Chapuys set his lips into a thin smile and eyed the Andalusian mares. When Mary saw Chapuys's unimpressed glare, her smile disappeared, and she fixed her face until it matched Chapuys. He had the grace to help Elizabeth dismount, if only to sneak in a jibe.
"I see Lord Cromwell sends you to court my gracious lady's favor," he said as he set her on her feet. Something in his tone angered her. And when did Chapuys begin spending more time in Mary's household than at his diplomatic duties at Whitehall?
"My husband is generous with those whom the king loves," Elizabeth said coolly. She had the sudden sense that everything said between them today would be wrapped in layers of meaning. "Lady Mary, please accept these mares and our friendship." She curtsied low, but kept one eye stubbornly up. Mary began to grin, but Chapuys minutely shook his head. Mary hardened again.
"You are most welcome to Hunsdon," Mary said as if they were neighbors meeting for the first time. "I thought you might hear mass with us, Lissie. These days it is more important than ever to keep Christ's holy word."
Elizabeth's stomach grumbled in protest. She had been hoping they would go straightaway to dinner, but no such luck. One of Mary's ladies stepped forward to take Elizabeth's riding habit. As she shrugged out of it, Mary's eyes passed over the azure fabric of her dress and gold edged bodice. She sniffed and her smile tightened.
"I just assumed you would still be in mourning for your beloved sister," Mary said.
Black dress or not, Jane is just as dead. Instead, Elizabeth replied, "I hold my sister's memory close. Where ever I go, she is with me."
"She was a virtuous gentle lady. I cannot think how your husband shall replace her," Chapuys added.
In the small, closed chapel, the incense soured Elizabeth's empty stomach and it gurgled over the priest's murmured Latin. Still, she trained her attention on the Host and her mind wandered less than usual. When the communion wafer melted on to her tongue, she wondered what about a tiny piece of bread was worth dying for? But deep down, maybe she had always thought it was just bread.
Every so often, the back of her neck would bristle with the sensation of being watched intently. Oh, you would like that, wouldn't you Excellency, Elizabeth though. You would like to write back in your dispatches that Cromwell's whore is as much a heretic as he. Just when Elizabeth thought her knees would shatter, the mass concluded. Her heart leaped in relief at the thought of dinner, only to sink when it realized that fish would still be on the menu.
I knew I should not have visited on a Wednesday, Elizabeth inwardly groaned. She pushed around the salted, oily fish so it would not touch the spring vegetables on her plate.
"How is your boy?" Mary asked.
"He is well. Stout and happy. He sits up on his own now. He's been watching his cousin, Grace, walk around, and I think he has a mind to try so himself." Elizabeth could not keep the pride out of her voice. Mary softened a little at that.
"Children are quite miraculous," she said sadly. "When I held Edward and Elizabeth, I sometimes pretended they were my own."
"Perhaps the king and Lord Cromwell will consent to a match for you, sweet Lady," Chapuys purred. "But it seems they are quite invested in the king's matrimonial affairs at the moment." He turned his sharp gaze on Elizabeth, as if it were her fault Lady Mary was still as much a virgin as her namesake. "I understand the French have put forth several candidates."
Elizabeth's hand squeezed her fork. This had to be the most polite interrogation ever. "I am not so sure that a French marriage is still a real possibility," she said levelly.
"And now there is no possibility of a French marriage for the Lady?"
"I had thought you would sound a little more relieved about that, Excellency." Elizabeth sawed through an undercooked turnip. Would this dinner, this day ever end? "Perhaps if Your Excellency spent more time at Whitehall than Hunsdon, you would be better informed." Instead of nursing courtly love for the Lady Mary.
"My petition for mercy for Lady Salisbury was rejected," Mary spoke up. "Why was that? I write to Lord Cromwell—"
"My lady, I fear you overestimate my husband's authority. Those decisions rest within the king's discretion." The conversation swerved into hostile territory, and Elizabeth wanted to guide it back. But how?
"Your husband is all that Wolsey ever was, and more," Chapuys corrected.
"We are all servants to the will of His Majesty," Elizabeth raised her voice. "No more, no less." She suddenly felt tired of defending against the onslaught. She wanted to go home to Harr and a decent meal. She wanted to put up her feet in front of the fire and read Chaucer instead of grinding her knees into the marble floor of a church. She would take good wine and a suckling pig over hungry prayers and fasts on behalf of saint.
"The day has grown late, and I should be leaving, before they close the gates to the City," she said after a while. "If you don't like the mares, send them back and my husband will find another pair for you."
The City gates were closed by the time Elizabeth made it back. But they pushed them open when they saw Cromwell's standard and retainers. As they clattered through the dark streets, Elizabeth rehearsed what she would tell Cromwell: yes, Mary still hates you, but she will keep the horses just the same. No, Chapuys is not her lover, but he wishes he were. Yes, your household has better food. No, Mary did not mention roasting you on a spit.
"Oh my God," she whispered as they entered the courtyard. Something had gone horribly wrong. No one would meet her eyes. Some of Cromwell's men sat defeated on the steps. What if Cromwell's luck had run dry, and he had been arrested, assassinated? Sir Richard's bulk took up the doorway. He made no move to help her from her saddle as she struggled out of it. Has Rich turned? Has he come to arrest me too? Her thoughts raced.
"Just say it," she said hoarsely.
"He's not well."
When Elizabeth offered Richard Rich a cup of warm ale, she did so to be polite. Unfortunately, he took her up on her offer. They eyed one another suspiciously over the rims of their mugs. She had never liked him and imagined the distaste was mutual. The doctors scrambled in and out of the bedroom, flapping their heavy sleeves and shaking their heads. A struggle was clearly taking place behind the door. Rich tried to talk over the sounds of crashing plates and Cromwell yelling nonsense.
"I don't suppose his behavior has been out of the ordinary?" he asked. Elizabeth crinkled her forehead. Thomas Cromwell was per se out of the ordinary.
"You might want to rephrase the question, Sir Richard," she said wryly. One of the physicians poked his head around the door, his cap askew.
"Madam, I am sorry, but we cannot hold him still to bleed him. I am afraid we will hit an artery in the struggle."
"There's nothing to be done." She shook her head at the useless physicians. Where was Ismael when she needed him? But he had fled England with Isabella, off to warmer climates.
"I can sit up with him," she said. The man actually looked relieved; the Lord Privy Seal would die on someone else's watch.
"Anything I can do to help?" Rich made the question sound like recitation, a formality. Elizabeth was about to answer, "leave," but she softened.
"Recall Gregory from Cambridge. Just tell him it is urgent."
The doctors filed past her, and one of them whimpered that Cromwell had knocked loose a tooth in their struggle to pin him down. The room was heavy with burning sage and a smoking fire. With the doctors out of the room, Cromwell quieted a little. Shivers racked his sinewy body and his teeth clattered, but he had stopped shouting. Elizabeth approached him carefully as she would a wounded dog. After all, injured creatures are prone to bite a helping hand.
His eyes remained scrunched shut and his jaw tightened. She held the back of her hand against his brow. He seemed to be freezing and burning up at the same time. Should she strip him or bundle him up? Elizabeth said his name and he murmured, "Elizabeth." But there were about as many Elizabeths running around England as there were Thomases, so she did not accord his statement much weight. He whispered, "Anne." Whether he meant his dead daughter or his dead queen, Elizabeth would never know.
His body stilled enough for her to pull his linen undergarments over his head. Elizabeth tossed the sweat soaked cloth into the fire. She kept one eye on him while she hauled another log onto the embers. His limbs jerked wildly as if there were a war going on inside him. But Cromwell did not fight her as she tucked a fur lined quilt around his form. His hand squeezed into fists so tight that his knuckles went white, and the other hand fumbled blindly—perhaps seeking a weapon? Elizabeth tried to spoon a little cold water between his cracked lips, but he just spit it back up. So she soaked a rag and draped it around his neck.
His fevered ranting was like a map of the places he had been and the things he had done. Cromwell cried out in coarse French, telling his captain that he was too small to take up the axe and could he please buy a sword instead? When Cromwell slipped into the short, blunt syllables of German, Elizabeth traveled with him, over the Rhine and the Alps. His voice smoothed over into lyrical Italian as she followed him to the sun baked Tuscan hills and Venetian lagoons. A nosier wife might have fetched a translator, but Elizabeth was content to allow him to keep his secrets.
As his body quieted, she cautiously placed her palm over his heart. His skin burned so hot that it stung her flesh like ice. Still, the strong thud-thud-thud of his heart told her that somewhere in there, Cromwell was definitely alive. Elizabeth crawled onto the bed to lay atop the covers. She pressed her lips to his ears.
"Please come back, Thomas. I need you here. Harr and I won't know how to make our way in this world without you." Cromwell understood the rapidly changing landscape, embraced its fickleness, while other men like Suffolk were paralyzed by the new order of things and clung to tradition. Elizabeth did not understand exchange rates, interest rates, futures contracts, loans, and debts. But Cromwell knew. Cromwell knew how to make something from nothing.
"I need you, Thomas. I need you to come back to us," she whispered against his chest. She wanted to be as brave and dogged as Cromwell. But the fear of facing life without him overcame her and she shoved the quilt into her mouth to quiet her sobs. All those times when she had lived in fear of him, hated him, loved him...it all coalesced into a thick cloud that obscured her memory of what her life was like before he entered it. Wolf Hall, the damp castle in York, her first decrepit husband: souvenirs from another lifetime that happened to a different woman.
By morning, Elizabeth jolted awake; terrified that Cromwell might have died in his sleep. To her relief, his breath came in strong and steady. She reached under the covers to feel his heartbeat, which drummed along. Her hand slid up his chest to his pale cheeks. He shifted a little against her touch.
"For shame, Lissie. Molesting a sleeping man? What on earth have you been reduced to?" he mumbled with his eyes still closed. She fell back on her heels in surprise.
"You're-you're back!" She fought the urge to throw her arms around his bony shoulders.
"I went somewhere?" When he opened his eyes, they were more mottled than sharp. With his softened eyes and unkempt curls, he looked almost boyish. He shrugged out of the blankets, annoyed at all the fuss. "How long have I been abed?"
"All of yesterday, most of today."
"How could you let me?" he demanded. He looked more stricken at the thought of missing a day's work than almost dying. Yes, for better or worse, Cromwell was back to his usual senses. "I cannot lounge about like some lady of leisure!" He attempted to sit up, but his strength failed and he collapsed against the pillows.
"A fever laid you out, not me." She tipped a cup of water to his lips. His hands fumbled to hold the cup themselves.
"I do not need a nurse; I don't require mothering," he said crossly. Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. Cromwell had rowed himself back across the River Styx to return to the land of the living. Most men softened after cheating death. And Elizabeth did not doubt that Cromwell had actually bested Death at cards.
"Since you refuse to take care of yourself, the task falls to me until you see fit to do so." She refilled his water. "You cried out in your sleep," she said softly.
Cromwell almost choked on the water. His face went rigid with fear. "What did I say?"
"It was in every language but English."
He sank into the pillows and exhaled with relief. "The last time my fever erupted, my girls were still alive. I thought it had left me alone."
"Apparently, Death had some unfinished business to transact with you. I tried to send the doctors in after you, but you fought them off."
That thought pleased him, and a feline smile spread across his face. Elizabeth helped him into a clean robe and pretended as though she were just holding it open for him, instead of threading his arms through the sleeves.
"I can help you shave," she offered. "You can trust me with a blade. Believe me, Thomas. If I had a mind to finish you off, it would have been last night."
"I commend you for your restraint." His face was still ashy, but some color crept back into his eyes. His blue irises showed more vividly than she had ever remembered as he went still and thoughtful. Elizabeth gently lathered his face with his favorite Turkish soap. As she guided the razor over his sharp cheekbones, she chatted nonsense.
"When my brothers' beards came in, I used to sit them down and shave them. I loved pretend that I had a grand barbershop in London. I would stack my mother's shoes and jewelry about us, because I sold other things in my shop. Jane was my shop apprentice and would ask them if she could interest such fine gentlemen in a new pair of shoes or perfume. I had never been to London, never went until I was fifteen or sixteen, so I had no idea how ridiculous I was being."
Cromwell's eyes flickered in amusement, and she supposed he would have smiled but for the blade against his neck. As Elizabeth carefully rounded the edge against the cleft in his chin, he finally spoke.
"Do you think I am bad man?"
What a strange thing to ask. He was so many things at once, how could assign himself as one thing or the other? Volatile, yet mechanically restrained. He swung between tyranny and tenderness. He was ruthless with the nobility, but generous with the poor. He could not stand idealistic dreamers, yet he believed a better world was possible.
"I don't think you're a bad man," she said after a while. "You are quite yourself."
"They accuse me of being a Machiavellian, of being a heretic. How can I be on Satan's mission when I feed the two hundred beggars who gather outside my gates every day? I try to create work for the poor, hold down the price of food. I try to keep people on their farms and land under tillage. And all history will remember me for is a trail of dead queens."
"You sound as though you have hurt feelings. Never took you for a sensitive creature." She sighed. "Your family loves you. That is all that matters." She almost said: I love you. But the sentiment felt too sweet and simple for what she felt for him.
The next month, they left the city and headed for the Sussex coastline, for a small manor near the fishing village of Brighthelmstone. Elizabeth rode in the litter with Cromwell. They both pretended they rode in the coach so that Cromwell could do some work on the way. In truth, he was not strong enough to sit a horse. The steady rocking made Harr fussy, then drowsy. He slumped against his father's vest.
"The king will like her best." Elizabeth thumbed through the sketches that Hans Holbein had sent back from the continent. The Duchess of Milan was without question the most striking portrait. She had a fine dished profile, elegant as an Arabian mare.
"I was afraid you would say that," Cromwell sighed. "You never saw this letter." Cromwell passed her a crumpled note. In neat, feminine writing, the note read:
Dear Sir,
You may wonder why a Duchess would write in her own hand to a low man such as yourself. I beg of you: exert your influence with the king and do not allow my marriage to come to pass. I am only sixteen and I intend to live for a long time. I only have one head to lose. Should you rescue me from this marriage that your king seems so intent on making, I will consider it as though you personally saved my life. Rest assured that if I ever have cause to do the same for you, I will. I consider my life in your hands.
-Christina Sforza, Her Grace the Duchess of Milan.
V.
The Duke of Suffolk was, as usual, being a little thick. Edward concentrated on his solitary card game, while Brandon's arrogant voice boomed through the hall. Courtiers clustered around the king's presence chamber. No one except Brandon had seen the king in days and no one knew why. Except Edward.
"Well he never looked the picture of health, did he? Black, spindly toad. Now he has run off, hiding along the coastline in East Essex," Charles Brandon laughed. "Our Lord Cromwell is in retreat. He claims to be recovering his health. I think it makes a convenient story. He ran out of London like dog with a tail between its legs. He knows he's been sidelined."
Rumors raged through London that Cromwell had died, run mad, or fallen deathly ill. But Edward did not think for a moment Cromwell was in retreat. Perhaps after the death of John Lambert, Cromwell had decided to anchor in safer harbors. But Edward knew it was temporary. Cromwell was just waiting for a favorable wind to puff up his sails. Cromwell was good at waiting, lying so still a man forgot his danger. His most recent fever may have shook some of the arrogance out of Cromwell, but not his determination.
Edward glanced up from his cards and wished the duke would shut his trap. He worried that Brandon would keep blundering about, backing Cromwell up against the wall. Trap a frightened creature into a corner and watch the fangs and claws emerge. He palmed a letter in his pocket. He'd sent several messages to Cromwell that had gone unanswered. This would be his last attempt.
To my (unfortunately) brother-in-law,
The King is near death. His wound has overtaken his leg. My nephew is a frail infant who may not last the year. Please tell me what I should do.