Jolena: Henry is the real villain in this story. He's cruel, capricious, and now Cromwell must face the monster he helped make. You're right that Cromwell and Lissie's marriage has faced nothing but headwinds. Yet some people may never get a break…
Ursula-Este: I am so glad to hear an update is squeal inducing! I am sorry to make you like Catherine Brandon, but I think she's starting to find her own mind, her own voice, and stop listening to her tool of a husband. Henry is the real bad guy in the story, even though the whole male cast does not come off well in this story.
Dork of York: Oh yes, Lissie pulled a "Talk to the Hand." My goal was for her to become tough, without becoming hard. You're right that Cromwell is still scarred by the fall of Anne Boleyn and in the five stages of grief, he's at the bargaining phase:*help me out of this Cleves train-wreck and I will make your daughter queen and then we'll let bygones be bygones about me engineering your execution.* If only Cromwell could treat other people as well as he treats animals and small children…
Oh, and we will begin to see the seeds of a less b*** Anne Stanhope.
Nata: I agree Cromwell has had a life full of tragedy. I want him to catch a break, but he is so damn self-destructive.
IronPen: Brandon is up to his usual tricks, meaning he moves against anyone who is closer to the king than he. It's no secret, but I never liked Charles Brandon either in history or in the show.
Pandora: Oh yeah, Lissie got "Surried." Catherine Brandon on the show always annoyed me—totally passive aggressive and boring costumes. But I think I will follow history more closely with her character. As her marriage disintegrates, she will become a more outspoken Protestant.
Boleyn Girl: You are right that Cromwell can never shake the ghost of Anne Boleyn. Historically, I think he refused to speak of her. But in my story, she's almost become a sort of muse for him.
Oh, and the song that weaves through this chapter is the lovely, haunting, hypnotic, "Wash Away," by Matt Costa.
Her heels clattered against the floor-boards no matter how carefully she placed her feet. The door (disguised as a bookshelf) groaned to reveal half a dozen of London's most prominent wives, their faces relaxed and eyes intent. A young woman paced at the front of the room, preacher to a mismatched flock. Half of the sermon seemed prepared, the other half fell out of her mouth with a frenzy and sting.
I am through with being afraid, she told herself. Scared of her king. Scared of her husband. Scared of the fever burning up her heart. Thankfully, Catherine Parr waved her over and made a place for her to sit.
"It gives me such gladness to see you here," Cate whispered.
She merely nodded and squeezed Cate's hand. A more incongruent gathering could barely be imagined if someone had placed the names of each lady of the realm in a hat and drawn them at random. Jane Boleyn tucked herself into one of the dimmer corners, so her cool reptile eyes flicked back and forth in the dark. Anne Stanhope had boldly chosen a seat front and center, but her small mouth—always ready to dribble a little poison—remained shut. Her brown eyes fixed on the woman in front of them. They said her name was Anne Askew, she was a Bible woman, and she would preach the Gospels in English to anyone who had ears to listen.
"The words tell us that God made man!" Anne Askew thumped her own worn Tyndale volume. "And they want you to believe that priests can make a man from a wafer! Next they will want you to believe that man can make God, just because they tell you so!"
A few of the women gasped at the blasphemy, but Anne paused only long enough to push her wheaten hair out of her eyes and take a sip of water. She could be pretty, if her face were not so flushed with passion. Some called her, "The Fair Gospeler."
"She left her husband. Or he threw her out," Cate explained. Come to think of it, every woman in that room was, or had been, in a bad marriage. She hoped something a little more substantial than matronly disappointment united them.
"Is she in Lord Cromwell's keeping?" she asked.
"Hard to say," Cate shrugged. She lowered her voice and her eyes when Anne frowned at the chatter. "For the time being, we are all in Lord Cromwell's keeping, until milder winds blow," she murmured.
"The King has let idolaters, papists tug his ear and turn him away from the true word of God," Anne Askew continued fiercely. "But praise to Jesus, for sending us a German princess, a kindly, virtuous woman to lead England back to salvation. For salvation is within us all, no matter the depths of our secrets, the dark in our hearts. Faith—not the clink of coin in collection plates-but faith alone saves our souls." Anne's voice boomed as if she did not care who heard her—God, the Devil, or the cook. "Let us give thanks for gentle Anne of Cleves. Let us gives thanks to John Tyndale, who gave his life so we might have the true word of God! And let us give thanks to Jesus Christ, who will forgive us our sins!"
I have so many sins, she thought. There is still innocent blood on my hands.
"Let us say, Hallelujah! That we may be saved through the strength of our faith, whatever lies in our past!" Anne proclaimed. In that room, they were all women with histories to live down.
She covered her heart with her hands and whispered the words, timid to be heard. She repeated, Hallelujah, Hallelujah. Then her voice found itself and strengthened.
"Hallelujah, Hallelujah," Catherine Brandon said.
II.
"They're ready for you, Tom." Richard Rich swerved around the carved oak door. Cromwell pulled his chair close to the fire, even though it was well into April. He stared up at Rich with vacant eyes.
"The king's will be done," he mumbled. "Is Surrey in attendance?"
"No," Rich replied. "Not because he is slighting you, but because he is sleeping off last night's excesses. For what it is worth, he had his pants around his ankles, bare assed in the stool closet when someone ran to tell him the king made you Earl of Essex. He is said to have remarked, 'well at least I am sitting in the right chair.'"
Cromwell smiled wanly. This was Job's comfort indeed. He heaved himself from his chair, slowed by the heavy scarlet and ermine cloak. Rich caught his arm.
"Today is a victory, for you. For our faction. You are to be raised very high."
"All the further to fall," he replied bleakly.
Actually, the situation was not utterly lost: Tom Seymour and Francis Bryan had to carry the train of his ermine trimmed cloak. A herald bustled in front of them, shouting down the length of Westminster: "Make way! Make way for Lord Thomas Cromwell!"
Finally, Henry came into view, encircled by Charles Brandon and Edward Seymour. All the men wore the marks of peerage: scarlet cloaks and ermine mantles. Their coronets boasted pearls the size of robins' eggs. The king held his arms out for Cromwell as if they were dear, long parted friends.
"This is a long time in coming," Henry said. He sounded almost sincere. Cromwell mouthed "thank you" and plummeted to his knees.
"It is the king's pleasure," Secretary Risely read. "By this patent, to confer on Baron Thomas Cromwell the noble title 'Earl of Essex' and upon his heirs. And also by this patent to grant him lands worth 50,000 pounds a year, so that he may maintain the style and dignity of his office."
Brandon made a little strangled sound in the back of his throat, but Edward stared at some undefined point in the distance. The king limped towards Cromwell, so close his stinking leg almost brushed Cromwell's face. He offered Cromwell his hands, and Cromwell reluctantly placed his fingertips in the king's icy palm. He could not remember the last time he actually touched the royal hand. Cromwell supposed he might have received a warmer embrace from a rock or a corpse.
Henry pulled Cromwell to standing and waved over the page holding the coronet. The king held it over Cromwell's head for an eternal moment before resting it on his black curls. The coronet of an earl sat on an ermine rim, and its red velvet was encircled by a pattern of gold strawberry leaves and giant pearls. Cromwell had no idea it would be so heavy. He felt as though he were shrinking, compressing under the weight of it all: the cloak, the coronet.
"The patent of your nobility." Henry handed Cromwell the scroll.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Cromwell whispered.
"And now," Henry bellowed to everyone. "Let us to dinner, to celebrate the elevation of our most entirely beloved Cromwell!"
Brandon hung back, desperately scanning the blank faces. His insides were screaming. Did not everyone think that the scene they had just witnessed disturbingly resembled a coronation? Instead, Edward brushed passed him without an upwards glance. He paused and looked over his shoulder and shrugged beneath his ermine mantle. Apparently, Edward could live in a world where Thomas Cromwells could be vaulted from the stableyard into the peerage. Wise men told Brandon that change was the only constancy, but they read books. And who needed those?
As if Edward's indifference was not enough, he was actually polite to his brother-in-law as the privy council sat down to dine.
"Do tell us, my Lord Essex," Edward said as he broke off a pheasant leg. "How goes your Bible project?"
Cromwell smiled for the first time that day. "We have printed 3,000 texts in English. By the end of the month, we shall have enough for every parish in England."
"And what good will that do you, Mr. Cromwell, when most of the peasants cannot read," Brandon snorted.
"We could teach them," Cromwell said solemnly.
"Teach them?" Brandon snorted.
"Yes, Your Grace," Edward spoke up. "Just what about that proposition do you find ridiculous?"
The hairs on the back of Brandon's neck stood up, like a dog readying to fight. "I am surprised to hear my Lord Hertford take such a radical position."
"I am not among those who are afraid to let men think and ponder what they will," Cromwell said.
"Well, I will be sure to pass your sentiments on to the bishops you recently had arrested," Brandon sniped.
"My lords, gentlemen, please." Henry held up a regal palm. "If I desired this pettiness, I would make a place for myself among the ladies. Ah! Here is the main course."
Cromwell was alabaster at best, but when he saw the fowl served, he managed to turn a whiter shade of pale. Front and center, trussed up for royalty, was his friend. The mallard from the briar. He gripped the underside of the table. Oh Jesus, what about his mate? What if they have chicks? Cromwell wanted to sprint to the garden and scoop them up, protect them. Oh Christ, he wondered. What if they are for the next course?
"Lord Essex," Henry said slowly. "Duck stuffed with capon stuffed with dove. I had my cooks make it especially for you." The cooks had saved the skin of the duck, brilliant feathers and all, and remolded it over the roasted birds. The servers brought it to Henry first, who waved it over to Cromwell.
"I am sorry, Your Majesty, I…I…duck does not agree with me," Cromwell stammered.
"You deny a dish sent to you from the king's table?" Henry grit his teeth. He snapped his fingers at the servers. "Carve up a big slice of the inner birds for our Lord Essex. And leave the duck on his table, in case he changes his mind." Henry's lips thinned into a smile but his eyes hardened. "I insist, my lord, that you try the main dish."
Cromwell stared down at the hunk of meat dished onto his plate. He grabbed his knife and took a deep breath. He sawed off a piece of the dove and forced it into his mouth. It felt like chewing the jelly from horse hooves. He washed it down with a large sip of wine. Henry tsk-tsked.
"You are much, much too thin, my lord," Henry laughed. "You make us all look plump. I insist you finish the entire thing."
Cromwell supposed it was not the first time he had devoured one of his friends. Probably not the last time, either. Later, some of the pages would gossip the indefatigable Thomas Cromwell was seen under a full moon, on his hands and knees, clutching his side, and retching onto the finely sculpted green.
III.
Elizabeth pushed the door open to Cromwell's study without knocking. She had given that up long ago; they had no secrets left between them. He'd pulled his chair close to the fire and wrapped his ermine mantle tightly around him. His coronet slumped down over his thick brows. He nodded to her and lifted his glass.
"My lady. My countess," he hiccupped.
"Thomas, you're drunk," she said flatly.
"And on my way to getting drunker still."
"Try not to drink alone. It is a good way to ruin a reputation." She eased the coronet off his head, just in case it accidentally slipped into the fireplace. She hugged it to her growing belly.
"And I have such a virtuous name to protect. Let me see…first there was Wolsey…oh but he's dead. Then there was Saint More. But-" Cromwell made a cutting motion across his throat. "And then Catherine of Aragon…dead too. Of the cold, or of poison. I could never be sure."
"Stop it, Thomas. You are drunk. Let me help you to bed." She kept her voice low, but sharp.
"No, no. Do not stop me in the middle of my tally. And then Will Brereton. Henry Norris. George Boleyn. His lovely sister Anne." Cromwell made a chopping motion in the air at each name. "Oh, and half of about every village north of Doncaster." He poured himself another glass of wine. "If you ever lose me in a crowd, just follow the trail of dead."
"You're scaring me, Thomas," Elizabeth said quietly. She pulled away the wine skein that he had tucked tightly under his elbow. She moved for his glass, but he clutched it to his chest.
"Christ's blood," he swore. "How did you end up with me for a husband? How did I end up like this? Some days I think I am no better than my father." He drained the last of his wine. His eyes searched the crackling fire for an answer.
"Thomas," she began. She'd never heard him speak like this. Then again, she had never seen him this drunk. She placed her palm on Cromwell's knee. He barely noticed.
"Years and years later, when I returned and set up as a lawyer, I saw Walter in the stocks and pillories at Cheapside. He looked at me, I looked at him, and then I continued on my way. And that was that."
She leaned her cheek against his knee, and he absently caressed her hair.
"I've never breathed a word of any of that to a single soul. Not even my first wife. I don't know why I tell you now."
"Let me help you to bed."
A protest began and died on his lips. Sighing, he passed her his cup and slid from his chair. Elizabeth followed behind to carry the train of cloak; she could not bear to see the ermine drag across the floor. She smiled to herself: maybe the girl who had peacocked around Christmas court in a leopard stole was not gone after all.
She observed Cromwell from her unique angle. With his slouched shoulders under an ermine mantle, he looked as though he could be any king in any realm: the loneliest, most weighted man around. She pulled the cloak from him and made for his doublet but he waved her off.
"I am not a child, just drunk," he insisted. He fell back against their bed with a thud. "How is Harr?"
"Asleep. But he won't stay that way if you keep stumbling about like a lame bear." She yanked his boots off. As she cradled his knees and pushed his legs under the sheets, she added: "We might yet leave. We could roll up those quilts that I sewed coins in, the money from my Northern lands. We could leave with just that and be content. As long as we had each other…"
"He knows, Lissie," Cromwell shook his head. "The king knew we might run. And he made it clear I would never leave his service untifl…"
"The king will not wait much longer for you to give him what he wants," Elizabeth warned. "Give him the Howard girl. Send the queen to Cleves, to the country. God knows I adore the her—she is a poultice to the rot in this court—but why make yourself a martyr over her?"
"Because this is not just about a doe eyed queen!" Cromwell snapped. "This is about the Commonwealth, this is about the fathers who will not be able to feed their families when the price of food shoots up because England has been cut out of the trade routes! This is about the merchants that will go bankrupt because they will lose access to the German markets!" He pounded his pillow into submission. "And what is wrong with the queen at any rate? Why does she displease him? Why can she not fuck the king and get it over with?"
"I think we both know there is more to it than that," Elizabeth challenged. "Must it always be her fault?" She shut the bed curtains and climbed beneath the sheets. The glowing fireplace cast their shadows against the thin, silk curtains.
Cromwell rolled towards her. He arched a single, mischievous eyebrow. "I don't believe I have ever had that problem with you," he teased. Oh, God he must be drunk, Elizabeth thought, to bat his lashes and attempt to flirt. He smoothed his hands over her figure, tracing the orbit of her belly and hips. "I think we will have a summer baby," he remarked softly.
"I turned a little fat," Elizabeth admitted. She had lost the queasiness months ago and her appetite had become her master. The cooks were more than a little familiar with her. Fortunately, since she plumped up all over, her belly did not draw much attention.
"I think you are radiant," Cromwell said tenderly. His eyes softened and lightened. He'd meant what he'd said. Elizabeth sighed and kissed each of his heavy brows. At the puff of his breath on the nape of her neck, she hitched up her nightgown. His elegant fingers stalled over her navel before sliding between the thick furs of her thighs. Elizabeth turned on her side as he entered her from behind. She watched their shadows thrown up against the sheer, summer bed curtains.
Who were the characters in this shadow play? There was the child-bride come down from Yorkshire. There was the black furred monster, who trapped her in a room on the night that queens were to die. There was the woman who had bled out her baby all over the church floor. And there was the man who had fallen asleep against her belly, speaking Italian and French to life inside her. All the characters merged, and Elizabeth could not say where one ended and the other began when Cromwell was inside her, and their hands and feet entwined. After he shuddered against her, she twisted her head towards him, pressing her nose to his.
"I love you," she murmured into his flesh. But, he was already half asleep.
Late the next morning, Elizabeth had Harr in her lap, while they sat in the garden. Early blooming lilacs weighted the humid air with their perfume. She spread Harr's stubby fingers across a piece of paper and traced around them with drafting chalk. He giggled at the sensation.
"See?" she said. "It does not look like much, but put a beak here and some eyes here, and what do you have?" She filled in the open spaces.
"Ooh! A bird!" Harr cried.
"That's right sweetheart." She kissed the top of his head. "You are going to be just as keen as your father. If we fill in with blue and green, it will look like a peacock. They are the most beautiful birds, but cruel." She glanced up from Harr's curls at a ruckus fast approaching. Cromwell breezed into the garden with Ralph Sadler on his heels. Ralph struggled under the bulk of a crate, which shifted and…squawked?
"Thomas, I think that crate is quacking."
"Well of course it is," Cromwell huffed. "There are ducks in there." He pointed to where Ralph could set down the crate.
"Oh, right. That just explains everything," Elizabeth said drily. She searched his face for any sign he remembered the things he said and did the night before. Cromwell's jaw tensed as he set about prying open the crate. He seemed as steely and determined as any other normal day. But these were strange days.
"Out you go, love," Cromwell coaxed the bird. She peered out uncertainly before waddling forward. She smacked her beak at the chicks behind her, and they scampered forward. Harr clapped his hands in delight, and lurched at them. Cromwell caught the collar of his smock, sweeping him into his arms.
"Oh, no you don't, little man," he admonished. "They are new here, and they won't know if you mean them harm. Give them a chance to get to know us all." Harr watched the mother duck lead her chicks around and waved at them.
"We should construct a ramp, so they can get to the fountain and paddle around," Cromwell said, more to himself than anyone else.
The ducks nibbled and rooted around the green. Elizabeth groaned, shoving aside the rough drawing she had made with Harr. Sometimes Cromwell had a brilliant idea. But other times, his plans would only shit all over everything in time.
IV.
Two days before May Day, the king loudly hinted that he would appreciate a masque from the queen's ladies. The Master of Revels, John Farnley, tossed some silks and feathers at Elizabeth and told her to make do as she will.
"What performance?" she asked him.
"We already have the fortress from other sets. Just have some knights rescue some maidens," he shrugged.
"Do I look as though I am in the maidenly condition?" Elizabeth pointed to her belly.
"Ah, well, stand behind a prop," Farnley laughed. His face tightened, and he stepped towards her seat. Overhead, the notes of the queen's music lesson distracted their conversation. "I know you and Jane Boleyn have the most experience and are the best dancers of the lot. But…His Majesty wills that Mistress Katherine Howard have the lead role."
Elizabeth's full lips mashed shut. The king's will was supposed to be God's will. They must be the merriest couple, she thought. To coincidentally agree so often.
"I am picking up what you leave behind," she said carefully. Farnley nodded in understanding.
"Someone ought to tell the queen what is going on, for Christ's love," he said.
Later that morning, Katherine planted herself firmly next to Elizabeth as she sorted through the costumes. Elizabeth wanted to shake Katherine Howard loose, in the same way many men promised themselves they would never drink again. But Katherine trailed after her like a lost puppy. Elizabeth would make a study of obliviousness, but she would peer through her thick lashes to find Katherine watching every move she made, mirroring every manner, gaping at every jewel or unique dress cut.
"Such a pretty skirt," she cooed.
"These are a few years old," Elizabeth grumbled. "From when my sister was queen."
"No, I meant your skirts," Katherine said determinedly. "You dress differently than the other ladies."
"I dress to please myself." Elizabeth glanced over her stomacher to remember what she had actually put on that morning. A sky blue skirt under amber-orange velvet.
"The other ladies all dress the same. Not you." Katherine slouched against the wall. "My mother hated to be noticed. I don't know why. A girl is as good as dead if no one else notices her."
"There are worse fates than being invisible." Elizabeth ferreted out all the ostrich feathers she could. Katherine took it upon herself to help Elizabeth. "Should you not attend the queen?" she muttered.
"She is practicing her harpsichord. And I don't know anything about music."
"Surely your mother, your governess taught you how to pluck a lute, how to sing in tune?"
"My mother died when I was young. I never had a governess. My grandmother took me in, tried to take care of me the best she knew how." Katherine examined a peacock feather and tucked it in her hair.
"But what of your father?" Elizabeth asked, suddenly interested.
"He was the youngest. Inherited little except the Howard name. And he almost gambled that away, too. He knew nothing of children. So, he passed me on to the Dowager Duchess. I used to dream that my real family was a band of pirates, and one day they would sail up to Lambeth and—"
"What was your father's name?" Elizabeth hated to cut in on reminiscing, but business was business—as Cromwell never failed to remind her.
"Edmund Howard," Katherine said simply. "So anyway, I would dream my real family would come for me, and I would marry a pirate prince and have lots of children—"
"Lord Surrey is your uncle?" Elizabeth clarified.
"Of course. My father was his youngest brother." Katherine straightened a little. "I am not a bastard," she said stiffly.
At that moment, Elizabeth knew there was a God, and God had a sense of humor, because Edward Seymour was trying to make Anne Boleyn's cousin queen of England.
"Lady Rochford says you married very young, and got very rich off it. Now you are married to the Lord Privy Seal. My uncle says he is the most powerful man in England," Katherine continued. "So lucky."
"I would not be in any hurry to marry any man at your age, not matter how rich," Elizabeth replied coolly. At that moment, the clunky music in the background stopped. She heard a sniffle and then a door shut.
"The queen is very pious, to go to her closet to pray all the time," Katherine remarked. She compared a few sets of ribbons together.
"That is what queens do when they want to be alone," Elizabeth corrected. Or at least when they needed to cry in peace.
"Fancy shutting yourself away, when you could be out here? Trying on gowns, gossiping, dancing. I don't suppose you have dancing in your own rooms? Someone told me you have the biggest apartments, with your own gardens, and—"
"Listen," Elizabeth cut her off. "Lord Cromwell is not the dancing sort." She looked Katherine up and down, searching her pink, young face for anything resembling comprehension. Well, even Hans Holbein has to start with a blank canvas, Elizabeth thought. "Well, Mistress Howard, it seems you are to have the lead part tonight. How would it suit you to play Persephone to Francis Bryan's Hades?"
"Who is Persephone?" Katherine shrugged.
A blank canvas indeed, Elizabeth noted.
By dusk, Elizabeth was shooing the ladies of the queen's household towards the great hall. She reminded herself of that God damn duck that Cromwell had brought home, shuffling her chicks into a semblance of order. She gave a tug here and nip there as she straightened the women's costume: pearl encrusted bodices with black skirts. Katherine kept tugging her bodice down to plump her meager cleavage, and Elizabeth dutifully yanked it back up to her collar bone. As lead dancer, Katherine's skirt had been sewn entirely from black ostrich feathers: lighter than nothing.
"What if I forget the steps?" Katherine whined.
"Just remember, when the gold and silver confetti releases, you are supposed to cower and look sad because you are longing for your mother's light and warmth—not the Lord of the Underworld's cold jewels," Elizabeth reminded her. She felt a twinge of guilt at trussing up the queen's rival for the pleasure of the king, but if Henry was of a mind to put aside Anne of Cleves, then Elizabeth would risk damnation to keep her family safe from the king's ire.
The musicians struck up the first chord, and the ladies hurried out, pretending to search for their lost Maiden of Spring. Elizabeth was just about to step forward with her lute for her solo when Francis Bryan caught her elbow.
"I do not understand why I am made to play the villain again," he complained. "First I am the Turkish pirate, now I am Lord of Death?"
"So stop playing the part so well," Elizabeth sneered. She moved past him, but he caught her.
"What happened to you, Lissie? You used to be fun."
"I grew up, that is what happened," she said as she breezed past him. She took care to hold the lute a little lower than she normally would to shield her stomach from gossip and speculation. Elizabeth did not often sing or play in public, but everyone once in a while, a few chords floated through head; and she could sing deeply and in tune, so she imagined that was enough when the court was already half drunk.
"Oh, float down stream, rivers of dreams. Float down stream, catch your wings." As Elizabeth played, she watched out of the corner of her eye that Katherine not miss her cue. Persephone was supposed to rush around the garden, looking for a live flower where there was none. Katherine pattered out a beat late.
"Heaven's flight, so you fly. Catch your dreams in the sky." Elizabeth paused a beat to cue the gold and silver shavings to rain down. The court gasped and applauded as a small fortune fluttered like snowflakes through the hall. Elizabeth struck the next chord, so Katherine would know to whimper and hug herself. But, as the precious confetti rained on her, Katherine did something quite different. She threw open her long, thin arms and twirled, chin up and eyes closed in revelry. She twirled, and twirled. With each turn, her feather skirt caught more air, and soon it floated above her thighs. She whirled until the skirt flew high enough to reveal the crescent moon curve of a young girl's bottom.
Instead of Persephone shrinking from the cold wealth of the Underworld, Katherine Howard spun and threw her arms out. She ran her arms over her neck, smearing the flakes of gold and silver until she positively glowed. By then Elizabeth had long stopped playing and just stared as gape faced as any country bumpkin. But the king clapped and laughed. Clapped and laughed. He lost himself in his throaty chortle, so much that he did not so much as glance as Anne popped out of her chair like a wind-up child's toy. Elizabeth moved to follow the queen, but Francis minutely shook his head. She saw Cromwell's black outline trail after the queen, and she hoped that no one else saw it too. If the king got wind that Cromwell had taken the side of the wife instead of the mistress, Henry would box his ears 'til Christmastide.
Afterwards, Henry Howard ambled over to Charles Brandon. "Don't blame me, Your Grace," he said in his craggy voice, defiantly Northern. "Her father—my brother Edmund—was the same way."
"At least the king is amused," Brandon shrugged.
"Howard women!" Surrey laughed. "Always tough bitches to keep on the leash." But his tone dropped into seriousness. "Do you know how many nieces, nephews, distant kinsmen I have? Because I do not. But my table of descent is not so muddled that I do not remember cousins of mine who have been queen, and died on account of it."
"I thought, Lord Surrey, you would be pleased to see another Howard take the king's eye." Brandon slugged his wine back. Surrey nudged Brandon on his broad chest. His sad poet eyes scanned the room until they rested on Edward Seymour.
"Now they're a pair of mean creatures, Seymour and Cromwell, I mean," Surrey observed. "And I do not just mean their birth." He patted Brandon's chest. "You debase yourself and the honor of your name, your father's name, when you stoop so low as to meddle with men who only know how to advance themselves by killing off queens." He turned to leave. "Do you know how far my family stretches back? Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, does not promote himself as a pimp of his kinswomen."
"What are you telling me?" Brandon turned to face Surrey.
"That you will tread the path you have made alone. You, Seymour, Gardiner can whisper in each other's ears all you like." Surrey threw his head back and laughed. "What good is Cromwell dead? How else would I get my beef and venison during Lent?"
V.
Not a word passed between Elizabeth and Cromwell as they sat in his study. She fiddled with the melody she had played that evening. He answered his dispatches.
"My playing isn't bothering you?" she asked after a while.
"Actually, I think it is the only thing keeping me sane." He burrowed down into his fur robe.
"The Howard girl's performance was not my idea."
"I know it."
"Was the queen upset?"
"She asked to see her ambassador. And then she asked me for help." Cromwell drummed his fingers against the arm rest.
"The king will be wanting a divorce soon."
"Most likely." Cromwell sounded…not indifferent, just defeated. "Kit left for Antwerp this morning.
Elizabeth hit the wrong note and cringed. "She….she left?"
"Repeating it does not change it." Cromwell buried himself back in his dispatches. "She said it had gotten too hot in England for her. Perhaps…perhaps you might join her there…at least until things are more certain for us."
Elizabeth cycled the thought through her head. She could take Harr, and sleep soundly through the night, knowing that the Captain of the Guard would not pound on her door in the middle of the night. But the thought of bearing Cromwell's child on foreign shores gave her pause. If she left, their little family would only exist in the weather-stained letters they exchanged.
"No," she said slowly. Later, she would never be sure if her decision was brave, foolish, or in between. "No. We are a family. We will face the storm together, with our backs to the wind."
Cromwell nodded, as if she had just given him the answer he had secretly hoped for. He talked while he wrote: "I was thinking I might marry Gregory off this summer." Cromwell searched her face, waiting for a twitch to betray her. But she had no clue what response he wanted. "The Marchioness of Dorset has a daughter, almost eighteen."
"They are an old family, a good name…" Elizabeth trailed off. She meant to say it was a good name to hide behind.
"You are not enthused?" Cromwell hinted. He held her eyes in his own dark pools. His staring contest was cut short by Harr wailing at the top of lungs in the next room. His cries slid into a full scream.
"He probably just needs to be held. I'll take care of him." Elizabeth eased herself from her seat.
"No, he's too heavy for you to be lugging about in your condition; I'll see to him." Cromwell dotted the last "i" and crossed the final "t".
In the end, they both went to the nursery. The room was warm and brightly lit, but Harr held his fists to his eyes and struggled against his nurse. He whimpered something about "monster" and "too scary." His nurse rocked, murmured, coddled, yet Harr would only bury his face, refusing to open his eyes. Cromwell folded him into his arms.
"I shall take you through each room," he murmured against Harr's wet cheeks. "And you will see there are no monsters. I do not allow them. They can knock at our door all they like; I will never let them in." Cromwell motioned with his chin for Elizabeth to take one of the larger candles. She kept pace behind her husband and son, lighting their way for them. At first, Harr ferociously clung to his father, but as they made their way through each room, and Cromwell made a great fuss of turning over pillows and looking under furniture, Harr opened one eye, then another. In the presence chamber, Harr finally agreed:
"No monsters."
"No monsters. Only a dream sweetheart." Elizabeth ruffled his curls. He wriggled out of Cromwell's arms to stand on his own unsteady feet. Elizabeth was about to lead him back to bed when they heard frantic pounding on the door. She shared a look with Cromwell that said: is this how it is to happen? Is this how they arrest you? When you are in your robe and standing with your baby?
"Lord Cromwell! Lord Cromwell!" they shouted. "The king will see you at once!"
"It might be nothing," Elizabeth whispered. She noticed Cromwell's hands shake. He clasped them tightly under his fur sleeves.
"Lord Cromwell! The king will see you!"
"It might be nothing," she repeated. Instinctively, she folded Harr's hand into her own.
"If it is not nothing," Cromwell began. "Well, you know what to do." Which meant, grab all the money you can, grab Harr, and leave. He drew in a deep breath. He smoothed his hair and pinched some color into his cheeks. No one could ever know if the Lord Privy Seal was flustered, tired, or laid low. Cromwell sucked in another breath before he unbolted the door. He managed to wash his face of concern and replace his look with one of impatience as he threw open the door.
"Mind your volume, my wife and son are trying to sleep." Cromwell kept his tone clipped, and business-like. Henry's servants craned to get a view of Elizabeth and Harr, intrigued that Cromwell might actually have a family.
"Must excuse the hour, sir," one of them began uncertainly. "The king told us to fetch you and no one else."
"Allow me a few moments to dress—"
"Oh, no. Sir. His Majesty says it is so urgent you must come as you are."
Elizabeth pulled Harr against her nightgown.
VI.
None of the privy servants would meet Cromwell's eye as they let him into the king's bedchamber. Cromwell caught the familiar sweet-sour smell of the king's wound. He took a step further, and the miasma washed over him. The ulcer must be seeping again, he thought. Henry hunched by the fireplace. He scribbled furiously at parchment, admired the sketch and threw it aside. The king had pulled his hood over his head; from this angle, Cromwell could swear Henry was a monk gone mad.
"Hey." Henry glanced over his shoulder. He tossed another drawing aside. Cromwell dared a few steps without an invitation. When Henry shoved aside another sketch, Cromwell made out the subtle curve of a woman's calf, the unmistakable cup of her buttocks.
"I thought you never slept." Henry rolled over onto his back and took in Cromwell's robe. "Did I wake you?"
"No, my boy was up. Nightmares. They are susceptible at that age." Cromwell closed his lips before he said any more.
Henry's eyes filled with tears. "Sometimes I get word from Hampton Court that Prince Edward is costive, or that he is fretful. My poor boy. He is all I have."
Apart from four wives and two daughters, Cromwell mentally checked.
Henry staggered to his full height. "Never has a man's mind and heart been so fully in accord as mine are now," he sighed. "My marriage is cursed. I am impotent with the queen."
Cromwell swallowed a lump of bile. He picked through his words. "Perhaps…plenty of water with your wine…fresh air…".
Henry began to pace. "I am as fit a king as any in Christendom. Thomas More once told me I eclipsed King Francis."
Not exactly what Cromwell had overheard from Wolsey…
"If I am impotent, it is because I am unmanned. If I am unmanned, it can only be because—" Henry lowered his voice. "There is witchcraft afoot. There is a witch in our midst."
Cromwell's veins iced over. Witchcraft. The most dangerous accusation that could ever be leveled at a woman. Sorcery. Witchcraft. Black magic. The sorts of words that men threw at a woman for no better reason than they thought she looked at their penis askance.
One of the upper logs crashed on the embers below. The fire sparked again, and in the increased light, Cromwell made out the leopard trim of Henry's robe. He had seen that fur before, in another time and place, when another Queen Anne sat on the throne. At the time, Cromwell thought she was wearing the most garish dressing gown ever created. But when she threatened to crop him at the neck (and for the first time he knew that she knew that he knew she meant it) the spots on her robe melded with her flesh until Cromwell had not been sure where the woman ended and the predator began.
Henry had cannibalized the dead queen's furs into his own wardrobe, and now he told Cromwell that he wanted to be rid of another wife. Cromwell always believed that there was nothing he would not do for advantage or an extra pound to his estate. In a strange way, he felt comforted that he had just discovered the imaginary border he could not traverse.
"I believe the queen has put spells on me. She was raised in heresy, you know? I want you to investigate the queen and her servants. I think she has ill-wished my manhood. She plays it dumb, but she is a cunning—"
"No." It took Cromwell a few seconds to realize he had just spoken.
"I believe my wife is a witch. The law must deal with her accordingly." Henry waved Cromwell away, as if he had just sent him to the market with a list of eggs, vegetables, and meat.
"I believe Your Majesty is mistaken," Cromwell spoke up. "The queen is pious. She is shy. She is unworldly, but she is no witch."
Henry rounded on him, drunk but quick. "So, suppose I say I was enchanted into making the marriage. Suppose I say one of my closest advisors, by way of sorcery and black arts…." Henry did not complete the thought. "There are those eager to believe it of you." The king laughed and turned generous. "Oh, Tom, I know you bound your name up in this marriage, as much as me, but rid us of the German Mare and I will make it worth your while."
Cromwell clasped his hands. "I am afraid, Your Majesty, I have no remedy to offer in this matter." Henry had his hands around his collar before Cromwell saw the king take a step forward.
"You have the most wicked intellect from here to the Alps, but you say you cannot fathom—"
"I cannot suffer another dead queen on my conscience," Cromwell said with quiet dignity. Henry slapped him hard on each cheek in quick succession.
"I pulled you out of a piss-hole in Putney. I will throw you-and your pathetic little family-back to the rubbish. You are the richest man in England because I allow you to be." Henry turned back to his drawings. "Rid me of the German cunt, or be supplanted by those who will," he barked. He smoothed his hair and his temper. "Oh, and Cromwell. I wish to make a gift to Mistress Katherine Howard. The late queen Jane had some manors gifted to her, which reverted to the Crown upon her death. I want to give those estates to my….my little Kitten Howard."
Cromwell stumbled out of the king's chambers, gasping for fresh air. He stood, directionless, in the empty hall. He wanted to bundle his family aboard a ship bound for the next tide. He wanted to shake the queen and ask her why she was so damn awkward. He wanted to strangle his king with his bare hands. He could not go back to Lissie tonight, that much he knew. He could not face her wide, mild eyes and tell her that her sister's estates were to be settled on a girl who could be tumbled for little more than a few new ribbons.
He found himself in his offices, in his private closet. He knelt, crossed himself, and mumbled every entreaty in every language he had ever learned. As soon as the earl's coronet rested on his head, Cromwell suspected he was running on borrowed time. But now, there could be no doubt. He prayed for mercy against an unjust world, an unjust king. He prayed his sons would have an easier life than him. Cromwell was never one to lose himself in prayer, and out of the corner of his eye, he caught a red head bobbing through his offices.
Why in the hell was Ralph Sadler still working? Cromwell tracked his movements. It seemed Ralph was contemplating whether or not to filch a pear off Cromwell's desk. Inwardly, Cromwell rolled his eyes: it is just a piece of bloody fruit, Ralph. If you want a pear, then take the bloody pear. Would you like a bill before Parliament to make up your mind for you?
"My, lord!" Ralph exclaimed. Cromwell slowly turned to look at him.
"I'm sorry, sir! I did not see you," Ralph fumbled to fill the awkwardness between them. "I-"
"I was talking to God." Cromwell stunned himself when he admitted it. Ralph shifted uncertainly.
"Surely, sir, you have to go to church for that?"
Cromwell pulled his feet back under him and shook his head. "Ralph, do you understand nothing of our Reformation? God is not just in church. God is everywhere. And He does not need priests to speak for us. We can speak to Him ourselves, and He will listen. There is no need for bells, books, and candles, for incense. All you need is…your soul." Cromwell titled his head in thought. Then he smiled at Ralph. "Now go away," he said gently. "And think."
Ralph tried to understand Cromwell the best he could. He turned to leave.
"Wait." Cromwell called out. He plucked the biggest pear from the bowl and handed it to Ralph with a lop-sided smile that said: let us keep one another's secrets. He held the fruit out to Ralph an arm's length away. Ralph took it uncertainly, and then thawed when he realized he would not be scolded. He beamed at Cromwell and shuffled away.
Cromwell waited until Ralph's footsteps faded before digging around his desk. Like any man on borrowed time, he knew the sands were slipping through the hour glass; there was not much time to set things right. He fumbled through old letters (Wolsey's first solicitation of his services, his marriage contract to Bess, the letter Anne sent to him an hour before she died) before his long fingers found what they were looking for. He tucked the pearl choker into his fist before slamming the drawer shut on the memories within.
Dawn was not even an idea on the horizon, but Cromwell had already changed into his riding clothes. Elizabeth dozed on their bed, with Harr using her pregnant belly as a convenient pillow. Her forehead was too creased in worry for her to be asleep.
"Where are you going?" she murmured without opening her eyes.
"Business, in Kent. I will be back for supper."
"Are we in some sort of trouble?"
"God only knows. Keep Harr close to you." He hesitated. "Warn the queen as best you can."
In the stables, he tacked his favorite hunter, Bartleby, as quietly as he could. One of the grooms emerged with a lantern and a confused expression. Cromwell flipped him a coin, and he backed into the shadows.
"Surely sir, a high man such as yourself should not be concerned with saddling your horse," the boy murmured from the corner.
"I find I have two hands, and can do the job as well as any other man." Cromwell slipped the bridle over Bartleby's head. "If anyone asks for me, just say I had business in the country, but you could recall no more than that."
"My lord, the gates of the City will not be open until dawn."
"They'll open them for me," Cromwell remarked over his shoulder.
Once he clattered through the empty streets and cleared the perimeters of London, he turned south and cantered straight to Kent. There could be bandits, but at this hour, they were probably too drunk on mead to attempt a robbery. The stink of London faded and gave way to the scent of wet grass and honeysuckle. Bartleby had not been on the chase for some time, so his long legs held a steady, strong beat. Briefly, Cromwell remembered their mad pace, as they galloped to tell the king that Mark Smeaton had confessed to every imaginable sin with the queen.
Dawn woke up the farmers, and their wives prepared food stalls along the way. Cromwell asked which way to the Stafford farm, and all they could do was mutely point and gape at the well dressed man with the fine horse, a world away from London. He let Bartleby slow to a trot when he tired and sniff out a pond when he needed water. But despite a few sips here and a few stolen nibbles of flowers there, Cromwell reached the outskirts of Stafford's land by the time the noon sun hung heavy in the sky. He slowed Bartleby to a walk to take in the state of the tenants. Their homes were in good repair, and their fields were thick with grains. Neat rows of vegetable gardens dotted the roadside. You've done well by these people, Mary, Cromwell thought.
As he passed an oak tree, a pair of bare legs dangled in front of him. A girl, no more than ten, wrapped her legs around the branches and swung upside down to greet him. She frowned at the intrusion.
"Who are you? These are William and Mary Stafford's lands. No trespassing!"
Cromwell took a second look at the girl's eyes. They flashed turquoise fire not unlike….the king's.
"I'm Thomas Cromwell. And I am no trespasser. Who are you?"
The child flipped herself to rights and slid down the trunk. She straightened her skirts and puffed her chest. "I'm Catherine Stafford." She took in the quality of his boots and his horse. "You must be from court."
"I am an old friend of your mother's. Is she home?"
"Mama says I should not speak to men that Papa does not know."
"Your mother and your father are right. I'm an exception. How about this? I let you ride Bartleby, while we find your mother."
Catherine shyly pet Bartleby's haunches. "Is he mean?"
"No, just big." He slid out of the saddle and offered Catherine a leg up. "Remember what I said: I am the exception. You should not speak to men that you do not know."
Catherine nodded vigorously. Once Cromwell lifted her into the saddle, she held her chin high and practiced waving to imaginary crowds. Cromwell had no idea what sort of greeting to expect from Mary Boleyn as he walked up the path to the neat little manor house, with her daughter in tow. Mary stood at the fence and watched them approach for a while; Cromwell noticed her soft features change from incomprehension, to surprise, to uncertainty. Catherine waved eagerly at her mother.
"Catherine, get down from there this instant," Mary scolded. "Mr. Cromwell is a very important man from court, and I cannot have you bothering him."
"She is no trouble," Cromwell said as he lifted Catherine down. He patted her head. "Bartleby likes to be brushed and petted: why don't you fuss over him while I speak with your mother?"
As Catherine dashed off to find a brush, Cromwell and Mary stared at one another and the chasm of history that separated them.
"You look well, Mary," Cromwell broke the silence. "You have done well for yourself. Your fields are lush, your tenants are well looked after."
"It is hard work," she admitted. "Still, I would rather churn my own butter, brew my own ale, than sit down to another Whitehall feast." She wiped her hands anxiously on her apron. "You must be thirsty and hungry. We have plenty of food. It's simple, but good. I'll fix you a plate, then we can talk outside and enjoy the sunshine—and keep an eye on Catherine."
"She seems to have a mind of her own."
"It's the Boleyn in her."
A few moments later, Mary bustled out with a tray of soft, creamy cheese, warm bread, and a slab of ham. They watched Catherine unbridle Bartleby and sneak him fruit when she thought no one was looking.
"Is she…" Cromwell began uncertainly.
"The king's? Yes. Anne never knew. My father packed me off to Hever when I began to show. But when my family disowned me for William's baby, we took Catherine with us. I say that William is her father and that is all she need know." Mary sipped her ale in quiet thought. "Not much money changing in Kent; what brings you here? Trouble at court?"
"There is always trouble."
"I receive the money that you send, every month. You never sign the notes, but I know you send it. It is of great help to William and me." Mary tore a piece of bread off Cromwell's plate. "I hear that you married Jane Seymour's sister, and that you have a little boy."
"And another baby due this summer. Mary, I-" Cromwell said softly.
"Whatever you do, do not tell me you are sorry. Do not play contrite."
"Mary, I came here to say that…that I regret."
She shielded her hazel eyes against the sun. Other than a few freckles, Mary had not aged a day. Cromwell supposed she would not be able to say the same for him. She tracked Catherine across the pasture.
"That is a rare, fair thing in our world, is it not Master Cromwell? To be loved for oneself. Not for what connections you can provide or favors you can secure. But that moment, when someone looks at you, and you know they see you for yourself, and love you in spite of it." She turned towards him. "I do not believe you are completely heartless, not the way some people claim. Otherwise, your eyes would not look so sad." She finished her ale. "What really brings you here?"
"Mary…I…have something I think you should have. It belonged to your sister." He pulled the pearl choker from his vest pocket. Mary went still as ice when he handed it to her. "She wore it 'til the very end."
She said nothing, but pressed the cool pearls to her forehead. When she looked up, her eyes were red and tear streaked.
"Get out," she muttered.
"I'm sorry, Mary," he said lamely
"Get. Off. My. Land." Mary enunciated through clenched teeth. Her voice cracked. "If you do not leave here in ten seconds I will scream for my husband. Go back to court, and do not ever come back here."
Cromwell stood abruptly and bowed as if to a princess. As he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Mary's shoulder shake as she wept quietly. Catherine dropped the brush and ran to her mother. She smoothed Mary's hair whispering, "Don't get sad again, Mama, don't get sad."
Once back at court, the king shouted, slapped, screeched: "Where the hell have you been, Cromwell? Do you not know? Nothing gets done around here without you! Without you, I am surrounded by knaves! Knaves!" Cromwell bowed and meekly mumbled about "personal business", "countryside," "begging your royal pardon."
"What business could you possibly have that does not concern me?" Henry shouted. Cromwell figured if he was to be rebuked publicly, at least it was to the effect that he was indispensable. "Have you foisted a bastard on some milkmaid? Did you need to make reparations?" The king sniffled. "What were we to do without out you? Well, do not leave court again without my permission."
Cromwell slunk back to his office, but not so humbled that he could not slide Charles Brandon a satisfied smirk that the king just told the world that he cannot manage without his black badger. Actually, Cromwell did not mind the nickname. He'd been called worse things. He settled into his familiar chair to catch up on the paperwork he missed. Fortunately, nothing had gone serious wrong that day. The queen still had her head, the king was not trying to arrest the Pope, and Edward Seymour was not tormenting puppies in the royal kennel. He had just drafted a response to a petition for a preacher's license when his keen, fox ears picked up on the clatter of a woman's heels down the corridor. He rose, about tell Elizabeth to stop being ridiculous and get some rest for the sake the baby, but it was Catherine Brandon who peeked her small face around the door.
"Is anyone else here?" she asked shortly. Cromwell shook his head. She slipped behind the door without an invitation.
"Your Grace?" he asked uncertainly. "I trust you find my shipments…satisfactory."
Catherine did not answer but hugged her slight arms.
"Your Grace?" he asked again. "Are you well?"
"If I stood in your shoes, I would be hailing the first boat to Lambeth Palace," she said.
"I do not understand—"
"If I were you," Catherine repeated slowly, clearly. "I would stick my nose in at Lambeth Palace and pay an unexpected call on the Dowager Duchess."
Cromwell carefully parsed the message. "Why are you helping me?" he asked baldly.
"I never thanked you for your assistance, and your discretion, when I lost the child I carried." Her frightened brown eyes sparkled. "You and me, we are both in the mouth of the wolf." She folded herself behind the door as quietly as she had appeared.
VII.
Elizabeth fiddled with the melody she played while Katherine Howard danced under a rain of vanity and wealth. She never asked where Cromwell disappeared to that day. For an awful moment, she sickened that he might have left England in a tiny boat. But she knew he could never abandon her or Gregory or Harr: his family was his true religion. A chord and few words sprang in her head.
"The castles built so tall, only left us further to fall. Yet I see them far away as they wash away." She pushed the lute aside and knew she had to speak the truth. She made for the queen's rooms, pausing only long enough to shove her feet into her brocade slippers.
Anne was already in her nightshift, sleek and groomed as any mare awaiting a stallion to cover her. She made a little "ach" sound when she took in Elizabeth's nightgown and velvet robe.
"I must speak with your majesty." Elizabeth did not wait for an invitation to admittance in the queen's bed chamber. They both knew the king would not visit that night. Elizabeth pulled a stool close to Anne's chair.
"What have they told you about the former Queen Anne?" she whispered.
"In Germany, we hear she was a witch, when I travel through France, they say she made treason. But in England? No one tell me nothing."
"Anne Boleyn was no witch, and she was no traitor."
"I do not understand—"
"The king no longer wanted her," Elizabeth said gruffly.
"But, but who accuse her?" Anne demanded. Elizabeth put her finger to her lips. Anne got the message and lowered her voice.
"When the king needs witnesses, he makes them."
Anne shook her head, refusing to understand. "But she had a trial, yes?"
"I think, if the king offers you terms, a deal, you should take it and not look back," Elizabeth said.
"For a divorce?" Anne dared her to say it. Elizabeth nodded dumbly. "How do you know such things?" the queen demanded.
"Because I have seen this before."
"With your sister?" Anne did not wait for an answer. "Did the king kill the queen to marry your sister?" Maybe it was Anne's lack of English that made the words so blunt, but Elizabeth could not imagine any sort of gloss to make the truth more palatable.
"My sister and I were both ladies to Anne Boleyn," Elizabeth hinted.
"Like Katherine Howard?"
Elizabeth nodded. "You understand now how serious the situation has become?"
"But, your husband, he brought me here. He will not let the king replace me?" Anne insisted.
"My husband made possible the king's last two divorces. He found the witnesses against the queen." Elizabeth felt a tug of betrayal, but she could not repaint history. She could not reach back in time and make Thomas Cromwell to be someone he was not. Anne's eyes darted furiously as her logic marched on. Finally, she asked the question Elizabeth dreaded the most.
"Who spoke against the queen?" she demanded.
"One day, my husband summoned the queen's ladies—"
"You too?" Anne asked horrified. Elizabeth nodded.
"He locked us up, questioned us one by one. He told us the answers he wanted." Her stomach went sick at the memory, at that moment when she realized that nothing stood between her and Cromwell. He might have strangled her. He might have raped her. He could have made her disappear.
"You-you lied." Anne was stubbornly incredulous.
"I was terrified. When there's only you and Lord Cromwell in the room, and you realize that he can do anything, anything—" she could not complete the thought. "He is the sort of man who knows how to use fear and power. What I am saying here tonight—which I trust will not leave these walls—is this: the king and Lord Cromwell are dangerous men. They are not your friends. They are not to be trusted, especially when they look you in the eye and pledge their undying support."
"But you are married to…" Anne stopped herself. As if any wife really chose her husband.
"I am his wife, I bear his children. And I know what he capable of." Elizabeth straightened herself to standing. "I beg Your Majesty, if the king offers you any sort of arrangement, a way to go quietly, then take it. Because I have my own family, and I will do or say whatever it takes to protect them."
Anne nodded slowly in time with Elizabeth's words. "Who am I to trust?" she asked blankly.
"No one. You trust no one except your own heart and your own wits."
VIII.
Elizabeth had to admire Anne of Cleves as she sat under the canopy of the royal box. Anne held out her kerchief, ready to tie her favors to her chosen knight of the May Day joust. Anne wore a neatly tailored dress, structured, and it showed off her slim figure. Her face was more defined, less round, when she pulled her wheaten hair back with a diadem. Anne stood so straight and sure of herself, anyone else would think she had been the only queen to ever sit under that canopy. But three other women had sweated under that embroidered canopy, blaming the heat, blaming ill cooked pork. Three other queens had waved to the crowd even as they feared for their own lives.
"You'd think the king would order a new canopy," Jane Boleyn remarked, mirroring her own thoughts. "One can only embroider over so many initials." H + K. Then H+A. Then H+J. Now back to H+A.
"The king has practically run through the entire alphabet," she laughed, but it came out brittle.
"Who will you place your money on?" Catherine Brandon asked. She rarely came to court, but when she did, she sat with the queen as the senior noblewoman of the court.
Elizabeth studied the lists. "If you like to win: Richard Cromwell, my husband's nephew. If you like to stay out of trouble: Lord Surrey, Henry Howard."
"Not your brother, Tom Seymour?" Catherine prodded gently.
"No." Elizabeth tugged at her wedding ring. "No, I think not." From her vantage point at the queen's box, Elizabeth had an unobstructed view of Cromwell and Gregory seated slightly behind the king. She could practically hit the moment that Cromwell told Gregory he would marry the Dorset girl. Gregory's velveteen features went ashy, then frozen, then strained as he struggled to keep his composure. For a fleeting moment, Elizabeth felt a little jealous of the bride to be: a girl awaiting her first marriage to a pretty, learned, gentle young man, her stomach fluttering with a strange mix of nervousness and hope as she chose her wedding linens. Then she shook her head of it. Cromwell confused her, made her hungry, made her wet, and there was no sense in mourning for grains of time that had already slipped through her fingers.
"Master Gregory looks ill," Jane observed loudly.
"Master Gregory will get over it." Elizabeth shrugged. She used Jane to brace her weight as she heaved to standing. "I am going to see Richard suit up. I trust you ladies will help the queen lay her favors of where they are the most use."
In his tent, Richard struggled at the last moment to pin Cromwell's latest coat of arms to the horse's livery. Silently, Elizabeth took the needle and cloth from him. She carefully thread the needle through the cloth weaving in a over-under pattern and affixed it behind the saddle.
"No one told me Kit was leaving," she sighed.
"It was a hurried affair. One night we were eating dinner, the next morning she was packing." Richard pulled his chainmail hood away from his broad forehead.
"It looks to be a lean season for us Cromwells out there," Richard smiled. "But the queen looks happy-"
"That's what queens do," Elizabeth said tersely. "They swallow their own bitterness and eat their own fear, just so they can sparkle for everyone else." She patted his horse. "You aren't thinking of leaving, are you?" She hoped he might say yes. She hoped he might say no.
"Ah, my wife, Frances, she is too much a woman of London. She wants to stay, so we shall."
Elizabeth tied her favors around his lance. "And how is Gregory taking the news of his upcoming marriage?"
"Last I saw, my uncle was administering smelling salts to him," Richard crackled. "It's for the little squirt's own good. You best remind him of that." Richard turned away to finish suiting up. "Fucking May Day," he muttered under his breath.
On her way back to the queen's box, a giggle floated from the king's tent. Elizabeth caught the brief rustle of pink taffeta. Katherine Howard wore a smile like the cat that ate the pet bird. She smoothed her distressed hair and tried to walk as if nothing were awry. I do not know much in this world, Elizabeth said to herself, but I know women. I know when one has just had a man inside her. Katherine walked easy as the May breeze; no virgin would move her hips so carefree. Elizabeth deliberately placed herself in Katherine's path.
"Ooh, my Lady Cromwell, I did not see you," she said sweetly.
"Really? I find that difficult to believe. I am the size of a house."
Katherine laughed, thinking Elizabeth was making a joke. "Like one of Holbein's models."
Elizabeth closed the distance between them in a single stride. "How much is brother paying you? What has Suffolk offered you?" she hissed through her teeth. "Because my husband can pay you double, triple."
"I only take what the king offers me-"
"Has he offered you another woman's crown? He has offered many women the same thing, and most of them are dead."
"He loves me!" Katherine cried desperately. "I like to be loved. Is that so wrong, to want to be loved and treasured?"
"Katherine, I am warning you one last time: walk away while you can."
The teenage mistress screwed her lips into either a pout or solemn determination.
"Leave off the king. Else my husband will rip your stupid little life apart. And if he does not do it, then I will."
As Elizabeth left behind a dumbstruck girl, she muttered under her breath, "God Damn May Day."
IX.
Normally, Cromwell tried not to take any advice that was not his own. Yet, he found himself in his official barge, rowing up to Lambeth Palace, seat of the Dowager Duchess. Ralph pulled his cap over his head as the Lord Privy Seal's official badge fluttered on the flags behind them
"Are you sure it wise to make so public a procession?" he asked. "In an hour, Suffolk and Gardiner will have word that you have been looking into matters."
"Let them know. Let them marinate on it and sweat it out, wondering what I know." Cromwell straightened his gold chain.
"And once we dock, what do tell her Grace? 'Oh sorry to drop in unannounced. We heard you are running a glorified brothel. Mind if we have a look around?'"
"Have more faith in my powers of improvisation," Cromwell grinned.
The appearance of Cromwell's barge caused a minor blizzard of activity at Lambeth. The old dowager herself waddled down to the launch to greet her unexpected guest. Judging from the way the woman sway without a breeze and hiccupped, she'd had some honeyed ale for breakfast and little else. Cromwell surveyed the field and made his attack. He swept her an over-grand bow.
"Your Grace, you are as radiant as ever." The words rolled out like silk. She thawed immediately; attention from a handsome man at her age had become a rarity. She held out a ringed hand for him to kiss.
"My lord, we are pleased—just unprepared for such a distinguished guest," she simpered as Cromwell made a production of kissing her hands and taking them in his own. She glanced past him. "And who is this delightful young man? I would have thought a Putney man would keep company with ruffians. But he is as pretty and mild as a lamb."
"Oh, Master Sadler has a desperate reputation with the ladies," Cromwell laughed. "Ralph, stop embarrassing me and come kiss her Grace's hands."
She pinched Ralph's plump, young cheeks. "If I were thirty years younger, you would be in trouble young man. A woman of my age does not receive many male callers, not on her own account. They all come to see my girls." She turned frosty. "Is that why you two are here? To see the latest acquisitions?"
"Heavens no," Cromwell reassured her. "But Master Sadler and I come on an urgent matter….. I am so sorry to tell you this, Your Grace. But, there is a problem with your taxes."
"Why upon my word, I did not know I paid them." She fluttered herself with a Venetian lace fan.
Cromwell smiled slowly. "Perhaps Master Sadler could sit with you and explain things. I am sure we can clear up any misunderstanding this afternoon."
As they made their way to the palace, Cromwell pulled Ralph's stricken face towards his. "Keep her flattered. Keep her drunk. Keep her distracted." Every so often, their paths were pulled up short by a few girls chasing one another, or shrieking after a boy. His daughters would be about their age, and he was quite sure that Bess would never have let Anne and Grace leave the house dressed as wanton as these wild things.
"You run a liberal household," Cromwell remarked idly.
"Little monsters, all of them. How could I possibly be expected to keep order?" The duchess seated herself on a sofa and patted the space next to her. Cromwell nudged Ralph in the ribs.
"Oh, no," Ralph whispered.
"Oh, yes," Cromwell corrected. "Your grace, have Master Sadler advise you. You wouldn't mind if I inspected the gardens? I need some new ideas for my London house."
"Just-just keep your wandering to the gardens," she said firmly.
It did not take Cromwell long to figure out what the old battle axe was hiding. Every corner he turned, he practically smacked into a couple with their hands hidden down breeches and up skirts. Girls and boys dashed back and forth from their separate sleeping quarters. Cromwell doubted the holy Mother Mary could have left this place intact.
As soon as he mentioned Katherine's name, every girl smirked and said: "Go ask Francis Dereham." Every young man turned coy and said: "Oh, Katherine, I know Katherine."
He located Dereham outside, swinging his sword wildly at an oak tree. A young woman watched him, looking irritated and resigned at once. Dereham was shouting something, but the context was murky.
"And now! Now they are taking her away from me! I said: Kitten, wait for me. I'll come back from Ireland, I'll marry you like we promised. Now, they are taking her away from me!" he raged at the tree.
"That's a fine sword arm you have young man," Cromwell interrupted. Actually, he thought Dereham would not last a single summer in Italy with that sort of flailing. The girl made quick arithmetic of his chain of office and fine velvet robes. She dropped into a quick curtsey.
"Francis," she hissed. "Show some deference to your betters. Sorry, my lord. Francis is slow on the uptake. "
"And you are?" he asked.
"Joan. Joan Bulmer." She frantically smoothed her thick brown hair. Her face was broad, unremarkable, but she fluttered her lashes.
Cromwell made himself a seat against the oak. "Now I am a man who can solve problems. Who is taking your lady away?"
Dereham stabbed his sword into the soil. "My little Katherine Howard. We are pre-contracted, you know. But now the Duchess says we cannot marry and I must put her from my mind. They took her away to court."
Cromwell watched Joan's face pinch and harden. A solitary tear slid down her cheek. "You will miss your friend?" he guessed. He pulled an orange from his pocket and began to peel it.
"Why should I not be happy? Everything irons smoothly for Kathy. All the men wanted her—Mannox would not look twice at me—"
"Mannox?" Cromwell asked.
"The music teacher," Dereham explained. He went back to practicing war. "He was a sweaty lout who tried to teach the virginals. Kathy liked to lead him on, she wasn't but 12 or 13. Who knows how far Mannox might have gone had she not met a real man—"
"A real man?" Joan sneered. "Like you, Francis?"
"I was man enough for you once, wasn't I?" he shot back.
"Piss off Francis!"
"Children!" Cromwell said tiredly. He divided the orange slices between himself and Joan. She chewed thoughtfully.
"The Old Battle Axe tells us to think well on Kathy, that she is about to be raised to the greatest station in the land. Is it true?" Joan's lips trembled. Cromwell could see her life written on her face: forever in the shadow of lovelier women.
"It is a distinct possibility," Cromwell admitted. "Take heart, Mistress Bulmer. Have no envy for your friend. Should she be…promoted…there is no reason you cannot rise with her star." An idea formed itself in Cromwell's mind, and he smiled.
"Oh, Kathy will have nothing to do with our pedigree. Surrounded by people like Suffolk and the king," Dereham noted bitterly.
"Should Mistress Howard find herself a woman of means, there is no reason for her to deny you both favors—like placement in her household. Write to her, plead the wretchedness of your lives…and then remind her of where she came from, friends you share in common." Cromwell stood to leave and flipped his last orange to Joan with his most charming grin. "Information is more valuable than gold. And you, children, have all the information you need on Katherine Howard. Any favor is yours for the asking from her."
On the boat ride back, Ralph sat stricken. "I hope you appreciate the extent to which I serve you." He wiped his mouth of the Duchess's wet kisses.
"We all make our sacrifices for England, Ralph. A few pinches, and few kisses—I say you got off rather lightly." Cromwell tipped his head up to enjoy the late May sun: warm, but not oppressive. He felt better than he had in months.
"Do we at least have enough to bring down the Howard chit?"
Cromwell closed his eyes and basked in the sun like a cat. "The beautiful thing is: Katherine did all of our work for us. She will be disgraced. Those who jumped her up will tumble down with her."
X.
Edward and Anne Stanhope glared across the table at Gardiner. He returned their look with about as much warmth as a lizard. Brandon shuffled a deck of cards. Francis burst into the room, rescuing everyone from the silence.
"I called this meeting because we need to move quickly," he said.
"Why?" Edward challenged. "Cromwell will not budge on the Cleves marriage one way or the other. He is doing our work for us."
"Because Cromwell has been poking around Lambeth."
Edward shrugged. "What is that to me?"
Francis sucked in a quick breath, and Brandon's cards went still.
"What is the problem? Why should we worry what is at Lambeth?" Edward insisted.
"Remember I said that her upbringing was unconventional? It's a little more than that. Loose was probably the better word."
"The king has already had her. She is no virgin one way or the other," Anne snorted.
"Thomas Wyatt almost lost his head for loving a woman before she became queen," Brandon said quietly. He threw down his cards. "Francis is right: now is the time to strike. The French are sick of Cromwell always sidelining them in favor of the Emperor, and let it be known how much relations would improve without Cromwell in the way. The king has always wanted a French alliance. It's only Cromwell with his damn army of bankers and merchants that pushes the Imperial agenda."
"We need to move quickly," Francis repeated. "Because if that black badger tittle-tattles to the king about Katherine's...escapades..."
Anne stared at Edward and mouthed: "do something." They were both uneasy about moving in the same pack as Gardiner. They both worried about who would fill the space left by Cromwell.
Instead, Edward heard himself say: "Fine, we move forward with what we have."
Secretly, Edward worried that nothing could destroy Cromwell. Like broken bones, his wounds and defeats fused together to create an even stronger mass. God save us all, Edward thought, if Cromwell survives this scrape. He thought about that stupid song that Lissie would not stop singing: the castles we built were so tall. They only left us further to fall.
Well dear readers and loyal reviewers, one final chapter to go. And I still don't know how it will end.