Wolf Hall (22 page)

Anne is eager to make a start with Greek. He is thinking who best to teach her, asking around. He wants someone congenial, whom he can talk to over supper, a young scholar who will live in the house. He regrets the choice of tutor he's made for his son and nephews, but he won't take them away at this point. The man is quarrelsome, and to be sure there was a sad episode when one of the boys set fire to his room, because he'd been reading in bed with a candle. “It wouldn't be Gregory, would it?” he'd said, always hopeful; the master seemed to think he was treating it as a joke. And he's always sending him bills that he believes he's paid; I need a household accountant, he thinks.

He sits at his desk, piled high with drawings and plans from Ipswich and Cardinal College, with craftsmen's estimates and bills for Wolsey's planting schemes. He examines a scar in the palm of his hand; it is an old burn mark, and it looks like a twist of rope. He thinks about Putney. He thinks about Walter. He thinks about the jittery sidestep of a skittish horse, the smell of the brewery. He thinks about the kitchen at Lambeth, and about the towheaded boy who used to bring the eels. He remembers taking the eel-boy by the hair and dipping his head in a tub of water, and holding it under. He thinks, did I really do that? I wonder why. The cardinal's probably right, I am beyond redemption. The scar sometimes itches; it is as hard as a spur of bone. He thinks, I need an accountant. I need a Greek tutor. I need Johane, but who says I can have what I need?

He opens a letter. It is from a priest called Thomas Byrd. He is in want of money, and it seems the cardinal owes him some. He makes a note, to have it checked out and paid, then picks up the letter again. It mentions two men, two scholars, Clerke and Sumner. He knows the names. They are two of the six college men, the Oxford men who had the Lutheran books. Lock them up and reason with them, the cardinal had said. He holds the letter and glances away from it. He knows something bad is coming; its shadow moves on the wall.

He reads. Clerke and Sumner are dead. The cardinal should be told, the writer says. Having no other secure place, the Dean saw fit to shut them in the college cellars, the deep cold cellars intended for storing fish. Even in that silent place, secret, icy, the summer plague sought them out. They died in the dark and without a priest.

All summer we have prayed and not prayed hard enough. Had the cardinal simply forgotten his heretics? I must go and tell him, he thinks.

It is the first week in September. His suppressed grief becomes anger. But what can he do with anger? It also must be suppressed.

But when at last the year turns, and the cardinal says, Thomas, what shall I give you for a new-year gift?, he says, “Give me Little Bilney.” And without waiting for the cardinal to answer he says, “My lord, he has been in the Tower for a year. The Tower would frighten anyone, but Bilney is a timid man and not strong and I am afraid he is straitly kept, and my lord, you remember Sumner and Clerke and how they died. My lord, use your power, write letters, petition the king if you must. Let him go.”

The cardinal leans back. He puts his fingertips together. “Thomas,” he says. “My dear Thomas Cromwell. Very well. But Father Bilney must go back to Cambridge. He must give up his project of going to Rome and addressing the Pope to bring him to a right way of thinking. There are very deep vaults under the Vatican, and my arm will not be able to reach him there.”

It is at the tip of his tongue to say, “You could not reach into the cellars of your own college.” But he stops himself. Heresy—his brush with it—is a little indulgence that the cardinal allows him. He is always glad to have the latest bad books filleted, and any gossip from the Steelyard, where the German merchants live. He is happy to turn over a text or two, and enjoy an after-supper debate. But for the cardinal, any contentious point must be wrapped around and around again with a fine filament of words, fine as split hairs. Any dangerous opinion must be so plumped out with laughing apologies that it is as fat and harmless as the cushions you lean on. It is true that when he was told of the deaths underground, my lord was moved to tears. “How could I not have known?” he said. “Those fine young men!”

He cries easily in recent months, though that does not mean his tears are less genuine; and indeed now he wipes away a tear, because he knows the story: Little Bilney at Gray's Inn, the man who spoke Polish, the futile messengers, the dazed children, Elizabeth Cromwell's face set in the fixed severity of death. He leans across his desk and says, “Thomas, please don't despair. You still have your children. And in time you may wish to marry again.”

I am a child, he thinks, who cannot be consoled. The cardinal places his hand over his. The strange stones flicker in the light, showing their depths: a garnet like a blood bubble; a turquoise with a silver sheen; a diamond with a yellow-gray blink, like the eye of a cat.

He will never tell the cardinal about Mary Boleyn, though the impulse will arise. Wolsey might laugh, he might be scandalized. He has to smuggle him the content, without the context.

Autumn 1528: he is at court on the cardinal's business. Mary is running toward him, her skirts lifted, showing a fine pair of green silk stockings. Is her sister Anne chasing her? He waits to see.

She stops abruptly. “Ah, it's you!”

He wouldn't have thought Mary knew him. She puts one hand against the paneling, catching her breath, and the other against his shoulder, as if he were just part of the wall. Mary is still dazzlingly pretty; fair, soft-featured. “My uncle, this morning,” she says. “My uncle Norfolk. He was roaring against you. I said to my sister, who is this terrible man, and she said—”

“He's the one who looks like a wall?”

Mary takes her hand away. She laughs, blushes, and with a little heave of her bosom tries to get her breath back.

“What was my lord of Norfolk's complaint?”

“Oh . . .” she flaps a hand to fan herself, “he said, cardinals, legates, it was never merry in England when we had cardinals among us. He says the Cardinal of York is despoiling the noble houses, he says he will have all to rule himself, and the lords to be like schoolboys creeping in for a whipping. Not that you should take any notice of what I say . . .”

She looks fragile, breathless still: but his eyes tell her to talk. She gives a little laugh and says, “My brother George roared too. He said that the Cardinal of York was born in a hospital for paupers and he employs a man who was born in the gutter. My lord father said, come now, my dear boy, you lose nothing if you are exact: not quite a gutter, but a brewer's yard, I believe, for he's certainly no gentleman.” Mary takes a step back. “You look a gentleman. I like your gray velvet, where did you find that?”

“Italy.”

He has been promoted, from being the wall. Mary's hand creeps back; absorbed, she strokes him. “Could you get me some? Though a bit sober for a woman, perhaps?”

Not for a widow, he thinks. The thought must show on his face because Mary says, “That's it, you see. William Carey's dead.”

He bows his head and is very correct; Mary alarms him. “The court misses him sadly. As you must yourself.”

A sigh. “He was kind. Given the circumstances.”

“It must have been difficult for you.”

“When the king turned his mind to Anne, he thought that, knowing how things are done in France, she might accept a . . . a certain position, in the court. And in his heart, as he put it. He said he would give up all other mistresses. The letters he has written, in his own hand . . .”

“Really?”

The cardinal always says that you can never get the king to write a letter himself. Even to another king. Even to the Pope. Even when it might make a difference.

“Yes, since last summer. He writes and then sometimes, where he would sign Henricus Rex . . .” She takes his hand, turns up his palm, and with her forefinger traces a shape. “Where he should sign his name, instead he draws a heart—and he puts their initials in it. Oh, you mustn't laugh . . .” She can't keep the smile off her face. “He says he is suffering.”

He wants to say, Mary, these letters, can you steal them for me?

“My sister says, this is not France, and I am not a fool like you, Mary. She knows I was Henry's mistress and she sees how I'm left. And she takes a lesson from it.”

He is almost holding his breath: but she's reckless now, she will have her say.

“I tell you, they will ride over Hell to marry. They have vowed it. Anne says she will have him and she cares not if Katherine and every Spaniard is in the sea and drowned. What Henry wants he will have, and what Anne wants she will have, and I can say that, because I know them both, who better?” Her eyes are soft and welling with tears. “So that is why,” she says, “why I miss William Carey, because now she is everything, and I am to be swept out after supper like the old rushes. Now I'm no one's wife, they can say anything they like to me. My father says I'm a mouth to feed and my uncle Norfolk says I'm a whore.”

As if he didn't make you one. “Are you short of money?”

“Oh, yes!” she says. “Yes, yes, yes, and no one has even thought about that! No one has even asked me that before. I have children. You know that. I need . . .” She presses her fingers against her mouth, to stop it trembling. “If you saw my son . . . well, why do you think I called him Henry? The king would have owned him as his son, just as he has owned Richmond, but my sister forbade it. He does what she says. She means to give him a prince herself, so she doesn't want mine in his nursery.”

Reports have been sent to the cardinal: Mary Boleyn's child is a healthy boy with red-gold hair and lively appetites. She has a daughter, older, but in the context that's not so interesting, a daughter. He says, “What age is your son now, Lady Carey?”

“Three in March. My girl Catherine is five.” Again she touches her lips, in consternation. “I'd forgotten . . . your wife died. How could I forget?” How would you even know, he wonders, but she answers him at once. “Anne knows everything about people who work for the cardinal. She asks questions and writes the answers in a book.” She looks up at him. “And you have children?”

“Yes . . . do you know, no one ever asks me that either?” He leans one shoulder against the paneling, and she moves an inch closer, and their faces soften, perhaps, from their habitual brave distress, and into the conspiracy of the bereft. “I have a big boy,” he says, “he's at Cambridge with a tutor. I have a little girl called Grace; she's pretty and she has fair hair, though I don't . . . My wife was not a beauty, and I am as you see. And I have Anne, Anne wants to learn Greek.”

“Goodness,” she says. “For a woman, you know . . .”

“Yes, but she says, ‘Why should Thomas More's daughter have the preeminence?' She has such good words. And she uses them all.”

“You like her best.”

“Her grandmother lives with us, and my wife's sister, but it's not . . . for Anne it's not the best arrangement. I could send her into some other household, but then . . . well, her Greek . . . and I hardly see her as it is.” It feels like the longest speech, unless to Wolsey, that he's made for some time. He says, “Your father should be providing properly for you. I'll ask the cardinal to speak to him.” The cardinal will enjoy that, he thinks.

“But I need a new husband. To stop them calling me names. Can the cardinal get husbands?”

“The cardinal can do anything. What kind of husband would you like?”

She considers. “One who will take care of my children. One who can stand up to my family. One who doesn't die.” She touches her fingertips together.

“You should ask for someone young and handsome too. Don't ask, don't get.”

“Really? I was brought up in the other tradition.”

Then you had a different upbringing from your sister, he thinks. “In the masque, at York Place, do you remember . . . were you Beauty, or Kindness?”

“Oh . . .” she smiles, “that must be, what, seven years ago? I don't remember. I've dressed up so many times.”

“Of course, you are still both.”

“That's all I used to care about. Dressing up. I remember Anne, though. She was Perseverance.”

He says, “Her particular virtue may be tested.”

Cardinal Campeggio came here with a brief from Rome to obstruct. Obstruct and delay. Do anything, but avoid giving judgment.

“Anne is always writing letters, or writing in her little book. She walks up and down, up and down. When she sees my lord father she holds up a palm to him, don't dare speak . . . and when she sees me, she gives me a little pinch. Like . . .” Mary demonstrates an airy pinch, with the fingers of her left hand. “Like that.” She strokes the fingers of her right hand along her throat, till she reaches the little pulsing dip above her collarbone. “There,” she says. “Sometimes I am bruised. She thinks to disfigure me.”