‘Good,’ Richard says, ‘because otherwise, I’d have to pull your head off, and cast it up the tree with the cat.’
‘Richard, believe me,’ Wriothesley says, ‘if I were the bishop’s partisan, I would be with him on his embassy, not here with you.’ Tears well into his eyes. ‘I am trying to make some sense of what Master Secretary intends. But all you care about is the cat, and trying to frighten me. You are making me pick my way through thorns.’
‘I see the wounds,’ he says gently. ‘When you write to Stephen Gardiner, tell him I will see what I can get him by way of spoils. George Boleyn had a grant of two hundred pounds a year out of the revenues of Winchester. For a start, he can have that back.’
He thinks, that will not mollify the bishop. It’s just a token of goodwill for a disappointed man. Stephen hoped that when Anne Boleyn fell she would take me with her.
‘You talk of the cardinal’s enemies,’ Richard says. ‘Now I would put Bishop Gardiner among them. Yet he is not harmed, is he?’
‘He thinks he is harmed,’ Wriothesley says. ‘After all, he was the cardinal’s confidant, till Master Cromwell shouldered him aside. He was Secretary to the king, till Master Cromwell whipped his office from under his feet. The king sent him out of the realm, and he knows Master Cromwell contrived it.’
True. All true. Gardiner knows how to do damage, even from France. He knows how to scratch the skin and poison the body politic. He says, ‘Any notion that I hold a grudge against my sovereign – it is some fantasy out of the bishop’s sick brain. What have I, but what my king gives me? Who am I, but who he has made me? All my trust is in him.’
Wriothesley says, ‘But shall I carry a message to Nicholas Carew? Will you meet him? I think you ought.’
‘Placate him?’ Richard says. ‘No.’ He draws the window shut. ‘My money is on Purser to catch her.’
‘Mine is on the cat.’ He imagines the world below her: through the prism of her great eye, the limbs of agitated men unfurl like ribbons, yearning through the darkness. Perhaps she thinks they are praying to her. Perhaps she thinks she has climbed up to the stars. Perhaps the darkness falls away from her in flecks and sparks of light, the roofs and gables like shadows in water; and when she studies the net there is no net, only the spaces between.
‘I think we should have a drink,’ he tells Wriothesley. ‘We will have lights. And a fire, by and by. Send Christophe in, when he comes from the garden. He will show us how the French start a blaze. Perhaps we will burn Carew’s letter, Mr Wriothesley, what do you think?’
‘What do I think?’ It is almost a snarl worthy of Gardiner himself. ‘I think, Norfolk is against you, the bishop is against you, and now you are going to take on the old families as well. God help you, sir. You are my master. You have my service, and you have my prayers. But by the holy bones! Do you think these people brought the Boleyns down so you could be cock of the walk?’
‘Yes,’ Richard says. ‘That’s exactly what we think. It may not have been their intention. But we aim to make that the result.’
How steady Richard’s arm, stretching to hand him the glass. How steady his own, accepting it. ‘Lord Lisle sends this wine from Calais,’ he says.
‘Confusion to our enemies,’ Richard says. ‘Good luck to our friends.’
Wriothesley says, ‘I hope you can tell them apart.’
‘Call-Me, warm your poor shaking heart.’ He casts a glance at the window, sees a faint fogged outline of himself. ‘You can write to Gardiner and tell him he has money coming. Then we have ciphers to break.’
Someone has brought a torch into the garden below. A dusky flicker fills the panes. His shadow in the window raises a hand; he inclines his head to it. ‘Drink my health.’
That night he dreams the death of Anne Boleyn, in panels. In the first he stands watching as she walks to the scaffold, wearing her clumsy gable hood. In the second she kneels in a white cap while the Frenchman raises his sword. In the last, her severed head, smothered in linen, bleeds its image into the weave.
He wakes as the cloth is shaken out. If her face is imprinted, he is too dazed to see it. It is 20 May 1536.
II
Salvage
London, Summer 1536
‘Where’s my orange coat?’ he says. ‘I used to have an orange coat.’
‘I have not seen it,’ says the boy Christophe. He says it sceptically, as if he were talking about a comet.
‘I put it away. Before I brought you here. While you were still across the sea, blessing a Calais dunghill with your presence.’
‘You scorn me.’ Christophe is offended. ‘Yet it was I who caught the cat.’
‘You did not!’ Gregory says. ‘It was Dick Purser caught the cat. All Christophe did, he stood by making hunting cries. Now he looks to get the credit!’
His nephew Richard says, ‘You put that coat away when the cardinal came down. You had no heart for it.’
‘Yes, but now I am feeling cheerful. I am not going to appear before the bridegroom as a mourner.’
‘No?’ Christophe says. ‘With this king one needs a reversible garment. One never knows, is it dying or dancing?’
‘Your English is improving, Christophe.’
‘Your French is where it was.’
‘What do you expect, of an old soldier? I am not likely to write verse.’
‘But you curse well,’ Christophe says, encouragingly. ‘Perhaps the best I have heard. Better than my father, who as you know was a great robber and feared through his province.’
‘Would your father recognise you?’ Richard Cromwell asks. ‘I mean, if he saw you now? Half an Englishman, and in my uncle’s livery?’
Christophe turns down his mouth. ‘By now he is probably hanged.’
‘Don’t you care?’
‘I spit on him.’
‘No need for that,’ he says soothingly. ‘Coat, Christophe? Go and seek?’
Gregory says, ‘The last time we all went out together …’
Richard says, ‘Do not. Do not say it. Do not even think of the other one.’
‘I know,’ Gregory says amiably. ‘My tutors have imbued me with it, from my earliest days. Do not talk about severed heads at a wedding.’
The king’s wedding was in fact yesterday, a small and private ceremony; today they are a loyal deputation, ready to congratulate the new queen. The colours of his working wardrobe are those sombre and expensive shades the Italians call berettino: the grey-brown of leaves around the feast of St Cecilia, the grey-blue of Advent light. But today an effort is called for, and Christophe is helping him into his festival garment, marvelling at it, when Call-Me-Risley hurries in. ‘Not late, am I?’ He stands back. ‘Sir, are you wearing that?’