Page 22 of Boleyn Traitor
‘We’re all in love with you,’ George says lightly. ‘Now go to bed.’
He takes her hand and leads her to bed. She gets in, obedient to her brother, and he kisses her on the mouth as if she were his daughter.
‘Sleep,’ he says, with his familiar charming smile. ‘None of this matters to the mother of a prince. The king will get nowhere with Seymour the Virgin, and he’ll tire of Mary Shelton as soon as he’s allowed to come back to you.’ He glances over to me, as I tie my nightcap. ‘Goodnight, Jane. I’m glad you’re back at court.’
‘Oh, did you miss me so very much?’ I ask bitterly.
‘Hush,’ Anne says. ‘I can’t be bothered with you two squabbling.’
He throws a smiling salute and disappears to the king’s private rooms without another word.
MASTERSECRETARYCROMWELL, my new patron, is with the king at the service of Prime in the royal chapel, sliding letters for signature, one after another across the prie-dieu. Everything is the same but the king, who is shockingly different. He has grown his beard from ear to ear and his hair is cropped short. I see that this harsh shearing is to hide the thinning of his hair, and the new beard conceals his thickening neck. I would not have recognised the handsome prince of my girlhood in this middle-agedman, whose scalp shines pink through a greying fuzz, whose shoulders, broadened by pads and embroidery, cannot mask the huge belly he carries. He looks more like one of the old lords, running to fat, with a red-veined nose, than like one of the handsome young men of court – his juniors. He can order that they cut their hair to match his thinning scalp, he can order that they pad their doublets to mirror his weight, but he still looks old enough to be their father – he will never again be the first among equals. His leg, stiff from a boyhood jousting injury, is resting on a stool. He raises his head to watch the priest, repeats ‘Amen’ without conviction, and bows again to sign and sign, glancing over his orders, nodding approval.
I am afraid that he will glance across at me, and I will see the terrifying scowl of royal displeasure. But he does not seem to notice me at all. Master Cromwell scatters sand on the wet ink, hands each document to his clerk to hold until it is completely dry and put into his walnut writing box. The whole of the country is ruled from this box, and Master Cromwell has the only key. The king can express the smallest wish – that a rich monastery is inspected, a new ship designed, a wing on a palace rebuilt, or a poor widow paid a pension – and Master Cromwell will write the instructions, the king will sign it, and it is done. The supreme ruler has a supremely efficient machine to make his will into reality without delay and without question.
Master Cromwell glances across at the queen and her ladies on our side of the chapel, our heads devoutly bowed over our prayer books, following the service in Latin, singing the responses, listening to the sermon. He sees me watching him and inclines his head.
We follow the king to breakfast, Thomas Cromwell shadowing the king as he limps heavily into the great hall. The moment the king is seated before his court, the secretary steps back and becomes almost invisible. Now the king is free to over-eat, joke, swear that he will outride every man today, and roll his eyes around the ladies as if taking his pick as to who will be his flirt and his flatterer-in-chief.
Master Cromwell will take all the work away in his walnut box and send out the letters in his own code, letterlocked by his ownclerks, to his agents all around the country: those he has made sheriffs, those he has made mayors, the justices of the peace that he has appointed, his tax inspectors and customs officers and spies. This short, strong-backed, ugly man, dark as a gypsy, without great title, without great family, has made himself the most important man in the kingdom, second only to the king. Other men have greater titles or fortunes, but no one else has a network of authority like this. The king’s word is law – but it is Master Cromwell who writes the words of the law and it is his men who enforce it.
He bows low to the queen, who barely acknowledges him as usual, and he walks past the ladies’ table, greeting us all in the correct order of precedence with a little bow. ‘Welcome back to court, Lady Rochford.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I am very glad to be here.’
He makes a little deprecating gesture with his broad calloused hands. ‘And is your father well? Do you have a letter for me from him?’
I realise this is how we will meet. ‘Yes, Master Cromwell. He gave me his new translation for you.’
‘Will you bring it to His Majesty’s presence chamber later?’ he asks and goes quietly from the dining hall, standing back to allow the servers pass with their heavy trays, as if he were not a great man and they bound to give way to him.
ITAKE ONE OFmy father’s latest poems in my hand to make my way through the usual press of petitioners in the gallery outside the king’s presence chamber. There is a little rush towards Master Cromwell as he walks through, sober as a clerk in his dark jacket and white linen. He smiles and nods to each anxious man and promises to come back and hear every one of them, after he has seen the king. He offers his arm to me and draws me into a quiet corner.
‘Thank you for bringing me back to court,’ I say. ‘I thank you very deeply, Master Cromwell. I’m very grateful.’
He nods, wasting no time on my gratitude. ‘Is the queen truly with child? Not pretending? She says she’s two months into her time? Is that so?’
‘She really is. She would not lie about such a matter.’
The wry upward turn of his mouth tells me that he thinks Anne would lie about this, and anything else if she thought she could get away with it.
‘And Mary Shelton – is she in play to distract the king from straying to another lover? Does she know this is her task? Did your family agree on a candidate?’
He makes us sound like the dog-keepers in a bear pit, choosing one bitch after another to go into the bear. ‘It’s not like that,’ I say quickly. ‘Mary Shelton knows that a courtier’s task is to entertain the king and enhance the life of the court.’
‘The queen accepts this... cousinly entertainment?’
I cannot explain to this plainly dressed common-born man that Howard ladies are raised to be both poets and muses, to inspire love and perform it. The youngest girl in the schoolroom at Norfolk House, Lambeth, knows that it is her task in life to win the favour of the king and get a good marriage. The youngest boy knows the only route to fame and fortune is in the king’s service.
‘The queen is mistress of her rooms; her ladies are a reflection of her,’ I say. ‘Her rooms are rightly the heart of the court. A king should be royally served.’
He gives a short laugh. ‘Aye – I know you all do that. And Mistress Shelton herself? Did she seek this post?’
The rapid questions make me feel like one of his sheets of paper, slid quickly across a desk for signing.
‘She makes no objection. She has come to a court that everyone knows is the centre of courtly love and poetry. She writes poetry herself – love poetry.’
‘To the king?’
