‘– for Your Majesty knows that dispensations were issued in such form as to allow your own marriage to be valid, whether or no that former marriage was consummated.’
‘I do not want to hear the word dispensation,’ Henry says. ‘I do not want to hear you mention what you call my marriage. The Pope has no power to make incest licit. I am no more Katherine's husband than you are.’
Chapuys bows.
‘If the contract had not been void,’ Henry says, patient for the last time, ‘God would not have punished me with the loss of my children.’
‘We do not know the blessed Katherine is beyond childbearing.’ He looks up with a sly, delicate glance.
‘Tell me, why do you think I do this?’ The king sounds curious. ‘Out of lust? Is that what you think?’
Kill a cardinal? Divide your country? Split the church? ‘It seems extravagant,’ Chapuys murmurs.
‘But that is what you think. That is what you tell the Emperor. You are wrong. I am the steward of my country, sir, and if I now take a wife in a union blessed by God, it is to have a son by her.’
‘But there is no guarantee that Your Majesty will have a son. Or any living children at all.’
‘Why would I not?’ Henry reddens. He is on his feet, shouting, angry tears spilling down his face. ‘Am I not a man like other men? Am I not? Am I not?’
He is a game little terrier, the Emperor's man; but even he knows that when you've made a king cry it's time to back off. On the way out he says – dusting himself down, with his accustomed, self-deprecatory flutter – ‘There is a distinction to be drawn between the welfare of the country and the welfare of the Tudor line. Or do you not think so?’
‘So who is your preferred candidate for the throne? You favour Courtenay, or Pole?’
‘You should not sneer at persons of royal blood.’ Chapuys shakes out his sleeves. ‘At least now I am officially informed of the lady's state, whereas before I could only deduce it from certain spectacles of folly I had witnessed … Do you know how much you are staking, Cremuel, on the body of one woman? Let us hope no evil comes near her, eh?’
He takes the ambassador by the arm, wheels him around. ‘What evil? Say what you mean.’
‘If you would let go your grip on my jacket. Thank you. Very soon you resort to manhandling people, which shows, as they say, your breeding.’ His words are full of bravado, but he is trembling. ‘Look around you and see how by her pride and her presumption she offends your own nobility. Her own uncle has no stomach for her tricks. The king's oldest friends make excuses to stay away from court.’
‘Wait till she's crowned,’ he says. ‘Watch them come running.’
On 12 April, Easter Sunday, Anne appears with the king at High Mass, and is prayed for as Queen of England. His bill went through Parliament just yesterday; he expects a modest reward, and before the royal party go in to break their fast, the king waves him over and gives him Lord Berners's old post, chancellor of the exchequer. ‘Berners suggested you for it.’ Henry smiles. He likes giving; like a child, he enjoys anticipating how pleased you will be.
During Mass, his mind had wandered through the city. What noisome goose houses have they waiting for him at home? What rows in the street, what babies left on church steps, what unruly apprentices with whom he will please have a word? Have Alice and Jo painted Easter eggs? They are too grown up now, but they are content to be the children of the house until the next generation comes along. It's time he put his mind to husbands for them. Anne, if she had lived, could be married by now, and to Rafe, as he is still not spoken for. He thinks of Helen Barre; how fast she gets on with her reading, how they cannot do without her at Austin Friars. He believes now that her husband is dead, and he thinks, I must talk to her, I must tell her she is free. She is too proper to show any pleasure, but who would not like to know that she is no longer subject to a man like that?
Through Mass, Henry keeps up a constant buzz of talk. He sorts papers and passes them up and down to his councillors; only at the consecration does he throw himself to his knees in a fever of reverence, as the miracle takes place and a wafer becomes God. As soon as the priest says, ‘Ita, missa est,’ he whispers, come to me in my closet, alone.
First the assembled courtiers must make their bows to Anne. Her ladies sweep back and leave her alone in a little sunlit space. He watches them, watches the gentlemen and councillors, among whom, on this feast day, are many of the king's boyhood friends. He watches Sir Nicholas Carew in particular; nothing is wanting in his reverence to his new queen, but he cannot help a downturn of his mouth. Arrange your face, Nicholas Carew, your ancient family face. He hears Anne saying, these are my enemies: he adds Carew to the list.
Behind the chambers of state are the king's own rooms, which only his intimates see, where he is served by his gentlemen, and where he can be free of ambassadors and spies. This is Henry Norris's ground, and Norris gently congratulates him on his new appointment, and moves away, soft-footed.
‘You know Cranmer is to convene a court to make a formal dissolution of the …’ Henry has said he does not want to hear any more about his marriage, so he will not even say the word. ‘I have asked him to convene at the priory at Dunstable, because it is, what, ten, twelve miles to Ampthill, where she is lodged – so she can send her lawyers, if she likes. Or come to the court herself. I want you to go to see her, go secretly, just talk to her –’
Make sure she springs no surprises.
‘Leave Rafe with me while you are gone.’ At being so easily understood, the king relaxes into good humour. ‘I can rely on him to say what Cromwell would say. You have a good boy there. And he is better than you are at keeping his face straight. I see you, when we sit in council, with your hand before your mouth. Sometimes, you know, I want to laugh myself.’ He drops into a chair, covers his face as if to shade his eyes. He sees that, once again, the king is about to cry. ‘Brandon says my sister is dying. There is no more the doctors can do for her. You know that fair hair she had once, hair like silver – my daughter had that. When she was seven she was the image of my sister, like a saint painted on a wall. Tell me, what am I to do with my daughter?’
He waits, till he knows it is a real question. ‘Be good to her, sir. Conciliate her. She should not suffer.’
‘But I must make her a bastard. I need to settle England on my lawful children.’
‘Parliament will do it.’
‘Yes.’ He sniffs. Scrubs his tears away. ‘After Anne is crowned. Cromwell, one thing, and then we will have our breakfast, because I am really very hungry. This project of a match for my cousin Richard …’
He thinks his way, rapidly, around the nobility of England. But no, he sees it's his Richard, Richard Cromwell. ‘Lady Carey …’ The king's voice softens. ‘Well, I have thought it over, and I think, no. Or at least, not at this time.’
He nods. He understands his reason. When Anne understands it, she will spit nails.
‘Sometimes it is a solace to me,’ Henry says, ‘not to have to talk and talk. You were born to understand me, perhaps.’
That is one view of their situations. He was six years or so in this world before Henry came into it, years of which he made good use. Henry takes off his embroidered cap, throws it down, runs his hands through his hair. Like Wyatt's golden mane, his hair is thinning, and it exposes the shape of his massive skull. For a moment he seems like a carved statue, like a simpler form of himself, or one of his own ancestors: one of the race of giants that roamed Britain, and left no trace of themselves except in the dreams of their petty descendants.
He goes back to Austin Friars as soon as he can get away. Surely he can have one day off? The crowds outside his gate have dispersed, as Thurston has fed them an Easter dinner. He goes out to the kitchen first, to give his man a slap on the head and a gold piece. ‘A hundred open maws, I swear,’ Thurston says. ‘And