shoulder. The tall candles guarded the bag of the Privy Seal, they fluttered and made the gilded heads on the rafters have sudden grins on their faces that represented kings with flowered crowns, queens with their hair combed back on to pillows, and pages with scolloped hats. Cromwell stepped to an aumbry, where there were a glass of wine, a manchet of bread, and a little salt. He began to eat, dipping pieces of bread into the golden salt-cellar. The face of a queen looked down just above his head with her eyes wide open as if she were amazed, thrusting her head from a cloud.
‘Why, I have outlived three queens,’ he said to himself, and his round face resignedly despised his world and his times. He had forgotten what anxiety felt like because the world was so peopled with blunderers and timid fools full of hatred.
The marriage with Cleves was the deathblow to the power of the Empire. With the Protestant Princes armed behind his back, the imbecile called Charles would never dare to set his troops on board ship in Flanders to aid the continual rebellions, conspiracies and risings in England. He had done it too often, and he had repented as often, at the last moment. It was true that the marriage had thrown Charles into the arms of France: the French King and he were at that very minute supping together in Paris. They would be making treaties that were meant to be broken, and their statesmen were hatching plots that any scullion would reveal. Francis and his men were too mean, too silly, too despicable, and too easily bribed to hold to any union or to carry out any policy. . . .
He sipped his wine slowly. It was a little cold, so he set it down beside the fire. He wanted to go to bed, but the Archbishop was coming to hear how Henry had received his Queen, and to pour out his fears. Fears! Because the King had been sick at sight of the Cleves woman! He had this King very absolutely in his power; the grey, failing but vindictive and obstinate mass known as Henry was afraid of his contempt, afraid really of a shrug of the shoulder or a small sniff.
With the generosity of his wine and the warmth of his fire, his thoughts went many years ahead. He imagined the King either married to or having repudiated the Lady from Cleves, and then dead. Edward, the Seymour child, was his creature, and would be king or dead. Cleves children would be his creations too. Or if he married the Lady Mary he would still be next the throne.
His mind rested luxuriously and tranquilly on that prospect. He would be perpetually beside the throne, there would be no distraction to maintain a foothold. He would be there by right; he would be able to give all his mind to the directing of this world that he despised for its baseness, its jealousies, its insane brawls, its aimless selfishness, and its blind furies. Then there should be no more war, as there should be no more revolts. There should be no more jealousies; for kingcraft, solid, austere, practical and inspired, should keep down all the peoples, all the priests, and all the nobles of the world. ‘Ah,’ he thought, ‘there would be in France no power to shelter traitors like Brancetor.’ His eyes became softer in the contemplation of this Utopia, and he moved his upper lip more slowly.
Now the Archbishop was there. Pale, worn with fears and agitation, he came to say that the King had called to him Bishop Gardiner and the more Catholic lords of the Council. Cranmer’s own spy Lascelles had made this new report.
His white sleeves made a shivering sound, the fur that fell round his neck was displaced on one shoulder. His large mouth was open with panic, his lips trembled, and his good-natured and narrow eyes seemed about to drop tears.
‘Your Grace knoweth well what passed to-night at Rochester,’ Cromwell said. He clapped his hands for a man to snuff the candles. ‘You have the common report.’
‘Ah, is it even true?’ The Archbishop felt a last hope die, and he choked in his throat. Cromwell watched the man at the candles and said:
‘Your Grace hath a new riding mule. I pray it may cease to affright you.’
‘Why?’ he said, as the man went. ‘The King’s Highness went even to Rochester, disguised, since it was his good pleasure, as a French lord. You have seen the lady. So his Highness was seized with a make of palsy. He cursed to his barge. I know no more than that.’
‘And now they sit in the council.’
‘It seems,’ Cromwell said.
‘Ah, dear God have mercy.’
The Archbishop’s thin hands wavered before the crucifix on his breast, and made the sign of the cross.
The very faces of his enemies seemed visible to him. He saw Gardiner, of Winchester, with his snake’s eyes under the flat cap, and the Duke of Norfolk with his eyes malignant in a long, yellow face. He had a vision of the King, a huge red lump beneath the high dais at the head of the Council table, his face suffused with blood, his cheeks quivering.
He wrung his hands and wondered if at Smithfield the Lutherans would pray for him, or curse him for having been lukewarm.
‘Why, goodman gossip,’ Cromwell said compassionately, ‘we have been nearer death ten times.’ He uttered his inmost thoughts out of pity:— All this he had awaited. The King’s Highness by the report of his painters, his ambassadors, his spies — they were all in the pay of Cromwell — had awaited a lady of modest demeanour, a coy habit, and a great and placid fairness. ‘I had warned the Almains at Rochester to attire her against our coming. But she slobbered with ecstasy and slipped sideways, aiming at a courtesy. Therefore the King was hot with new anger and disgust.’
‘You and I are undone.’ Cranmer was passive with despair.
‘He is very seldom an hour of one mind,’ Cromwell answered. ‘Unless in that hour those you wot of shall work upon him, it will go well with us.’
‘They shall. They shall.’
‘I wait to see.’
There seemed to Cranmer something horrible in this impassivity. He wished his leader to go to the King, and he had a frantic moment of imagining himself running to a great distance, hiding his head in darkness.
Cromwell’s lips went up in scorn. ‘Do you imagine the yellow duke speaking his mind to the King? He is too craven.’
A heavy silence fell between them. The fire rustled, the candles again needed snuffing.
‘Best get to bed,’ Cromwell said at last.
‘Could I sleep?’ Cranmer had the irritation of extreme fear. His master seemed to him to have no bowels. But the waiting told at last upon Cromwell himself.
‘I could sleep an you would let me,’ he said sharply. ‘I tell you the King shall be another man in the morning.’
‘Ay, but now. But now. . . . ’ He imagined the pens in that distant room creaking over the paper with their committals, and he wished to upbraid Cromwell. It was his policy of combining with Lutherans that had brought them to this.
Heavy thundering came on the outer door.
‘The King comes,’ Cromwell cried victoriously. He went swiftly from the room. The Archbishop closed his eyes and suddenly remembered the time when he had been a child.
Privy Seal had an angry and contemptuous frown at his return. ‘They have kept him from me.’ He threw a little scroll on to the table. Its white silence made Cranmer shudder; it seemed to have something of the heavy threatening of the King’s self.
‘We may go to bed,’ Cromwell said. ‘They have devised their shift.’
‘You say?’
‘They have temporised, they have delayed. I know them.’ He quoted contemptuously from the letter: ‘We would have you send presently to ask of the Almain Lords with the Lady Anne the papers concerning her precontract to the Duke of Lorraine.’
Cranmer was upon the point of going away in the joy of this respite. But his desire to talk delayed him, and he began to talk about the canon law and precontracts of marriage. It was a very valid cause of nullity all the doctors held.
‘Think you I have not made very certain the precontract was nullified? This is no shift,’ and Cromwell spoke wearily and angrily. ‘Goodman