‘From the mouths of the king’s own subjects.’
‘Listen to me, Monsieur. As my commissioners go about, I hear little from the monks but petitions to be let go. And nuns too, they cannot endure their bondage, they come to my men weeping and asking for their liberty. I have it in hand to pension the monks, or find them useful posts. If they are scholars they can be given stipends. If they are ordained priests, the parishes will use them. And the money the monks are sitting on, I should like to see some of that go to the parish priests. I do not know how it may be in your country, but some benefices only bring a man four or five shillings a year. Who will take on a cure of souls, for a sum that won’t pay for his firewood? And when I have got the clergy an income they can live on, I mean to make each priest mentor to a poor scholar, so he helps him through the university. The next generation of priests will be learned, and they will instruct in their turn. Tell your master this. Tell him I mean good religion to increase, not wither.’
But Chapuys turns away. He is plucking nervously at his sleeve and his words fall over each other. ‘I do not tell my master lies. I tell him what I see. I see a restless population, Cremuel, I see discontent, I see misery; I see famine, before the spring. You are buying corn from Flanders. Be thankful to the Emperor that he allows his territories to feed yours. That trade could be stopped, you know.’
‘What would he gain by starving my countrymen?’
‘He would gain this, that they would see how evilly they are governed, and how opprobrious are the king’s proceedings. What are your envoys doing with the German princes? Talk, talk, talk, month after month. I know they hope to conclude some treaty with the Lutherans and import their practices here.’
‘The king will not have the form of the Mass varied. He is clear on it.’
‘Yet,’ Chapuys stabs a finger in the air, ‘the heretic Melanchthon has dedicated a book to him! You cannot hide a book, can you? No, deny it as you will, Henry will end by abolishing half the sacraments and making common cause with these heretics, on purpose to upset my master, who is their emperor and overlord. Henry begins by mocking the Pope, and he will end up embracing the devil.’
‘You appear to know him better than I do. Henry, I mean. Not the devil.’
He is amazed by the turn the conversation has taken. It is only ten days since he enjoyed a genial supper with the ambassador, and Chapuys assured him that the Emperor’s only thought was for the realm’s tranquillity. There was no talk of blockades then, no talk of starving England. ‘Eustache,’ he says, ‘what has happened?’
Chapuys sits down abruptly, slumps forward with his elbows on his knees. His hat sinks lower, till he removes it altogether, and puts it on the table; not without a glance of regret. ‘Thomas, I have heard from Kimbolton. They say the queen cannot keep her food down, she cannot even take water. In six nights she has not slept two hours together.’ Chapuys grinds his fists into his eyes. ‘I fear she cannot live more than a day or two. I do not want her to die alone, without anyone who loves her. I fear the king will not let me go. Will you let me go?’
The man’s grief touches him; it comes from the heart, it is beyond his remit as envoy. ‘We’ll go to Greenwich and ask him,’ he says. ‘This very day. We’ll go now. Put your hat back on.’
On the barge he says, ‘That’s a thaw wind.’ Chapuys seems not to appreciate it. He huddles into himself, wrapped in layers of lambskin.
‘The king intended to joust today,’ he says.
Chapuys sniffs, ‘In the snow?’
‘He can have the field cleared.’
‘No doubt by toiling monks.’
He has to laugh, at the ambassador’s tenacity. ‘We must hope the sport went forward, then Henry will be in a good humour. He has just come from the little princess at Eltham. You must ask after her health. And you must make her a New Year’s gift, have you thought of it?’
The ambassador glowers at him. All he would give Elizabeth is a knock on the head.
‘I am glad we are not iced up. Sometimes we cannot use the river for weeks. Have you seen it when it’s frozen over?’ No reply. ‘Katherine is strong, you know. If there is no more snow and the king permits, you can ride tomorrow. She has been ill before and she has regained her ground. You will find her sitting up in bed and asking why you’ve come.’
‘Why are you chattering?’ Chapuys says gloomily. ‘It is not like you.’
Why indeed? If Katherine dies it will be a great thing for England. Charles may be her fond nephew but he will not keep up a quarrel for a dead woman. The threat of war will vanish. It will be a new era. Only he hopes she does not suffer. There would be no point in that.
They tie up at the king’s landing stage. Chapuys says, ‘Your winters are so long. I wish I was still a young man in Italy.’
The snow is banked up on the quay, the fields are still blanketed. The ambassador received his education in Turin. You don’t get this sort of wind there, shrieking around the towers like a soul in torment. ‘You forget the swamps and the bad air, don’t you?’ he says. ‘I’m like you, I only remember the sunshine.’ He puts a hand under the ambassador’s elbow to steer him on to dry land. Chapuys himself keeps a firm hold on his hat. Its tassels are damp and drooping, and the ambassador himself looks as if he might cry.
Harry Norris is the gentleman who greets them. ‘Ah, “gentle Norris”,’ Chapuys whispers. ‘One could do worse.’
Norris is, as always, the pattern of courtesy. ‘We ran a few courses,’ he says, in answer to enquiry. ‘His Majesty had the best of it. You will find him cheerful. Now we are getting dressed for the masque.’
He never sees Norris but he remembers Wolsey stumbling from his own home before the king’s men, fleeing to a cold empty house at Esher: the cardinal kneeling in the mud and gibbering his thanks, because the king by way of Norris had sent him a token of goodwill. Wolsey was kneeling to thank God, but it looked as if he were kneeling to Norris. It doesn’t matter how Norris oils around him now; he can never wipe that scene from his mind’s eye.
Inside the palace, a roaring heat, stampeding feet; musicians toting their instruments, upper servants bawling brutish orders at lower. When the king comes out to greet them, it is with the French ambassador at his side. Chapuys is taken aback. An effusive greeting is de rigueur; kiss-kiss. How smoothly, easily, Chapuys has slipped back into his persona; with what a courteous flourish he makes his reverence to His Majesty. Such a practised diplomat can even cajole his stiff knee joints; not for the first time, Chapuys reminds him of a dancing master. The remarkable hat he holds by his side.
‘Merry Christmas, ambassador,’ the king says. He adds hopefully, ‘The French have already made me great gifts.’
‘And the Emperor’s gifts will be with Your Majesty at New Year,’ Chapuys boasts. ‘You will find them even more magnificent.’
The French ambassador eyes him. ‘Merry Christmas, Cremuel. Not bowling today?’
‘Today I am at your disposal, Monsieur.’
‘I take my leave,’ the Frenchman says. He looks sardonic; the king has already linked his arm with Chapuys’s. ‘Majesty, may I assure you in parting that my master King François has knit his heart to yours?’ His glance sweeps over Chapuys. ‘With the friendship of France, you may be assured you will reign unmolested, and need no longer fear Rome.’
‘Unmolested?’ he says: he, Cromwell. ‘Well, ambassador, that’s gracious of you.’
The Frenchman skims by him with a curt nod. Chapuys stiffens as French brocade grazes his own person; snatches his hat away, as if to save it from contamination. ‘Shall I hold that for you?’ Norris whispers.
But Chapuys has fastened his attention on the king. ‘Katherine the queen…’ he begins.
‘The Dowager Princess of Wales,’ Henry says sternly. ‘Yes, I hear the old woman is off her food again. Is that what you’re here about?’