‘Wizards are made like other men,’ Gregory says. ‘Offer Merlin an abbey. It could not hurt.’
‘Tell the Master of Augmentations,’ the king says, laughing. ‘I shall like to see Riche’s face.’
He is surprised the king does not burn such books. Merlin is popular in certain quarters, and you can see why he gets so much credit. He foretold a day would come when churches would be flattened and monks forced to marry; where German heathens sat at table with the king, and true noblemen were herded starving from the hall. But of course, Merlin also said that the river Usk would boil, and that bears would hatch out of eggs; that the soil of the future would become so rich that men would leave farm work and spend their days in fornication.
The scholar John Leland, the king’s antiquary, is travelling through the land looking to see what the monks have, that might be good for the king’s own libraries. He himself, on his journeys for Wolsey, would ask to see anything of interest. Often as not, he would meet with stony-eyed exclusion: ‘Sir, I regret that text was lost years ago.’ Or, ‘Ah, no, Master Cromwell, I fear the worm has got it.’
He says, ‘They thought I might steal their prizes for the cardinal.’
‘He was known to be acquisitive,’ the king says.
He looks away. Sometimes the king speaks well of Wolsey. Sometimes not.
The king says, ‘What happened to the cardinal’s books of conjuring?’
‘I have no memory of them, sir.’
‘Perhaps my lord Norfolk took them,’ Gregory says. ‘He took most things.’
The king says, ‘Is it true that Wolsey had the spirit of Oberon bound to him, to serve for a term of years?’
‘I don’t credit such tales, Majesty. They’re only to get money out of you.’
‘I only partly credit them myself,’ Henry says. ‘But Oberon is a very powerful spirit.’ The king stirs, he rubs his leg, he gets to his feet. ‘Walk,’ he says.
Mr Wriothesley falls in with them, and Richard Riche. The king cannot wander about his palace by himself. The yeomen of the guard, who assemble in the watching chamber, are supposed to line his route. Where is the queen? In her own apartments, among the women: but her offence forgiven. ‘She pities the poor,’ the king says. ‘It is a woman’s part. I would not have her otherwise. And she hates all talk of war. She fears for my person. It is largely to soothe her that I have not gone north myself.’
He sees Wriothesley and Riche exchange a glance. Riche says, ‘Your Majesty has never been north, I think? Though what reason to go now, of course – among ingrates who more regard their goblins than their God?’
The king says, ‘A man who has reigned twenty-eight years, not passing a day without the cares of state, should be able to place his faith in his liegemen. Among the northern lords I mistrust Lord Dacre, but not only he. I thought I could count on Lord Darcy, yet even as he prates of his loyalty he complains of his rupture and his stiff joints.’ The king looks down from the oriel window, over the new terrace. ‘Let us hope he can oil himself and go into action, but now he tells me that at Pontefract the garrison is under strength, they have no guns, they cannot feed all who flock there, and the walls are falling down. Why does he tell me this, except to discourage me?’ The rain slashes against the window. ‘And the Earl of Derby – it is known there are malcontents in his train and they hate you, Cromwell – besides, all Stanleys are turncoats, they will watch to see which way the battle goes before they join it. Now Henry Clifford –’
‘Our strength in the border,’ Riche puts in.
The king frowns. ‘His tenants grumble against him even in years of plenty, so will they obey him now?’
‘Clifford is a hard man,’ he says. ‘Even Norfolk says he is a hard man, but we can count on him. As also Lord Talbot with his great train –’
‘Always our mainstay,’ Riche offers. Our?
The king says, ‘Talbot is another ancient man – but yes, loyal to me and mine.’ He stops, grimaces. ‘Norfolk, I suppose, must be permitted to ride north.’
Norfolk’s father was seventy when he sliced up the Scots at Flodden. Our duke has some seven years left, to do anything as famous as that. ‘Norfolk will work hard for your favour,’ he admits. ‘He relishes a battle, even if it is only country folk. He thinks we have enjoyed peace too long.’
‘I tell you what it is, the loyalty of the Howards.’ Henry limps; he puts out a hand to steady himself against the Lord Privy Seal. ‘John Howard, who was grandfather to the Norfolk that is now, was known to declare that if a stock of wood or a standing stone were King of England, he would defend its title – if it were named so by Parliament.’
‘It shows a high regard for the standing of Parliament,’ Richard Riche murmurs.
‘But he fought against my father!’ The king turns on Riche. ‘Do you not comprehend that, you dolt? He took Richard Plantagenet for king.’
Riche draws back into himself so far that he seems to be trying to retract into his ribs, like a man squeezed by Skeffington’s Daughter. He begins his apologies, but he – Lord Cromwell – cuts him off. Young men, and Riche is young enough, do not understand that to this very day, nothing in this kingdom counts so much as how your forefathers behaved on the field at Bosworth.
‘The Howards made a grievous error there,’ Mr Wriothesley says. ‘And it cost them their dukedom.’ He is so keen to distance himself from Riche’s folly that he has passed to the other side of the king and appears to be hanging on his elbow.
‘The present Howard keeps before him that example,’ he says. ‘He would never offend.’
‘Well, he does offend,’ Henry says. ‘And I perceive that you, Riche, do not know what a king is. A king is made by God, not Parliament. Parliament proclaims his title, furbishes his authority – but where in the scriptures does it mention Parliament? Contra, there are numerous mentions of what submission the subject owes to his prince, and of how the powers that be are ordained of God. If these Pilgrims cleaved to true religion as they claim, they would know this. And they would beg pardon on their knees and straightway go home.’
‘And would you pardon them, sir?’ Mr Wriothesley asks.
‘Stand further off, Call-Me,’ the king snaps. ‘I don’t like to be crowded.’
Mr Wriothesley’s mouth drops open. Call-Me? How has this private joke rolled into the public sphere? Henry is displeased; he signals to them to fall behind, and limps on alone, into the darkening afternoon.
‘I perceive your fingers were a-twitch for pen and paper,’ he says to Riche. ‘But he has said it all once, and he will say it again.’
There are things the king has not voiced, yet must suspect: that behind the banner of the Five Wounds, there are other invisible banners, sewn with the emblems of the Courtenays and Poles. Gentlemen of ancient houses have turned out to defend the Tudor – but they must be watched closely, their deeds as well as words. Some captured rebels have freely confessed that they hope the Pope will send another king, Reginald Pole by name, who will wed the Princess Mary, and turn her father Henry out to beg. The Pilgrims claim they crusade for the Virgin in her innocence and purity. But knowingly or not, they serve the pride of Gertrude Courtenay and Margaret Pole – the young woman who would like to be queen of England, the old woman who deems she already is.
‘Sir,’ Richard Riche pulls at his elbow, ‘I have notification – that is, I am required – I am advertised that I could be useful, that I should go up to York, that I should show myself –’
‘Why don’t you do that?’ he says. ‘York might be safer than here.’
Mid-October: at Lincoln Richard Cromwell is now encamped with Fitzwilliam and Francis Bryan. He is called into every council, and gives Fitz credit for it. Other lords would prefer to keep him out, but Fitzwilliam stands our fast friend, he writes: no one may speak ill of Cromwells, in his presence. He writes that Bryan hopes to encounter Aske in single combat: two one-eyed men grappling for glory, as in tales of old. He writes he misses his home and his uncle: ‘Comfort my poor wife.’