Wolf Hall

He cuts him off: ‘I have that in hand.’

Bonvisi nods and goes out. ‘Surprising he should show his face.’ John Parnell, of the Drapers' Company, has a history of clashes with More. ‘Master Cromwell, if you are taking charge of this, does it mean – do you have it in mind to speak to Lucy?’

‘Me? No.’

Humphrey Monmouth says, ‘Shall we have our meeting first, and broker marriages later? We are concerned, Master Cromwell, as you must be, as the king must be … we are all, I think,’ he looks around, ‘we are all, now Bonvisi has left us, friendly to the cause for which our late brother Petyt was, in effect, a martyr, but it is for us to keep the peace, to disassociate ourselves from outbreaks of blasphemy …’

In one city parish last Sunday, at the sacred moment of the elevation of the host, and just as the priest pronounced, ‘hoc est enim corpus meum,’ there was an outbreak of chanting, ‘hoc est corpus, hocus pocus.’ And in an adjacent parish, at the commemoration of the saints, where the priest requires us to remember our fellowship with the holy martyrs, ‘cum Joanne, Stephano, Mathia, Barnaba, Ignatio, Alexandro, Marcellino, Petro …’ some person had shouted out, ‘and don't forget me and my cousin Kate, and Dick with his cockle-barrel on Leadenhall, and his sister Susan and her little dog Posset.’

He puts his hand over his mouth. ‘If Posset needs a lawyer, you know where I am.’

‘Master Cromwell,’ says a crabbed elder from the Skinners' Company, ‘you convened this gathering. Set us an example in gravity.’

‘There are ballads made,’ Monmouth says, ‘about Lady Anne – the words are not repeatable in this company. Thomas Boleyn's servants complain they are called names on the street. Ordure thrown on their livery. Masters must keep a hand on their apprentices. Disloyal talk should be reported.’

‘To whom?’

He says, ‘Try me.’

He finds Johane at Austin Friars. She has made some excuse to stay at home: a summer cold. ‘Ask me what secret I know,’ he says.

For appearances' sake, she polishes the tip of her nose. ‘Let me see. You know to a shilling what the king has in his treasury?’

‘I know to the farthing. Not that. Ask me. Sweet sister.’

When she has guessed enough, he tells her, ‘John Parnell is going to marry Luce.’

‘What? And John Petyt not cold?’ She turns away, to get over whatever she is feeling. ‘Your brethren stick together. Parnell's household is not clean from sectaries. He has a servant in Bishop Stokesley's prison, so I hear.’

Richard Cromwell puts his head around the door. ‘Master. The Tower. Bricks. Five shilling the thousand.’

‘No.’

‘Right.’

‘You'd think she'd marry a safer sort of man.’

He goes to the door. ‘Richard, come back.’ Turns to Johane. ‘I don't think she knows any.’

‘Sir?’

‘Get it down by sixpence, and check every batch. What you should do is choose a few in every load, and take a close interest in them.’

Johane in the room behind him: ‘Anyway, you did the wise thing.’

‘For instance, measure them … Johane, did you think I'd get married out of some sort of inadvertence? By accident?’

‘I'm sorry?’ Richard says.

‘Because if you keep measuring them, it throws brickmakers into a panic, and you'll see by their faces if they're trying any tricks.’

‘I expect you have some lady in view. At court. The king has given you a new office –’

‘Clerk of the Hanaper. Yes. A post in the chancery finances … It hardly signs the flowery trail to a love affair.’ Richard has gone, clattering downstairs. ‘Do you know what I think?’

‘You think you should wait. Till she, that woman, is queen.’

‘I think it's the transport that pushes the cost up. Even by barge. I should have cleared some ground and built my own kilns.’

Sunday, 1 September, at Windsor: Anne kneels before the king to receive the title of Marquess of Pembroke. The Garter knights in their stalls watch her, the noble ladies of England flank her, and (the duchess having refused, and spat out an oath at the suggestion) Norfolk's daughter Mary bears her coronet on a cushion; the Howards and the Boleyns are en fete. Monseigneur caresses his beard, nods and smiles as he receives murmured congratulations from the French ambassador. Bishop Gardiner reads out Anne's new title. She is vivid in red velvet and ermine, and her black hair falls, virgin-style, in snaky locks to her waist. He, Cromwell, has organised the income from fifteen manors to support her dignity.

A Te Deum is sung. A sermon is preached. When the ceremony is over, and the women stoop to pick up her train, he sees a flash of blue, like a kingfisher, and glances up to see John Seymour's little daughter among the Howard ladies. A warhorse raises his head at the sound of trumpets, and great ladies look up and smile; but as the musicians play a flourish, and the procession leaves St George's Chapel, she keeps her pale face down-turned, her eyes on her toes as if she fears tripping.

At the feast Anne sits beside Henry on the dais, and when she turns to speak to him her black lashes brush her cheeks. She is almost there now, almost there, her body taut like a bowstring, her skin dusted with gold, with tints of apricot and honey; when she smiles, which she does often, she shows small teeth, white and sharp. She is planning to commandeer Katherine's royal barge, she tells him, and have the device ‘H&K’ burned away, all Katherine's badges obliterated. The king has sent for Katherine's jewels, so she can wear them on the projected trip to France. He has spent an afternoon with her, two afternoons, three, in the fine September weather, with the king's goldsmith beside her making drawings, and he as master of the jewels adding suggestions; Anne wants new settings made. At first Katherine had refused to give up the jewels. She had said she could not part with the property of the Queen of England and put it into the hands of the disgrace of Christendom. It had taken a royal command to make her hand over the loot.

Anne refers everything to him; she says, laughing, ‘Cromwell, you are my man.’ The wind is set fair and the tide is running for him. He can feel the tug of it under his feet. His friend Audley must surely be confirmed as Chancellor; the king is getting used to him. Old courtiers have resigned, rather than serve Anne; the new comptroller of the household is Sir William Paulet, a friend of his from Wolsey days. So many of the new courtiers are his friends from Wolsey days. And the cardinal didn't employ fools.

After the Mass and Anne's installation, he attends the Bishop of Winchester as he disrobes, gets out of his canonicals into gear more suitable for secular celebrations. ‘Are you going to dance?’ he asks him. He sits on a stone window ledge, half-attentive to what is going on in the courts below, the musicians carrying in pipes and lutes, harps and rebecs, hautboys, viols and drums. ‘You could cut a good figure. Or don't you dance now you're a bishop?’

Stephen's conversation is on a track of its own. ‘You'd think it would be enough for any woman, wouldn't you, to be made a marquess in her own right? She'll give way to him now. Heir in the belly, please God, before Christmas.’

‘Oh, you wish her success?’

‘I wish his temper soothed. And some result out of this. Not to do it all for nothing.’

‘Do you know what Chapuys is saying about you? That you keep two women in your household, dressed up as boys.’

‘Do I?’ He frowns. ‘Better, I suppose, than two boys dressed up as women. Now that would be opprobrious.’ Stephen gives a bark of laughter. They stroll together towards the feast. Trollylolly, the musicians sing. ‘Pastime with good company, I love and shall until I die.’ The soul is musical by nature, the philosophers say. The king calls up Thomas Wyatt to sing with him, and the musician Mark. ‘Alas, what shall I do for love? For love, alas, what shall I do?’