VIII

carpenter sticking pins into a wax doll in Smithfield.”
    Cromwell looks back at me, pasty-faced, his eyes baggy and red-rimmed; he looks as if he’s at his desk every night until two in the morning. Which he probably is. But there’s something else in his eyes: a glint that is not the glint of a penpusher.
    He says, “That carpenter is not sticking pins into anything now, I can assure you, sir. His hands are…” He flexes own fingers thoughtfully, “not as useful to him as they were. I supervised his interrogation myself.”
    “Give me the list of staff for Edward’s household.”
    Cromwell sorts quickly through his papers, and hands one to me.
    I look down the names. “How can I tell that one of this lot isn’t doing the same? These women who are his rockers – I know, they all… they all have spotless reputations, they’ve all been thoroughly checked – but how can I know … These men,” I jab my finger at the list, “these Gentlemen of the Bedchamber. How can I be certain of their loyalty? How can I know their secret intentions?”
    “Each person has been selected with the utmost care.”
    I sling the list aside and take hold of Cromwell’s face. He smells of clean linen and tooth-soap. Not the blood and fear of the interrogation room. I say, “The Devil’s disguises are the best. I want to see – I want to see in here,” I touch his forehead. “And in here.” I prod his chest.
    I let go of Cromwell and turn away. “Some old hag’s got a doll of me with a pin through its leg, that’s for sure.”
    “It’s all superstition, sir,” says Cromwell evenly. “It is unpleasant to think of, but a doll can have no effect – other than to point us the right way to find a traitor.”
    I take the list and drop it on top of Cromwell’s pile of papers. “Check them out again. All of them.”
    “Yes, sir.” He shuffles the papers deftly. “If I could just ask Your Majesty about a couple of other things? The munitions ordered from Antwerp—”
    “The thing that astonishes me,” I interrupt, pacing again, “is that however much God does to show that I am the vicar of Christ for my people, that I am the channel for divine grace in this country, a number of my miserable subjects will work against me. What was that report from… was it Kent?… the idiot who said, ‘If the King knew every man’s thought, it would make his heart quake’ – was that it?”
    “The man was in Cranbrook, in Kent,” says Cromwell. “His name is Skarborow. He is in custody. Regretting his words.”
    “God has blessed me with a son and shown that what I am doing pleases him. They have only to obey. Is that really so hard? God speaks to me . Not to them. To me .”
    The room is still. The wind sounds down the chimney, a low eerie note. I realize that I have been shouting.
    After a moment Cromwell says, “Alongside measures for the Prince’s security, it would be wise to speed negotiations for a new marriage, sir. All loyal subjects long for the birth of a Duke of York.”
    I let out a breath. Then I flop into a chair and prop my bad leg on a nearby chest. “What have the French said? Will they bring the princesses to Calais for me to view?”
    “They say they are not willing to parade them like horses at market.”
    “Sod them.” I pick up a candle-end and lob it into the fire. “Always an insult. The sodding French arrogance.”
    Cromwell perches his bulk on a stool close by me, his elbows on his knees. “I have, though, received the report from Dr Peter about the Duke of Cleves’ sister.”
    “All right,” I say. “Tell me.”

 
♦  ♦  ♦  II   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    I can ride again. The roads are murder: the mud is frost-hardened and rutted worse than a ploughed field. But I can ride again. The wind on my face, the movement of the horse – even the cold drizzle needling my eyes – is pleasurable for a man who has been lame half the winter.
    We number six, my party: six gentlemen in matching multi-coloured cloaks, travelling incognito into Kent. Despite the roads, despite the weather, we make good progress from Greenwich, down the great Roman thoroughfare of Watling Street, towards Rochester.
    Cromwell has arranged a marriage for me. I am riding to meet my bride. She is the Duke of Cleves’ sister – the Lady Anna – and she is resting in Rochester after her Channel crossing. She expects to meet me at Blackheath in a few days’ time, from where I will lead her into London,