VIII

shrug: he can’t bring himself to nod, but it’s clear I’ve hit the nail on the head.
    “Well, what a marvellous situation you have brought me to. Let me see. I am forced into a marriage with a hateful woman. I have rulers queuing up to depose me. Tell me. You’re not working for one of them by any chance, are you?”
    Cromwell says, “The Duke of Norfolk would like you to think so.”
    The comment is accompanied by a rueful grin: he has enemies at Court and he’s making a joke of it. But I asked if he is betraying me; who dares brush away that question? In two strides I’m across the room with a fistful of Cromwell’s fur-trimmed black gown in my hand. His grin has vanished.
    “I am prey to no man’s influence,” I say, my spittle flecking his pasty face. “Not Norfolk’s, not yours. Do not imagine that you know what is in my mind. If I thought my cap knew my counsel I would throw it on the fire. It would delight me to watch it burn.”

 
♦  ♦  ♦  IV   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    A slash of colour appears across my vision, like a horizontal door opening. I am in darkness; out there, blurred figures move. They loom and swing away. I seem to be lying down. Have I fallen from my horse?
    Someone bends near. Who is it? The face is lit from one side only; the other side melts into shadow. It looks sinister. The mouth is moving, but I can’t hear the words. Only the blood rushing in my ears. It sounds like the sea. Am I on a ship?
    All is dark again. The pain is bad. My leg is on fire.
    I have to move. Have to turn onto my side.
    Gingerly, I shift my position a fraction. It’s agony. I stop. I daren’t breathe.
    “The sore must be kept running.” The words swim to me from somewhere. I can’t see who’s speaking.
    “Cut it open, then.”
    No. No one is to cut anything. I open my eyes – try to speak. No one responds. Patches of candlelight show black-robed figures moving at the end of the bed. I am seized with fear.
    How long have I been here? Hours – days? Weeks?
    What’s the last thing I remember?
    I try to think… and then the light is different. Paler, washing in from high up on my right. Time has passed. Did I sleep? I am clutching a hand. Someone is gibbering and whimpering. It’s a disgusting sound: pitiful moaning.
    Pain. Pain pain pain pain .
    Figures tower over me – a line of them along each side, like coffin-bearers. But they are not lifting me, they are pressing on me. I am being held down.
    I try to mash the hand I’m holding – crush it. The knuckles roll against each other as I squeeze. A face is near: Culpeper’s, wincing. I have never been so grateful to see him in my life.
    That sound comes again, the whimpering. It’s me.
    At the height of the pain nothing else exists. I need every ounce of energy just to get from one moment to the next.
    Then, when there’s a lull, I rest, panting. I feel the pleasure of just lying. The lightness of no longer being held down. The softness of the pillows. I attempt to speak. I manage: “They… poison… me. Fetch Cromwell.” I swallow drily, and try again. Culpeper is leaning in to catch the words. I say, “Don’t tell. Fetch him. Quickly.”
    Culpeper’s hand slides out of mine as he stands up. He moves away; I see him talking to a figure. Not in a black robe – a red figure. I want to shout: I told you not to tell them—
    Terror, now. Like a wave crashing over me; I’m gasping for breath. Is Culpeper in on it? Is this slow murder? Where is my son Edward? Do they have Edward too?
    The red figure expands; it wears a courtier’s doublet; it has a face. Anthony Browne’s neat fringe and dark eyes hang in a moon-white disc. The mouth says, “Cromwell is dead, sir. He has been dead these last six months.”
    I turn a little; curl up slightly. He cannot be gone. He was so solid. Where have they hidden him?
    And yet they all leave me, eventually.
    My pillow is wet. I whisper, “What was it – plague? The sweat?”
    It’s a moment before Browne answers. “You commanded his execution, sir.”

 
♦  ♦  ♦  V   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    The light is soft, tinged green by the leaves of the climbing rose that has spread across half the window. It is like being in a summer glade.
    I’m sitting in a chair and my eyes are half-closed. There’s a gentle hum of conversation in the room behind me; a chink of glass as drinks are poured; a few rippling notes of the virginals as someone begins to play; a snatch of