VIII

to know whether the Princess Dowager is sending messages to the Emperor, asking him to invade.”
    “Yes… Christ. I know.”
    “There is a different matter though, sir, on which you might decide to act,” Cromwell goes on. “I have spies in Chapuys’ household. They tell me he has been heard saying something… interesting … lately. Saying that when Parliament is bullied into passing a law, that law is worth nothing. And that men can, with a clear conscience, disobey it as soon as a signal comes from the Pope or the Emperor to do so.”
    For a moment, no one speaks. The fire spits and hisses.
    My focus is all on Cromwell. I seem to see him down a tunnel. I say, “So. Let me get this straight. An Act – say, the Act of Succession you’re preparing, the Act that will confirm this boy-child as my heir…” I point, without looking, in the direction of Anne’s belly. “This Act can be passed by Parliament, signed and sealed, and then, as soon as the Emperor lands an invasion force my own subjects are absolved from any duty to obey it? They can fight beside the Emperor’s troops to put some usurper on the throne instead of me or my true heir? Is that what he means?”
    “I believe so, sir.”
    Evil surrounds me. Be sober and watch , the Bible says, for your adversary the Devil as a roaring lion walketh about, seeking whom he may devour…
    My hand goes to my belt as I walk forward. “Bring Chapuys to me. Bring the nasty little shit to me. To hell with ambassadorial protection.” I have drawn my dagger; I hold the blade up, glinting, in front of Cromwell’s nose. “I will gut him myself. I will flay him.” Turning, I throw the knife at the wall. It embeds itself, juddering, in the wood panelling. I press my palms against my forehead – pushing back hard, stretching the skin. My head feels fit to explode.
    I hear a cool, dogged voice: “If he is saying it, others will too.”
    I whip round to face Anne. “So I will have them all killed. No one will stand in the way of my son succeeding. I will slaughter them like beasts, I will hang them from every gibbet. Let every town stink of rotting meat.”
    Cromwell says, “I have a solution to propose.”
    “Christ.” I cross to the windows, then back again. My leg is hurting. “Tell me. Tell me what it is. Quickly.” I keep walking; I can’t stop.
    “Have an oath prepared,” says Cromwell steadily. “Make each citizen swear to maintain this Act. Swear,” he counts the points off on his fingers, “to obey your Majesties, to uphold the right of your children to inherit the crown, to accept the validity of your marriage, to deny the power of the Pope… Then it will be on each person’s conscience, before God, to obey – or risk the damnation of their soul.”
    I am still walking; I mutter, “Yes. Yes.”
    Anne says, “How can you possibly swear everyone?”
    Out of the corner of my eye I see Cromwell grin. “Anything can be done, Your Grace.”
    I don’t need to look – I know that she doesn’t smile in return; she is waiting for more. Quickly Cromwell adds, “Appoint commissioners. Use every landowner, every justice of the peace, every bishop, abbot and friar – give each one responsibility for the swearing of every person under their charge. I will organise it.”
    I stop walking in front of another window, put my arms up and lean on the mullions, glaring out at the blank, grey view.
    Behind me Anne says, “And what if people refuse?”
    “Simple,” says Cromwell. “Then the treason laws will take their course.”
    Which means the death penalty. So the choice is this: swear complete allegiance to me or die.

 
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    “It’s not complicated, Norris. Well, not that complicated.” I’m coming down the stairs, slapping my riding crop on the side of my boot.
    Behind me, Norris says, “I just can’t quite imagine it, sir.”
    At the turn of the staircase, I stop and pull out my hunting knife. “Look, the barrel runs along the back of the blade – the blade’s single-edged and deep like this one. And the barrel’s very narrow.” I hold the knife level and show with my thumb and forefinger where the pistol’s barrel lies. “I’ll show you when we get back to London. You can have a go at firing it.”
    George Boleyn, waiting further up the staircase for us to move on, says, “Give me notice, sir – he’s a terrible shot. I’d want to take cover.”
    “I seem to remember he beat