VIII

not hear the message. I will not hear the words. I cannot. I say to Norris, “No.”
    And I turn again towards the open door. For a moment I have to steady myself against the doorframe. The sunshine outside is dazzling: a bright black light.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  XI   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    In a dark little room, stuffed with books bound in deep shades of red and brown, the man’s clean, white, disc-shaped collar stands out, as if his head is sitting, like John the Baptist’s, on a plate. He says, “According to the law as it stands, refusal to swear the oath upholding the validity of Your Majesty’s marriage to Queen Anne and the succession of Your Majesties’ heirs carries the maximum sentence of life imprisonment. It cannot carry the death penalty.”
    I sit back in my chair and regard him: Audley, my current Lord Chancellor, is an able if unappealing man, with a salt-and-pepper beard and an irritating attachment to legal niceties. Still, his care for detail, alongside Cromwell’s own, is what, day by day, makes possible this extraordinary task of swearing the entire nation.
    Whole villages at a time are being assembled to take the oath. All males above the age of fourteen are called. And those with most responsibility have it driven home to them – by Cromwell himself – how closely they are watched. Bishops, you are responsible for the obedience of your clergy; abbots and friars, for the brethren in your institutions; landowners, for your tenants. Most are stumbling over themselves in their hurry to submit. Most fear the consequences of refusal. Those consequences, then, cannot be anything less than terrifying. If I make a few grisly examples, it will be enough to steady any wavering minds that remain.
    Through clenched teeth I say, “According to the law as it stands? Then change the law.”
    Audley glances down at his hands. He seems to be hesitating. Then he says, “Begging Your Majesty’s pardon, might I put before your remembrance some of those who have refused to swear the oath? The Bishop of Rochester, Sir Thomas More—”
    “Your point?”
    He blinks at me. “Sir, the Bishop is an old man. Held, internationally, in high esteem. He was your grandmother’s confessor…”
    I say under my breath, “My grandmother – what, that old witch?”
    “He preached at your illustrious father’s funeral…”
    “Oh, I see. He can be excused treason for, what, sentimental reasons? And I suppose Master More, too – because I have called him my friend, and have walked of an evening with my arm around his shoulders, discussing I-don’t-know-what – then he may lead a rebellion to depose me or do as he pleases? Is that what you think?”
    “He has no intention—”
    “Really? But his refusal to swear is as good as a declaration of intent. To support the Pope, to declare me a heretic, to deny the right of my son to rule.”
    My son that is not yet born. Not yet even conceived.
    I say, “That is acceptable, is it?”
    Audley’s gaze drops to his hands again. “No, indeed not,” he says.
    “Indeed not.”
    I get up from behind my desk and walk to the window. It is dark outside; I see my silhouette reflected in the windowpanes. The candles behind me seem to flare out of the top of my head. What did they do with the dead foetus Anne was delivered of, that day I saw the boy under the stairs? It occurs to me suddenly that I never even asked. Did he – for it was a male child, I did ask that – did he end up on the fire, along with the blood-stained linen?
    I take hold of the nearest curtain and pull it round me, so that I can see into the darkness outside. I say, “God makes trials of His chosen ones – my life is proof of that. The Devil looks about for hearts to enter, to test me, to smite me. Who will he choose? Those closest to me. My friends. Don’t you think?”
    Audley doesn’t answer. Below, a short distance away, I can just make out a wherry ploughing its way across the black water of the Thames. On the far bank, torches blaze at the landing stairs by Lambeth Palace. The flames, the inky water – I might as well be looking at the gateway to the underworld.
    I say, “Evil stalks the land. If you don’t believe it, you are a fool.” I turn back to Audley, tugging the curtain shut behind me. “So – what do you suppose evil looks like? It wears a mask. It looks like anyone – you.” I grin at him.
    “Or you.” I approach a young man hovering by the door – a lutenist who