Wolf Hall - Bring Up the Bodies

take it back now? Are you saying I committed perjury?’
    The earl is on his feet. He remains seated. He does not mean any discourtesy; rather he thinks that, if he stands up, he might fetch the earl a slap, and he has never to his knowledge assaulted a sick man. ‘Not perjury,’ he says amicably. ‘I put it to you that on that occasion, your memory failed.’
    ‘I was married to Anne, but had forgotten?’
    He sits back and considers his adversary. ‘You have always been a drinker, my lord, which is how, I believe, you are reduced to your present condition. On the day in question I found you, as you say, at a tavern. Is it possible that when you came before the council, you were still drunk? And therefore you were confused about what you were swearing?’
    ‘I was sober.’
    ‘Your head ached. You were nauseous. You were afraid you might be sick on the reverend shoes of Archbishop Warham. The possibility so perturbed you that you could think of nothing else. You were not attentive to the questions put to you. That was hardly your fault.’
    ‘But,’ the earl says, ‘I was attentive.’
    ‘Any councillor would understand your plight. We have all been in drink, one time or another.’
    ‘Upon my soul, I was attentive.’
    ‘Then consider another possibility. Perhaps there was some slackness in the taking of the oath. Some irregularity. The old archbishop, he was ill himself that day. I remember how his hands trembled as he held the holy book.’
    ‘He was palsied. It is common in age. But he was competent.’
    ‘If there was some defect in the procedure, your conscience should not trouble you, if you were now to repudiate your oath. Perhaps, you know, it was not even a Bible?’
    ‘It was bound like a Bible,’ the earl says.
    ‘I have a book on accountancy that is often mistaken for a Bible.’
    ‘Especially by you.’
    He grins. The earl is not entirely addle-witted, not yet.
    ‘And what about the sacred host?’ Percy says. ‘I took the sacrament to seal my oath, and was that not the very body of God?’
    He is silent. I could give you an argument about that, he thinks, but I will not give you an opening to call me a heretic.
    ‘I will not do it,’ Percy says. ‘And I cannot see why I should. All I hear is, that Henry means to kill her. Isn’t it enough for her to be dead? After she is dead what does it matter who she was contracted to?’
    ‘It does, in the one way. He is suspicious about the child Anne had. But he does not want to press inquiries into who is her father.’
    ‘Elizabeth? I have seen the thing,’ Percy says. ‘She’s his. I can tell you that much.’
    ‘But if she were…even if she were, he now thinks to put her out of the succession, so if he was never married to her mother – well, at a stroke the matter is clear. The way is open for the children of his next wife.’
    The earl nods. ‘I see that.’
    ‘So if you want to help Anne, this is your last chance.’
    ‘How will it help her, to have her marriage annulled and her child bastardised?’
    ‘It might save her life. If Henry’s temper cools.’
    ‘You will make sure to keep it hot. You will heap on the fuel and apply the bellows, will you not?’
    He shrugs. ‘It is nothing to me. I do not hate the queen, I leave that to others. So, if you had ever any regard for her –’
    ‘I cannot help her any more. I can only help myself. God knows the truth. You made me a liar as I stood before God. Now you want to make me a fool as I stand before men. You must find another way, Master Secretary.’
    ‘I will do that,’ he says easily. He stands up. ‘I am sorry you lose a chance to please the king.’ At the door, he turns back. ‘You are stubborn,’ he says, ‘because you are weak.’
    Harry Percy looks up at him. ‘I am worse than weak, Cromwell. I am dying.’
    ‘You’ll last until the trial, won’t you? I shall put you on the panel of peers. If you are not Anne’s husband, you are clear to be her judge. The court has need of wise and experienced men like yourself.’
    Harry Percy cries out after him, but he leaves the hall with long strides, and gives the gentlemen outside the door a shake of the head. ‘Well,’ Master Wriothesley says, ‘I made sure you would bounce him into sense.’
    ‘Sense has fled.’
    ‘You look gloomy, sir.’
    ‘Do I, Call-Me? I can’t think why.’
    ‘We can still free the king. My lord archbishop will see a way. Even if we have to bring Mary Boleyn into it, and