Wolf Hall - Bring Up the Bodies

Everyone here knows it. His expression is as carefully blank as a freshly painted wall.
     
     
    After supper, old Sir John tells the story of Edgar the Peaceable. He was the ruler in these parts, many hundreds of years ago, before kings had numbers: when all maids were fair maids and all knights were gallant and life was simple and violent and usually brief. Edgar had in mind a bride for himself, and sent one of his earls to appraise her. The earl, who was both false and cunning, sent back word that her beauty had been much exaggerated by poets and painters; seen in real life, he said, she had a limp and a squint. His aim was to have the tender damsel for himself, and so he seduced and married her. Upon discovering the earl’s treachery Edgar ambushed him, in a grove not far from here, and rammed a javelin into him, killing him with one blow.
    ‘What a false knave he was, that earl!’ says the king. ‘He was paid out.’
    ‘Call him rather a churl than an earl,’ Tom Seymour says.
    His brother sighs, as if distancing himself from the remark.
    ‘And what did the lady say?’ he asks; he, Cromwell. ‘When she found the earl skewered?’
    ‘The damsel married Edgar,’ Sir John says. ‘They married in the greenwood, and lived happily ever after.’
    ‘I suppose she had no choice,’ Lady Margery sighs. ‘Women have to adapt themselves.’
    ‘And the country folk say,’ Sir John adds, ‘that the false earl walks the woods still, groaning, and trying to pull the lance out of his belly.’
    ‘Just imagine,’ Jane Seymour says. ‘Any night there is a moon, one might look out of the window and see him, tugging away and complaining all the while. Fortunately I do not believe in ghosts.’
    ‘More fool you, sister,’ Tom Seymour says. ‘They’ll creep up on you, my lass.’
    ‘Still,’ Henry says. He mimes a javelin throw: though in the restrained way one must, at a supper table. ‘One clean blow. He must have had a good throwing arm, King Edgar.’
    He says – he, Cromwell: ‘I should like to know if this tale is written down, and if so, by whom, and was he on oath.’
    The king says, ‘Cromwell would have had the earl before a judge and jury.’
    ‘Bless Your Majesty,’ Sir John chuckles, ‘I don’t think they had them in those days.’
    ‘Cromwell would have found one out.’ Young Weston leans forward to make his point. ‘He would dig out a jury, he would grub one from a mushroom patch. Then it would be all up with the earl, they would try him and march him out and hack off his head. They say that at Thomas More’s trial, Master Secretary here followed the jury to their deliberations, and when they were seated he closed the door behind him and he laid down the law. “Let me put you out of doubt,” he said to the jurymen. “Your task is to find Sir Thomas guilty, and you will have no dinner till you have done it.” Then out he went and shut the door again and stood outside it with a hatchet in his hand, in case they broke out in search of a boiled pudding; and being Londoners, they care about their bellies above all things, and as soon as they felt them rumbling they cried, “Guilty! He is as guilty as guilty can be!”’
    Eyes focus on him, Cromwell. Rafe Sadler, by his side, is tense with displeasure. ‘It is a pretty tale,’ Rafe tells Weston, ‘but I ask you in turn, where is it written down? I think you will find my master is always correct in his dealings with a court of law.’
    ‘You weren’t there,’ Francis Weston says. ‘I heard it from one of those same jurymen. They cried, “Away with him, take out the traitor and bring us in a leg of mutton.” And Thomas More was led to his death.’
    ‘You sound as if you regret it,’ Rafe says.
    ‘Not I.’ Weston holds up his hands. ‘Anne the queen says, let More’s death be a warning to all such traitors. Be their credit never so great, their treason never so veiled, Thomas Cromwell will find them out.’
    There is a murmur of assent; for a moment, he thinks the company will turn to him and applaud. Then Lady Margery touches a finger to her lips, and nods towards the king. Seated at the head of the table, he has begun to incline to the right; his closed eyelids flutter, and his breathing is easeful and deep.
    The company exchange smiles. ‘Drunk with fresh air,’ Tom Seymour whispers.
    It makes a change from drunk with drink; the king, these days, calls for the wine jug more often than he did in his lean and