Wolf Hall - Bring Up the Bodies

accused of dancing.’
    Fitzwilliam stands up. ‘Well now. A word to the wise.’
    The feeling is that something is wrong in England and must be set right. It’s not the laws that are wrong or the customs. It’s something deeper.
    Fitzwilliam leaves the room, then he comes back in. Says abruptly, ‘If it is old Seymour’s daughter next, there will be some jealousy among those who think their own noble house should be preferred – but after all, the Seymours are an ancient family, and he won’t have this trouble with her. I mean, men running after her like dogs after a – well…You just look at her, Seymour’s little girl, and you know that nobody’s ever pulled her skirts up.’ This time he does go; but giving him, Cromwell, a sort of mock salute, a flourish in the direction of his hat.
     
     
    Sir Nicholas Carew comes to see him. The very fibres of his beard are bristling with conspiracy. He half-expects the knight to wink as he sits down.
    When it comes to it, Carew is surprisingly brisk. ‘We want the concubine ousted. We know you want it too.’
    ‘We?’
    Carew looks up at him, from beneath bristling brows; like a man who has shot off his one crossbow bolt, he must now plod over the terrain, seeking friend or foe or just a place to hide for the night. Ponderously, he clarifies. ‘My friends in this matter do comprise a good part of the ancient nobility of this nation, those of honourable lineage, and…’ He sees Cromwell’s face and hurries on. ‘I speak of those very near the throne, those in the line of old King Edward. Lord Exeter, the Courtenay family. Also Lord Montague and his brother Geoffrey Pole. Lady Margaret Pole, who as you know was governor to the Princess Mary.’
    He casts up his eyes. ‘Lady Mary.’
    ‘If you must. We call her the princess.’
    He nods. ‘We will not let that stop us discussing her.’
    ‘Those I have named,’ Carew says, ‘are the principal persons on whose behalf I speak, but as you will be aware, the most part of England would rejoice to see the king free of her.’
    ‘I don’t think the most part of England knows or cares.’ Carew means, of course, the most part of my England, the England of ancient blood. Any other country, for Sir Nicholas, does not exist.
    He says, ‘I suppose Exeter’s wife Gertrude is active in this matter.’
    ‘She has been,’ Carew leans forward to impart something very secret, ‘in communication with Mary.’
    ‘I know,’ he sighs.
    ‘You read their letters?’
    ‘I read everybody’s letters.’ Including yours. ‘But look,’ he says, ‘this smells of intrigue against the king himself, does it not?’
    ‘In no wise. His honour is at the heart of it.’
    He nods. Point taken. ‘And so? What do you require of me?’
    ‘We require you to join with us. We are content to have Seymour’s girl crowned. The young woman is my kin, and she is known to favour true religion. We believe she will bring Henry back to Rome.’
    ‘A cause close to my heart,’ he murmurs.
    Sir Nicholas leans forward. ‘This is our difficulty, Cromwell. You are a Lutheran.’
    He touches his jacket: round about his heart. ‘No, sir, I am a banker. Luther condemns to Hell those who lend at interest. Is it likely that I should take his part?’
    Sir Nicholas laughs heartily. ‘I did not know. Where would we be, without Cromwell to lend us money?’
    He asks, ‘What is to happen to Anne Boleyn?’
    ‘I don’t know. Convent?’
    So the bargain is struck and sealed: he, Cromwell, is to assist the old families, the true faithful; and afterwards, under the new regime, they will keep his services in consideration: his zeal in this matter may cause them to forget the blasphemies of these last three years, which otherwise would invite condign punishment.
    ‘Just one thing, Cromwell.’ Carew stands up. ‘Don’t keep me waiting next time. It ill becomes a man of your stamp to keep a man of my stamp kicking his heels in an anteroom.’
    ‘Ah, was that the noise?’ Though Carew wears the padded satin of the courtier, he always imagines him in show-armour: not the kind you fight in, the kind you buy from Italy to impress your friends. Heel-kicking would be a noisy business, then: clatter, clang. He looks up. ‘I meant no slight, Sir Nicholas. From now we will make all speed. Consider me at your right hand, furnished for the fight.’
    That’s the sort of bombast Carew understands.
     
     
    Now Fitzwilliam is talking to Carew. Carew is