Wolf Hall - Bring Up the Bodies

another.’
    ‘Is it not?’ Henry snarls. ‘In times past, I would never have had to ask it. I take every brother prince to be honourable, as I am honourable. But sometimes, Monsieur, I suggest to you, our fond and natural assumptions must give way before bitter experience. I ask you, does your master take me for a fool?’ Henry’s voice swoops upwards; he bends at the waist, and his fingers make little paddling motions on his knees, as if he were trying to entice a child or a small dog. ‘Henry!’ he squeaks. ‘Come to Charles! Come to your kind master!’ He straightens up, almost spitting in his rage. ‘The Emperor treats me like an infant. First he whips me, then he pets me, then it is the whip again. Tell him I am not an infant. Tell him I am an emperor in my own realm, and a man, and a father. Tell him to keep out of my family business. I have put up with his interference for too long. First he seeks to tell me who I can marry. Then he wants to show me how to manage my daughter. Tell him, I shall deal with Mary as I see fit, as a father does deal with a disobedient child. No matter who her mother is.’
    The king’s hand – in fact, dear God, his fist – makes crude contact with the ambassador’s shoulder. His path cleared, Henry stamps out. An imperial performance. Except that his leg drags. He shouts over his shoulder, ‘I require a profound and public apology.’
    He, Cromwell, lets out his breath. The ambassador fizzes across the room, gibbering. Distraught, he seizes his arm. ‘Cremuel, I do not know for what I am to apologise. I come here in good faith, I am tricked into coming face to face with that creature, I am forced to exchange compliments with her brother through a whole dinner, and then I am attacked by Henry. He wants my master, he needs my master, he is just playing the old game, trying to sell himself dear, pretending he might send troops to King Francis to fight in Italy – where are these troops? I do not see them, I have eyes, I do not see his army.’
    ‘Peace, peace,’ Audley soothes. ‘We will do the apologising, Monsieur. Let him cool down. Never fear. Hold back your dispatches to your good master, do not write tonight. We will keep the talks going.’
    Over Audley’s shoulder, he sees Edward Seymour, gliding through the crowd. ‘Ah, ambassador,’ he says, with a suave confidence he does not feel. ‘Here is an opportunity for you to meet –’
    Edward springs forward, ‘ Mon cher ami… ’
    Black glances from Boleyns. Edward into the breach, armed with confident French. Sweeping Chapuys aside: none too soon. A stir at the door. The king is back, erupting into the midst of the gentlemen.
    ‘Cromwell!’ Henry stops before him. He is breathing hard. ‘Make him understand. It is not for the Emperor to make conditions to me. It is for the Emperor to apologise, for threatening me with war.’ His face congests. ‘Cromwell, I know just what you have done. You have gone too far in this matter. What have you promised him? Whatever it is, you have no authority. You have put my honour in hazard. But what do I expect, how can a man like you understand the honour of princes? You have said, “Oh, I am sure of Henry, I have the king in my pocket.” Don’t deny it, Cromwell, I can hear you saying it. You mean to train me up, don’t you? Like one of your boys at Austin Friars? Touch my cap when you come down of a morning and say “How do you, sir?” Walk through Whitehall half a pace behind you. Carry your folios, your inkhorn and your seal. And why not a crown, eh, brought behind you in a leather bag?’ Henry is convulsing with rage. ‘I really believe, Cromwell, that you think you are king, and I am the blacksmith’s boy.’
    He will never claim, later, that his heart did not turn over. He is not one to boast of a coolness no reasonable man would possess. Henry could, at any moment, gesture to his guards; he could find himself with cold metal at his ribs, and his day done.
    But he steps back; he knows his face shows nothing, neither repentance nor regret nor fear. He thinks, you could never be the blacksmith’s boy. Walter would not have had you in his forge. Brawn is not the whole story. In the flames you need a cool head, when sparks are flying to the rafters you must note when they fall on you and knock the fire away with one swat of your hard palm: a man who panics is no use in a shop full of molten metal. And now, his monarch’s sweating face thrust into