‘No, your majesty. It is very fine.’
‘Catherine Howard, who was Queen before me and who died on the block. A quicker death than burning.’ She gave a long, desperate sigh. ‘She, too, was foolish, though in a different way. All these rich things I wear, the cloth of gold and silken tissue and bright jewels, so many of them have been passed down from Queen to Queen. Always, you see, they are returned to the Department of the Queen’s Wardrobe, to be preserved or altered. They are worth so much that they cannot be discarded, any more than the great tapestries.’ She held up her richly embroidered sleeve. ‘This was once worn with a dress of Anne Boleyn’s. I have constant reminders of past events. I live in fear now, Matthew, great fear.’
‘I will do all I can, put all other work aside. I swear.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you. I knew you would succour me.’
Lord Parr inclined his head, indicating I should rise. I bowed to the Queen, who essayed another sad smile, and to Cranmer, who nodded. Lord Parr led me out, back to the window from which we had watched the King in the courtyard. The yard was empty now. I realized the window was in an angle of the corridor from which we could not be seen from either direction; ideal for private conversation. He said, ‘Thank you, sir. Believe me, we do not underestimate the difficulties, or the dangers. Come with me now and I will give you more particulars of Greening, and the power of attorney from his parents.’ He looked out over the courtyard, hesitated, then leaned closer. ‘You saw the physical state of the King. But as you will have realized from what we told you, his mind is still, mostly, sharp and clear. And it has always been full of anger and suspicion.’
Chapter Seven
IT WAS WITH A SENSE OF RELIEF that I rode out under the gate of the palace again. I made my way slowly towards Charing Cross. Genesis sneezed and shook his head at the dust from the Scotland Yard brickworks, which endlessly laboured to produce materials to embellish and improve Whitehall. The day was hot and the street stank. I decided I would take Nicholas with me to the printers’ quarter. It would do no harm to have someone young and sizeable beside me.
At the steps of the great Charing Cross, dozens of beggars sat as usual. More and more of them these last two years, with the polling and nipping of poor men’s wages caused by the collapsing value of the coinage. There were those who said that beggars were leeches, licking the sweat from hard-working labourers’ brows, but most of the beggars had once been working men themselves. I glanced at them, men and women and children, wearing ancient dirty rags, faces red and harsh from constant exposure to the sun, some displaying their sores and weeping scabs to invoke pity from the passers-by. One man who sat with the stump of one leg exposed wore the tatters of a soldier’s uniform; no doubt he had left his leg in Scotland or France during the last two years of war. But I averted my eyes, for it was well known that to catch the eye of one could bring a whole horde descending on you; and I had much to think on.
I was involved in a matter potentially more deadly than anything in my prior experience. It reached right into the heart of the royal court, at a time when the manoeuvring of various factions had never been more vicious. Recalling that spectacle of the King in the courtyard, I realized now that everything which had happened since the beginning of the year was part of a struggle to decide who would control the realm when Henry died and his throne passed to a child. In whose hands would the King leave the realm? Norfolk? Edward Seymour? Paget? The Queen?
I had let myself in for long days of fear and anxiety, as a harbourer of dangerous secrets which I did not want to possess. But a wise man knows he is a fool, and I was aware, of course, of my true motives. It was because I had long cast a fantasy of love around the Queen. It was an ageing man’s hopeless foolishness, but that morning I realized how deeply I still felt.
And yet I knew I must see Queen Catherine clearly: her religious radicalism had led that most careful and diplomatic of women to risk all. She had called it her vanity but it was more like a loss of judgement. I wondered uneasily if she were verging towards fanaticism, like so many in these days. No, I thought, she had tried to draw back by submitting to the King and by asking for Cranmer’s approval of the Lamentation; and yet her refusal to dispose of the book had led to potentially disastrous consequences.