As I’m opening the door, Richard has the cheek to say, ‘At last.’
Oh yes? and how long does he take over his meals? Gossiping. Gossiping with any of several hundred like-minded gossips in the Great Hall. He’s untying his apron, his candle-thrown shadow restless on the wall behind him. And beside him—I see him, now, rising from one of our stools—is Mark.
Mark: a pinch to my heart; a fierce, cheeky pinch.
Richard asks, ‘What was it?’ The meal, he means.
‘Heron.’
And he’s going, his spoon in hand.
Mark and I stand stock-still—our shadows bouncing—to allow the flame to settle. Mark: I can never quite believe that he’s here, even though he stops by every day. It’s a wonder that I believe in him at all: a slender, soft-skinned young man who, one day, came looking for me. For me, a woman in an apron, twenty-five years in kitchens; a woman with crystallized eyelashes and caramelized fingertips.
Richard’s soles are chipping away up the staircase; Mark’s eyes switch in that direction and return widened.
‘Leftovers,’ I explain, gesturing for Mark to sit back down. Richard has two big meals every day but still finds room for the food—better food—that’s sent up for me. ‘The kitchen’s never got to grips with me. Eating alone in my room.’ They seem to send me the usual dinner table serving tray for four. Four men. ‘Hettie eats like a bird. Anything Richard leaves, Kit and Stephen can have when they’re back from Hall.’
Talking of Stephen: a broom, propped against a workbench. Mark looks perplexed when I replace it so emphatically in its corner. So, I have to explain: ‘It’s unlucky.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes.’ Sometimes I worry for him.
‘What is?’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘To sweep after dark. Don’t you men know anything?’
‘Evidently not.’
‘Problem is,’ I concede, ‘it’s dark, now, halfway through the afternoon. Which Stephen forgets.’ I start to pull up a stool; lose my nerve and half-pull up a stool, my eyes averted from his. This king’s favourite, who came looking for me, and found me, but then kept coming back. This beauty in misfit clothing, this changeling, princeling. He’s making a queen of me: I’ve never walked so tall. Nor stepped so lightly since girlhood; I could swear to it; I catch my own footfalls and marvel at the verve and certainty in them. I’m more of a girl, these days—lighthearted, surefooted—than when I actually was a girl. I wonder if he sees that in me; sees her in me. I do wonder what he does see in me.
You’re so sane, Lucy.
Oh, if you knew, Mark. If you only knew how things have changed.
Beyond the window, rain fizzes. Downstairs, the usual shufflings and thuds: work being done. I’m taking a little time to digest my meal, that’s what I’m doing, sitting here with Mark. I can make up for lost time when the boys come back.
Mark asks, ‘If they spoil you like that—sending you all that food—do they treat you to sweet things, too?’
‘Tart and fruit?’ I shake my head. ‘For the clerks, not the cooks. Not even for Mr Bricket and Monsieur Doux, I don’t think.’
‘Monsieur who?’
‘Monsieur Doux.’ If only there was just this, all day, every day: having Mark with me, chatting and laughing. All those people who think happiness is something, when in fact it’s just this. ‘Monsieur Doux’s the king’s French cook. Mr Bricket is the king’s—well, English cook.’
‘And what does this Monsieur Doux do?’
‘Stands around looking French, as far as I can see,’ now that I think about it.
‘Well, I suppose not everyone can do it.’
My lips to one of his dark, scant eyebrows: that’s what I’d like. That’s what I’d like to do. Talk, Lucy: distract yourself. ‘It’s Mr Bricket I deal with. Sometimes, just sometimes, I’m called to a meeting to plan the king’s menu: Mr Bricket, and one of the king’s doctors, and whoever’s being Server
—Lord Thomas Grey or someone—and me.’ A quick grin, as a flourish.
‘And d’you know what he had today?’
‘Nope,’ and couldn’t care less. Instead, I’m captivated by the hollow behind and below each of his ears: twin indentations tucked away high up on his throat. I’d have to angle my kisses to reach them: to come in sideways, dip in and take him by surprise. I’m surprised, too, though: by desire, something I assumed I’d never feel. It’s been a long time coming but now here it is, unannounced. A blessing: I’m blessed. The ease of it, slipped beneath my skin. As easy as breathing. The glorious, intoxicating ease of it.
‘Swan, this morning,’ he’s saying, ‘and just now, seal.’ He looks pleased with himself, as well he might: Mark of the Privy Chamber, privy to the king’s dining. I’m absurdly proud of him for being there. For being so liked that he’s there.
What if he hadn’t ever come looking for me? Or if I hadn’t been there but Richard had; and he’d done as requested, deigned to show him a subtlety or two, This is how it’s done, this is what we do, before brushing him off, sending him packing. There was the barest breathing-space between what nearly never happened and what did; and we were through it before we realized that it was there. Stepping over it without a backwards glance. And now we’re on dry land. The home straight. I want to say to Mark, Do you realize? I want to celebrate. I want us to celebrate.
He’s saying, ‘Sometimes I go and watch the king’s salad gardener at work. Flemish man. Nice man. It’s a shame, in a way, that it’s so unrecognizable when it ends up on those platters: carrots and cucumbers carved into deer or whatever. Radish roots and turnips cut into—’ he shrugs.
‘Stars,’ would be my guess. ‘Knots. Roses.’
‘And then half a flower-garden tipped on top.’
‘Cowslips,’ I’m remembering from other kitchens, in my past; the work of other cooks.
‘Violets.’
‘Capers, olives.’
‘You know—’ and I’m telling him just for the sake of it, ‘I was in the bakehouse this morning when the men came for the dogs’ loaves.’
‘Dogs’ loaves?’
‘One hundred and two loaves every day for those greyhounds.’
He laughs, incredulous. ‘Don’t tell me it’s manchet.’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you. King’s horses shod in gold, you’d think, and dogs dining on white bread while we’re all picking bits of barley out of our teeth.’
Now, suddenly, there seems nothing more to say. Not that I care. I fold hands in my lap. There is something, though: ‘How are the motets?’ The book of motets that he’s writing out for Anne Boleyn.
‘Ah, the motets.’ He looks faintly embarrassed; but, then, he always does. Looks pleased, too, though, to be asked. ‘Coming along, coming along.’
Some of her favourites, he’s told me, and some of his own composition. I asked him, is it like writing words? Not dissimilar, was his answer. Richard overheard us talking about this book, the other week; and afterwards, when Mark had gone, he said, ‘What’s he doing, writing that book for the queen.’
It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. Said it’d make a nice gesture.
He was gilding a marchepane and didn’t even look up when he said, ‘Would you write a book of confectionery recipes for the king?’
‘Really, Richard, it’s hardly the same. The king doesn’t cook. She does play music.’ And I pointed out that people are always giving him gifts; our laden shelves are testament to that.
His irritation soared to match mine. ‘Not fruit, and not from unknown people. I’m talking about a gift you—you—have laboured over. Something personal.’
I said that courtiers and ladies do it all the time: get things made, or give something of their own. ‘Remember that little dog? For Anne Boleyn? He came from someone. Someone’s pet dog: that’s personal.’
He paused, brush mid-air. ‘But that’s them.’
I didn’t know what he meant.
‘Courtiers. A
nd Mark’s not really one of them.’
I said, ‘He’s a favourite of the queen’s.’ I’d said it: the queen.
‘Well, he thinks he is.’
Typical Richard. Not worthy of a response.
But now I find myself checking with Mark, ‘Do you think she’ll appreciate your giving her these? Your motets.’
A sudden, startling shine to his eyes. ‘Oh yes. She’s a really good musician.’
He’s misunderstood me; but I’ll not pursue it. No doubt he’s right. He’s so cautious, courteous, generous; who could possibly be offended—or be anything but delighted—by any gesture of his?
He adds, ‘She could do with a little cheering up.’
Richard says that they’re not talking, the king and Anne Boleyn, whereas surely they should be really happy now that she’s pregnant again. I think I might understand, though. So much—everything—depends on this pregnancy, and isn’t it possible that they could hate each other for that?
Mark continues, ‘And music’s such a solace. It was good to hear the king singing again with Sir Peter Carew, last night. It’d been a while.’
‘Mark.’ It’s only now, as he looks expectantly at me, that I realize: I’ve begun the conversation that I’ve been wanting for so long to have with him. And now what? Instinct tells me to be direct. Be gentle, but direct. Just do it; just say it. ‘Mark, do you ever think—seriously—of leaving here?’
The surprise is that he looks unsurprised. As if he’s been waiting for me to ask. ‘Well, you know—’ a smile that’s not quite a smile, more of a wince, ‘lately, I have.’
I nod as if I expected this, but actually I’m thrown by his frankness. And relieved. And exhilarated. It’s all I can do to hold back a big smile.
He’s obviously reluctant to say more. So, it’s down to me, again. I’ll start with what I’ve been wanting to ask: ‘Would it be so bad, to be teaching somewhere?’
He’s puzzled.
‘You once said that it would be the most you could hope for, if you left here.’ A nervous laugh. ‘You didn’t make it sound good.’
‘Did I say that?’ He’s amused. ‘Did I really? I tell you, Lucy, sometimes I long for it: a simple life, away from here.’
‘A simple, happy life,’ I venture.
He nods, dreamily. ‘Maybe.’ Now, though, he frowns: ‘But you, surely not; you wouldn’t want to leave all this.’
All what? My laugh isn’t nervous at all, this time. And I dare to say it: ‘I would.’
‘You would?’ He brightens.
‘Yes.’
‘You’d leave Richard?’
‘Richard? Yes.’ Why not? ‘Richard’s had years of me, he’s had all he needs of me.’ This strikes me as the truth.
Mark is studying me, now; chin propped on one hand. ‘And would you go home? To the place by the sea?’
Home’s a long walk from the sea. And it’s an odd question. ‘That depends, doesn’t it.’ There isn’t only me to consider.
‘Yes, of course.’ His gaze slips away; pondering.
I’ll say it: ‘I’m not too old, Mark, to start a family.’
The eyes are back, immediately, to mine. And steady. ‘No. No, of course not.’
Oh, my blue-eyed boy. How beautiful any child of yours will be.
Our private joke: ‘I’m the same age as the queen.’
He reflects my smile. ‘Yes. Yes, you are, aren’t you.’
It’s me, again, who breaks the pause: ‘So, anyway, would it? Would it be so bad, for you? A life away from here.’ A normal life. A family life.
He lets go of what must have been a held breath. ‘There’s a printed book of music, now—Wynkyn de Worde’s. There’ll be others. If I teach in a household with a library, I can probably keep up. Keep learning.’ He smiles, ‘Might learn more, because it’s still all just Fairfax and Cornish, here: church music. On the other hand…’ My heart tiptoes. ‘…there’s nowhere like the English court for a musician. Which is why we’re all here. I mean, the Flems and Italians and Frenchmen, too.’ A twinkle in his eyes: ‘You know what they say: in France—at court—the choirmaster can’t read music even when he’s sober.’
I muster an appreciative smile.
‘Best musicians, best composers, best teachers: all here. And you should see the king’s collection of instruments.’ Suddenly he’s up, at the window, facing the darkness, arms folded. ‘But, you know, Lucy, Mr Van Wilder is our Mr Bricket, and one day I’ll be the new Mr Van Wilder.’ Before I’ve quite understood, he gives me a rueful smile. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’
You do?
‘You’re thinking that’d be good.’
Something like a laugh escapes me; I don’t have to worry what he makes of it, because he doesn’t seem to hear. He’s back on the stool; and his eyes, focused on mine, are huge.
‘Mr Van Wilder does everything. Has to. Appoints and organizes all the musicians. Commissions, rehearses all the music. He’s been chapel organist for years because we haven’t had one since the Italian. And I don’t want to do all that. I don’t want to do any of that. I want to sing and play the lute.’
‘And write motets.’
‘And write motets.’ He smiles, now. Lays his hands on the bench, palms down, fingers splayed; looks at them. ‘There’s a new organ being built in the workshop at Bridewell; Mr Lewes is building it.’ He looks back up at me, his smile fainter. ‘That’s the good news. The bad news is that I might well be sitting at it for the next forty years.’
I wince: Mark, hunched at a keyboard in the perpetual dusk of chapel. Grey-haired, short-sighted. Put-upon and pedantic. Gone: this velvet-eyed boy. ‘Mark, listen to me.’ And—oh, Sweetheart—he actually cocks his head. I want to cup that open, inclined face in my hands. ‘You’re lucky. You know why?’
He shuts his eyes. ‘Lots of reasons.’ But, oddly, he sounds miserable.
Press onwards, Lucy. ‘You’re lucky because you know what you want. That’s what makes you different.’
His eyes are open now, fixed on mine, but they might as well be closed. ‘This place is full of people who know what they want,’ he says. ‘That’s why they’re here.’
‘No—’ listen—‘they just…want.’ Yes, that’s it. ‘They want. Everything.’
He breathes something that’s between a sigh and a laugh; hot, and broken. ‘And I want so much more than that. Christ, Lucy, what’s going to happen to me and how am I going to bear it?’ He’s on his feet. ‘I’m sorry,’ he’s saying, stepping backwards into shadow, ‘you’re lovely and understanding but I shouldn’t have come here, not when I’m feeling like this; it isn’t fair on you. I’m poor company, this evening. I’m hopeless. I’m sorry.’
And before I’ve even drawn breath, he’s gone.
Anne Boleyn
With Wolsey gone, we faced no further unfavourable papal responses, because Henry banned them. Simple. But Thomas More had something to say about that. Quite a lot, in fact. So much so that Henry nearly sacked him, taking the opportunity to point out that it hadn’t gone unnoticed that More’s signature had been missing from our papal petition. Billy’s charm hadn’t been enough. More’s line was that he’d never hidden his view on the matter. The unspoken coda was, And would you really want me to? Which definitely wasn’t what Henry wanted, and More knew it. What Henry wanted was More on his side: his beloved More, along with everyone’s respect.
More had his qualities, but he was no Wolsey. With Wolsey gone, there was a gap for a new Wolsey, a mover and shaker. And suddenly there he was, in 1530, in the Privy Council; or above it, rising clean up above everyone else. Not clean, I take that back. His attitude being, Whatever it takes. Thomas Cromwell; Tom: once Wolsey’s own administrator, he’d learned well under his old boss. Learned well everywhere, doing a bit of everything: mercenary, merchant, moneylender, MP.
Pig-faced Cromwell and hang-dog Cranmer: what a pair. Not that they ever were a pair: Thomas, an ideas man; Tom liking to get the bit between his
teeth. Not a pair, exactly, then, but a team. What a team.
I did like Tom, yes; of course I did. I can’t pretend, now, that I didn’t. I like people who get things done, especially for me, and especially that divorce. I’m being disingenuous: in a way, Tom is likeable; he’s nothing if not affable and interesting. And sensible, and I’ve always liked a man who talks sense. Widely-read, well-informed. He might well have been Wolsey’s one-time assistant, but he had no time for the clergy. He was a forty-year-old widower when we met. He’d lived life. And happened to be still very much living it. Living it well, in that smart London house of his. No hankering for palaces and pomp, but a love of good company and good food. A man of taste, not opulence. A man of the times.
At the start of 1530, it was as if Tom walked in on us all, clapped his hands three times and demanded, ‘What is all this nonsense?’
My thoughts entirely.
Piggy-eyed? Bullish.
With Tom behind him, Henry summoned the Convocation of the Clergy from Canterbury to Westminster. He meant business, which didn’t suit them one bit. Fussing, they came blinking into the light. Waited on, hand and foot, every step of the way. When they finally shuffled to a halt in London and assembled themselves in their acres of garb, Henry let them know what it was all about: a hundred thousand pounds in compensation, please, for expenses he’d incurred in dealing with Rome. If they were considering refusing him, he added, perhaps they should know that there could also be prosecution for having sided with the traitorous Wolsey. Was that clear?
Very. But in return, could they just have back some clerical privileges that had recently been docked?
Since you ask, said Henry, no. And whilst we’re on the subject: I’ll be Head of the Church in England.
Inevitably, Bishop Fisher—Catherine’s principal ally—raised merry Hell in the Lords. All a-quiver, I can imagine: that skinny, papery old man. Parliament responded, panicking, adding the rider: so far as the law of God allows. Fine, because no one knew how far that was.
Back it came to the clergy, who obviously didn’t feel that they could say no, but said nothing at all. Silence. In the end, Warham—Archbishop of Canterbury—got to his feet. I think, he said to Henry, that we’ll have to take that as a yes.
The Queen of Subtleties Page 13
