‘I am sure they would be friends! The queen can be enchanting. She made herself beloved of the king through enchantment, didn’t she? Sortilèges? Magic in her smiles?’
I hesitate. ‘It was magical in the sense that they fell in love. She is enchanting in that sense.’
‘Why? What other sense is there?’ he asks, as if he is ignorant of the other meanings of sortilèges: sorcery and dark arts. ‘If only your father could persuade Lady Mary to take the oath and come to court, the queen could cast her spell. And Lady Mary will have to obey her father in the end – won’t she?’
I think of the blaze of martyrdom in the princess’ eyes. ‘She certainly ought to,’ I say cautiously.
‘Does your father love Lady Mary?’
‘Courtly love,’ I tell him. ‘Fatherly love. You know that means nothing.’
He looks intently. ‘Fatherly love means nothing, Lady Rochford?’
‘My father is a philosopher,’ I tell him. ‘The head rules the heart.’
He nods. ‘Please tell him to advise Lady Mary that she must take the oath,’ he says gently. ‘Sooner, rather than late. And mention it to Lady Margaret Pole. Even to Gertrude Courtenay. Tell them that she should take the oath now, when it is offered in kindness, and not risk the queen’s disfavour. Thomas More risked the queen’s disfavour. We don’t want any more martyrs.’
‘Anne would never—’ I start, but I remember her saying:She is my death, or I am hers.
‘Exactly,’ he says. ‘The Spanish party should consider what willhappen to Lady Mary when her mother is no longer here to protect her? Lady Mary’s friends might wish her safe – might wish her far away.’
Thomas Cromwell never says a word that is not full of meaning. Is he now suggesting that Lady Mary should run away? ‘I suppose she can’t just leave!’
‘I would have thought she has friends enough, clever enough and rich enough to get her to a Spanish ship in some unwatched port.’
‘Are there any unwatched ports?’ I ask.
‘There could be.’
‘She would not get captured, trying to run away? That would be the worst thing that could happen. They would have advised her to go to her death?’
‘She would not be captured,’ he reassures me. ‘If she made the attempt, I am sure she would get away. If anyone were caught, it would be her assistants – the Spanish party. I imagine you Boleyns wouldn’t mind the Spanish party being caught in treason? In the very treasonous act that got Lady Mary safely out of the country?’
He does not wait for me to answer, but makes his bow to the king and withdraws from the room, his clerk silently following behind. The queue for people waiting to offer gifts to the king is long, but I wait for Lady Margaret Pole to step forward, and her servant bows and puts down a handsome Spanish-made saddle. The clerk notes the value, Lady Margaret curtseys to the king, her cousin, and he rises from his throne and kisses her on both cheeks. His groom of the chamber passes him a small, jewelled box as his gift for her, as if she – born a princess – is honoured by a second-hand piece of rubbish. She curtseys and steps backwards deferentially, only turning her back on the king when she gets to the door of his presence chamber. I curtsey, too, and follow her down the gallery to the Pole rooms, where she stays with her sons: Lord Henry Montague and Sir Geoffrey Pole.
‘My lady?’ I catch her up.
‘Lady Rochford.’ She smiles at me as if she wants to see me as herclever little pupil in Queen Katherine’s rooms, and not the skilled courtier that I have become.
‘My father will visit Lady Mary after Twelfth Night,’ I say. ‘Shall I ask him to take your good wishes?’
She is too cautious to trust me. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Please send her my blessings. Your father was always a good friend. Lady Mary and I used to have much pleasure in reading his translations.’
I lower my voice. ‘He will advise her to take the oath of loyalty.’
‘I’m sure she will be glad of his advice.’ This woman has survived four kings; she is not going to be surprised into an indiscretion.
‘Lady Mary should understand – as Sir Thomas More did not – that there is no choice. If she is to live in England, she will have to declare her obedience to the King of England as Supreme Head of the Church, married to his first and only wife, Queen Anne. She must name herself as his bastard daughter...’ I pause. ‘If she is to remain in England,’ I add, to let her think of exile.
Her hands are trembling; she tucks them into her sleeves. ‘I thank you for your advice.’ She speaks slowly, as if weighing every individual word. ‘I know that you loved Lady Mary when you were together in the schoolroom.’
I laugh, my false laugh. ‘Oh, we were little rivals! I used to say to her: “Vaya a Esapña!” ’
She speaks Spanish as well as I do. She understands:Go to Spain!But she does not betray herself. ‘Oh yes, I had forgotten that,’ she says, smiling.
I curtsey and leave her at the door of Pole rooms. She’s an intelligent woman; I don’t need to say more. I have the heady sense of power like a loosed falcon. I have done something very good for Lady Mary today, while leading the Spanish party into disaster. I stretch out my fingers like the talons of a hawk. I feel as if I could grasp anything.
Greenwich Palace, January
