‘Petitio principii? We agree a false supposition and then we try to prove it?’
‘As scholars,’ he says. ‘Let’s proceed by logic and never mind about truth for a moment. Say someone is discouraging him from bedding the queen – who would do such a thing?’
I restore my courtier face and join the masque of false accusation. ‘All the Papists, the Spanish party, the French party?’
‘She, herself?’
‘Why would the queen cast a spell to make him impotent?’
‘Out of disgust, to avoid him. Or to speed his death so she can be dowager queen? She has ambitions. She wants to be a regent queen?’
I don’t answer; it is too ridiculous. I shake my head.
‘Well, put that to one side for now. Someone else? Any family putting a pretty girl forward to take her place? Who’s new to court?’
‘Catherine Carey – Mary Boleyn’s daughter – as pretty as her mother; but she’s the king’s niece, perhaps even his daughter. He likes Kateryn Parr, visiting her sister Anne; but she’s married to Lord Latimer. Or Mary Norris – the daughter of – er – Henry...’ I break off. ‘But his favourite by a country mile is Katheryn Howard?’
‘No, I can’t name a Howard girl for witchcraft,’ he says briskly. ‘Thomas Howard’s star is rising since he killed so many rebels at such speed. If he comes back from France with an alliance, he’ll be unassailable.’
‘No, my lord,’ I say primly. ‘You can’t name a Howard girl, nor any innocent girl for witchcraft, because it would be her death – and none of the maids-of-honour or ladies-in-waiting are guilty of being anything but silly and flirtatious. No one is casting spells.’
‘Agreed, but – just for the exercise, remember! – let us assume that someoneiscasting spells. Never mind who.’ He slaps his hand on the table and startles me. I’ve never known him less than courteous. ‘For the sake of an argument, Jane.’
‘As you wish – as a “useful fallacy”.’ I pause to consider the holes in this confection. ‘But my lord – who is left? Gertrude Courtenay and Geoffrey Pole are released and terrified into obedience? And if Lady Margaret Pole can summon a witch from the Tower, then the keeper of the Tower is dangerously at fault.’ I pause. ‘And that’s you, my lord.’
He gives his familiar little snort of laughter. ‘All right. Not her. What about Lady Mary?’
‘Nobody would ever believe that Lady Mary would instruct a witch,’ I say flatly.
‘Then it’s got to be the Lisles. Lady Lisle with her pretty daughter Anne Basset at court, working her wiles on the king to replace the Lutheran queen. Anne Basset as their favourite horse in the race, Arthur, Lord Lisle, betraying Calais to the Papists – that might even be true. And the Lisle family are of the old royal family, Plantagenets, founder and key members of the Spanish party... and kin to Lord Hungerford!’ he finishes with a flourish.
‘What’s Lord Hungerford to do with it?’
‘His wife has evidence that he’s a traitor and a Papist! And he hired a witch – name of Mother Roache – to predict the end of the Tudors. There’s your witch: Mother Roache. There’s your motive: a Papist plot. There’s your guilty party: the Spanish party, old royals, Plantagenets and Hungerford. There’s their candidate for queen: Anne Basset – and therefore your conspiracy!’
‘It hangs together as an argument; but it’d never stand up in a trial. Nobody would believe that Lord Lisle and his lady areanything but loyal, and she’s far too grand to have anything to do with a drunk like Hungerford and some grubby hedge-witch. Even if anyone can be brought to believe that Lord Hungerford hired a witch in the first place.’
‘Oh, that bit’s true,’ Cromwell assures me. ‘I’ve got sworn evidence from Eliza Hungerford. She wants a divorce, and she’ll say anything to be rid of him. But you’re right: it won’t go to trial – I’d do it with a writ of attainder. I’d just tell the Houses of Parliament that he’s guilty and get a death warrant. Trials are uncontrollable; defendants say too much. I won’t use a trial again.’
I pause at that. ‘You do remember that a fair trial is the right of all Englishmen – won by the barons in the Magna Carta? What will we become, without justice in England?’
He touches my hand, gently, almost apologetically. ‘We’ll become a good tyranny, run by godly men. It’s the best way to rule; it’s the most efficient.’
We are silent for a moment; his fingers are warm on the back of my hand.
‘And anyway,’ he says softly, ‘what else but witchcraft could cause His Majesty to fall impotent?’
He dares me to say that the king’s grossness, his drunkenness, and his superstitious fear of sin stands between him and normal, healthy lust. I don’t even think of love. He has no ability to love. I think he lost it when he exiled Katherine of Aragon, the love of his life.
‘Well then,’ Lord Cromwell says, taking silence for agreement – as tyrants do. ‘So you see. I solve the mystery of the king’s impotence. He’s been bewitched by Lord Hungerford in conspiracy with the Plantagenets, to turn him against the Lutheran queen and replace her with one of their own. Conveniently, in one stroke, I am rid of Lord Hungerford, his wife Elizabeth is rid of Lord Hungerford, and we reformers are rid of the Lisles and the last redoubt of the Spanish party. It’s neat, isn’t it, Jane?’
‘It’s neat,’ I say. ‘But what if you kill everyone and the king is not restored to vigour? What if you execute Lord Hungerford and thepoor old witch, Lord Lisle and his affinity – and the king still doesn’t bed his wife? Still doesn’t want her as his wife?’
He nods gravely. ‘Yes, that’s true, Jane. You’re right. The work is half-done. The king can’t have a wife who does not incite him. We’ll have to get rid of her. Behind the plot, there is the queen – unmanning him.’
I am horrified. This is worse than accusing innocent ladies-in-waiting. ‘No, no, my lord. You really can’t say that. You can’t accuse her of witchcraft. Even a whisper of it would be her ruin.’
He shrugs. ‘What can I do? If the king does not want the marriage, it has to be dissolved, one way or another.’
