Greenwich Palace, Spring. 1536 #5
Caught up in the flirtation, she slides her wedding ring off her finger, leaving the scarlet embroidery silk in its place and holds it out for him to admire. ‘If anything were to happen to the king, I think you’d have me,’ she whispers.
For a brief moment only, they are caught up in the game; then she realises what she has said. Awkwardly, she rips the thread from her finger and crams her wedding ring back on.
Henry Norris makes a muttered exclamation. ‘I’d never lift my head so far . . . I’d rather it was off!’
Anne brushes the silks from her lap and jumps up. ‘Good God! You would undo me . . . I’ll see your head is off!’
George glances up from whispering with Elizabeth and sees my anguished glare at him. ‘What’s this?’ he asks, coming closer, seeing the tangle of silks on the floor, Norris on his feet, Anne white.
‘May Day madness,’ I say, laughing my courtier laugh a tinkle as sweet as a warning bell.
Norris rounds on George; he is quite furious. ‘I failed a riddle,’ he said. ‘I did not know the key to your sister’s riddle. But it was not a riddle that Her Majesty should have told.’
‘She’s a very witty queen.’ George struggles to understand the sudden switch from daring flirtation to what feels like panic.
He offers Anne his hand as if to pull her out of danger, and she takes it and they walk away from the silks on the floor, their steps matching, moving as one being with two heads.
Henry Norris looks blankly at me, as if I can explain what just happened.
‘Nothing,’ I say again. ‘That was nothing.’
‘That was madness,’ he says. ‘Anyone could’ve heard her – she accused me!’
‘Nobody heard,’ I say. ‘And it was nothing.’
‘Half a dozen heard,’ he said. ‘And every man and woman at this court is a spy for someone. Someone’s bound to tell the king. I’ll go to the queen’s almoner now and swear it was nothing.’
‘It was nothing. And there are no spies here.’
I HURRY TO CATCH my spymaster on the stair on his way to the hall for dinner. We stand as close as lovers to whisper in the bay of the oriel window.
‘Henry Norris misspoke,’ I say. ‘A joke about him loving the queen more than Margaret Shelton. But he went to swear to the queen’s almoner that it meant nothing, so I thought I should tell you.’
‘Yes. You’re right.’
‘Did you know already?’ I ask curiously.
His smile is hard to read in the shadows of the stair well. ‘Is Henry Norris the new favourite?’ he asks.
‘He’s always been a good friend.’
‘And Sir Francis is another?’
‘Weston or Bryan?’ I ask cautiously.
He smiles. ‘Two Francises, a Thomas, and a Mark, and a Richard and a Henry. So many! William Brereton?’
I shake my head. It is a relief to say no. ‘Elizabeth Somerset’s brother-in-law? Never! He only visits us to scold Elizabeth . . .’
‘And of course, George is constantly with his sister. In and out of her private rooms?’
‘Oh yes,’ I assure him. ‘George is always at her side. George keeps her safe. He can vouch for her.’
I can hear a noise from the king’s privy chamber above. I can hear Anne’s voice, and then I hear the irritable whine of a spoilt child – she must have ordered them to bring Princess Elizabeth to the king.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask Cromwell, looking up the stairs. ‘Is that the princess?’
‘The queen sent for her . . . after Norris misspoke, as you call it.’
‘But why?’ I ask. ‘Why Elizabeth in the middle of all this?’
‘It’s always a masque, isn’t it, with you people? It’s always some sort of play. I think the title of this one is: The Faithful Wife and the One True Heir.’
I go to the top of the stairs, and I see Anne waving the little girl’s nursemaids back to the nursery, putting her hand on the king’s arm and looking into his face, as if to persuade him of something.
She is smiling her confident smile, baring her teeth, but he is oddly impassive, standing stiffly on his painful leg.
‘All’s well,’ Cromwell says reassuringly, coming up behind me.
It does not look as if all is well.
‘Is the king in pain?’ I ask. ‘Has his wound opened up? Will he be able to take part in May Day and go on progress to Calais?’
‘Oh, that’s been cancelled,’ he says casually. ‘No Calais.’
‘Cancelled? Why?’
He gives a little shrug, as if he does not know. ‘Perhaps Sir Nicholas Carew advised against it.’
‘Since when does Nicholas Carew say where we go on progress?’
‘Because he’s a friend of Spain, and now Spain is our friend.’ Cromwell smiles, as if it is a neat riddle that I might enjoy. ‘The Spanish party is our friend and so are the Lisles who keep Calais for us, trusted friends and kinsmen, just like the Poles and Courtenays.’
‘The Spanish party are our friends now?’
‘Dear friends,’ he agrees.
‘Even Sir Geoffrey, the blabbermouth?’ I query.
He smiles. ‘Sir Geoffrey is the most friendly of all, he keeps nothing to himself.’
Thomas Cromwell has been a trader in wool and secrets for so long that no one can tell whether he is showing the front or the back side of the weave.
‘You are joking with me,’ I say uncertainly.
He shakes his head. ‘I am very serious.’
Above, the music starts playing for the ladies to dance; the tune filters down the stone stairwell like an invitation to light-hearted play to those with happy feet. It is a summons to courtiers to take their place.
‘Are you coming, Master Cromwell?’
He shakes his head. ‘I must catch the tide back to Stepney. Tonight, I have work to do at my home. Tell me, what d’you think of Mark Smeaton?’
‘The lute player? The singer?’
His smile is inscrutable. ‘D’you think he will sing for me?’
‘If you ask him. But he’s very attached to the queen.’
‘So I hear,’ he says.