Cromwell shakes his head as if he is amazed at his own stupidity. And at once, since he is getting the blame for the bad news, he sets about diminishing it. A moment ago he was my prosecutor; now he is my codefendant, and the offense immediately becomes much less serious. I see him turn, like a dancer in a masque, to skip down the line in the opposite direction.

“The Duke of Norfolk will put down the uprising in the North,” he says soothingly. “A few peasants shouting for bread, it’s nothing. And this from your scholar Reginald Pole—this is nothing. It’s only a private letter,” he says. “It’s only the opinion of one man. If Your Majesty would deign to rebut it, how could it stand? Your understanding is naturally greater than his. Who would even read it if you denied it? Who cares what Reginald Pole thinks?”

Henry flings himself to the window and looks out into the soft twilight. The owls that live in the attics of this old building are hooting, and as he watches, a great white barn owl sweeps quietly by on silent snub wings. The bells are tolling all over the great city. I think for one moment what would happen to this king if the bells were to start to peal backwards and the people hear the signal to rise against him?

“You will write to your son,” Henry spits, without looking round. “And you will tell him to come to England and face me, like a man. You will disown him. You will tell him that he is no child of yours for he speaks against your king. I won’t have divided loyalties. Either you serve me, or you are his mother. You can choose.”

“You are my king,” I say simply. “You were born to be king, you always have been my king. I never deny that. You must judge what is the best for the whole kingdom and for me, as your most humble and loving servant.”

He turns and looks at me, and suddenly it is as if his temper is quite blown away. He is smiling, as if I have said something that makes complete sense to him. “I was born to be king,” he says quietly. “It is God’s will. To say anything else is to fly in the face of God. Tell your son that.”

I nod.

“God put Arthur aside to make me king,” he reminds me, almost shyly. “Didn’t he? You saw Him do it. You were a witness.”

I give no sign of what it costs me to speak of Arthur’s death to his younger brother. “God Himself put you on the throne,” I agree.

“The best choice,” he asserts.

I bow my head in assent.

The king sighs as if he has somehow got to a place where he can be at peace.

I glance at Cromwell; it seems that the audience is over. He nods, his face a little pale. I think that Cromwell must sometimes have to dig deep to find the courage to face this monster he has made.

I curtsey and I am about to turn to go to the door when a little warning gesture of the hand from the silent secretary at the end of the table reminds me that we are not allowed to turn our backs on the king anymore. His greatness is such that we have to leave his presence walking backwards.

I am of the old royal family in England. My father was brother to two kings. I think for a moment, for half a moment only, that I will look like a fool showing exaggerated respect for this fat tyrant, whose back is turned to me, who does not even see the homage that I am ordered to give him. Then I think that the only fool is the one who fails to survive in these dangerous times, and I give Thomas Cromwell a smile which says—if he could but read it—how low shall we stoop, you and I? To keep our heads on our shoulders? And I curtsey again and walk backwards six paces, curtsey, feel blindly behind my back for the handle, and slide out of the door.

Montague comes to my room after Compline, late at night. “What did he say to you?” he demands. His hair is sticking up as if he has run his hands through it in exasperation. I stroke it down and straighten his cap. He jerks his head away from my touch. “He tore into me, this letter of Reginald’s has all but ruined us. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive it. He can’t bear to hear criticism. He screamed at me.”

“He told me that I had to disown Reginald,” I admit. “He was angrier than I have ever seen him before.”

“He frightened Cromwell,” Montague says. “I saw his hands shake. I was kneeling, I swear that my legs would have given way if I had been standing. There was no pleasing him through dinner. The queen spoke to him about a favor for someone and he said that she didn’t have enough goodwill from him to squander it on others. In front of everyone! I thought she was going to cry before all the court. Then after dinner he took me to one side and was beside himself.”

“She’s terrified of him,” I remark. “Not like Queen Katherine, not even like Anne. She can’t begin to manage him.”

“What will we do?” Montague demands. “God knows that we can’t manage him. What could possess Reginald to expose us to this?”

“He had to!” I defend him. “It was either that or write page after page of lies. The king commanded that he give his opinion. He had to say what he thought.”

“He called the king a tyrant and a ravening beast!” Montague raises his voice and then remembers that these words alone are treason, and claps his hand over his mouth.

“We’ll have to deny him,” I say unhappily. “I know we will.”

Montague flings himself into a chair and runs his hands through his hair. “Doesn’t he realize what life is like in England today?”

“He knows very well,” I say. “Probably nobody knows better. He’s warning the king that if he goes on with the destruction of the monasteries, the people will rise against him and the emperor will invade. And already the North is up.”

“The commons turned on the bishop’s chancellor at Horncastle,” Montague tells me, his voice low. “They’re burning beacons as far as Yorkshire. But Reginald declares against the king too soon. His letter is treason.”

“I don’t see what else he could write,” I say. “The king asked for his opinion. He has given it. He says that the princess should have her title, and the Pope should have the headship of the Church. Would you say any different?”

“Yes! Dear God, I’d never tell the truth to this king.”

“But if you were far away, and ordered to write your honest opinion?”

Montague gets out of his chair and kneels beside mine so that he can whisper into my ear. “Lady Mother, he is far away; but we are not. I am afraid for you, and for me, and for my son Harry, all my children, and for all our kin. It doesn’t matter that Reginald is right—I know he is! It doesn’t matter that most of England would agree with him—almost every lord of the land would agree with him. It’s not just the commons who are marching in Lincolnshire, they’re taking the gentry with them and calling on the lords to turn out for them. Every day someone seeks me out or sends me a message or asks me what we are going to do. But telling this truth has put all of us into terrible danger. The king is no longer a thoughtful scholar, he is no longer a devout son of the Church. He has become a man quite out of the control of his teachers, of the priests, perhaps of himself. There is no point giving the king an honest opinion, he wants nothing but praise of himself. He cannot bear one word of criticism. He is merciless against those who speak against him. It is death to speak the truth in England now. Reginald is far away and enjoying the luxury of speaking out, but we are here; it is our lives he is risking.”

I am silent. “I know,” I say. “I don’t think that he could have done differently, he had to speak out. But I know that he has put us in danger.”

“Geoffrey too,” Montague says. “Think of your precious Geoffrey. Reginald’s letter has endangered us all.”

“What can we do to make ourselves safe?”

“There’s no safety for us. We are the royal family, whether we publicly proclaim it as Reginald does, or not. All we can do is draw a line between Reginald and ourselves. All we can say is that he does not speak for us, that we deny what he says, that we urge him to be silent. And we can beg him not to publish, and you can order him not to go to Rome.”

“But what if he publishes this letter, and what if he goes to Rome and persuades the Pope to publish the excommunication and order a crusade against England?”

Montague puts his head in his hands. “Then I am ready,” he says very quietly. “When the emperor invades, I will raise the tenants and we will march with the commons of England, defend the Church, overthrow the king, and put the princess on her throne.”