London - Edward Rutherfurd [301]
Thomas was at his best. He gave them vivid depictions of the gay life of the court, the jousts, the sports, the music. He told them funny stories about all the great folk there. Rowland’s father was curious about the painter Holbein, who had already made portraits of many of the greatest figures in England. “Do you know,” Thomas told them, “his painting of King Henry is so lifelike that the first day it was hung one of the courtiers, who didn’t know it was there, gave a huge start and bowed to it!”
He even made his dour master Cromwell sound delightful. “Cromwell is tough,” he conceded, “but he has a fine mind. He loves the company of scholars and Holbein often dines with him. But do you know who his closest friend is? Archbishop Cranmer himself.” He grinned at Susan. “We courtiers are not all so bad,” he said.
For a long time, in the old tavern where Dame Barnikel had once presided, they enjoyed each other’s company so much that by mid-afternoon when they decided to return by river to Chelsea, they were all a little drunk.
How well everything looked, Susan thought, as their barge skimmed up the stream. The surface of the water was like liquid glass; the sky was blue, the air was still. There was no doubt that the Tudors had improved London. As they passed the mouth of the Fleet, narrower now thanks to repeated encroachments, she looked with approval at the king’s new waterside hall by Blackfriars and, across the Fleet, reached by a bridge, the little palace of Bridewell for important foreign visitors. She smiled at the Temple enclosure and at the green lawns of the great houses, each with its own river steps. True, the old palace of the Savoy had lost its ancient glory – it had never recovered from Wat Tyler’s destruction more than a century before and the site contained only a modest hospital now. But just as they approached Westminster there was another huge building site, the splendid new palace which King Henry was going to call Whitehall.
By Westminster, she realized that Rowland was really rather flushed. She did not mind. He was humming softly to himself, but quite tunefully. His eyes were glazed. As for Thomas, he seemed to find everything amusing.
It was a few minutes later, after they had passed Westminster and were drawing level with the archbishop’s Lambeth Palace on the opposite bank that Rowland nudged her and pointed. By Lambeth steps, she now observed, a handsome barge had tethered and its occupants were about to walk through the big brick gatehouse to the palace.
“There goes Cranmer,” he said, and Susan watched curiously as a tall, handsome figure emerged from the barge. But her attention was soon caught by something else. For as the men were unloading a quantity of baggage, she noticed that four of them were carrying a large box, almost like a coffin.
“Do you suppose someone has died?” she said.
And then, for no good reason that she could see, Thomas started to giggle.
“I can’t see what’s so funny,” she remarked. “People do die, you know.” But now he burst out laughing. “I think,” she said crossly, “you might explain.”
“Cranmer’s little secret,” he muttered, then grinned. “Hush.”
“You’re drunk,” she sighed. His eyes were bloodshot.
“Maybe, sister.” He was quiet for a few moments. The coffin went through the gatehouse. Then he chuckled again. “Do you promise not to tell,” he said confidentially, “if I tell you what’s in that box?”
“I suppose so,” she said reluctantly.
“Mistress Cranmer,” he grinned. “That box contains his wife.”
For a moment Susan could not speak. Priests sinned, of course, although the English clergy had in fact been rather free of this kind of laxity recently. But for the archbishop to keep a woman . . . “Cranmer has a doxy?