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He turned and inspected a half-blown rose overmuch. I waited. At length he could delay his answer no longer. “I believe ...” His usually sure voice was low. “I believe that Queen Katherine is your true wife. And if she be not, I believe only the Pope has the power to pronounce that.”

I felt anger rising cold in my neck, working up toward my head, where it would affect and twist my thinking. I fought it.

“So that is why you refuse the Chancellorship.” I was surprised—and pleased—at how dispassionate my voice sounded. The coldness was receding, dropping down like water flowing from a pipe. I had overcome it.

“Partly.” He smiled. “I cannot be Your Grace’s servant unless I embrace all things wholeheartedly.”

We had left the rose garden now and approached the orchard. A worn brick wall enclosed it. More opened the wooden door and ushered me inside.

Row after row of pruned and tended trees stretched before me, each about five yards apart from the next. Their branches spread neatly and evenly out, like round tents.

“Plums,” said More, gesturing to the farthest row on the left. “Cherries.” The next. “Apples.” a C—rather like a box all around—and narrowed little eyes. The sort of person one soon forgets, except for the eyes.

He knew all of Wolsey’s financial matters, down to every farthing in the household. It was in this capacity that I supposedly consulted him. But one does not merely go over figures. One begins to talk. Therein was I won. Master Cromwell had many interesting tales. In the beginning they were about others; in the end, about himself.

This Cromwell, the son of a Putney blacksmith, had spent hidden years abroad, first as a soldier of fortune in the Italian wars, then as a merchant on the Antwerp market, in the process learning enough common law to qualify for the bar. I received the impression of that rarest of creatures, a totally amoral man, yet ascetic in his wants and needs. Thus he would be singularly resistant to all normal temptations—the satins, the women, the dainty dishes—that had ensnared his master, the Cardinal. Was this the man I sought to help resolve my Great Matter? I hinted of the delicate “problem.” He nodded.

A few days later he sent word that he had some “suggestions” for my Great Matter. Thus one euphemism danced with another.

I called Cromwell to meet with me in person and discuss the details of his plan. This he was only too eager to do.

He appeared in my work room promptly after morning Mass, his dark, straight hair wet and combed, his cap in hand. I had not yet had breakfast, and had hardly expected him so soon. A tray of smoked eel, ale, and cheese sat upon my table, awaiting me. I eyed it hungrily. Nevertheless I turned to Cromwell and bade him welcome.

“Your written suggestions were most intriguing,” I began, picking them up from my work desk and waving them in my hand. “I have given much thought to them.” If I expected an answer, there was none; he stood poised and listening. “I would like a fuller explanation of your plan,” I continued. “It is cumbersome to commit all things to paper.”

He smiled, knowing what I meant. Then he looked round the room questioningly.

“There is no one here, Cromwell,” I said. “You may speak freely.” To prove my point—and because I was in a buoyant mood (of late my moods had varied alarmingly, so that I was often elated after breakfast and sunk in gloom by mid-afternoon, quite unlike myself)—I strode over to an arras and thumped it. Nothing but dust flew out.

I sat on a small stool; Cromwell then allowed himself to sit as well, and edged his stool close to mine.

“It is this, Your Grace. I have made an extensive study of the question. And my humble opinion is that it is a much greater issue than the marriage itself. The marriage was merely God’s way of opening other ideas to you, of leading you to ponder heretofore unthinkable things.”

“What things?” I asked. He was employing flattery, like so many before him. It bored me. The smell of the ale and eel wafted toward me. Let him get on with it!

“That