La Chasse (A Tudors fic) Ch.2: cri du coeur
Chapter 2 cri du coeur
Thomas flips a page of his book, realises he hadn’t absorbed a word of it, and flips back, exhaling heavily.
The candle gutters in a short gust of wind, breaking his concentration. His mind turns over the afternoon’s conversation again, a child examining a curious seashell. It was a strange matter indeed; and the more he thinks of it, the more the implications trouble him. In fact if he didn’t know better, he would be inclined to think -
But it is over now, for a while at least. Between the Queen’s miscarriage and the Reformation, the king should be in no mood and have no time for trifles or whims.
He tries to begin the passage anew, but is waylaid once more by his thoughts.
Hypothetically, the homunculus in his mind chirps, hypothetically, if he does, would you?
The theological supplication: The church will damn him to burn in Purgatory (tell me where it says in the Holy Book, “Purgatory”?), they will say that God Himself will rain sulphur and fire upon him for these thoughts (lesson: do not make prophecies that will not come true). Here is a reason it is the New Testament that he has learnt by heart - he simply has no use for tedious, context-derived laws the Hebrews imposed upon themselves in the guise of godliness. Now abideth faith, hope and love, even those three; but the greatest of these is love, Tyndale says.
In Sussex, it is told that a vicar had been publicly lynched for buggery. They say that the holes in his corpse became so noxious with the filth that ran through his veins, not even Beelzebub would near him.
But if any of the rumours at court are true, it is the indiscretion that is the sin, not the act itself. It is then a question of social impeachment, not a religious one.
In any case, the king is the king, so in all practicality the choice has been made for him. But supposing Henry did, and he was given the choice - as far as his own conscience was concerned -
He tries to imagine what it would be like, being taken by the king, rough beard mediating his kisses, strong, flat muscles under his fingers in the absence of breasts, and the absolute maleness betwixt his thighs.
He can’t.
His breath is short and his temples throbbing. Checking the time, he finds it is almost three. Perhaps he should go home, though the prospect of facing an empty house and a bed haunted by past warmth is not appealing.
The door swings open at that moment. He is immediately on guard as he rises to his feet, nimble and soundless as a cat.
“Cromwell? Is that you, dratted imbecile?”
Ah, so it is back to “Cromwell” and “imbecile”, he thinks wryly, all is well.
The dim light reveals King Henry’s visage, florid and unfocused. He reeks strongly of spirits, and Thomas only barely manages to catch his elbow before the king’s knees buckle, only to have it snatched away with a low growl.
“I am a king. God Himself ordained me. I can take care of myself.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
“Stop calling me that!”
Thomas finds himself more baffled than intimidated; perhaps he somehow conveys this in his silence, because Henry runs a hand across his brow, a dizzy shrug.
“No. No, that is not right. I came - I came to find More. He said he would be here, looking for account-books,” the king murmurs.
“Sir Thomas is no longer in court, Your Ma- Sir,” he says, gently.
Henry stares at him like he’s never seen him before, despite Thomas having done everything, save handing him the diaper-cloth in the privy chamber, at his side for five years. His voice is suddenly brittle. “Cromwell, why are you still here? Don’t you have a wife to attend to?”
“No, sir.”
“Lies. Liar. You told me you had a wife and son.”
“I did. She passed away, and two daughters.”
“Ah.” Henry seems to sober. Perhaps only death can make him react like a human being. “Is that why you always wear black?”
Thomas opens his mouth, and closes it resolutely. The man is drunk, he tells himself.
“No matter, no matter. I s’pose tonight, us mourners must keep vigil together.”
“I am sorry to hear of your loss.”
Henry draws a shuddering breath, and sits on a corner of the desk.
“Everyone is, always sorry. But not even you, Cromwell, can imagine what it is like to be king, and to have lost a potential heir. And if you do not know what it is like, how can you be sorry.”
Thomas is at a loss at what to say, and settles for making an indiscriminate noise between a sigh and a hum. The king will likely forget the night’s happenings by daybreak anyhow.
“Tell me about your family, Cromwell. I am tired; I wish no longer to think of myself and my duties tonight. Tell me about your wife.”
Thusly Liz is resurrected before his mind’s eye; her flaxen hair, her pale, bright eyes. Her hands are soft upon her prayer-book, but her soul is welded with iron and steel. Her voice is sweet and low, but her words could reduce a swarthy butcher’s son to tears for delivering a bad loin of pork. He remembers when she held Grace against her breast and sang, a ditty meant for infant’s ears alone. When she died of the sweating sickness, he had buried himself in his work, until his daughters were claimed by the same Reaper.
Sometimes, it feels like his life is built on corpses. Death upon death piled under his feet, a pedestal swaying in the wind, and growing higher still. But their sacrifice will not be wasted. Here, now, he has a job to do, a purpose to fulfill.
With some reluctance, he makes ready to spin a few words about her beauty and her untimely death. He does not realise how much he had spoken, until he stops with some alarm at how much he had unwittingly revealed. His legs are stiff from standing.
Henry is looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes, his sharp gaze now a low, glazed glow. He appears half-asleep. Thomas is glad; perhaps the king will fall asleep and remember none of it.
“Sir, if you are ready for bed, would you like me to call your men?” Thomas moves forward in case Henry topples over; it would not do to have the king injured in his presence.
“Do you miss her?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your wife. Mary? Alice? - Elizabeth. Do you miss her? And your children?”
“It was a long time ago, sir.” He does not speak of how, every once in a while, he sees a flash of white and thinks it’s Liz’s cap, she’s come back from the market, she’ll deposit her purchases on the sideboard, and will presently come and peck him on the cheek.
He despises men who deal with phantoms and ghosts.
Henry nods. He leans forward, as if to slide off his seat, and Thomas bends to aid him, an arm slipping easily under the king’s shoulders. For once the monarch does not protest; instead he looks up and directly into Cromwell’s eyes, then flits to his lips, and back again. The lines of his face speak of weariness and need. Their faces are inches apart.
Thomas thinks, if he kisses me, I shall not fight it.
Henry slips out of his arms. And there, it is gone. “Good-night, Mr. Cromwell.”
“Good-night, Your Majesty,” he bows.
And Henry is away to his chambers, as if nothing had passed between them.
Thomas, on the other hand, spends the night utterly sleepless, his knuckles brushing against his lips, eyes slitted in thought.