The Queen of Subtleties

‘Not true, Lucy.’ He was ready for me, his response immediate. His head is tilted to one side, appraising me. ‘It’s the king who signs.’

‘Yes, I do know who signs death warrants. As I say, she put him up to it.’ Actually, I can’t quite believe what I’ve said. Oh, I believe in what I’ve said; just can’t believe that I said it, and like that. To Mark.

Richard downs tools: the whispered clink of some utensil.

‘Lucy…’ Mark looks pained, now; the tilted-head coolness is gone.

‘He wouldn’t have done it, otherwise, would he. A traitor’s death for Bishop Fisher? Maybe—maybe—the Tyburn men were traitors. Everyone says they were bookish, religious men, but maybe they did deserve to be hanged, drawn and quartered in front of that audience of male Boleyns and Boleyn-friends. If anyone ever does deserve to be butchered.’

Richard says, ‘Lucy…’ warning me that, in theory, I could join them for saying so.

‘But Bishop Fisher, Mark? Because he wouldn’t sign a piece of paper? Wouldn’t sign his support for Princess Elizabeth as heir, rather than Princess Mary? No protest. No incitement to others. Just a missing signature from an old man. A man of the Church. And there’s Sir Thomas More.’

‘Sir Thomas isn’t—’

‘He’ll go the same way, he’ll have his trial but he’ll go the same way.’

‘Lucy…’ Richard, again, and still I don’t look at him. It’s Mark I’m looking at; pale-faced Mark.

‘And all this from a king known all over the world for his love of debate, his love of thinkers and writers? A big-hearted man. Huge-spirited. Generous to a fault. Would he order the butchering of an old bishop who declined to sign a piece of paper?’

Mark is still back against the wall but no longer leaning. Standing to attention. Expressionless, as far as I can tell. I had no idea I was so angry. No, that’s untrue. I had no idea that I could go on and on, like this, at someone. But, then, it isn’t ‘someone’, is it; it’s Mark. Thank goodness it’s Mark. Thank goodness for Mark.

‘It’s not a piece of paper.’ He’s still expressionless; or, the expression is one of patience. ‘You know that.’

Yes, I do know. Of course I do. It was stupid of me to say so. So, why did I? Because I wish it was? Because a piece of paper really would be inconsequential and none of this horribleness would be happening.

He says, ‘There’s a lot that’s done in her name. Others want something done, for their own reasons, and she gets the blame. Look how she gets the blame for what’s happening to the religious houses. But that’s never been what she’s wanted. She’s for reform. She’s made a point of visiting nuns, talking to them—’

‘Exactly: she makes a point of it.’ Dear Mark, so keen to think the best. ‘She likes show, Mark; she’s good at it.’ Here I am, suddenly cynical. Is this how Richard has always felt, dealing with me?

But Mark laughs, or almost: exasperation, half-amused. ‘She doesn’t care about appearances. I’ve never met anyone who cares less about impressing people—’ He halts; splays his hands. ‘Except you.’

Me?

Me?