Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel Page A

telling me of a rumor.”
    â€œThe women judge from orders to the silk merchants that the king has a new—” He breaks off and says, “My lord, what do you call a whore when she is a knight’s daughter?”
    â€œAh,” the cardinal says, entering into the problem. “To her face, ‘my lady.’ Behind her back—well, what is her name? Which knight?”
    He nods to where, ten minutes ago, Boleyn stood.
    The cardinal looks alarmed. “Why did you not speak up?”
    â€œHow could I have introduced the topic?”
    The cardinal bows to the difficulty.
    â€œBut it is not the Boleyn lady new at court. Not Harry Percy’s lady. It is her sister.”
    â€œI see.” The cardinal drops back in his chair. “Of course.”
    Mary Boleyn is a kind little blonde, who is said to have been passed all around the French court before coming home to this one, scattering goodwill, her frowning little sister trotting always at her heels.
    â€œOf course, I have followed the direction of His Majesty’s eye,” the cardinal says. He nods to himself. “Are they now close? Does the queen know? Or can’t you say?”
    He nods. The cardinal sighs. “Katherine is a saint. Still, if I were a saint, and a queen, perhaps I would feel I could take no harm from Mary Boleyn. Presents, eh? What sort? Not lavish, you say? I am sorry for her then; she should seize her advantage while it lasts. It’s not that our king has so many adventures, though they do say . . . they say that when His Majesty was young, not yet king, it was Boleyn’s wife who relieved him of his virgin state.”
    â€œElizabeth Boleyn?” He is not often surprised. “This one’s
mother
?”
    â€œThe same. Perhaps the king lacks imagination in that way. Not that I ever believed it . . . If we were at the other side, you know,” he gestures in the direction of Dover, “we wouldn’t even try to keep track of the women. My friend King François—they do say he once oozed up to the lady he’d been with the night before, gave her a formal kiss of the hand, asked her name, and wished they might be better friends.” He bobs his head, liking the success of his story. “But Mary won’t cause difficulties. She’s an easy armful. The king could do worse.”
    â€œBut her family will want to get something out of it. What did they get before?”
    â€œThe chance to make themselves useful.” Wolsey breaks off and makes a note. He can imagine its content: what Boleyn can have, if he asks nicely. The cardinal looks up. “So should I have been, in my interview with Sir Thomas—how shall I put it—more douce?”
    â€œI don’t think my lord could have been sweeter. Witness his face when he left us. The picture of soothed gratification.”
    â€œThomas, from now on, any London gossip,” he touches the damask cloth, “bring it right here to me. Don’t trouble about the source. Let the trouble be mine. And I promise never to assault you. Truly.”
    â€œIt is forgotten.”
    â€œI doubt that. Not if you’ve carried the lesson all these years.” The cardinal sits back; he considers. “At least she is married.” Mary Boleyn, he means. “So if she whelps, he can acknowledge it or not, as he pleases. He has a boy from John Blount’s daughter and he won’t want too many.”
    Too large a royal nursery can be encumbering to a king. The example of history and of other nations shows that the mothers fight for status, and try to get their brats induced somehow into the line of succession. The son Henry acknowledges is known as Henry Fitzroy; he is a handsome blond child made in the king’s own image. His father has created him Duke of Somerset and Duke of Richmond; he is not yet ten years old, and the senior nobleman in England.
    Queen Katherine, whose boys have all died, takes it