Chapter One
A lone falcon circled the colorless sky above the River Thames, high at first, then dropping lower to gaze at the waterfowl bobbing amid anchored shallops and ships on the murky water. White swans arched their necks, posing for the other, lesser birds. Ducks and geese wagged their wings but did not make to fly. Perhaps they didn't care to, or perhaps they didn't know they could. Regardless, they seemed dully content to probe the filthy river for fish and insects to fill their bellies yet another day. It was the falcon alone that could see them for what they were and what they were not. It tilted its head haughtily and rose up again.
The regal bird passed over the grand Whitehall Palace beside the river and turned down by one of the many arched windows of the palace's chapel, where King Henry VIII and his mistress, Anne Boleyn, knelt upon cushions before an elegantly carved, marble altar topped with golden chalices and crosses to receive Mass from the king's chaplain. Up the falcon flew again, beyond the palace, over cottages, stables, and taverns, to an area much poorer, much less tended than the king's palace.
A simple church stood on a muddy knoll, flanked by a stone wall and a cemetery filled with cracked and tipping gravestones. The falcon landed on the church's windowsill. Inside, Mass was being performed to a congregation that was plainly dressed and poorly groomed.
At the wooden altar, separated from the worshippers by a rood screen, priests and altar boys went about the sacred ceremony. Nooks in the walls held statues and images of the saints, illuminated with the glow of burning tapers.
The congregation kneeled on the floor, for there were no seats. One at a time, the worshippers crept forward to receive the sacraments from the chanting priests.
"Suscipe, sancte Pater, omnipotens aeterne Deus..."
As the falcon watched, the door to the church blew open, and a cluster of young men, laughing and cuffing each other on the shoulder, poured into the chapel.
"Deo meo vivo et vero...," the priests continued in monotonic voices, ignoring the young men.
The congregation scowled at the intruders but returned their attention to the service.
"In spiritu humilitatis, et in animo contrito..."
The apparent leader of the gang shoved his hands against his hips and crowed, "Fuck the pope!"
There were gasps about the chapel, but the men only seemed encouraged by the shock and disapproval. They stomped about, pushing the kneeling supplicants out of the way, blowing out the tapers, and knocking the painted statues from their nooks.
An ashen-faced priest shook his finger at the ruffians. "For the love of God! Good people, I beg you to stop. This is a sacred ceremony."
The apprentices laughed more loudly, and the ringleader strode through the open door of the rood screen, sending altar boys scattering.
"Fuck off, you fat overfed priest!" the ringleader shouted. His entourage cheered. One of the others picked up a small statue and jabbed it with a sharp pin.
"Look at that! You see? They don't bleed! They're just fucking wood!"
The ringleader grabbed the bowl holding the Body of Christ from the priest and declared, "What is this?" He turned the bowl over, scattering the bits of unleavened bread.
Women and children hugged each other, pulling tightly together and away from the intruders. Men held their wives and glared at the apprentices.
"Please," said the priest, "go away! Leave us alone."
Several angry men stood and moved in unison toward the ruffians. Seeing they might soon be outnumbered, the apprentices backed toward the door. The ringleader bounded over the railing of the screen with a howl, and joined his friends.
"You should be ashamed!" declared the priest. "This is sacrilege!"
"No," shouted the ringleader. "It's the future!"
With a final, echoing roar, the apprentices ran from the church.
The falcon blinked, stretched its wings, and rose above the din.
"Tell me, Mr. Cromwell," said the king. "How are the improvements to Hampton Court proceeding?"
Thomas Cromwell, King Henry VIII's secretary, stood to the side as Henry considered himself in the large looking glass. Two grooms, dressed in black with the red Tudor rose embroidered on the breast of their jerkins, sprayed the king from head to toe with bottles of lavender flower water. The drapes in the king's bedchamber were pulled back, allowing an intense stream of sunlight into the room. The light danced on the floor, the mirror's surface, and the king's dark hair, surrounding his head with a crown of light.
"Well, Your Majesty," Cromwell said, "work has already begun on the new great hall."
"And the new palace at St. James?"
"It already boasts some fine lodgings for Your Majesty. And sixty acres of nearby marshland have been drained, to make a park stocked with deer for your greater commodity and pleasure."
Henry held up his hand to stop the grooms from spraying the waters. He stared silently at the mirror, taking in his appearance. He was a handsome man; none could deny it. A handsome man with incredible power. A man to whom all men of England, in their most secret of hearts, compared themselves, and with whom all women, regardless of station or age, imagined themselves abed.
"When the royal manor house at Hanworth is refurbished," Henry said, "it is to be presented to the Lady Anne Boleyn."
Cromwell nodded. Henry dismissed the grooms, and turned from the mirror. His head tilted slightly. "Are you married, Mr. Cromwell?"
"Yes. I have a wife and son."
"You must present them to me one day."
Cromwell nodded.
Henry walked to Cromwell and put his hand on the man's shoulder. His expression was hard, but then it softened. "I have made a decision to admit you to the Privy Council," he said, "as our legal advisor."
Cromwell's breath caught at the announcement, but he did not let the surprise register on his face. He was never a man to let his emotions show. Such was weakness.
Sir Thomas More, King Henry's chancellor, strolled through the corridors of the court in his black robes, moving purposefully as courtiers bowed and stepped out of his way. He glanced at some of them briefly, acknowledging their deference.
A face in the crowd caught his attention. It was the Imperial ambassador to England, Eustace Chapuys. Chapuys was a tall man, with a cap of curly hair and a prominent nose, dressed in brown brocade trimmed in pearls. More hesitated as Chapuys bowed, but he continued walking. Chapuys fell in step beside the chancellor.
"Ambassador Chapuys," said More without looking at the man. "I thought you had abandoned us."
"I did. Or tried to." Chapuys took a breath and his voice lowered. "But, in all conscience, how could I ever abandon Her Majesty? She is the most gracious and wonderful woman in the world. And the saddest."
"I agree with you."
The ambassador's voice dropped even more. "So does the emperor. He has written this letter of encouragement and support for your efforts on her behalf." He held out a folded paper. More, shocked, glanced about and pulled Chapuys into an alcove.
"I beg of you not to deliver it to me!" More whispered through clenched teeth. "Although I have given more than sufficient proof of my loyalty to the king, I must do nothing to provoke suspicion...considering the times we live in."
Chapuys quickly tucked the letter back into the folds of his jacket.
"I don't want to be deprived of the liberty which allows me to speak boldly," continued More, "in private, about those matters which concern your master. And the queen."
"I understand. You need say no more," Chapuys replied.
"Remember I have already offered my affectionate service to the emperor."
Chapuys nodded. He remembered. More strode away toward the king's quarters, fresh sweat caught beneath his arms and at the brim of his cap.
As More entered the king's private chambers, Thomas Cromwell was on his way out. Each bowed to the other. More approached the king, who stood with his arms crossed in the center of the room, and stooped low. He was not looking forward to this conversation, for it would be painful for them both.
"Sir Thomas," said Henry evenly.
"Majesty." More stood, his gaze meeting the king's.
"I must tell you," said the king. "I have received a petition from the members of the House of Commons, complaining about the cruel behavior and abuses of the prelates and the clergy, touching both their bodies and their goods." His lips pursed. "Thomas, people are asking for freedom from clerical rule. The members implore me to establish my jurisdiction over the church. In that way, I can bring all my subjects, both clerical and lay, into perpetual unity."
"Your Majesty knows very well that I have always condemned the abuses of the clergy, when they have been brought to light. As your chancellor, I've worked hard to eliminate them, and purify our Holy Church..."
"But...?"
"You know where I stand," More said. "You have always known. I'm fully acquainted with the frailty of we poor worldly men. That is why I cannot condone the newfangled version of private belief and personal grace." The rhythm of his speech picked up; he could not help himself. "For me, the Church is and always will be the permanent and living sign of God's presence, sustained by inherited custom and maintained by tradition. It is a visible, palpable community, not just a few 'brethren' gathered in secret rooms."
Clearly the king heard the fervor in More's voice. Henry strode away across the floor, hands drawing into fists. He turned back, his face darkened. "Then you will speak out against me?"
More shook his head. "My loyalty and love for Your Majesty is so great that I will never say a word against you in public, so help me God."
The king did not challenge this declaration of devotion, but his expression told More that His Majesty was not quite convinced.
The dining room of Thomas Cromwell's home was filled with laughter a...
