Earlier that year I had bought a spacious new house in Chancery Lane, the broad avenue bearing the name of His Majesty's court and of my horse. It was a fine stone property with fully glassed windows, and had cost a great deal. Joan Woode, my housekeeper, opened the door. A kindly, bustling widow, she had been with me some years and greeted me warmly. She liked to mother me, which I did not find unwelcome even if sometimes she exceeded her place.
I was hungry, and though it was early I told her to prepare supper, before going through to the parlour. I was proud of the room, whose panelling I had had painted with a classical woodland scene at some expense. Logs burned in the fireplace and beside it, on a stool, sat Mark. He made a strange sight. He had taken off his shirt, baring a white muscular chest, and was sewing buttons of agate embossed with an elaborate design onto the neck. A dozen needles, each trailing a length of white thread, were stuck into his codpiece, one of the exaggerated ones then in fashion. I had to check myself from laughing.
He smiled his habitual broad grin, showing good teeth a little too large for his mouth.
'Sir. I heard you arrive. A messenger from Lord Cromwell brought a package and said you were back. Forgive me not rising, but I would hate one of these needles to slip.' Despite his grin, his eyes were guarded; if I had seen Cromwell, his disgrace was likely to have been mentioned.
I grunted. I noticed his brown hair was cut short; King Henry, following the close cutting of his own hair to hide his growing baldness, had ordered all at court to wear cropped hair and it had become the fashion. The new style became Mark well enough, though I had decided to keep mine long as it better suited my angular cast of features.
'Could Joan not do your sewing?'
'She was busy preparing for your arrival.'
I picked up a volume from the table. 'You have been reading my Machiavelli, I see.'
'You said I might, for a pastime.'
I dropped into my cushioned armchair with a sigh. 'And how do you like him?'
'Not well. He counsels his prince to practise cruelty and deception.'
'He believes these things are necessary to rule well, and that the calls to virtue of the classical writers ignore life's realities. "If a ruler who wants to act honourably is surrounded by unscrupulous men his downfall is inevitable.'"
He bit off a piece of thread. 'It is a bitter saying.'
'Machiavelli was a bitter man. He wrote his book after being tortured by the Medici prince to whom it was addressed. You had better not tell people you have read it if you go back to Westminster. It is not approved of there.'
He looked up at the hint. 'I may go back? Has Lord Cromwell—'
'Perhaps. We will talk more at dinner. I am tired and would rest a little.' I heaved myself out of the chair and went out. It would do Mark no harm to stew a little.
===OO=OOO=OO===
Joan had been busy; there was a good fire in my room and my feather bed had been made up. A candle had been lit and set on the desk beside my most prized possession, a copy of the newly licensed English Bible. It soothed me to see it there, lit up, the focus of the room, drawing the eye. I opened it and ran my fingers across the Gothic print, whose glossy surface shone in the candlelight. Next to it lay a large packet of papers. I took my dagger and cut the seal, the hard wax cracking into red shards and falling onto the desk. Inside was a letter of commission in Cromwell's own vigorous hand, a bound volume of the Comperta and documents relating to the Scarnsea visitation.
I stood a moment, looking through the diamond-paned window into my garden with its walled lawn, peaceful in the gloom. I wanted to be here, in the warmth and comfort of home, as winter came on. I sighed and lay down on the bed, feeling my tired back muscles twitch as they slowly relaxed. I had another long ride tomorrow, and those were becoming more difficult and painful every year.