Wolf Hall

There is a feral stink that rises from the hide of a dog about to fight. It rises now into the room, and he sees Anne turn aside, fastidious, and Stephen put his hand to his chest, as if to ruffle up his fur, to warn of his size before he bares his teeth. “I shall be back with Your Majesty within a week,” he says. His dulcet sentiment comes out as

“Majesty, we were talking of Castiglione’s book. You have found time to read it?” “Indeed. He extols sprezzatura. The art of doing everything gracefully and well, without the appearance of effort. A quality princes should cultivate, too.”

Norfolk as Lord Treasurer? Fine; it doesn’t matter who holds the title, who holds the clanking keys to the empty chests.

Anne yawns, a little catlike yawn. “You’re tired,” he says. “I shall go. By the way, why did you send for me?” “We like to know where you are.” “So why does your lord father not send for me, or your brother?” She looks up. It may be late, but not too late for Anne’s knowing smile. “They do not think you would come.”

Conversation is in various tongues and Rafe Sadler translates adroitly, smoothly, his head turning from side to side: high topics and low, statecraft and gossip, Zwingli’s theology, Cranmer’s wife. About the latter, it has not been possible to suppress the talk at the Steelyard and in the city; Vaughan says, “Can Henry know and not know?” “That is

You learn nothing about men by snubbing them and crushing their pride. You must ask them what it is they can do in this world, that they alone can do.

“The multitude,” Cavendish says, “is always desirous of a change. They never see a great man set up but they must pull him down—for the novelty of the thing.”

But it is no use to justify yourself. It is no good to explain. It is weak to be anecdotal. It is wise to conceal the past even if there is nothing to conceal. A man’s power is in the half-light, in the half-seen movements of his hand and the unguessed-at expression of his face. It is the absence of facts that frightens people: the gap you open, in

They were married in weeks. Gregory arrived within the year. Bawling, strong, one hour old, plucked from the cradle: he kissed the infant’s fluffy skull and said, I shall be as tender to you as my father was not to me. For what’s the point of breeding children, if each generation does not improve on what went before?