Wolf Hall

Anne says, “I am Jezebel. You, Thomas Cromwell, are the priests of Baal.” Her eyes are alight. “As I am a woman, I am the means by which sin enters this world. I am the devil’s gateway, the cursed ingress. I am the means by which Satan attacks the man, whom he was not bold enough to attack, except through me. Well, that is their view of the situati

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

Look now, my lord, holy simplicity was well enough in its day, but its day is over. We’re at war. Just because the Emperor’s soldiers aren’t running down the street, don’t deceive yourself—this is a war and you are in the enemy camp.” The bishop is silent. He sways a little on his stool. Sniffs. “I see why Wolsey retained you. You are a ruffian and

But the trouble is, maps are always last year’s. England is always remaking herself, her cliffs eroding, her sandbanks drifting, springs bubbling up in dead ground. They regroup themselves while we sleep, the landscapes through which we move, and even the histories that trail us; the faces of the dead fade into other faces, as a spine of hills into

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

“Master Wriothesley has his eye on his advantage.” “I hope we all have that. Or why did God give us eyes?” “He thinks of making his fortune. We all know that money sticks to your hands.” Like the aphids to More’s roses. “No,” he sighs. “It passes through them, alas. You know, Stephen, how I love luxury. Show me a carpet, and I’ll walk on it.”

He has written a memorandum for the king, setting out the sources of his yearly revenues, and detailing through which government offices they pass. It is remarkably concise. The king reads it and reads it again. He turns the paper over to see if anything convoluted and inexplicable is written on the back. But there is nothing more than meets his ey

His guess is, the clergy own a third of England. One day soon, Henry will ask him how the Crown can own it instead. It’s like dealing with a child; one day you bring in a box, and the child asks, what is in there? Then it goes to sleep and forgets, but next day, it asks again. It doesn’t rest until the box is open and the treats given out.

“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.”