says. âBut you see I have young Thomas Avery down here fresh from the account books, poking around the stores and wanting to weigh things. Then Master Rafe, look Thurston, we have some Danes coming, what can you make for Danes? Then Master Richard crashing in, Luther has sent his messengers, what sort of cakes do Germans like?â
He gives the dough a pinch. âIs this for Germans?â
âNever mind what it is. If it works, youâll eat it.â
âDid they pick the quinces? It canât be long before we have frost. I can feel it in my bones.â
âListen to you,â Thurston says. âYou sound like your own grandam.â
âYou didnât know her. Or did you?â
Thurston chuckles. âParish drunk?â
Probably. What sort of woman could have suckled his father Walter Cromwell, and not turned to drink? Thurston says, as if itâs just struck him, âMind you, a man has two grandams. Who were your motherâs people, sir?â
âThey were northerners.â
Thurston grins. âCome out of a cave. You know young Francis Weston? He that waits on the king? His people are giving out that youâre a Hebrew.â He grunts; heâs heard that one before. âNext time youâre at court,â Thurston advises, âtake your cock out and put it on the table and see what he says to that.â
âI do that anyway,â he says. âIf the conversation flags.â
âMind youâ¦â Thurston hesitates. âItâs true, sir, you are a Hebrew because you lend money at interest.â
Mounting, in Westonâs case. âAnyway,â he says. He gives the dough another nip; itâs a bit solid, is it not? âWhatâs new on the streets?â
âTheyâre saying the old queenâs sick.â Thurston waits. But his master has picked up a handful of currants and is eating them. âSheâs sick at heart, I should think. They say sheâs put a curse on Anne Boleyn, so she wonât have a boy. Or if she does have a boy, it wonât be Henryâs. They say Henry has other women and so Anne chases him around his chamber with a pair of shears, shouting sheâll geld him. Queen Katherine used to shut her eyes like wives do, but Anneâs not the same mettle and she swears he will suffer for it. So that would be a pretty revenge, wouldnât it?â Thurston cackles. âShe cuckolds Henry to pay him back, and puts her own bastard on the throne.â
They have busy, buzzing minds, the Londoners: minds like middens. âDo they guess at who the father of this bastard will be?â
âThomas Wyatt?â Thurston offers. âBecause she was known to favour him before she was queen. Or else her old lover Harry Percy ââ
âPercyâs in his own country, is he not?â
Thurston rolls his eyes. âDistance donât stop her. If she wants him down from Northumberland she just whistles and whips him down on the wind. Not that she stops at Harry Percy. They say she has all the gentlemen of the kingâs privy chamber, one after another. She donât like delay so they all stand in a line frigging their members, till she shouts, âNext.ââ
âAnd in they troop,â he says. âOne and then another.â He laughs. Eats the final currant from his palm.
âWelcome home,â Thurston says. âLondon, where we believe anything.â
âAfter she was crowned, I remember she called her whole household together, men and maids, and she sermonised them on how they should behave, no gambling except for tokens, no loose language and no flesh on show. Itâs slid a bit from there, I agree.â
âSir,â Thurston says, âyouâve got flour on your sleeve.â
âWell, I must go upstairs and sit down in council. Donât let supper be late.â
âWhen is it ever?â Thurston dusts him tenderly. âWhen is