Free Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel Page A

truth,” says Cavendish, “that fortune is inconstant, fickle and mutable . . .”
    All he has to do is to make a strangling motion, quickly, while the cardinal has his eyes shut. Cavendish, putting a hand to his throat, takes the point. And then they look at each other, sheepish. One of them has said too much; one of them has felt too much. It is not easy to know where the balance rests. His eyes scan the banks of the Thames. Still, the cardinal weeps and grips his hand.
    As they move upriver, the littoral ceases to alarm. It is not because, in Putney, Englishmen are less fickle. It’s just that they haven’t heard yet.

    The horses are waiting. The cardinal, in his capacity as a churchman, has always ridden a large strong mule; though, since he has hunted with kings for twenty years, his stable is the envy of every nobleman. Here the beast stands, twitching long ears, in its usual scarlet trappings, and by him Master Sexton, the cardinal’s fool.
    â€œWhat in God’s name is he doing here?” he asks Cavendish.
    Sexton comes forward and says something in the cardinal’s ear; the cardinal laughs. “Very good, Patch. Now, help me mount, there’s a good fellow.”
    But Patch—Master Sexton—is not up to the job. The cardinal seems weakened; he seems to feel the weight of his flesh hanging on his bones. He, Cromwell, slides from his saddle, nods to three of the stouter servants. “Master Patch, hold Christopher’s head.” When Patch pretends not to know that Christopher is the mule, and puts a headlock on the man next to him, he says, oh, for Jesus’ sake, Sexton, get out of the way, or I’ll stuff you in a sack and drown you.
    The man who’s nearly had his head pulled off stands up, rubs his neck; says, thanks, Master Cromwell, and hobbles forward to hold the bridle. He, Cromwell, with two others, hauls the cardinal into the saddle. The cardinal looks shamefaced. “Thank you, Tom.” He laughs shakily. “That’s you told, Patch.”
    They are ready to ride. Cavendish looks up. “Saints protect us!” A single horseman is heading downhill at a gallop. “An arrest!”
    â€œBy one man?”
    â€œAn outrider,” says Cavendish, and he says, Putney’s rough but you don’t have to send out scouts. Then someone shouts, “It’s Harry Norris.” Harry throws himself from his mount. Whatever he’s come to do, he’s in a lather about it. Harry Norris is one of the king’s closest friends; he is, to be exact, the Groom of the Stool, the man who hands the diaper cloth.
    Wolsey sees, immediately, that the king wouldn’t send Norris to take him into custody. “Now, Sir Henry, get your breath back. What can be so urgent?”
    Norris says, beg pardon, my lord, my lord cardinal, sweeps off his feathered cap, wipes his face with his arm, smiles in his most engaging fashion. He speaks to the cardinal gracefully: the king has commanded him to ride after His Grace and overtake him, and speak words of comfort to him and give him this ring, which he knows well—a ring which he holds out, in the palm of his glove.
    The cardinal scrambles from his mule and falls to the ground. He takes the ring and presses it to his lips. He’s praying. Praying, thanking Norris, calling for blessings on his sovereign. “I have nothing to send him. Nothing of value to send to the king.” He looks around him, as if his eye might light on something he can send; a tree? Norris tries to get him on his feet, ends up kneeling beside him, kneeling—this neat and charming man—in the Putney mud. The message he’s giving the cardinal, it seems, is that the king only appears displeased, but is not really displeased; that he knows the cardinal has enemies; that he himself, Henricus Rex, is not one of them; that this show of force is only to satisfy those enemies; that he is able to recompense the