Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

these circumstances are extreme, the cardinal in the mud, the humiliating tussle to get him back in the saddle, the talking, talking on the barge, and worse, the talking, talking on his knees, as if Wolsey’s unraveling, in a great unweaving of scarlet thread that might lead you back into a scarlet labyrinth, with a dying monster at its heart.
    â€œMaster Cromwell?” Norris says.
    He can hardly say what he’s thinking; so he looks down at Norris, his expression softened, and says, “Thanks for this much comfort.”
    â€œWell, take my lord cardinal out of the rain. I’ll tell the king how I found him.”
    â€œTell him how you knelt in the mud together. He might be amused.”
    â€œYes.” Norris looks sad. “You never know what will do it.”
    It is at this point that Patch starts screaming. The cardinal, it seems—casting around for a gift—has given him to the king. Patch, he has often said, is worth a thousand pounds. He is to go with Norris, no time like the present; and it takes four more of the cardinal’s men to subdue him to the purpose. He fights. He bites. He lashes out with fists and feet. Till he is thrown onto a baggage mule, stripped of its baggage; till he begins to cry, hiccupping, his ribs heaving, his stupid feet dangling, his coat torn and the feather in his hat broken off to a stub.
    â€œBut Patch,” the cardinal says, “my dear fellow. You shall see me often, once the king and I understand each other again. My dear Patch, I will write you a letter, a letter of your own. I shall write it tonight,” he promises, “and put my big seal on it. The king will cherish you; he is the kindest soul in Christendom.”
    Patch wails on a single thin note, like someone taken by the Turks and impaled.
    There, he says to Cavendish, he’s more than one kind of fool. He shouldn’t have drawn attention to himself, should he.

    Esher: the cardinal dismounts under the shadow of old Bishop Wayne-flete’s keep, surmounted by octagonal towers. The gateway is set into a defensive wall topped with a walkway; stern enough at first sight, but the whole thing is built of brick, ornamented and prettily inlaid. “You couldn’t fortify it,” he says. Cavendish is silent. “George, you’re supposed to say, ‘But the need could never arise.’ ”
    The cardinal’s not used the place since he built Hampton Court. They’ve sent messages ahead, but has anything been done? Make my lord comfortable, he says, and goes straight down to the kitchens. At Hampton Court, the kitchens have running water; here, nothing’s running but the cooks’ noses. Cavendish is right. In fact it is worse than he thinks. The larders are impoverished and such supplies as they have show signs of ill-keeping and plunder. There are weevils in the flour. There are mouse droppings where the pastry should be rolled. It is nearly Martinmas, and they have not even thought of salting their beef. The
batterie de cuisine
is an insult, and the stockpot is mildewed. There are a number of small boys sitting by the hearth, and, for cash down, they can be induced into scouring and scrubbing; children take readily to novelty, and the idea of cleaning, it seems, is novel to them.
    My lord, he says, needs to eat and drink now; and he needs to eat and drink for . . . how long we don’t know. This kitchen must be put in order for the winter ahead. He finds someone who can write, and dictates his orders. His eyes are fixed on the kitchen clerk. On his left hand he counts off the items: you do this, then this, then thirdly this. With his right hand, he breaks eggs into a basin, each one with a hard professional tap, and between his fingers the white drips, sticky and slow, from the yolk. “How old is this egg? Change your supplier. I want a nutmeg. Nutmeg? Saffron?” They look at him as if he’s speaking Greek. Patch’s thin scream is