The Mirror and the Light

A larger-than-life figure, both literally and figuratively, King Henry VIII is one of the most recognized and powerful monarchs in English history. Mantel portrays him both as a king—vainglorious, imperious, forceful, and politically potent—and as a man with a host of flaws and doubts. Early in the book, he discusses his fears, in the wake of Anne Boleyn’s execution, about the future of his kingship and his realm. The noble families and Parliament are unhappy: “They will put me in my place, Crumb” (35). This humanizes the king in two specific ways: First, it is an implicit recognition that the powers of the king are not, in fact, absolute; he can be reprimanded by those lower in status, and his actions are not above rebuke. Second, he employs a playful, though telling, nickname for his Secretary: “Crumb.” Affectionately teasing, the act humanizes the king, but the nickname itself connotes the leftovers one discards from a crust of bread—a gloomy foreshadowing of events to come.

Henry is impulsive and rash—princes tend to get what they desire—and by turns merciful and harsh, a study in contradictions. When he speaks of his now illegitimate daughter Mary, he is clear: She must sign the declaration that he is head of the Church of England, thereby renouncing her Catholic faith—or be executed. However, he also says, “But what you do not see, what none of you seems to understand, is that I love my daughter. I think of all my children dead in the cradle, or dead before they saw the light. If I lose Mary, what have I?” (97). Essentially, he implores his advisers—at least this is how Cromwell interprets his speech—to find a way to save Mary, which is exactly what Cromwell does.

Henry is also exquisitely aware of the awesome responsibility and moral authority that come with his role: “‘The burden of kingship,’ he says, ‘no man can imagine it. All my life, to be a prince: to be observed to be a prince; all eyes to be set on me; to be an exemplar of virtue, of discretion, of excellence in learning; [...] to discipline all my appetites, to unmake myself as a man in order to make myself a king’” (310). The author leaves the final judgment as to Henry’s relative success in such matters to the reader’s discretion, though all of these are certainly called into question. His hyper-awareness at being observed explains why he is so offended by the unpleasant look on Anne of Cleves face when she recognizes that he was, indeed, the king she is to marry; her fate was sealed in that instant.

The author does not shy away from Henry’s failing health, and how it likely guides him to make irrational decisions. She also does not gloss over his moral ambiguity: “If Henry can think himself good, he will do good. But if you cast a shadow on his soul, comparing him to princes who are morally perfect and lucky as well, do not be surprised if he furnishes you with reason for complaint” (184). Henry needs flattery and reassurance, and like many people in positions of power, he surrounds himself, at least in part, with sycophants who tell him what he wants to hear. Yet it is no doubt difficult to be the king, the vessel of so many hopes and fears: “Henry is the site, his body the locus, the blood and bile and phlegm; his burdened and oppressed flesh the place where all arguments come to an end” (98). Henry transcends humanity, as the embodiment of England itself. In the decision to rid himself of Cromwell—inconvenient purveyor of the truth—Henry reveals his greatest, if cruelest, strength and his mortal weakness. When an Italian duke was “asked what it took to rule a state,” he answered: “to be human. He [Cromwell] wonders if Henry will reach the standard” (719).

King Henry’s daughter by his first wife, the faithfully Catholic Katherine of Aragon, Mary causes much consternation at court. While she is physically diminutive and in practical terms powerless, her presence is the locus around which the ancient families, with their Catholic sympathies, can rally. Thus, she is both dangerous, a threat to the realm, and ironically indispensable. Her death by execution would surely incite an uproar and unite England’s enemies against Henry. Cromwell describes her in pejorative terms:

Her person is as meagre as when he saw her at Windsor five years back; her face wan, her eyes full, puzzled and full of pain. She wears a bodice and gown of tansy colour, which nothing becomes her, and her hair is scooped into a net of braided silk; she has left off her hood, no doubt because her head aches too much to bear the weight (114-115).

The implication is that such a head could certainly not bear up under the weight of the crown.

Yet with the benefit of hindsight, the author drops hints about Mary’s fate. Historically, she will ascend to the throne after the early death of Edward, who ruled only by regent. She is determined and at moments regal. Cromwell observes her “huddled into herself, her face pale and set. It entrances him, the stealthy movement of the light where she forms herself, a living ghost” (51). Later, she “casts an aura as she moves, a wash of jaundiced light” (117). In both instances, Mary is bathed in the light that leads her on toward her destiny; however, in her case the light is feeble, casting her as a ghost-like figure or corrupted by disease. It is also clear, as the negotiations for finding her a husband play out, that “[a]ny man who offers himself to wed her, stands in treasonable light” (179). Hence, Cromwell’s attempts to save her, culminating in her signing the oath, are subsequently used to condemn him. Mary herself is remembered by history as “Bloody Mary” for her ruthless persecution of Protestants after she ascends to the throne and attempts to return Catholicism to England. Her half-sister Elizabeth would end that reversion.