The Mirror and the Light

Part 2 addresses the backlash against King Henry’s declaration of himself as head of the Church of England. This is part of the movement, initiated in Germany, known as the Reformation, wherein the peoples of Europe and elsewhere questioned the authority and corruption of the Catholic Church. Henry’s decision is motivated in large part by his desire to be free of his first queen, Katherine of Aragon, who had reached the end of her child-bearing years without producing a male heir. But he is also motivated by issues of power and sovereignty: He wonders how a subject can serve two masters. If England is under the sway of the Holy Roman Empire, led by the Pope, the Catholic Church, and the Holy Roman Emperor, then it cannot be equally loyal to its king. Religious matters of conscience are also involved: “Like Henry, they [the German princes] have offered to lead their subjects out of darkness. If an evangelical alliance were also a diplomatic alliance, there is a chance of a new Europe, with new rules” (222-23). Thus, the issue of religion is intimately bound up with the issue of sovereignty, politics in general, and the future of England in particular.

These problems are compounded by the fact that England has been considered a backwater country compared to the great dynasties on the continent—France, Spain, and Germany. Cardinal Wolsey transformed all of that: “He made his country count [...] The King of England has deep coffers, he would lie, and a race of warriors at his back” (224). With Henry’s break from the Catholic Church and Wolsey’s subsequent downfall, everything changed, “all this advantage was lost,” and now the Pope threatens Henry with excommunication (224-25). In the event that Henry is excommunicated, he will be even more isolated and, worse, he will be a legitimate target of Church-sponsored assassins. Yet Henry remains resolute: He wants power for himself and power for England. The corruption that continues to flourish within the Catholic Church is evidenced by the fact that Wolsey himself has a daughter, tucked away in a convent. He was, by no means, an exclusive case.

In the midst of these challenges, a rebellion is formed. Many subjects—especially those from the ancient families—believed that Anne Boleyn was an aberration. With her death, they predicted, the king would surely return England to the fold, reclaim his daughter Mary as his legitimate heir, and reunite with the Pope. But he does not, and he must find a way forward by different means. The title of the first chapter, “Augmentation,” refers not only to taxation—a necessary evil if the king is to continue to build an army—but also to the building of wealth and reputation. Indeed, the king must find ways to “augment” his new family, the Seymours, with “leases and licenses” (228). The family has also been hard at work improving their reputation now that Jane will be queen. In her brother’s home, a painting has been commissioned: “It portrays all the Seymours that grace the records, right back to where writing began: other Seymours, imagined ones, carry the line back to paradise” (229). This is akin to Cromwell’s request of the court painter, Hans Holbein. Commissioning the grand mural for his house at Austin Friars, Cromwell allies himself and his family with the “past kings of England” (233). One senses danger in this move, especially as the rebels target Cromwell with particular vitriol.

Augmentation also refers to the growing girth of the king himself. As Cromwell puts it, “True. The king is augmented,” when Holbein asks whether another portrait should be ordered. The king’s growing girth also reflects his growing ambitions for England—the king and his sovereign land are intimately intertwined—as well as his potential greed: “Hearts may revert to Rome, but the money never will” (231). All who are allied to the king benefit from his dissolution of the Catholic Church’s assets, as does Cromwell himself. His home at Austin Friars is also “augmented, growing into a palace” (248). Again, Cromwell’s association with royalty, coupled with his commoner background, does not rest easily with those who wish to reclaim their ancient bids to power, like the Poles or the Courtenays.

The specter of the Peasants Revolt, alongside other popular rebellions, again rears its menacing head in Part 2: “Old men anywhere in England will tell you about the drunken exploits of harvests past. Rebel ballads sung by our grandfathers need small adaptations now” (252). Later, Cromwell hears that the rebels in Yorkshire “sing that old complaint from John Ball’s day” (273), Ball being one of the leaders of the infamous 1381 uprising. At the beginning of the next chapter, the Peasants Revolt is invoked directly: “We have all grown up on tales of Jack Straw and John Amend-All—those brave days when the commons marched on London and killed the judges and foreigners” (274). Cromwell himself is a version of John “Amend-All” Ball, “a self-made man green as spring” (274). And while these visions are inspirational to the rebels—even, perhaps, to men like Cromwell himself—there is the inevitable lesson to be gleaned from the attempt: All of the leaders were slaughtered, some beheaded or drawn and quartered, and their heads displayed on pikes outside the Tower walls. Even King Henry feels moved to defend the attacks on Cromwell levied by the Pilgrims: “Let them understand this. When I choose a humble man for my councillor, HE IS NO MORE HUMBLE” (257). Unfortunately, it might be that the common folk “do not know what a king is either” (275). The limits of a king’s powers are under direct assault.

The Pilgrims, as the rebels come to be known, capitalize on their association with pilgrimage, lending their revolt “the colour of piety” (274). They take as their banner the Five Wounds, which depicts “how Christ died: two nails in the hands and two in the feet, heart pierced by a lance” (270). Thus, to die for the cause ensures martyrdom and recommends itself to those who feel alienated or spiritually threatened by Henry’s new religious and political order. Cromwell absently implicates himself in this symbolism. As he thinks on the Five Wounds, he ponders his own losses: “Five wounds. Wife. Children. Master [meaning Wolsey]. Dorothea with her needle, straight between his ribs. One withheld?” (272). In this manner, Cromwell suggests that he awaits only one more wound to be martyred, just as Christ was.

The “vile blood” of the last chapter also resonates with ideas of martyrdom, the shedding of Christ’s blood, and rituals associated with the Eucharist. The Eucharist is the consuming—whether literal or symbolic, the source of much debate within Christianity—of Christ’s blood. Specific to the final chapter in Part 2, “vile blood” refers to the rallying cry of the Pilgrims. Their intention is to “have the vile blood drained from the king’s council” (274). This refers directly to Cromwell, with his impure commoner’s blood. The king, seemingly unaware that he slanders Cromwell, suggests that the humble born “have no interests of their own—only solicitous to serve their master, from whom they derive all their fortune” (292). When it is suggested that such men also have no honor, the king replies that they do, in fact, “have souls to save” which keeps them in check (293). Still, Cromwell is well aware that his origins work against him. He knows that the king “is angry that he has to defend me for my vile blood. But he cannot cast me off. Or it will seem as if he has allowed rebels to dictate to him” (328). The implication cannot be avoided: Once the rebels no longer shout it, the king is free to contemplate it.