The Mirror and the Light

It is abundantly clear that the conflicts regarding religious beliefs are still intense, unsettled, and matters of life and death, whether spiritually or literally; as the reader has seen in the book and may know from historical accounts, bloody wars are fought over the split from the Catholic church. The English Reformation is barely underway, and Henry must bear the weight of his decisions, which will reverberate throughout time and across the globe:

The wars are bitter, in pulpit and in print, in guildhall and market square: name-calling, placarding, brawling. [...] Since they meet the Pilgrims’ immediate demands, the king’s offers are enough to buy a truce. But with regard to their requests to turn time backwards, nothing is done nothing can be done (350).

More blood and ink will yet be shed during Henry’s reign and beyond.

The story of William Tyndale, branded a heretic and burned at the stake for translating the bible into the English vernacular, represents the extreme nature of the tensions of the time. Henry himself will eventually approve an English Bible, based largely on Tyndale’s own work. But the transgression is still fresh; the wounds to the established order have yet to heal; and there is great danger in the endeavor to move away from the powerful Holy Roman Empire—to say nothing of the inherent risks in taking away the people’s comfort and traditions. The “bleach fields” on which Tyndale is killed—and for which the first Chapter 1s named—symbolizes the scourging of Catholicism, as Cromwell sees it, and the washing clean of false idols and corrupt Vatican officials. He says to his daughter that an English Bible is soon coming and that King Henry’s “own image [is] on the title page. We need him to see himself there” (369). Henry must recognize that what is seen as a seditious act by many is actually a consolidation of his own power, for his subjects will serve only one master, the King of England—no more obeisance to the Holy Roman Emperor.

Cromwell goes on to emphasize, “We need him to set forth a Bible under his own license, and set the scriptures up in every church, for all to read who can. We need to get it out in such numbers that it can never be recalled or suppressed” (369). The urgency cannot be overstated: “When the people read it there will be no more of these armed and murderous Pilgrims” (369). Not only will peace be secured, but the future of Protestantism and of Henry’s Church of England will be preserved. “But new times are coming,” Cromwell assures the king. “Gregory’s children—and,” he adds quickly, “your Majesty’s children yet to be born—will never have known their country in thrall to an old fraud in Rome” (383). And again, the king will consolidate his power: “The scriptures enjoin obedience to earthly powers, and so we stick by our prince through thick and thin. We do not reject part of his polity. We take him as a whole, consider him God’s anointed, and suppose God is keeping an eye on him” (383). The Reformation is essentially what births England as history knows it, independent of the continent, independent of the Holy Roman Empire, and embarking on its journey toward a global empire—for good or for ill.

King Henry himself, at least in the author’s telling—it often feels as if Elizabeth’s Golden Age is inevitable, though in the book’s timeline, she is only a toddler—struggles under the burden of that history. Yet it is ironic that the king’s behavior is often impulsive, childish, and contrary to what befits a sober and deliberate king. Indeed, when Jane becomes pregnant, she does not want to tell the king straight away. Wisely, she says, “Once the king has hope of a son, what will there be, to make him say his prayers?” (380). Cromwell silently concurs: “Once he has an heir in the womb, once he can say again, ‘God is pleased with me,’ what will there be to refrain Henry from every desire?” (380). Henry’s mercurial desires and explosive temperament must be contained in order to secure the realm. When Henry is finally told of Jane’s condition, he does exalt, for a time, thinking that surely he has God’s favor now; he has waited long enough: “The king squeezes his [Cromwell’s] shoulder. There is a new magic in the royal touch. It transmits a vision, a vision of what England could be” (392).

The figure of Henry is ironic in other ways, as well. The “Image of the King” (Chapter 2) stands in stark contrast to the reality, for example: “When the king sees the mural Hans [Holbein] has painted, he says nothing. It is not for him to thank a mere artist. But he glitters: not merely augmented, but enhanced” (420). The queen herself shrinks “from the man on the wall: from his fist planted on his hip, from his hand on the pommel of his dagger, from his belligerent gaze; from his straddled legs, unbandaged calves bulging with muscle; from his bejewelled manhood” (420). The reality of the king’s physical presence is altogether different. When sitting for the magnificent portrait, the king reels and staggers, almost fainting: “‘My lord,’” the king says to Cromwell, “blot[ting] his face, ‘this is not the first time we have felt ourselves fall. A humour has got into our legs. A weakness’” (408). The use of the “royal we” does not mask the frailty of the mortal human underneath. If, as previous chapters have it, “the health of the land depends on the health of its prince” (287), then England is still in a position of weakness.

The fact that the realm’s health is also dependent on the queen’s ability to carry and successfully deliver a viable male heir puts further emphasis on the fragility of the kingdom. The author frames the female contribution in terms fit for the battlefield: “What is a woman’s life? Do not think, because she is not a man, she does not fight. The bedchamber is her tilting ground, where she shows her colours, and her theatre of war is the sealed room where she gives birth” (435). Delivering a baby is akin to a military campaign—and just as dangerous. Though Jane fulfills her duty, it costs her her life: “What is a woman’s life? It is dew in April, that falls on the grass” (444). Fragile and fleeting, the dew of Jane’s youth evaporates.

Cromwell treasonously thinks, “if Jane had married me, she would be alive now; I would have managed it better” (445). He has also silently wished that Henry would just “[d]o it, he thinks. Draw up a paper. Make me regent” (437). However, like Jane, Cromwell too has his weaknesses, and his ambitions sometimes outstrip his powers. He is not granted an earldom as expected, and he worries over the reasons why. He speculates that “[n]othing a minister does, or fails to do, escapes the king. Like a judge or a keen spectator at the joust, he notes when a blow goes wide or when a lance is broken on the body” (442). The title of Chapter 3, “Broken on the Body,” symbolically links Jane—whose body is broken in the process of childbirth—to Cromwell, whose weaknesses and ambitions do not escape the king’s notice, a foreshadowing of events to come.