Hilary Mantel – Bring up the Bodies
One of Mantel's minor characters, the courtier Thomas Wriothesley voices what we may take to be an epitome of this novel and its predecessor Wolf Hall:
All our labours, our sophistry, all our learning both acquired or pretended; the stratagems of state, the lawyers' decrees, the churchmen's curses, and the grave resolutions of judges, sacred and secular: all and each can be defeated by a woman's body, can they not? God should have made their bellies transparent, and saved us the hope and fear. But perhaps what grows in there has to grow in the dark.
Mantel's Cromwell novels depict an extraordinary moment in English history – when the birth of the nation-state was bound up with the fortunes of two women, one discarded and damned, the other bearing in her belly the hopes of the succession. Katherine, the queen that was, is under house arrest, sequestered in a moated grange; Queen Anne, having given birth to the Princess Elizabeth, awaits the arrival of a male heir – while King Henry and his stewards contrive finally to assert the sovereignty of England, effecting the decisive break with Rome, and forging the modern nation almost by a kind of inadvertence. Indeed, if there is a subtext to these novels humming beneath their narratives of courtly intrigue, it's that of the advent of the Modern, a political settlement recognisable to us today:
But chivalry's day is over. One day soon moss will grow in the tilt yard. The days of the moneylender have arrived, and the days of the swaggering privateer; banker sits down with banker, and kings are their waiting boys.
Thomas Cromwell is the ultimate arriviste: a blacksmith's son, a roaring boy from Putney, schooled in the violence of the underclass; all of which left him formidably resourceful, proof against the buffets of circumstance. He emerges in these novels as peculiarly 'modern' – in the matter of his political realism, his pragmatism and his tactician's genius. But Mantel purposely departs from the conventional portrait of Cromwell as the ruthless enforcer, and by means of the free indirect style, ushers the reader into the moment-by-moment of his conscious awareness. You're Cromwell's secret sharer in these pages. Placed among the contending voices of the privy counsellors, the court hirelings and ladies-in-waiting, Cromwell can instantly assay the charge of implication in any given encounter. He misses scarcely anything, is perhaps almost a novelist in the Jamesian sense – one on whom nothing is lost. Mantel shows us his household at Austin Friars, full of devoted retainers and promising young wards, Italian merchants and fugitive scholars. (He can recall the position of the pieces in a chess game abandoned years ago.) Yet he was capable of hounding Thomas More to death; and would do yet worse to those men unfortunate enough to have been snared in Queen Anne's adulteries.
Bring Up the Bodies follows on immediately from the close of Wolf Hall. (The first sentence comes with a strange visionary flourish - “His children are falling from the sky.” - enacting the doubleness with which we are to view much of what occurs later, both at the stylistic level and on the plane of plot and character: a stark surreality that, very briefly afterwards, accords nicely with the novel's covenanted realism.) Mantel brilliantly evokes the fevered conveyancing of information among the principal actors – all are spies in this 'dripping web of court patronage', where a throwaway remark can later carry huge significance. The royal entourage is a brocaded cavalcade of mannered politicking and whispers behind-doors. Intelligencers all, the various figures who haunt the king's presence are each engaged in a decorous negotium. Cromwell, 'the overlord of spaces and the silences', is alert to the vulnerability of truth to corruption, and comes to use it to his advantage:
What is the nature of the border between truth and lies? It is permeable and blurred because it is planted thick with rumour, confabulation, misunderstandings and twisted tales. Truth can break the gates down, truth can howl in the street; unless truth is pleasing, personable and easy to like, she is condemned to stay whimpering at the back door.
Mantel explores the idea that law-court truth and imaginative truth are irreconcilably at odds. The chancery-truth of the diplomatists and the lawyers is a chill abstract of 'the poet's truth' exemplified by Thomas Wyatt, whom Cromwell admires as his antitype: “A statute is written to entrap meaning, a poem to escape it.” As the novel progresses Mantel enlarges this theme – suggesting why Cromwell spared Wyatt from the king's wrath. The novel's language shivers exquisitely between a disciplined plain style (the historic present is used quite disarmingly to effect the palpable immediacy of the unfolding action) and subtle dabs of lyricism. Mantel has contrived a style at once lightsome and precise – the innovation of Wolf Hall was in the rendering of progression d'effet with economy and vital movement. The prose is charged with a fleet effervescence that makes it compulsive without showiness, richly appointed but not clagged with 'local colour'. Not the language of historical fiction as we've come to know it, with its clumsy heritage ventriloquism; but a pliable instrument that permits Mantel to eavesdrop on Cromwell's inner life. Bring Up the Bodies is a fine novel, with its dramatic torque and cold-eyed meditation on power – and Mantel's Cromwell one of the most arresting central characters in recent fiction.