Chapter Text
1525
"Henry," said Crowley firmly.
It was cards on the table time. The two of them sat hunched in a corner of Crowley’s current favorite spot, an old tavern that had once been called The Grapes before it had burned down, and which was now called the Loyal Subject, an objectively hilarious name for a demon’s haunt. Really, though, the name change did not matter; the dark and stinking room was essentially the same as it had been before the fire, only rather newly sooty. The important thing was that he could find it by memory even after an evening drinking alone, which also made it perfect for a rendezvous with Aziraphale. He had been drunk on arrival, and intended to be drunk again when he left.
He couldn’t be drunk for this, though. This was the moment of striking the deal. He needed his wits for this. Especially considering what he was asking for.
The angel’s eyes were narrowed, but when he finally spoke, his voice was mock-outraged, not dangerously level. That meant there was a chance. Crowley crossed his fingers under the table.
“I'm not giving you the king!”
“Henry or nothing.”
“You’re awfully sure of yourself.”
“Look, your side was never going to get him anyway. You might as well give over.”
“But the king,” said Aziraphale, visibly fretting.
“Henry, and maybe I’ll even throw in a favor for you to sweeten the deal,” Crowley said, cajoling.
“A favor – we’re talking about a king –”
“Yes, and? Your turn, angel; who are you off to Germany for?”
The angel chewed his lip, then said, with obvious reluctance, “Martin Luther.”
“That little pipsqueak of a priest?” This was fascinating. “For what?”
Aziraphale looked down at his nails.
“Something worth trading a king for, I expect,” said the demon. Inwardly, he grinned: he had it now, he was sure of it.
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes again. “Noninterference,” he said, after a moment. “Give me your word.”
Crowley suspected that he should be asking more questions. What effort could possibly be more important than securing the English monarch? But victory was within reach – He plunged. “Likewise, then. Not a finger lifted.”
“That would be implied, wouldn’t it?” Aziraphale sighed when this garnered no response. “All right, fine, yes.”
“Done,” said Crowley, immediately.
They both sat back, a movement so in unison that Crowley felt uneasy, just for a moment. Fleetingly, he wondered if he would regret the bargain. But a king was a king. He could spare a fairly staggering disaster, in exchange for Henry.
“Wily old thing,” the angel muttered, as if he were also having second thoughts. “I might as well have just traded you the whole of England.”
“Yeah, while you go back to Germany,” Crowley said. “Bad luck. Have fun eating sausages and kraut for the next five years.”
Aziraphale shot him a dark look. He relented, as he always did. “You can always take a holiday in France, angel. Visit some pastry shops, smuggle some back. Better still, you can go back to Strausberg. Remember the printing press?”
“That’s not a terrible idea,” said Aziraphale, suddenly thoughtful, and finished his drink.
“Where next, by the way?” Crowley said. They had gotten in the habit of attempting to fix their next meeting place, although their track record of keeping to the schedule was poor. Working with humans was just like that. Their genocides, plagues, and coups tended to derail even the most conservative of timetables.
“Why not here?” Aziraphale said. “Twenty years at the latest.” He gave Crowley a very pointed look. “I’ll want to make sure the country is still standing.”
Twenty years was excellent, by their usual standards. “Whatever you like.”
He took another drink and waited for his companion to rise. This was the normal pattern of their meetings: a deal, a little banter, and an attempt to arrange the next rendezvous, in intervals that were getting shorter and shorter, mostly by the angel’s vote. Crowley had given up attempting to divine why. It wasn’t like he was going to protest, for reasons that he intended to keep private. Whatever Aziraphale’s motives, whatever the pace of their strange working relationship – it didn’t matter. Crowley was content to be led.
Similarly, almost without exception, Aziraphale was the one who departed first. He was given to flouncing, especially when he felt he’d been baited.
This time, surprisingly, he did not move.
Crowley raised his eyebrows. The angel fidgeted. He looked as though he were deciding whether to say something. And then –
“I'll write to you,” he said abruptly.
This was new. “You’ll write to me?”
“Yes, I –”
"What, like – letters?”
Aziraphale - blushed, Aziraphale was blushing, and even more tellingly, Aziraphale was permitting his human body to blush in front of Crowley. The concurrent revelations speared through him as, dazed, he watched the stain of embarrassment flood like wine up Aziraphale's throat and flower into his cheeks.
“I believe that’s the usual thing, yes.” The angel cleared his throat. “Letters.”
As an overture, it was very nearly obscene. They could send each other messages, of course, and sometimes had, over the last five hundred years comprising their Arrangement: a simple enough miracle. Words had a way of finding their mark already, and terse notes, perhaps five or six words, in spiky or flowing script that shone either black or silver, could find their way to another being’s pocket discreetly.
But neither of them had never written letters before. It wasn’t something they did. Humans sent letters. Lovers sent letters. And now, in this sooty, crowded bar, Crowley had to try to figure out what to say to that suggestion, while pinned in place by the somewhat shy look that the angel was giving him, and that astonishing bit of color still staining his cheeks.
He realized his mouth was open, and swallowed.
“All right,” he manged to say, inanely, and tried for a smile. “Sure. If you like.”
“Good,” said Aziraphale, as if nothing absurd or out of the ordinary had happened, and as if he wasn’t still rather pink. “I expect to be kept informed, you know.”
“I’ll give you the whole infernal newsletter if you want, angel.”
"Don’t be glib. You're mucking about with the British monarchy. Heads will roll before the end, I expect." He gave Crowley a look that might have been stern, if they hadn’t just been talking about writing to each other – and nope, Crowley still wasn’t over it. He might never be over it. “You’re going to have to tread carefully.”
"No, I won’t. I pitched this one myself.” He was relieved that, this time, his grin came more easily. "It'll be a lark, you’ll see."
" 'A lark,'" Aziraphale echoed, sounding resigned. Then his eyes narrowed. "Wait a moment. You've already pitched this project to Hell?"
"Yep."
"You – for Heaven’s sake.” The flush of color had faded completely, to Crowley’s relief. “What if I had refused the trade?"
He let his grin widen. "Then I would have been very persuasive."
Ah, there it was: he’d triggered the flounce. The angel rolled his eyes and stood; but, even miffed, something in his look was different. As he gazed down at Crowley, he hesitated, and made an abortive movement that might have been him reaching to touch Crowley’s wrist.
But no. That couldn’t be right. He was officially hallucinating things. The suggestion of letter-writing had tipped him over some kind of mental precipice.
They looked at each other. Crowley’s mouth was very dry.
“As I said,” Aziraphale said. “Be careful.”
*
1526
Crowley thought often of Aziraphale’s parting words – be careful – and wondered why, exactly, the angel had sounded so somber. It wasn’t as though the work was hard; in fact, the whole setup was almost laughably easy. Even the groundwork, namely finagling a place among the ministers of Henry VIII, took less of an investment than Crowley had anticipated. Most gentlemen at court with too much time on their hands were the second son of a second son, or cousin, or remarriage, or something equally impossible to track, and so Crowley altered what records existed to prove a watered-down Tudor bloodline. Simple enough. No one would look twice at him, especially since, as he had learned over the millennia, humans mostly assigned importance based on swagger and accessories.
Costuming was therefore half the battle, and he spent more time on it than he did on anything else. Tailors kitted him in damask and velvet for a handsome sum, and together, they chose vivid, expensive colors and ridiculously tight royal hose. Over these, Crowley wore a fat gold chain and a scale-patterned codpiece that he was especially fond of (and, really, it was a shame Aziraphale was already gone; the item, large and cumbersome as it was, would have elicited some marvelous expressions from him).
Dark glasses that matched the look were harder to come by, but he finally managed to make a jeweler understand what he was asking for, and the woman set the opaque discs into a shining golden frame. They’d cause a sensation at court, he guessed. He intended to invent some medical justification, as he usually did, but there was no reason why he couldn't do it in style this time.
To complete the look, he grew a full beard like Henry’s, only to detest it and at once shape it into a goatee (another item that would make Aziraphale roll his eyes – and only then did Crowley realize, with a prickle of sharp embarrassment, that he was missing the angel already).
Thus equipped, he strolled unhindered directly into the King’s residence in Richmond, and within the week Henry had embraced him as a second cousin.
And so Sir Crowley, the newcomer among a throng of ministers, got properly to work.
That same spring, the first letter arrived.
Crowley almost didn’t recognize it, at first. It arrived one evening as he was dressing for a banquet (black velvet doublet slashed marvelously with blue, black hose, black boots, the whole shebang) when he heard the rustle of paper. His first thought was that it was a summons; the ambassador from Spain, a weaselly man named Chapuys, had arrived at court the night before, and the King’s men were concerned about whether Henry’s increasing carousing and late evenings away had given a perceived insult to the Queen. (Of course it bloody well had. You didn’t need to convene a council to tell you that.)
But the letter on his desk had an unusual seal that he didn’t recognize. Its wax shone silver, and he couldn’t quite make out the imprint, though it looked oddly familiar – like the thin stamp of an angelic ring –
Heat curled in his stomach. Crowley slit the letter open, the banquet instantly forgotten.
Does England still stand? Aziraphale had written, and the demon could practically hear the pique in his voice. I won’t go so far as to say I hope your work is going well, but I do wonder how it is going. I hope Henry is putting up a good fight against your wiles. It would be good for you to have a bit of a challenge for a change. On my end, things are frightfully busy; Martin is rather headstrong and doesn’t take well to suggestion, but I daresay we’ve made some progress…
The candles on his desk had burned low by the time Crowley finished reading. He still had a strange sensation vibrating through his corporation, a feeling of warmth and something more at seeing Aziraphale’s handwriting fill the page. A flush of victory, perhaps, albeit one that had nothing to do with work. The overture hadn’t been an idle promise. Aziraphale had said he would write, and he had. He was thinking about Crowley, and, for the first time, he felt secure enough to send him evidence of that fact. It was – well.
It was definitely something he, Crowley, could get used to, if only he were permitted to do so.
He reached for a quill, considering his reply. What could he say about his work in Richmond? It certainly wasn’t the challenge that Aziraphale hoped for. Far from it: he would have been disappointed in the fallibility of man, if he could only see how far things had gone already. Crowley almost wished he could. He was good at this, and he relished it: a bad job done well.
Henry, as a man of appetites, had been a simple project from the start. His clothing was luxurious; his meals were rich; his stock of wine came from the entire Continent. (“Try this,” he would say to Crowley, handing him something absurd, like an orange. “It’s all the rage in Spain – we had it brought from Italy –“ and his big, powerful frame would shake with glee as Crowley feigned incredulity.)
Neither food nor riches were his real vice, however. Latent within him was a powerful lust. Crowley’s job had been to stoke the flames.
The kindling had caught at once.
First, Queen Catherine could not bear an heir. That wasn’t even him, just a happy chance, and it made everything a hundred times easier. Henry resented it, and Crowley played on the resentment spiritedly in his new role. He even got the other ministers to follow him into peril, more than once. How was the queen today? She seemed to be sleeping later, didn’t she? Dare they ask if it was due to happy news? Oh, so very sorry, Sire. They had leapt to conclusions. They hadn’t meant to cause him pain.
Second, the lady-in-waiting. Amazingly, Crowley hardly needed to say a word for this piece of it. He commented, once, during a session, that she was very pretty, and they were off. Henry had not really noticed before, but the next time he was at court, he could not help but agree. She was very pretty. She drew the eye in a room, didn’t she? Green was her color, a soft pretty green, like young apples or some other unripe fruit. Next to her, Catherine, in her garish robes, was nothing, an old woman, a goat. Who could look at the queen when one might look at her lady-in-waiting?
And certainly the king might look at whomever he chose. That was the great gift of being king – no one would criticize him if he wanted to look at a woman. There was no reason why he mightn’t enjoy her beauty, the way one enjoyed the spring, a sunrise. No one need know that he was really admiring her form, her own buxom self, so flattered by the gowns she wore. She did have assets, didn’t she? A bosom for a pair of large hands – no, not Henry’s, sadly, but some other lesser beau. Thick hair, that someone less deserving would wind his fingers in. And those eyes were green, green, green.
Why must it be so? Why should another man have her, and not Henry?
But what of Catherine?
Well, what of her? She had been engaged to Henry’s brother. Old baggage, old news, used goods. Wasn’t there something that could be done? An annulment perhaps. Rome had to agree. There was no point in keeping the country bound to a barren woman. That would only lead to ruin.
And if his marriage was annulled, what then?
Why, then there would be Anne Boleyn.
My word, she was so pretty. Wasn’t she? That innocent apple green?
None of this was the kind of thing you could put in a letter, of course. Or, well, maybe it was. Maybe some titillating correspondence was what the angel was looking for. He had said he expected a full report.
Biting back a grin, Crowley dipped his quill, and began to write.
*
1527
“Someone will lose their head over this,” said Cromwell darkly. “You mark my words.”
The other King’s ministers muttered agreement as Crowley leaned back in his chair, permitting himself a wolfish smile. He loved this bit. Oh, true, his ruff was too tight, and the gold thread in his hose was frankly itchy, but even that could not prevent him from luxuriating in what he felt was his natural element: the ornate Richmond council hall, trading gossip in the moments after Henry departed.
“I think you worry too much,” he said, and reveled in the way that the uppity Chancellor’s secretary bristled at the sound of his voice. Cromwell detested him. Crowley loved him for that. “Rome will give us the answer we want. Wait and see.”
The Lord Chancellor himself – Wolcrombe or Wolsley or something silly like that, Crowley still didn’t have all of their blasted names right – said, rather snappishly, “Rome has made every indication that it will do no such thing.”
Of course not, Crowley thought smugly. That was the whole goal: piss off the established church just to let a lecherous king put his dick where he wanted, and Bob’s your uncle. He still considered it the easiest job he'd had in centuries.
Aziraphale had not liked that assessment very much. The reply to his letter a few months ago had been terse, even for him. Charming as the project is, a marriage is not something that can be dispensed with via a petition to Rome. Love ought to trump lust, as should a vow before God, not that I expect you to understand such things. While it’s good to know what you’re up to… fewer sordid details, I beg. I haven’t forgotten the terms we agreed on, don’t worry – I won’t be interfering – but there must be someone there with sense enough to get in your way.
Crowley shook his head, amused by that last turn of phrase. The reality was, in fact, the opposite: anyone with sense would steer well clear of the matter. It was the best part of the whole gig: in their surprise and fear, people would swerve at once from their professed beliefs when leaned on by a corrupt leader. No one wanted to be the dam bearing up against the tide of someone like Henry, which meant no one would resist him. The end result was that souls across a whole country would receive varying degrees of tarnish.
Really, it was a nice little piece of work: low effort, low bloodshed, and a wide footprint. It could be a blueprint for future temptations, Crowley felt. Best of all, when he had pitched it to Hell, to his delight, they had actually grasped the concept. (Admittedly, they had been most interested in obtaining the soul of the King himself. Still, at least they understood the implications.)
“Well, then, I won’t speculate,” he said, attempting to sound pious – and trying not to think about Aziraphale, who always hated it when he did that. It always wound up sounding a bit cruel. “But either way, I would never dream of questioning the king’s decision. He is, after all, our infallible sovereign.”
Beside him, Cromwell’s knuckles went white. He flashed the man his sunniest smile.
“We aren’t questioning him,” said the Lord Chancellor sharply. “We are providing much-needed guidance. The situation is precarious, and charismatic though Henry may be, there are political consequences to every action from this point onwards.”
“I have to say that I think it’s a relief that he’s finally pursuing a divorce,” the florid Duke of Norfolk sighed. “I heard he was in the bed of Anne’s sister only a year ago.”
It was the first Crowley had heard of this, and he actually blinked with the surprise of it. Was it possible he had miscalculated so badly? He hadn’t thought it possible, but a quick glance at the rueful expressions on the other ministers’ faces indicated the rumor was very likely true.
Whoops. Well, those family reunions were probably a disaster.
There was no time to dwell on the revelation, though; he had already lost the thread of the conversation rather badly, and forced himself back to attention. One of the gentlemen from Cambridge, a don named Thomas Cranmer, had been speaking for some time. “ – quite agree with you, Norfolk. At least this dispatch to Rome indicates that he’s taking the situation seriously.”
“But to await the decision of a glorified priest –” someone else said despairingly.
“No blasphemy in the King’s own court,” snapped the Archbishop, glaring down the length of the table.
“At least, not yet,” Cromwell said, very quietly. Crowley glanced at him; the Secretary, catching his eye, openly sneered at him.
The Lord Chancellor rapped on the table, and the other ministers fell silent. “Regardless of what Rome does or doesn’t do, our position must be unchanged. The King needs an heir. His wife cannot provide one. If Rome cannot see that fact, it is an obstruction to the stability of the realm.” He spread his hands. “The Lord God would not wish it so.”
The Lord God probably didn’t give a rip, but Crowley kept quiet. He was trying very hard to keep himself from grinning, actually. The wheels he had oiled were well in motion now.
“We obviously agree with you,” sighed Cranmer. “But while the Pope decides whether to grant a dispensation, what more can we do?”
The Lord Wotsisname sat for a moment, considering. In repose, his jowls and brow looked reptilian: a creature considering its prey.
“We might want to consider some social calls,” he said at last. “Let people know that their disapproval isn’t as well-guarded as they might have guessed. And,” he added pointedly, “we can lean on some existing connections to ensure that we stay informed.”
Crowley didn’t understand what that meant, but Cromwell got to his feet at once. “About time. I volunteer, my Lord.”
“You, Cromwell?”
The man stood at attention. “It would be an honor to serve my King and country.”
The demon pushed his own chair back and stood as well, if only for the pleasure of seeing Cromwell go absolutely rigid with dislike beside him. “I’ll go too. Keep him out of trouble,” he said, beaming winsomely at their colleagues. “Time for me to earn my keep, hey?”
The Chancellor evaluated them, and then nodded coolly. “Yes, I think the pair of you will do nicely,” he said, and Cromwell steamed. “Thank you.”
It was a blatant dismissal. The entire body of ministers stood and began to collect their things, murmuring quietly to each other. Under the cover of these conversations, Crowley leaned close to Cromwell, like a bride leaning in for her kiss. The Secretary flinched away from him.
“Looks like it’s just us for this next bit. Should be a romp, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what you’re playing at,” Cromwell hissed back at him, “but you’d better stay out of my way.”
“Just trying to do my duty as a patriot,” said Crowley cheerfully. “Like you. Herd some lost lambs back into the fold. Should be easy.”
“Are you blind?” The other man was nearly white with fury now. “Some damn fool like Thomas More is going to gum all of this up any day now.”
For the second time in an hour, which boded ill, Crowley blinked. He said, “Who?”
*
More was in his garden when they arrived. Cromwell had insisted they go on horseback, even in the light misting rain, which Crowley still resented very much. He had argued at length that they should take a boat, especially when it transpired that More lived in Chelsea and one could hire a boatman for such a short distance with no notice at all. Cromwell had refused to hear of it, for reasons that Crowley couldn’t divine. Oh, well. He supposed that one couldn’t make an imposing arrival by boat, really.
Then again, they might have come in whatever method they chose, for even had they muddied themselves with walking, they certainly still would have outshone the man they had come to see. Thomas More turned out to be middle-aged, surprisingly unimposing, and given to working among his vegetables with a smock on and soil up to the elbows. (Crowley also resented this very much; the stranger looked so terribly human, and not at all threatening.)
He squinted up at them and smiled. “I wasn’t expecting the honor of a visit from his Majesty’s courtiers,” he said. “I hope the King is not behind you; I’m hardly dressed to receive him,” and he spread his arms winsomely.
For once, Crowley shared the irritation in Cromwell’s voice when the other man spoke. “Then you haven’t been paying attention,” the Secretary snapped. “You should have been expecting us weeks ago.”
More looked surprised. “Why?”
“Don’t prevaricate. You had a chance to review the King’s dispatch to Rome before it was sent.” Cromwell’s voice was like ice. “You know that we’ve asked for an annulment.”
More looked even more surprised. “Yes,” he said. “I wasn’t aware that my humble person had any bearing on the decision.”
“You don’t. But your public support of the endeavor is somewhat lacking.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He’s saying you’re being a prick about it, and people have noticed,” Crowley interjected, watching Cromwell twitch.
More’s gaze was quizzical as it shifted away from his interrogator for the first time. Frowning, he said, “I have known the Chancellor’s secretary for some time, but I don’t think I have the honor of your acquaintance, my lord.”
“This is Sir Crowley,” Cromwell said tightly. He still looked and sounded like he had a bee in his hose: teeth gritted, muscles jumping, the works. “Allegedly the second cousin of his Majesty, and currently in the favor of the court as one of his ministers.”
It was possibly the least courteous way he could have been introduced: absolutely delicious. Crowley tried hard to keep from grinning – well, maybe not that hard. Cromwell’s loathing remained his favorite perk of the job. He inclined his head.
“A pleasure.”
“The honor is mine,” More said, smiling at him. “And I appreciate the visit, although I gather it is intended to be a warning. I will say that I don’t think I have spoken about the King’s nuptials to anyone, and I intend to keep it that way.”
Idly, Crowley wondered which of them Cromwell detested more; it was hard to tell. Looking down at his political foe, the man was verging on apoplectic. “You must know that your blatant silence is hardly patriotic, under the circumstances. Between that and your Catholicism, people are drawing conclusions.”
“Such as?”
“That you believe that the King is lawfully wedded to Catherine of Aragon, and cannot put her aside.”
“All of that, from refusing to comment on the matter. My word.”
"Your very prevarication shows it to be true," Cromwell hissed.
More met the other's eyes blandly. “Is that the maxim of the law?”
He was a fascinating study, not least because he was very plainly not afraid of them. Among the riot of weeds in his own humble vegetable patch, dirty and disarrayed, he was nevertheless facing down two ministers as though from his own bench in the Court of Requests. Cromwell troubled him no more than an unexpected garden snake. You had to admire it.
“It seems we haven’t much more to say on the topic,” More ventured, when the silence had stretched on for a moment; Cromwell had been rendered speechless in his fury. “May I entice my lords to stay for dinner?”
Crowley opened his mouth, but Cromwell cut him off. “Under no circumstances. We’ll water our horses and be on our way. Where is your steward, More?”
“Here, sir.” A short man, verging on rotund, was coming up the garden path as fast as he was able; he looked at the dirt on his master’s hands and clothes with a brief flash of despair before turning to the gentlemen on horseback. “At your service.”
“Thank you, Matthew,” said his master mildly.
Crowley eyed the newcomer, suddenly sure the man was one of theirs through nothing more than demonic instinct – Hell’s, of course, but perhaps also the King’s, for Matthew was bold enough to meet Cromwell’s eyes with an open interest. After Crowley dismounted and offered Matthew his reins, and the Chancellor’s secretary declined to follow suit, he felt even more certain.
He watched the pair depart together, one still riding, the other leading Crowley’s horse. They didn’t speak, although that signified nothing; it was a long, gentle walk to the riverbank. Matthew had time to earn his pay.
Only then did he realize that he had been left alone with Thomas More. He wondered if that had been a secondary goal of Cromwell’s, and if so, what he had hoped to gain by it.
When their eyes met, More raised his eyebrows.
"You've crowded your beets," Crowley informed him shortly. "And you'd better dig out that mint and get it in a pot."
Whatever More had been expecting from him, it wasn’t that. A flash of keen interest was visible in his eyes for a moment and then was gone. He said lightly, "We've a smock to spare, if you fancy getting your hands dirty."
Conscious that he might have made a mistake, Crowley let his voice get colder. "Not likely."
"Forgive my presumption," said More mildly, and, dusting his hands together, turned to look over his lone row of dusky cabbages. For a while, it seemed as thought they would wait in silence until the others returned, but after a few minutes the man sighed, and went on. “I really have no intention of defying his Majesty.”
The man had no self-awareness. "Refusing to support the monarch of your country, when he could put your head on a spike in front of the Tower? No, you're right, that definitely doesn't sound like antagonizing him to me."
More, to his surprise, only chuckled at this, and began shucking his filthy smock.
“You ought to stay for dinner, you know,” he said. “Cromwell won’t, of course, but you needn’t be swayed by him.”
“I’m not,” Crowley said, stung.
“Good, then. Consider it an open invitation. You’d meet my wife Alice, and she’d like you. She’d appreciate a comrade-in-arms, I think.” More’s eyes twinkled. “At least, she gives me the same advice as you over breakfast every morning, so I have some confidence you’d be friends.”
Crowley had assumed, with an unwarranted yet granite certainty, that the man was unmarried. The revelation of a family was startling, even disquieting, and he was still absorbing it when More continued. “My daughter Margaret may be joining us, but she’s irreverent company these days, I warn you. Her beau has been filling her head with talk of Lutheranism.” He grimaced.
Crowley’s brain slipped on the word, another private earthquake shuddering through what had once been solid ground. He said, “Lutheranism. As in, Martin Luther?”
“Lord, you’re behind the times,” said More wryly. “That little heretic has made quite the mess across the Channel.”
Oh, Hell, Crowley thought. Aziraphale, what have you done?
“But then,” said More, giving him an odd sideways glance, “I’m sure that a King’s minister knows more on the topic than I do.”
“The King values my friendship for many reasons,” said Crowley. He could see Cromwell and the steward approaching with the horses, which was a relief. “Also my good looks.”
“He certainly values wit, I notice.”
“Not as much as loyalty, though.”
“Yes.” More was quiet for a time, and then sighed again, just as Cromwell came within earshot. "Whether he knows it or not, I am, as ever, his humble servant.”
“That remains to be seen,” Cromwell snapped, interrupting them. He gave Crowley a significant look as More’s steward scuttled off; Crowley imagined that the man’s pockets looked somewhat fatter than before. “Time does a way of revealing things.”
It took a few false starts, but Crowley managed to re-mount his horse on the fourth try. Mostly to irritate the Secretary, once he’d caught his breath, he gave More a cheery little wave. “See you after the annulment, then.”
“Perhaps,” said More, watching them go.
*
Yes, my pipsqueak of a priest has been terribly busy since we last wrote, I admit it freely. In fact, I had begun wondering if the English court was even paying attention, especially given how very interesting I hear some of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting are these days. I’ll also confess, however, that much of Martin’s work is on his own initiative, which does make me wonder if we made a poor trade a few years ago. Your side may get him yet, you know. He’s worryingly anti-Semitic. I find myself imagining what you would say, if you were the one here and arguing with him.
It reminds me of that conversation we had in the garden, long ago. Do you remember? You said something like, what if you’d done the good deed, and I’d done the bad one; something of the kind, anyway. We seem to come to that riddle again and again.
This all reads like I’m thinking of you often, doesn't it. Well, I suppose I am.
*
1529
Crowley did not bother to conceal his amusement; he even paused in the doorway to do a little bow. After all, he was now outranked by the man he had come to harass. "Salutations and felicitations, Lord Chancellor. I hope the commute from Chelsea is treating you well."
"Hello again, Crowley," said More dryly, looking up from a stack of paperwork. "Come in and shut the door, please."
It had been a year since they had seen each other, but it might have been longer; More's face was more tired and worn than the time fully accounted for. Well, thought Crowley, as he sprawled into an empty chair, perhaps that was to be expected from someone constantly walking a precipice. The man's predecessor (Wolsey; Crowley had finally gotten the name, and then it had immediately no longer mattered) had died on the way to the Tower, and More had been offered the open position, which seemed like an obvious trap. Stubborn as he was, he could easily be next, if he didn't watch himself. The whole country was murmuring about his continued silence on the subject of Anne Boleyn.
The man in question finished writing with a flourish and set his quill aside. He leaned back in his chair and evaluated his unexpected guest. “To what do I owe the honor?”
"I've caught up on some light reading," Crowley said cheerfully. "The last time we met we talked about Martin Luther, do you remember?"
As a matter of fact, he had had to do significantly more than light reading to catch up on the news. Martin Luther, it turned out, was not a pipsqueak; Martin Luther was very much a big fish and Crowley, per usual, was the last one to know about it. Only upon several days of concentrated research did he realize how badly he had underestimated the situation. Luther had written ninety-five theses on corruption in the church. Luther had been summoned to an assembly of the Holy Roman Empire. Luther’s life was forfeit unless he recanted, which he would not do. There was even a strange rumor circulating about the man setting fire to a bull.
And Aziraphale had gone to help him.
Crowley, who did not know what a thesis was nor why there had to be ninety-five of them, or why Heaven felt strongly about bovine arson, felt rather nervous about all of this, but he had made the trade. He had Henry, and he had sworn noninterference. There was nothing to be done but make the best of it.
More's brow furrowed, and then cleared. "Ah, yes," he said. “I do. My son-in-law was courting blasphemy the last time you were in Chelsea, I recall. He’s since come to his senses, thank the Lord.”
“Enabling you to bless the union, I assume,” Crowley said, raising his eyebrows. “Congratulations.”
Slightly pink, More waved this away. "When you dropped in you hadn't heard of the Reformations yet, despite being an advisor to the King. I did think that was interesting."
The man was too sharp for his own good. Perhaps it was due to his academic background – for, as it turned out, he was also a prolific writer and scholar, in addition to his career in court – but More always had a faint air of paging through and notating a mental catalogue. The piece of his attention that he devoted to actually maintaining conversations was only the tip of a formidable iceberg. He remembered things.
He was, in a word, dangerous.
Their eyes met. Crowley had the distinct sensation that More had already come to the same conclusion about him.
He cleared his throat. Carefully, carefully: no need to give anything away. “I was preoccupied with our domestic troubles.”
“Yes, of course. I pray for them daily.”
“You’re a very pious man, I remember,” Crowley said, ignoring the conversation’s sudden coolness. “Anyway, I seem to recall you called Martin Luther a heretic."
"A spade is a spade."
"I must say think your stance is a little harsh. After all, much in the Church needs reformation, wouldn't you agree?"
"Careful, sir."
“People do keep saying that to me,” Crowley observed. “I can’t think why. I have only the interests of our King at heart.”
“His recreational interests, yes. What about the interests of his immortal soul?”
That earned him a roguish grin. “Aren’t they one and the same, Lord Chancellor?”
“I wonder,” More said, and left at that.
“I heard Rome rejected the petition, by the way.” Crowley pulled a sad face: eyebrows raised, lower lip out, the works. “Bummer, that. I’m sure it was very personally disappointing to you.”
Flatly, More said, "Have you come solely to try to chisel a concession out of me, Crowley, or can I help you with something?"
The demon leaned back in his chair, evaluating the man across the table again. As it had the year previous, a sense of disquiet stirred inside him. A wife, and a daughter, he thought. It should have been easy. Why wasn't it easy?
He put his feet up on the desk, and changed the subject. "Wet fall we've been having," he remarked. "How's your garden?"
More eyed him and his shoes for a moment, and then shook his head, amused. "This is what I remember liking about you," he said. "Always an element of the unexpected."
“I live to serve.”
“I’m sure you do,” More said, still smiling a little, as if in spite of himself. “Let's just say it needs more of my attention. May I offer you a drink?”
To this question, Crowley would always acquiesce – even when his host added, rather pointedly, “On the condition that you stop getting dirt all over my dispatches?”
Grinning, he rearranged himself to sit in the usual custom as More unstopped a pewter jug, pouring them both a cup. Accepting his with delight, he raised an eyebrow upon tasting it: a full-bodied Burgundy, Spanish grapes, if he wasn’t mistaken. The Chancellor did himself well.
As if unconscious of the quality of the vintage, the man across from him took a polite sip, but only that. He looked towards the western window. The sky was changing already – the year was turning towards winter – and the wear and exhaustion in his face were healed completely by the brilliant pink touch of the sunset. By its light, for a moment, he might have even looked young. He said, "Tell me what first occasioned you to work in a garden."
Uncanny, unfortunate: the phrasing was wounding in its specificity. Dangerous had been an understatement. Crowley was knocked completely off his guard, and a memory bloomed at once of white wings, spackled with the wet of rain. He took a potent swig of the wine to cover his moment of confusion, swallowing air and wine together. Then he said, with what dignity he could manage through his coughing, "There’s nothing to tell."
"You're a lord who can spot a poorly planted root vegetable at twenty paces, as I recall," More observed, turning his cup in his hands. He was still looking out towards the crimson sky. "Seems like there might be something."
“Then it’s a long story,” said Crowley firmly.
"Hmm," said More, glancing at him. There was something shrewd in his gaze again; when Crowley looked away, his mouth twitched and he set his cup aside, the fine vintage still essentially untouched. “All right, all right. Keep your secrets. This isn’t a confessional, my lord.”
“I know that,” Crowley said at once, and tried for humor. “You’ve got better wine, for one thing.”
His host threw back his head and laughed. In another man it might have seemed strained, or an affectation, but More laughed freely, as if he hadn’t a care in the world – precarious political situation notwithstanding.
Peril ought to diminish the human capacity for joy, Crowley thought, watching him. But it never did. It was the kind of thing that Aziraphale liked to point out, during their theological arguments. His eyes would sparkle; his mouth would do something complex and sanctimonious; and something icy and brittle in Crowley’s core would thaw, just a little.
He took another sip of wine, and tried to pretend the suffusing warmth of the alcohol was a similar feeling. Close enough, surely.
When he looked up again, he found More watching him, mirth subsiding.
“I beg an indulgence, my lord Crowley, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Love an indulgence, me. What is it?”
“When you come to Chelsea again,” More said, reaching over to top up his cup, “stay for dinner.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Crowley, and surprised even himself: when More smiled at him, he smiled back.