The Mirror & the Light, Hilary Mantel

Genius. I do not use that word lightly, but there is no other way to adequately convey Hilary Mantel’s talent, and the massive achievement that is the Wolf Hall trilogy, especially The Mirror & the Light.

Upon finishing Bring Up The Bodies, I expected that the best parts of this trilogy were behind me, and that with Anne Boleyn’s remains “bundled into oblivion,” Mantel’s massive 759-page follow up might feel indulgent and untethered from the central drama swirling in the background of the first two books. I was so wrong. The Mirror & the Light is the crown jewel of this trilogy, and with Anne, Catherine of Aragon, Cardinal Wolsey, Thomas More, and other high-profile power players off the board, author and protagonist alike are set loose to fully come into their own in this book. As Cromwell rises, so too does he come to dominate the narrative more and more until Henry and those hungry to reclaim their centrality snatch it all back at the tragic end. But up until that final moment, this is Thomas Cromwell’s world, and we are all just living in it.

As in Wolf Hall and Bring Up The Bodies, Mantel’s Cromwell is not the villain he is often depicted as in other Tudor narratives. But this is also not an effort to sanctify the man. Mantel’s Cromwell is a ruthless schemer and social climber, but he is also incredibly warm to his family and to the young lost boys (much like himself) who he takes under his wing. He is an incredibly effective and committed servant to Henry VIII, but will also occasionally let his ambitious thoughts go too far – so much so that he is not entirely innocent of thinking he can or should be king himself. And for his intellectual seriousness, Cromwell is also genuinely funny, often at the expense of others who cannot match his level of wit. This is a man who stores every bit of information in his mind palace, never forgets even the slightest detail, and spends considerable time in reflection,

Cromwell’s reflections, which Mantel usually employs as breaks in the narrative, are some of the best parts of this novel, and they are what set Mantel apart from other historical novelists. Mantel masterfully uses her license as a writer of fiction to fill in the thoughts and feelings that history cannot tell us. Mantel’s Cromwell lives in an England of legends. In Cromwell’s mind, ogres and sprites once walked the ancient woods, King Arthur held the sword, and the Tudor court is but the latest incarnation of this world. In this world, the mythology is not to be taken literally, but is a lens through which to understand the drama and personalities on display. This world view feels perfectly at home in a late-medieval fifteenth-century in which these characters would have been raised on tales of romance, chivalry, and the triumphs of the ancients. Cromwell, the ambitious blacksmith’s son from Putney makes no apologies for seeing himself as part of this mythology, the noble characters’ objections be damned. This is best illustrated in the following passage:

“A giant cannot imagine what it is like to be a man of ordinary height. He cannot enter into their feelings. He never learns to bargain, or deceive: why would he, when he gets his way simply by cracking his knuckles? When you are a child, you think you have to kill the giant, but as you grow up you think different.
Suppose you meet him by chance one day: you about your common business, picking up sticks or inspecting rabbit traps, and he taking the air at the entrance to his cave, or toiling on a mountainside to uproot great oaks. Giant are lonely; they don’t know any other giants. Sometimes they want a boy like Jack to amuse them, to run errands and teach them songs.
Conquer your awe then, grab your chance. If you know how to talk to a giant it works like a spell. The monster becomes your creature. He thinks you serve him, but in fact you serve yourself.”

Cromwell is the Jack to Henry’s giant, and Mantel’s words tell the reader so much about both characters, the ways of the world, and the nature of power itself.

The Mirror & The Light is also a ghost story. The dead play a fascinating role in Mantel’s novels, and in this book, as the pile of bodies continues to grow and Cromwell and Henry both age, we get to see them interact and have ongoing relationships with the dead that are as (if not more) important than their relationships with the living. As in the earlier books, Cromwell never stops grieving his wife and daughters, and there are many references to figures like Wolsey, More, and Anne Boleyn being just out of sight or just behind the walls at any given time: listening, laughing, judging the acts of the living. This proximity to the dead becomes even stronger once Cromwell begins to face his pending doom.

Mantel also does masterful explorations of relationships in this book. I was particularly impressed and moved by what she had to say about the relationships between fathers and sons, and women as wives and mothers. Early in the novel, Cromwell has a conversation with Henry’s illegitimate son, the Earl of Richmond, who believes the king may die soon and wants Cromwell’s support in having him named heir to the throne. To this, Cromwell thinks, “He does not think the king is going to die soon – though a man may as well be dead, if his only son turns against him.” This is powerful on its own, but I could not help but think further on it when, at a later point in the novel, Cromwell has an argument with his son, Gregory:

“He wants to stand up an embrace his son, but perhaps not. They have never had a harsh word till today, and perhaps what has passed is less harsh than sad: that a son can think evil of his father, as if he is a stranger and you cannot tell what he might do; as if he is a traveller on the road, who might bless your journey and cheer you on, or equally rob you and roll you in a ditch.”

This is an exceptionally vulnerable observation coming from Cromwell, which also calls back to his relationship with his own father, Walter: another ghost who haunts him even as he lays on the chopping block, yelling those familiar words from his childhood, “so now get up.”

On the matter of women’s roles as wives and mothers in Tudor times, it is hard to read Mantel’s words on marriages, pregnancy, and childbirth without thinking of how her own health struggles and inability to have children informed her writing. The vignettes of Anne of Cleves’s experience as Henry’s fourth wife, and the negotiations between Cromwell and Edward Seymour over Bess Seymour’s marriage prospects are vivid examples of the way the “game” was played. But it is Mantel’s account of Jane Seymour’s demise that truly shows the cost:

“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 bedroom where she gives birth.
She knows she may not come alive out of that bloody chamber. Before her lying-in, if she is prudent, she settles her affairs. If she dies, she will be lamented and forgotten. If the child dies, she will be blamed. If she lives, she must hide her wounds. Her injuries are secret, and her sisters talk about them behind the hand. It is Eve’s sin, the long continuing punishment it incurred, that tears at her from the inside and shreds her. Whereas we bless an old soldier and give him alms, pitying his blind or limbless state, we do not make heroes of women mangled in the struggle to give birth. If she seems so injured that she can have no more children, we commiserate with her husband.”

In summary, Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall trilogy is a literary masterpiece. These books are challenging but they are so incredibly rich. I fully expect to revisit these in years to come and to find just as much treasure buried in Mantel’s expertly-crafted Tudor world.