Brian McKenzie

I'm embarrassed that it has taken me so long to read this novel, a classic of Western literature and favourite of adventure story fans the world over. The story of Edmond Dantés, the hapless sailor unjustly imprisoned over false accusations of "Bonapartism" during France's turbulent civil war period, embroils us in a story of violence, deceit, vengeance and redemption. And though it is most commonly considered an adventure story in the vein of The Three Musketeers or A Tale of Two Cities, I think it's more accurate to classify this fun (and expansive) novel as a genre-defining example of espionage fiction. Yes, Le Carré, Fleming, Deighton and all the others owe a big debt to the structure, plot and style of Dumas' breathtaking and exciting story.

I say this because of all the spy novel tropes Dumas seems to have invented. Disguise, subterfuge, miraculous escapes, clever ruses and traps, exotic locales, secret operatives and operations, compromised dupes, misdirection . . . along with James Fennimore Cooper, Dumas laid down a template that spy novelists to this day still follow. The novel, complex, lengthy, and twisty though it is, has a fairly simple plot which, by now, everyone knows: Dantés escapes from the dungeons of Chateau D'If, recovers a hidden treasure, becomes the fabulously wealthy "Count of Monte Cristo" and sets about avenging himself on the men who had him imprisoned. The fun is in the methods.

Dumas takes great pains to construct Dantes' elaborate plot of revenge, deftly weaving multiple narrative strands together, telling in great detail the many backstories that modern authors would banish offstage and merely summarize through exposition. No, Dumas, clearly paid by the word, lets his story sprawl for over 1200 pages across the Mediterranean. At times you will wonder "why are we suddenly in Turkey? What was the point of the Carnival scenes? Why is the Pope releasing a condemned prisoner?" Not to worry: it all comes together and climaxes with Dantés having his revenge. That's no spoiler. Of course he has his revenge and emerges the victor. Watching it play out, though, is immensely satisfying as we see the way Dantés, playing the long game, builds a sham edifice in which he traps his foes.

But Dumas tells more than a tale of revenge. This is a highly moralistic novel, one that decries the sins of pride, envy, wrath, jealousy -- hell even gluttony and lust show their faces. The ending, while bringing satisfaction, also leaves us a little sad, a little regretful that a good man, faultless and loving, loses himself in the pursuit of his vengeance. Dumas the dramatist tells a compelling, propulsive and ultimately satisfying tale. Dumas the moralist asks us to consider whether it is all worth it in the end.

Thus ends the Shakespearean tragedy of Cromwell, the brilliant man hoist on his own Machiavellian petard. Unlike the first two novels, The Mirror and the Light shows us the Cromwell that history remembers: ruthless, violent, all-powerful, and, ultimately, undone by vindictive enemies and a paranoid king.

Mantel's achievement here (and across the trilogy) is monumental if for no other reason than she makes the reader sympathize with Cromwell. This is, of course, narrative sleight of hand as her limited third-person perspective is really just first-person in disguise: we only get to see and hear what Cromwell sees and hears, and we only get to understand events through his understanding of them. And while we know what is ultimately going to happen, we are still surprised when, seemingly out of the blue not long after being made Earl of Essex and Lord Chamberlain, Cromwell finds himself in the Tower on charges of treason and heresy.

Mantel plants the seeds early. In the moments after Anne Boleyn's execution at the beginning of the novel, Wriothesley, loyalties divided, tells Cromwell,

“People have been talking of the cardinal. They say, look at what Cromwell has wreaked, in two years, on Wolsey’s enemies. Thomas More is dead. Anne the queen is dead. They look at those who slighted him, in his lifetime – Brereton, Norris – though Norris was not the worst . . . They ask," Wriothesley says, “who was the greatest of the cardinal’s enemies? They answer, the king. So, they ask – when chance serves, what revenge will Thomas Cromwell seek on his sovereign, his prince?”

The answer comes during his interrogation:

“Let me remind you,” Riche says. “At the church of St Peter le Poor, near your own gate at Austin Friars, on or around …” Riche has lost the date, but no matter, “… you were heard to pronounce certain treasonable words: that you would maintain your own opinion in religion, that you would never allow the king to return to Rome, and – these are the words alleged – if he would turn, yet I would not turn; and I would take the field against him, my sword in my hand. And you accompanied these words with certain belligerent gestures – . . . You also stated,” Riche says, “that you would bring new doctrine into England, and that – and here I quote your own words – If I live one year or two, it shall not lie in the king’s power to resist.”

The cards thus stacked against him - by none less than Richard Riche, whose perjured testimony cost Thomas More his head - Cromwell understands that he has lost. But it's not due to any trumped-up charges of treason - no, he gets that all the crazy talk of aspiring to be king by marrying Mary, of sorcery, of conspiracy with the Emperor, and seeking to raise a "pauper army" is all just a smokescreen for the king's true grievance:

“The king hates a man who breaks his word. You said you would kill Reginald Pole.”

“Not a drop of his blood is shed,” Gardiner observes.

He thinks, now we come to it. This is why Henry faults me. And so he should. This is where I have failed.

This is life in Henry's capricious court. Henry, assessing Cromwell's almost superhuman accomplishments, finds him lacking because he failed to kill the pretender. Norfolk, resentful that a commoner should be ennobled, and Gardiner, vengeful at being replaced as Master Secretary and shipped off to France, conspired to light the fuse.

Mantel gives full rein to her imagination in this novel, the longest of the three (in fact, almost as long as the other two combined). Cromwell is given to increasing flights of memory of his childhood and his years of apprenticeship in Italy. He continues to be haunted by Wolsey, tormented by More and guilt ridden over his mysterious daughter, Jenneke. Her canvas is huge - the economics of the dissolution of the monasteries, the diplomatic intricacies of the marriage to Anne of Cleves, the religious crisis over the Pilgrimage of Grace - and reveals her thorough research and deep understanding of the period. Clearly she had great passion for the story, and saw in Cromwell some kind of archetype of hero/villains throughout modern history: his own great nephew Oliver Cromwell; Maximillian Robespierre; Otto von Bismarck; Vladimir Lenin; J. Edgar Hoover; Richard Nixon. Men who rose to great heights; who sought to reshape the world in their own image; who ultimately destroyed themselves.

Are we to draw lessons from Cromwell's story about the dangers of pride and self aggrandizement? If history is truly written by the victors, has his story been accurately told? Is Cromwell Macbeth or Lear? These are tough questions and I think Hilary Mantel wants us to see, in the mirror and the light, something of our own place and time. Mantel's Cromwell, really, is a projection of our own worst instincts and the embodiment of modern homo politicus; and perhaps what she wants us to understand that there will always be a Cromwell, the one with the dirty fingernails and bloody knife; the one who takes care of the jobs no one else can stomach; the one we ultimately can't keep around because he reminds us too much of our own base nature. Cromwell, hero or villain, is not so much a man as a matter of perspective.

My fascination with the Tudor dynasty began in my early university days and for reasons I cannot fully explaing it has never really let me go. From Henry VII's victory over Richard III at Bosworth Field to the death of Elizabeth I, England was ruled by a strange and volatile family that dragged it kicking and screaming out of its violent, feudal backwardness and made it into an early modern imperialist nation state. I recall reading eagerly the course text (I cannot for the life of me remember the author but I can very vividly picture the book's cover; accursed aging!) and took copious notes during lectures. I got A's on my essays, and flatter myself that I impressed the professor with my depth of reading.

And it was in this reading that I first encountered Thomas Cromwell. History generally hasn't been kind to him, and in both history and literature he has been portrayed as the villain (more correctly, the villain) of the Tudor period due to his work on Henry VIII's behalf in disposing of Catherine of Aragon, securing the marriage to (and subsequent beheading of) Anne Boleyn, the dissolution of the monasteries, and, of course, the Protestant Reformation in England. As a high school English teacher I reinforced this perception of him through teaching the play A Man for All Seasons by Robert Bolt, which adds a few additional layers to his reputation: not only was he bad to Henry's assorted wives, but he was also a vindictive, jealous, petty bully who manipulated Henry into executing Sir Thomas More, one of the leading intellectuals of Europe and a man renowned for his faith. Bolt's play, and the subsequent 1966 movie adaptation starring Leo McKern as Cromwell, is probably the reason most people think of Cromwell so negatively, and its influence is clearly felt throughout the novel.

Mantel clearly set out to take advantage of the huge resurgence in interest in Tudor history that began in the 1990s with novels (Antonia Fraser, Phillippa Gregory), histories (Alison Weir, Peter Ackroyd, Tracy Borman) and even TV series (most notably The Tudors). But, she must have wondered, what's my angle? What would be a fresh, interesting perspective on this wildly erratic period of history? And her answer, of course, was to centre Cromwell and retell the story through his eyes. Is he really the bad guy history has made him out to be? What were his motivations? His desires? His objectives?

Mantel seeks to answer these questions and more as she provides Cromwell with an origin story that evokes pity and admiration. In her telling, Cromwell was the son of a violent, abusive blacksmith from the slums of Putney who left home at 15 and sold himself as a soldier to the French. Tough, smart, and highly adept at learning languages, he reinvented himself multiple times as an accountant, lawyer, merchant, businessman and banker all before he entered into the service of Thomas Wolsey, Archbishop of York. Under Wolsey he blossomed further to become first advisor, then privy councillor, then personal secretary to Henry VIII on the strength of a) his uncompromising willingness to speak truth to power and b) his effectiveness in disposing of Henry's problems. A nobleman getting out of line? Send Cromwell to have a little talk. Debts mounting and revenues faltering? Cromwell will balance the books again. Marriage inconvenient? Get Cromwell to draft some new laws. Hassles with the Pope? Cromwell will sever relations.

Cromwell here is a kind and loving husband and father who reads bedtime stories with his youngest daughter and crafts homemade angel wings for her to wear in the family's Christmas pageant. He graciously takes in the sons of prominent houses to train them in the law, business, accounting, mercantile trading, and (more subtly) espionage. He's glib and witty, bordering on insolent with his superiors (Norfolk: ‘I spoke to the king for you and he is also content. You will take his instructions in the Commons. And mine.' Cromwell: ‘Will they be the same, my lord?'). He adores Wolsey and demonstrates unwavering loyalty, telling an aggrieved Henry who's badmouthing him “I have never had anything from the cardinal other than kindness.” So he's courageous too, standing in the wind that Henry blows, and refusing to cower before him.

But recasting Cromwell as the (for want of a better term) tragic hero of the piece means seeing everyone else through his eyes. Henry VIII, long portrayed as blustering, bellicose and belligerent, is presented here as insecure, impulsive, immature and highly malleable, haunted by the ghost of his brother Arthur, who, had he lived, would have been king after Henry VII, keenly aware that he was never intended to rule. He's as horny as a teenager (and, apparently, about as effective), fragile, and clever with a prodigious capacity for compartmentalizing his life. Sir Thomas More is angry, bitter, vicious and cruel, almost gleefully torturing and burning Protestant heretics. He's also self-righteous, condescending, resentful and dismissive toward Cromwell who does his level best to protect More from himself and prevent his execution. Catherine of Aragon is whiny, sickly and vacillating, sometimes The Queen, sometimes the victim, sometimes the desperate petitioner for the King's mercy. Anne Boleyn (to whom he is deeply attracted along with her sister Mary) is manipulative and sly, sexually dominant (and, despite her claims of virginity, probably highly experienced), and ruthless. Wolsey is generous in spirit, slavishly devoted to Henry, and though corrupted by his wealth and years in office, immensely likeable. He teaches Cromwell statecraft, how to work the king, how to get around the nobles who swarm on Henry for favour like flies after honey and, most importantly, how to be true to himself.

What is most engaging about this novel is not the palace intrigues or political machinations: no, it's the way Mantel carefully structures each scene in such a way to make Cromwell emerge the winner. He seems to do everything exactly right, say everything exactly right, know everything exactly right, and, as a result, come up with exactly the right outcomes. Things we shrink from, like the execution of More, seem to emerge logically and naturally, certainly not the fault of Cromwell who did everything he could to save him. If More died, it was due to his own stubbornness and sinful desire to be a martyr. What else could a good and reasonable man like Cromwelll have done? If Catherine was set aside and Henry made supreme head of the church in England, was it not due to the intransigence of the Pope and the Spanish crown who held the gun to his head? Clearly they didn't understand the pressures, the threat of a return of civil war. What choice did they leave Henry? And those monasteries? Dens of iniquity (‘May I suggest to Your Majesty that, if you wish to see a parade of the seven deadly sins, you do not organise a masque at court but call without notice at a monastery?'). Break them up, confiscate their wealth for the good of the realm. The monks will actually be grateful.

It doesn't matter that (or if) this is revisionist history. It doesn't matter that this Cromwell is probably not any closer to the real one than Bolt's eye-rolling, moustachio twirler. What matters is that Mantel has a firm grasp on history, a good ear for dialogue, and a sharp sense of how to recast the ambiguous in certitude with a little clever characterization. Cromwell is her Macbeth, and we are, with this first part of the trilogy, witnessing his rise and catching mere glimpses of the flaws that will eventually (spoiler alert) result in his fall from grace and death. It's a hell of a ride, and worth every moment.

See, I was misled. I'm not a big fan of melodrama, and this doorstop (900+ pages) is a genre-defining example. But I was told by friends that this was A Great Novel, you know, literary, thoughtful, philosophical, enlightening. I was told that it was the Harry Potter of its time, turning reluctant readers into enthusiastic consumers of historical fiction and high romance, sparking the boom in equally thick historical tomes by such writers as Philippa Gregory, Bernard Cornwell, Diana Gabaldon and Sara Waters (among many others). I was told it was relentlessly suspenseful and exciting, exceedingly clever in its many twists and turns, and even inspirational (and somewhat anticipatory) for its portrayal of strong, independent women who defy societal expectations and do what suits themselves best.

So, where to begin? I guess with the plot and story structure. For its length this is a book with a surprisingly thin story: the smart, young and industrious (and it must be said, prideful) new prior of Kingsbridge (Phillip) wants to build a cathedral in his backwater village where nobody goes. Hijinks ensue. That's it. That's the story. Highly episodic and cyclical, the novel takes us through a simple pattern:

1. Big problem
2. Clever solution
3. Incremental success
4. Complication and setback
5. Repeat

This pattern repeats, I don't know, eight, ten times and each time we are meant to sigh in relief as the clever Phillip overcomes complications to get his cathedral done (and, sorry, it's no spoiler to say he does. I mean, this wouldn't be one of the most beloved novels of all time (no, seriously) if the whole purpose for the book were never realized).

And what are the obstacles and complications? Two unidimensional guys, Bishop Waleran Bigod (and there's a name dripping with Signifance: the priest who serves two gods, get it?) and William Hamleigh, the villainous, ham-fisted, moustache-twirling Earl of Shiring, both of whom oppose the cathedral because it thwarts their own ambitions and offends their pride and they don't like Phillip because, in customary good guy-bad guy rivalry fashion, he makes them look stupid. They conspire repeatedly to stop the construction using means legal (trumped-up charges), illegal (murder), political (changing allegiance in the civil war), physical (attack and plunder) and ecclesiastical (trumped-up charges again but this time churchy), but each time good Prior Phillip outwits, outlasts and outplays them. Sometimes he gets mad and yells, but most of the time he is serene, urbane, sensible and wise.

The story plays out over 54 years of 12th century English history, beginning in 1120 with the sinking of the White Ship (a maritime disaster that killed the heir to the English throne) and ending in the aftermath of the murder of Thomas Beckett, the martyred Archbishop of Canterbury. We get a Forrest Gump's eye view of this period as our main characters, despite being in the aforementioned backwater village of Kingsbridge, find themselves central to the political and religious intrigue of this period known as The Anarchy. Along the way we are treated to micro-credential courses such as Gothic Architecture for Dummies, Introduction to Feudal Capitalism, Pre-Industrial Labour Relations and Collective Bargaining, and, most critically, Medieval Gender Equity and Feminist Theory. Seriously, at various points throughout the novel, the too-clever-by-half (and highly articulate) characters lay the groundwork for socio-economic developments that took centuries to manifest in Western Europe and North America. I was actually a little surprised that Follett didn't have Prior Phillip invent banking and the stock market.

I can't really offer an in-depth look at all the main characters because they are really just character types. Strong and decent Tom Builder, the stone mason. Alfred, his bullying, thick-headed son who also becomes a stone mason. Ellen the mysterious, incredibly beautiful, forest-dwelling woman who carries a dark secret. Aliena (another Significant Name), the also incredibly beautiful, willful daughter of the original Earl (deposed for backing the wrong side in the civil war). Richard, Aliena's thumb of a brother, good for fighting wars but little else. William the sadist. Bigod the corrupt. Jack Shareburg, hanged mysteriously in the prologue, and father of Jack Jackson who was raised by Tom to be the Greatest Builder Ever. There are more but you get the picture. It's a clockwork novel, and though you hear the machinery creaking, it keeps its steady time and plodding pace, the action rising and falling until we reach the big concluding scene where the righteous get their reward, the unrighteous their punishment, the cathedral its grand opening and the future its path forward. It's easy to see why fans clamoured for more but hard to understand why it took Follett another 20 years to accommodate them. Once he did, he figured out what butters his bread and now there's no stopping him as he has written 5 or so sequels in 14 years.

This book will appeal to readers who like their lines between good and evil clearly marked, their heroes unambiguously good, their villains irredeemably bad, and their plots linear and well lit like an airport runway. Those who seek something focussing more on the conflict between church and crown, or the complex role of religion in medieval life will want to look elsewhere.