Hilary Mantel

Mike Poulton

A new, revised edition for the London transfer of Mike Poulton's expertly adapted two-part adaptation of Hilary Mantel's hugely acclaimed novels, featuring a substantial set of character notes by Hilary Mantel. Mike Poulton's 'expertly adapted' (Evening Standard) two-part adaptation of Hilary Mantel's acclaimed novels 'Wolf Hall' and 'Bring Up the Bodies' is a gripping piece of narrative theatre ... history made manifest' (Guardian). The plays were premiered to great acclaim by the Royal Shakespeare Company in Stratford-upon-Avon in 2013, before transferring to the Aldwych Theatre in London's West End in May 2014. 'Wolf Hall' begins in England in 1527. Henry has been King for almost twenty years and is desperate for a male heir; but Cardinal Wolsey is unable to deliver the divorce he craves. Yet for a man with the right talents this crisis could be an opportunity. Thomas Cromwell is a commoner who has risen in Wolsey's household - and he will stop at nothing to secure the King's desires and advance his own ambitions. In 'Bring Up the Bodies', the volatile Anne Boleyn is now Queen, her career seemingly entwined with that of Cromwell. But when the King begins to fall in love with self-effacing Jane Seymour, the ever-pragmatic Cromwell must negotiate within an increasingly perilous Court to satisfy Henry, defend the nation and, above all, to secure his own rise in the world. Hilary Mantel's novels are the most formidable literary achievements of recent times, both recipients of the Man Booker Prize. This volume contains both plays and a substantial set of notes by Hilary Mantel on each of the principal characters, offering a unique insight into the adaptations and an invaluable resource to any theatre companies wishing to stage them.

Wolf Hall

His Testament is in octavo, nasty cheap paper: on the title page, where the printer's colophon and address should be, the words 'PRINTED IN UTOPIA'. He hopes Thomas More has seen one of these. He is tempted to show him, just to see his face.

He left old Wykys by the fireside - it is surprising how international is the language of old men, swapping tips on salves for aches, commiserating with petty wretchednesses and discussing the whims and demands of their wives. The youngest brother would translate, as usual: straight-faced, even when the terms became anatomical.

The multitude, Cavendish says, 'is always desirous of a change. They never see a great man set up but they must pull him down-for the novelty of the thing.'

'But what I would do for him! Cross the Channel as lightly as a man might step across a stream of piss in the street.' The cardinal shakes his head. 'Waking and sleeping, on horseback or at my beads ... twenty years...' 

Christ, he thinks, by my age I ought to know. You don't get on by being original. You don't get on by being bright. You dont get on by being strong. You get on by being a subtle crook; somehow he thinks that's what Norris is, and he feels an irrational dislike taking root, and he tries to dismiss it, because he prefers his dislikes rational, but after all, these circumstances are extreme, the cardinal in the mud, the humiliating tussle to get him back in the saddle, the talking, talking on the barge, and worse, the talking, talking on his knees, as if Wolsey's unravelling, in a great unweaving of scarlet thread that might lead you back into a scarlet labyrinth, with a dying monster at its heart. 

'I will send some people, he says, 'to sort out the kitchens. They will be Italian. It will be violent at first, but then after three weeks it will work.' 

Laughing, the cardinal pushes back his chair, and his shadow rises with him. Firelit, it leaps. His arm darts out, his reach is long, his hand is like the hand of God.

But when God closes his hand, his subject is across the room, back to the wall.

The cardinal gives ground. His shadow wavers. It wavers and comes to rest. He is still. The wall records the movement of his breath. His head inclines. In a halo of light he seems to pause, to examine his handful of nothing. He splays his fingers, his giant firelit hand. He places it flat on his desk. It vanishes, melted into the cloth of damask. He sits down again. His head is bowed; his face, half-dark.

He Thomas, also Tomos, Tommaso and Thomaes Cromwell, withdraws his past selves into his present body and edges back to where he was before. His single shadow slides against the wall, a visitor not sure of his welcome. Which of these Thomases saw the blow coming? There are moments when a memory moves right through you. You shy, you duck, you run; or else the past takes your fist and actuates it, without the intervention of will. Suppose you have a knife in your fist? That's how murder happens.

The cardinal bows his head, frowns at a paper on his desk; he is allowing time for the difficult moment to pass, and when he speaks again his tone is measured and easy, like a man telling anecdotes after supper. 

He, Cromwell admires Katherine: he likes to see her moving about the royal palaces, as wide as she is high, stitched into gowns so bristling with gemstones that they look as if they are designed less for beauty than to withstand blows from a sword. Her auburn hair is faded and streaked with grey, tucked back under her gable hood like the modest wings of a city sparrow. 

Wolf Hall quotes

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