Bring Up the Bodies (Booker Prize Winner)
by Hilary MantelHilary Mantel
Paperback(First Edition)
Buy Online, Pick up in Store delves into the heart of Tudor history with the downfall of Anne Boleyn.
Though he battled for seven years to marry her, Henry is disenchanted with Anne Boleyn. She has failed to give him a son and her sharp intelligence and audacious will alienate his old friends and the noble families of England. When the discarded Katherine dies in exile from the court, Anne stands starkly exposed, the focus of gossip and malice.
At a word from Henry, Thomas Cromwell is ready to bring her down. Over three terrifying weeks, Anne is ensnared in a web of conspiracy, while the demure Jane Seymour stands waiting her turn for the poisoned wedding ring. But Anne and her powerful family will not yield without a ferocious struggle. Hilary Mantel's Bring Up the Bodies follows the dramatic trial of the queen and her suitors for adultery and treason. To defeat the Boleyns, Cromwell must ally with his natural enemies, the papist aristocracy. What price will he pay for Anne's head?
Bring Up the Bodies is one of The New York Times' 10 Best Books of 2012, one of Publishers Weekly's Top 10 Best Books of 2012 and one of The Washington Post's 10 Best Books of 2012
Reading Group Guide
Wolf Hall Trilogy Series , #2
Edition description:
HILARY MANTEL is the bestselling author of ten previous novels, including Wolf Hall, which sold more than 200,000 copies and won the 2009 Man Booker Prize. Her previous works include her novel, A Place of Greater Safety, and her memoir, Giving Up the Ghost. She lives in England with her husband.
I Falcons Wiltshire, September 1535
His children are falling from the sky. He watches from horseback, acres of England stretching behind him; they drop, gilt-winged, each with a blood-filled gaze. Grace Cromwell hovers in thin air. She is silent when she takes her prey, silent as she glides to his fist. But the sounds she makes then, the rustle of feathers and the creak, the sigh and riffle of pinion, the small cluck-cluck from her throat, these are sounds of recognition, intimate, daughterly, almost disapproving. Her breast is gore-streaked and flesh clings to her claws.
Later, Henry will say, 'Your girls flew well today.' The hawk Anne Cromwell bounces on the glove of Rafe Sadler, who rides by the king in easy conversation. They are tired; the sun is declining, and they ride back to Wolf Hall with the reins slack on the necks of their mounts. Tomorrow his wife and two sisters will go out. These dead women, their bones long sunk in London clay, are now transmigrated. Weightless, they glide on the upper currents of the air. They pity no one. They answer to no one. Their lives are simple. When they look down they see nothing but their prey, and the borrowed plumes of the hunters: they see a flittering, flinching universe, a universe filled with their dinner.
All summer has been like this, a riot of dismemberment, fur and feather flying; the beating off and the whipping in of hounds, the coddling of tired horses, the nursing, by the gentlemen, of contusions, sprains and blisters. And for a few days at least, the sun has shone on Henry. Sometime before noon, clouds scudded in from the west and rain fell in big scented drops; but the sun re-emerged with a scorching heat, and now the sky is so clear you can see into Heaven and spy on what the saints are doing.
As they dismount, handing their horses to the grooms and waiting on the king, his mind is already moving to paperwork: to dispatches from Whitehall, galloped down by the post routes that are laid wherever the court shifts. At supper with the Seymours, he will defer to any stories his hosts wish to tell: to anything the king may venture, tousled and happy and amiable as he seems tonight. When the king has gone to bed, his working night will begin.
Though the day is over, Henry seems disinclined to go indoors. He stands looking about him, inhaling horse sweat, a broad, brick-red streak of sunburn across his forehead. Early in the day he lost his hat, so by custom all the hunting party were obliged to take off theirs. The king refused all offers of substitutes. As dusk steals over the woods and fields, servants will be out looking for the stir of the black plume against darkening grass, or the glint of his hunter's badge, a gold St Hubert with sapphire eyes.
Already you can feel the autumn. You know there will not be many more days like these; so let us stand, the horseboys of Wolf Hall swarming around us, Wiltshire and the western counties stretching into a haze of blue; let us stand, the king's hand on his shoulder, Henry's face earnest as he talks his way back through the landscape of the day, the green copses and rushing streams, the alders by the water's edge, the early haze that lifted by nine; the brief shower, the small wind that died and settled; the stillness, the afternoon heat.
'Sir, how are you not burned?' Rafe Sadler demands. A redhead like the king, he has turned a mottled, freckled pink, and even his eyes look sore. He, Thomas Cromwell, shrugs; he hangs an arm around Rafe's shoulders as they drift indoors. He went through the whole of Italy – the battlefield as well as the shaded arena of the counting house – without losing his London pallor. His ruffian childhood, the days on the river, the days in the fields: they left him as white as God made him. 'Cromwell has the skin of a lily,' the king pronounces. 'The only particular in which he resembles that or any other blossom.' Teasing him, they amble towards supper.
The king had left Whitehall the week of Thomas More's death, a miserable dripping week in July, the hoof prints of the royal entourage sinking deep into the mud as they tacked their way across to Windsor. Since then the progress has taken in a swathe of the western counties; the Cromwell aides, having finished up the king's business at the London end, met up with the royal train in mid-August. The king and his companions sleep sound in new houses of rosy brick, in old houses whose fortifications have crumbled away or been pulled down, and in fantasy castles like toys, castles never capable of fortification, with walls a cannonball would punch in as if they were paper. England has enjoyed fifty years of peace. This is the Tudors' covenant; peace is what they offer. Every household strives to put forward its best show for the king, and we've seen some panic-stricken plastering these last weeks, some speedy stonework, as his hosts hurry to display the Tudor rose beside their own devices. They search out and obliterate any trace of Katherine, the queen that was, smashing with hammers the pomegranates of Aragon, their splitting segments and their squashed and flying seeds. Instead – if there is no time for carving – the falcon of Anne Boleyn is crudely painted up on hatchments.
Hans has joined them on the progress, and made a drawing of Anne the queen, but it did not please her; how do you please her, these days? He has drawn Rafe Sadler, with his neat little beard and his set mouth, his fashionable hat a feathered disc balanced precariously on his cropped head. 'Made my nose very flat, Master Holbein,' Rafe says, and Hans says, 'And how, Master Sadler, is it in my power to fix your nose?'
'He broke it as a child,' he says, 'running at the ring. I picked him up myself from under the horse's feet, and a sorry bundle he was, crying for his mother.' He squeezes the boy's shoulder. 'Now, Rafe, take heart. I think you look very handsome. Remember what Hans did to me.'
Thomas Cromwell is now about fifty years old. He has a labourer's body, stocky, useful, running to fat. He has black hair, greying now, and because of his pale impermeable skin, which seems designed to resist rain as well as sun, people sneer that his father was an Irishman, though really he was a brewer and a blacksmith at Putney, a shearsman too, a man with a finger in every pie, a scrapper and brawler, a drunk and a bully, a man often hauled before the justices for punching someone, for cheating someone. How the son of such a man has achieved his present eminence is a question all Europe asks. Some say he came up with the Boleyns, the queen's family. Some say it was wholly through the late Cardinal Wolsey, his patron; Cromwell was in his confidence and made money for him and knew his secrets. Others say he haunts the company of sorcerers. He was out of the realm from boyhood, a hired soldier, a wool trader, a banker. No one knows where he has been and who he has met, and he is in no hurry to tell them. He never spares himself in the king's service, he knows his worth and merits and makes sure of his reward: offices, perquisites and title deeds, manor houses and farms. He has a way of getting his way, he has a method; he will charm a man or bribe him, coax him or threaten him, he will explain to a man where his true interests lie, and he will introduce that same man to aspects of himself he didn't know existed. Every day Master Secretary deals with grandees who, if they could, would destroy him with one vindictive swipe, as if he were a fly. Knowing this, he is distinguished by his courtesy, his calmness and his indefatigable attention to England's business. He is not in the habit of explaining himself. He is not in the habit of discussing his successes. But whenever good fortune has called on him, he has been there, planted on the threshold, ready to fling open the door to her timid scratch on the wood.
At home in his city house at Austin Friars, his portrait broods on the wall; he is wrapped in wool and fur, his hand clenched around a document as if he were throttling it. Hans had pushed a table back to trap him and said, Thomas, you mustn't laugh; and they had proceeded on that basis, Hans humming as he worked and he staring ferociously into the middle distance. When he saw the portrait finished he had said, 'Christ, I look like a murderer'; and his son Gregory said, didn't you know? Copies are being made for his friends, and for his admirers among the evangelicals in Germany. He will not part with the original – not now I've got used to it, he says – and so he comes into his hall to find versions of himself in various stages of becoming: a tentative outline, partly inked in. Where to begin with Cromwell? Some start with his sharp little eyes, some start with his hat. Some evade the issue and paint his seal and scissors, others pick out the turquoise ring given him by the cardinal. Wherever they begin, the final impact is the same: if he had a grievance against you, you wouldn't like to meet him at the dark of the moon. His father Walter used to say, 'My boy Thomas, give him a dirty look and he'll gouge your eye out. Trip him, and he'll cut off your leg. But if you don't cut across him, he's a very gentleman. And he'll stand anybody a drink.'
Hans has drawn the king, benign in summer silks, seated after supper with his hosts, the casements open to late birdsong, the first tapers coming in with the candied fruits. At each stage of his progress Henry stops in the principal house, with Anne the queen; his entourage beds down with the local gentlefolk. It is usual for the king's hosts, once at least in the visit, to entertain these peripheral hosts by way of thanks, which places a strain on the housekeeping arrangements. He has counted the provision carts rolling in; he has seen kitchens thrown into turmoil, and he himself has been down in the grey-green hour before dawn, when the brick ovens are swabbed out ready for the first batch of loaves, as carcasses are spitted, pots set on trivets, poultry plucked and jointed. His uncle was a cook to an archbishop, and as a child he hung about the Lambeth Palace kitchens; he knows this business inside out, and nothing about the king's comfort must be left to chance.
These days are perfect. The clear untroubled light picks out each berry shimmering in a hedge. Each leaf of a tree, the sun behind it, hangs like a golden pear. Riding westward in high summer, we have dipped into sylvan chases and crested the downs, emerging into that high country where, even across two counties, you can sense the shifting presence of the sea. In this part of England our forefathers the giants left their earthworks, their barrows and standing stones. We still have, every Englishman and woman, some drops of giant blood in our veins. In those ancient times, in a land undespoiled by sheep or plough, they hunted the wild boar and the elk. The forest stretched ahead for days. Sometimes antique weapons are unearthed: axes that, wielded with double fist, could cut down horse and rider. Think of the great limbs of those dead men, stirring under the soil. War was their nature, and war is always keen to come again. It's not just the past you think of, as you ride these fields. It's what's latent in the soil, what's breeding; it's the days to come, the wars unfought, the injuries and deaths that, like seeds, the soil of England is keeping warm. You would think, to look at Henry laughing, to look at Henry praying, to look at him leading his men through the forest path, that he sits as secure on his throne as he does on his horse. Looks can deceive. By night, he lies awake; he stares at the carved roof beams; he numbers his days. He says, 'Cromwell, Cromwell, what shall I do?' Cromwell, save me from the Emperor. Cromwell, save me from the Pope. Then he calls in his Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer, and demands to know, 'Is my soul damned?'
Back in London, the Emperor's ambassador, Eustache Chapuys, waits daily for news that the people of England have risen against their cruel and ungodly king. It is news that he dearly wishes to hear, and he would spend labour and hard cash to make it come true. His master, the Emperor Charles, is lord of the Low Countries as well as Spain and her lands beyond the seas; Charles is rich and, from time to time, he is angry that Henry Tudor has dared to set aside his aunt, Katherine, to marry a woman whom the people on the streets call a goggle-eyed whore. Chapuys is exhorting his master in urgent dispatches to invade England, to join with the realm's rebels, pretenders and malcontents, and to conquer this unholy island where the king by an act of Parliament has settled his own divorce and declared himself God. The Pope does not take it kindly, that he is laughed at in England and called mere 'Bishop of Rome', that his revenues are cut off and channelled into Henry's coffers. A bull of excommunication, drawn up but not yet promulgated, hovers over Henry, making him an outcast among the Christian kings of Europe: who are invited, indeed, encouraged, to step across the Narrow Sea or the Scots border, and help themselves to anything that's his. Perhaps the Emperor will come. Perhaps the King of France will come. Perhaps they will come together. It would be pleasant to say we are ready for them, but the reality is otherwise. In the case of an armed incursion we may have to dig up the giants' bones to knock them around the head with, as we are short of ordnance, short of powder, short of steel. This is not Thomas Cromwell's fault; as Chapuys says, grimacing, Henry's kingdom would be in better order if Cromwell had been put in charge five years ago.
If you would defend England, and he would – for he would take the field himself, his sword in his hand – you must know what England is. In the August heat, he has stood bare-headed by the carved tombs of ancestors, men armoured cap à pie in plate and chain links, their gauntleted hands joined and perched stiffly on their surcoats, their mailed feet resting on stone lions, griffins, greyhounds: stone men, steel men, their soft wives encased beside them like snails in their shells. We think time cannot touch the dead, but it touches their monuments, leaving them snub-nosed and stub-fingered from the accidents and attrition of time. A tiny dismembered foot (as of a kneeling cherub) emerges from a swathe of drapery; the tip of a severed thumb lies on a carved cushion. 'We must get our forefathers mended next year,' the lords of the western counties say: but their shields and supporters, their achievements and bearings, are kept always paint-fresh, and in talk they embellish the deeds of their ancestors, who they were and what they held: the arms my forefather bore at Agincourt, the cup my forefather was given by John of Gaunt his own hand. If in the late wars of York and Lancaster, their fathers and grandfathers picked the wrong side, they keep quiet about it. A generation on, lapses must be forgiven, reputations remade; otherwise England cannot go forward, she will keep spiralling backwards into the dirty past.
He has no ancestors, of course: not the kind you'd boast about. There was once a noble family called Cromwell, and when he came up in the king's service the heralds had urged him for the sake of appearances to adopt their coat of arms; but I am none of theirs, he had said politely, and I do not want their achievements. He had run away from his father's fists when he was no older than fifteen; crossed the Channel, taken service in the French king's army. He had been fighting since he could walk; and if you're going to fight, why not be paid for it? There are more lucrative trades than soldiering, and he found them. So he decided not to hurry home.
And now, when his titled hosts want advice on the placement of a fountain, or a group of the Three Graces dancing, the king tells them, Cromwell here is your man; Cromwell, he has seen how they do things in Italy, and what will do for them will do for Wiltshire. Sometimes the king departs a place with just his riding household, the queen left behind with her ladies and musicians, as Henry and his favoured few hunt hard across the country. And that is how they come to Wolf Hall, where old Sir John Seymour is waiting to welcome them, in the midst of his flourishing family.
'I don't know, Cromwell,' old Sir John says. He takes his arm, genial. 'All these falcons named for dead women … don't they dishearten you?'
'I'm never disheartened, Sir John. The world is too good to me.'
'You should marry again, and have another family. Perhaps you will find a bride while you are with us. In the forest of Savernake there are many fresh young women.'
I still have Gregory, he says, looking back over his shoulder for his son; he is always somehow anxious about Gregory. 'Ah,' Seymour says, 'boys are very well, but a man needs daughters too, daughters are a consolation. Look at Jane. Such a good girl.'
He looks at Jane Seymour, as her father directs him. He knows her well from the court, as she was lady-in-waiting to Katherine, the former queen, and to Anne, the queen that is now; she is a plain young woman with a silvery pallor, a habit of silence, and a trick of looking at men as if they represent an unpleasant surprise. She is wearing pearls, and white brocade embroidered with stiff little sprigs of carnations. He recognises considerable expenditure; leave the pearls aside, you couldn't turn her out like that for much under thirty pounds. No wonder she moves with gingerly concern, like a child who's been told not to spill something on herself.
The king says, 'Jane, now we see you at home with your people, are you less shy?' He takes her mouse-paw in his vast hand. 'At court we never get a word from her.'
Jane is looking up at him, blushing from her neck to her hairline. 'Did you ever see such a blush?' Henry asks. 'Never unless with a little maid of twelve.'
'I cannot claim to be twelve,' Jane says.
At supper the king sits next to Lady Margery, his hostess. She was a beauty in her day, and by the king's exquisite attention you would think she was one still; she has had ten children, and six of them are living, and three are in this room. Edward Seymour, the heir, has a long head, a serious expression, a clean fierce profile: a handsome man. He is well-read if not scholarly, applies himself wisely to any office he is given; he has been to war, and while he is waiting to fight again he acquits himself well in the hunting field and tilt yard. The cardinal, in his day, marked him out as better than the usual run of Seymours; and he himself, Thomas Cromwell, has sounded him out and found him in every respect the king's man. Tom Seymour, Edward's younger brother, is noisy and boisterous and more of interest to women; when he comes into the room, virgins giggle, and young matrons dip their heads and examine him from under their lashes.
Old Sir John is a man of notorious family feeling. Two, three years back, the gossip at court was all of how he had tupped his son's wife, not once in the heat of passion but repeatedly since she was a bride. The queen and her confidantes had spread the story about the court. 'We've worked it out at 120 times,' Anne had sniggered. 'Well, Thomas Cromwell has, and he's quick with figures. We suppose they abstained on a Sunday for shame's sake, and eased off in Lent.' The traitor wife gave birth to two boys, and when her conduct came to light Edward said he would not have them for his heirs, as he could not be sure if they were his sons or his half-brothers. The adulteress was locked up in a convent, and soon obliged him by dying; now he has a new wife, who cultivates a forbidding manner and keeps a bodkin in her pocket in case her father-in-law gets too close.
But it is forgiven, it is forgiven. The flesh is frail. This royal visit seals the old fellow's pardon. John Seymour has 1,300 acres including his deer park, most of the rest under sheep and worth two shilling per acre per year, bringing him in a clear twenty-five per cent on what the same acreage would make under the plough. The sheep are little black-faced animals interbred with Welsh mountain stock, gristly mutton but good enough wool. When at their arrival, the king (he is in bucolic vein) says, 'Cromwell, what would that beast weigh?' he says, without picking it up, 'Thirty pounds, sir.' Francis Weston, a young courtier, says with a sneer, 'Master Cromwell used to be a shearsman. He wouldn't be wrong.'
The king says, 'We would be a poor country without our wool trade. That Master Cromwell knows the business is not to his discredit.'
But Francis Weston smirks behind his hand.
Tomorrow Jane Seymour is to hunt with the king. 'I thought it was gentlemen only,' he hears Weston whisper. 'The queen would be angry if she knew.' He murmurs, make sure she doesn't know then, there's a good boy.
'At Wolf Hall we are all great hunters,' Sir John boasts, 'my daughters too, you think Jane is timid but put her in the saddle and I assure you, sirs, she is the goddess Diana. I never troubled my girls in the schoolroom, you know. Sir James here taught them all they needed.'
The priest at the foot of the table nods, beaming: an old fool with a white poll, a bleared eye. He, Cromwell, turns to him: 'And was it you taught them to dance, Sir James? All praise to you. I have seen Jane's sister Elizabeth at court, partnered with the king.'
'Ah, they had a master for that,' old Seymour chuckles. 'Master for dancing, master for music, that's enough for them. They don't want foreign tongues. They're not going anywhere.'
'I think otherwise, sir,' he says. 'I had my daughters taught equal with my son.'
Sometimes he likes to talk about them, Anne and Grace: gone seven years now. Tom Seymour laughs. 'What, you had them in the tilt yard with Gregory and young Master Sadler?'
He smiles. 'Except for that.'
Edward Seymour says, 'It is not uncommon for the daughters of a city household to learn their letters and a little beyond. You might have wanted them in the counting house. One hears of it. It would help them get good husbands, a merchant family would be glad of their training.'
'Imagine Master Cromwell's daughters,' Weston says. 'I dare not. I doubt a counting house could contain them. They would be a shrewd hand with a poleaxe, you would think. One look at them and a man's legs would go from under him. And I do not mean he would be stricken with love.'
Gregory stirs himself. He is such a dreamer you hardly think he has been following the conversation, but his tone is rippling with hurt. 'You insult my sisters and their memory, sir, and you never knew them. My sister Grace …'
He sees Jane Seymour put out her little hand and touch Gregory's wrist: to save him, she will risk drawing the company's attention. 'I have lately,' she says, 'got some skill of the French tongue.'
'Have you, Jane?' Tom Seymour is smiling.
Jane dips her head. 'Mary Shelton is teaching me.'
'Mary Shelton is a kindly young woman,' the king says; and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Weston elbow his neighbour; they say Shelton has been kind to the king in bed.
'So you see,' Jane says to her brothers, 'we ladies, we do not spend all our time in idle calumny and scandal. Though God he knows, we have gossip enough to occupy a whole town of women.'
'Have you?' he says.
'We talk about who is in love with the queen. Who writes her verses.' She drops her eyes. 'I mean to say, who is in love with us all. This gentleman or that. We know all our suitors and we make inventory head to toe, they would blush if they knew. We say their acreage and how much they have a year, and then we decide if we will let them write us a sonnet. If we do not think they will keep us in fine style, we scorn their rhymes. It is cruel, I can tell you.'
He says, a little uneasy, it is no harm to write verses to ladies, even married ones, at court it is usual. Weston says, thank you for that kind word, Master Cromwell, we thought you might try and make us stop.
Tom Seymour leans forward, laughing. 'And who are your suitors, Jane?'
'If you want to know that, you must put on a gown, and take up your needlework, and come and join us.'
'Like Achilles among the women,' the king says. 'You must shave your fine beard, Seymour, and go and find out their lewd little secrets.' He is laughing, but he is not happy. 'Unless we find someone more maidenly for the task. Gregory, you are a pretty fellow, but I fear your great hands will give you away.'
'The blacksmith's grandson,' Weston says.
'That child Mark,' the king says. 'The musician, you know him? There is a smooth girlish countenance.'
'Oh,' Jane says, 'Mark's with us anyway. He's always loitering. We barely count him a man. If you want to know our secrets, ask Mark.'
The conversation canters off in some other direction; he thinks, I have never known Jane have anything to say for herself; he thinks, Weston is goading me, he knows that in Henry's presence I will not give him a check; he imagines what form the check may take, when he delivers it. Rafe Sadler looks at him out of the tail of his eye.
'So,' the king says to him, 'how will tomorrow be better than today?' To the supper table he explains, 'Master Cromwell cannot sleep unless he is amending something.'
'I will reform the conduct of Your Majesty's hat. And those clouds, before noon –'
'We wanted the shower. The rain cooled us.'
'God send Your Majesty no worse a drenching,' says Edward Seymour.
Henry rubs his stripe of sunburn. 'The cardinal, he reckoned he could change the weather. A good enough morning, he would say, but by ten it will be brighter. And it was.'
Henry does this sometimes; drops Wolsey's name into conversation, as if it were not he, but some other monarch, who had hounded the cardinal to death.
'Some men have a weather eye,' Tom Seymour says. 'That's all it is, sir. It's not special to cardinals.'
Henry nods, smiling. 'That's true, Tom. I should never have stood in awe of him, should I?'
'He was too proud, for a subject,' old Sir John says.
The king looks down the table at him, Thomas Cromwell. He loved the cardinal. Everyone here knows it. His expression is as carefully blank as a freshly painted wall.
After supper, old Sir John tells the story of Edgar the Peaceable. He was the ruler in these parts, many hundreds of years ago, before kings had numbers: when all maids were fair maids and all knights were gallant and life was simple and violent and usually brief. Edgar had in mind a bride for himself, and sent one of his earls to appraise her. The earl, who was both false and cunning, sent back word that her beauty had been much exaggerated by poets and painters; seen in real life, he said, she had a limp and a squint. His aim was to have the tender damsel for himself, and so he seduced and married her. Upon discovering the earl's treachery Edgar ambushed him, in a grove not far from here, and rammed a javelin into him, killing him with one blow.
'What a false knave he was, that earl!' says the king. 'He was paid out.'
'Call him rather a churl than an earl,' Tom Seymour says.
His brother sighs, as if distancing himself from the remark.
'And what did the lady say?' he asks; he, Cromwell. 'When she found the earl skewered?'
'The damsel married Edgar,' Sir John says. 'They married in the greenwood, and lived happily ever after.'
'I suppose she had no choice,' Lady Margery sighs. 'Women have to adapt themselves.'
'And the country folk say,' Sir John adds, 'that the false earl walks the woods still, groaning, and trying to pull the lance out of his belly.'
'Just imagine,' Jane Seymour says. 'Any night there is a moon, one might look out of the window and see him, tugging away and complaining all the while. Fortunately I do not believe in ghosts.'
'More fool you, sister,' Tom Seymour says. 'They'll creep up on you, my lass.'
'Still,' Henry says. He mimes a javelin throw: though in the restrained way one must, at a supper table. 'One clean blow. He must have had a good throwing arm, King Edgar.'
He says – he, Cromwell: 'I should like to know if this tale is written down, and if so, by whom, and was he on oath.'
The king says, 'Cromwell would have had the earl before a judge and jury.'
'Bless Your Majesty,' Sir John chuckles, 'I don't think they had them in those days.'
'Cromwell would have found one out.' Young Weston leans forward to make his point. 'He would dig out a jury, he would grub one from a mushroom patch. Then it would be all up with the earl, they would try him and march him out and hack off his head. They say that at Thomas More's trial, Master Secretary here followed the jury to their deliberations, and when they were seated he closed the door behind him and he laid down the law. "Let me put you out of doubt," he said to the jurymen. "Your task is to find Sir Thomas guilty, and you will have no dinner till you have done it." Then out he went and shut the door again and stood outside it with a hatchet in his hand, in case they broke out in search of a boiled pudding; and being Londoners, they care about their bellies above all things, and as soon as they felt them rumbling they cried, "Guilty! He is as guilty as guilty can be!"'
Eyes focus on him, Cromwell. Rafe Sadler, by his side, is tense with displeasure. 'It is a pretty tale,' Rafe tells Weston, 'but I ask you in turn, where is it written down? I think you will find my master is always correct in his dealings with a court of law.'
'You weren't there,' Francis Weston says. 'I heard it from one of those same jurymen. They cried, "Away with him, take out the traitor and bring us in a leg of mutton." And Thomas More was led to his death.'
'You sound as if you regret it,' Rafe says.
'Not I.' Weston holds up his hands. 'Anne the queen says, let More's death be a warning to all such traitors. Be their credit never so great, their treason never so veiled, Thomas Cromwell will find them out.'
There is a murmur of assent; for a moment, he thinks the company will turn to him and applaud. Then Lady Margery touches a finger to her lips, and nods towards the king. Seated at the head of the table, he has begun to incline to the right; his closed eyelids flutter, and his breathing is easeful and deep.
The company exchange smiles. 'Drunk with fresh air,' Tom Seymour whispers.
It makes a change from drunk with drink; the king, these days, calls for the wine jug more often than he did in his lean and sporting youth. He, Cromwell, watches as Henry tilts in his chair. First forward, as if to rest his forehead on the table. Then he starts and jerks backwards. A line of drool trickles down his beard.
This would be the moment for Harry Norris, the chief among the privy chamber gentlemen; Harry with his noiseless tread and his soft unjudging hand, murmuring his sovereign back to wakefulness. But Norris has gone across country, carrying the king's love letter to Anne. So what to do? Henry does not look like a tired child, as five years ago he might have done. He looks like any man in mid-life, lapsed into torpor after too heavy a meal; he looks bloated and puffy, and a vein is burst here and there, and even by candlelight you can see that his faded hair is greying. He, Cromwell, nods to young Weston. 'Francis, your gentlemanly touch is required.'
Weston pretends not to hear him. His eyes are on the king and his face wears an unguarded expression of distaste. Tom Seymour whispers, 'I think we should make a noise. To wake him naturally.'
'What sort of noise?' his brother Edward mouths.
Tom mimes holding his ribs.
Edward's eyebrows shoot up. 'You laugh if you dare. He'll think you're laughing at his drooling.'
The king begins to snore. He lurches to the left. He tilts dangerously over the arm of his chair.
Weston says, 'You do it, Cromwell. No man so great with him as you are.'
He shakes his head, smiling.
'God save His Majesty,' says Sir John, piously. 'He's not as young as he was.'
Jane rises. A stiff rustle from the carnation sprigs. She leans over the king's chair and taps the back of his hand: briskly, as if she were testing a cheese. Henry jumps and his eyes flick open. 'I wasn't asleep,' he says. 'Really. I was just resting my eyes.'
When the king has gone upstairs, Edward Seymour says, 'Master Secretary, time for my revenge.'
Leaning back, glass in hand: 'What I have done to you?'
'A game of chess. Calais. I know you remember.'
Late autumn, the year 1532: the night the king first went to bed with the queen that is now. Before she lay down for him Anne made him swear an oath on the Bible, that he would marry her as soon as they were back on English soil; but the storms trapped them in port, and the king made good use of the time, trying to get a son on her.
'You checkmated me, Master Cromwell,' Edward says. 'But only because you distracted me.'
'How did I?'
'You asked me about my sister Jane. Her age, and so on.'
'You thought I was interested in her.'
'And are you?' Edward smiles, to take the edge off the crude question. 'She is not spoken for yet, you know.'
'Set up the pieces,' he says. 'Would you like the board aligned as it was when you lost your train of thought?'
Edward looks at him, carefully expressionless. Incredible things are related of Cromwell's memory. He smiles to himself. He could set up the board, with only a little guesswork; he knows the type of game a man like Seymour plays. 'We should begin afresh,' he suggests. 'The world moves on. You are happy with Italian rules? I don't like these contests that drag out for a week.'
Their opening moves see some boldness on Edward's part. But then, a white pawn poised between his fingertips, Seymour leans back in his chair, frowning, and takes it into his head to talk about St Augustine; and from St Augustine moves to Martin Luther. 'It is a teaching that brings terror to the heart,' he says. 'That God would make us only to damn us. That his poor creatures, except some few of them, are born only for a struggle in this world and then eternal fire. Sometimes I fear it is true. But I find I hope it is not.'
'Fat Martin has modified his position. Or so I hear. And to our comfort.'
'What, more of us are saved? Or our good works are not entirely useless in God's sight?'
'I should not speak for him. You should read Philip Melanchthon. I will send you his new book. I hope he will visit us in England. We are talking to his people.'
Edward presses the pawn's little round head to his lips. He looks as if he might tap his teeth with it. 'Will the king allow that?'
'He would not let in Brother Martin himself. He does not like his name mentioned. But Philip is an easier man, and it would be good for us, it would be very good for us, if we were to come into some helpful alliance with the German princes who favour the gospel. It would give the Emperor a fright, if we had friends and allies in his own domains.'
'And that is all it means to you?' Edward's knight is skipping over the squares. 'Diplomacy?'
'I cherish diplomacy. It's cheap.'
'Yet they say you love the gospel yourself.'
'It is no secret.' He frowns. 'Do you really mean to do that, Edward? I see my way to your queen. And I should not like to take advantage of you again, and have you say I spoiled your game with small talk about the state of your soul.'
A skewed smile. 'And how is your queen these days?'
'Anne? She is at outs with me. I feel my head wobble on my shoulders when she stares at me hard. She has heard that once or twice I spoke favourably of Katherine, the queen that was.'
'And did you?'
'Only to admire her spirit. Which, anyone must admit, is steadfast in adversity. And again, the queen thinks I am too favourable to the Princess Mary – I mean to say, to Lady Mary, as we should call her now. The king loves his elder daughter still, he says he cannot help it – and it grieves Anne, because she wants the Princess Elizabeth to be the only daughter he knows. She thinks we are too soft towards Mary and that we should tax her to admit her mother was never married lawfully to the king, and that she is a bastard.'
Edward twiddles the white pawn in his fingers, looks at it dubiously, sets it down on its square. 'But is that not the state of affairs? I thought you had made her acknowledge it already.'
'We solve the question by not raising it. She knows she is put out of the succession, and I do not think I should force her beyond a point. As the Emperor is Katherine's nephew and Lady Mary's cousin, I try not to provoke him. Charles holds us in the palm of his hand, do you see? But Anne does not understand the need to placate people. She thinks if she speaks sweetly to Henry, that is enough to do.'
'Whereas you must speak sweetly to Europe.' Edward laughs. His laugh has a rusty sound. His eyes say, you are being very frank, Master Cromwell: why?
'Besides,' his fingers hover over the black knight, 'I am grown too great for the queen's liking, since the king made me his deputy in church affairs. She hates Henry to listen to anyone but herself and her brother George and Monseigneur her father, and even her father gets the rough side of her tongue, and gets called lily-liver and timewaster.'
'How does he take that?' Edward looks down at the board. 'Oh.'
'Now take a careful look,' he urges. 'Do you want to play it out?'
'I resign. I think.' A sigh. 'Yes. I resign.'
He, Cromwell, sweeps the pieces aside, stifling a yawn. 'And I never mentioned your sister Jane, did I? So what's your excuse now?'
When he goes upstairs he sees Rafe and Gregory jumping around near the great window. They are capering and scuffling, eyes on something invisible at their feet. At first he thinks they are playing football without a ball. But then they leap up like dancers and back-heel the thing, and he sees that it is long and thin, a fallen man. They lean down to tweak and jab, to apply torsion. 'Ease off,' Gregory says, 'don't snap his neck yet, I need to see him suffer.'
Rafe looks up, and affects to wipe his brow. Gregory rests hands on knees, getting his breath back, then nudges the victim with his foot. 'This is Francis Weston. You think he is helping put the king to bed, but in fact we have him here in ghostly form. We stood around a corner and waited for him with a magic net.'
'We are punishing him,' Rafe leans down. 'Ho, sir, are you sorry now?' He spits on his palms. 'What next with him, Gregory?'
'Haul him up and out the window with him.'
'Careful,' he says. 'The king favours Weston.'
'Then he'll favour him when he's got a flat head,' Rafe says. They scuffle and push each other out of the way, trying to be the first to stamp Francis flat. Rafe opens a window and both stoop for leverage, hoisting the phantom across the sill. Gregory helps it over, unsnagging its jacket where it catches, and with one shove drops it head first on the cobbles. They peer out after it. 'He bounces,' Rafe observes, and then they dust off their hands, smiling at him. 'Give you good night, sir,' Rafe says.
Later, Gregory sits at the foot of the bed in his shirt, his hair tousled, his shoes kicked off, one bare foot idly scuffing the matting: 'So am I to be married? Am I to be married to Jane Seymour?'
'Early in the summer you thought I was going to marry you to an old dowager with a deer park.' People tease Gregory: Rafe Sadler, Thomas Wriothesley, the other young men of his house; his cousin, Richard Cromwell.
'Yes, but why were you talking to her brother this last hour? First it was chess then it was talk, talk, talk. They say you liked Jane yourself.'
'When?'
'Last year. You liked her last year.'
'If I did I've forgot.'
'George Boleyn's wife told me. Lady Rochford. She said, you may get a young stepmother from Wolf Hall, what will you think of that? So if you like Jane yourself,' Gregory frowns, 'she had better not be married to me.'
'Do you think I'd steal your bride? Like old Sir John?'
Once his head is on the pillow, he says, 'Hush, Gregory.' He closes his eyes. Gregory is a good boy, though all the Latin he has learned, all the sonorous periods of the great authors, have rolled through his head and out again, like stones. Still, you think of Thomas More's boy: offspring of a scholar all Europe admired, and poor young John can barely stumble through his Pater Noster. Gregory is a fine archer, a fine horseman, a shining star in the tilt yard, and his manners cannot be faulted. He speaks reverently to his superiors, not scuffling his feet or standing on one leg, and he is mild and polite with those below him. He knows how to bow to foreign diplomats in the manner of their own countries, sits at table without fidgeting or feeding spaniels, can neatly carve and joint any fowl if requested to serve his elders. He doesn't slouch around with his jacket off one shoulder, or look in windows to admire himself, or stare around in church, or interrupt old men, or finish their stories for them. If anyone sneezes, he says, 'Christ help you!'
Christ help you, sir or madam.
Gregory raises his head. 'Thomas More,' he says. 'The jury. Is that truly what happened?'
He had recognised young Weston's story: in a broad sense, even if he didn't assent to the detail. He closes his eyes. 'I didn't have a hatchet,' he says.
He is tired: he speaks to God; he says: God guide me. Sometimes when he is on the verge of sleep the cardinal's large scarlet presence flits across his inner eye. He wishes the dead man would prophesy. But his old patron speaks only of domestic matters, office matters. Where did I put that letter from the Duke of Norfolk? he will ask the cardinal; and next day, early, it will come to his hand.
He speaks inwardly: not to Wolsey, but to George Boleyn's wife. 'I have no wish to marry. I have no time. I was happy with my wife but Liz is dead and that part of my life is dead with her. Who in the name of God gave you, Lady Rochford, a licence to speculate about my intentions? Madam, I have no time for wooing. I am fifty. At my age, one would be the loser on a long-term contract. If I want a woman, best to rent one by the hour.'
Yet he tries not to say 'at my age': not in his waking life. On a good day he thinks he has twenty years left. He often thinks he will see Henry out, though strictly it is not allowed to have that kind of thought; there is a law against speculating about the term of the king's life, though Henry has been a life-long student of inventive ways to die. There have been several hunting accidents. When he was still a minor the council forbade him to joust, but he did it anyway, face hidden by his helmet and his armour without device, proving himself again and again the strongest man on the field. In battle against the French he has taken the honours, and his nature, as he often mentions, is warlike; no doubt he would be known as Henry the Valiant, except Thomas Cromwell says he can't afford a war. Cost is not the whole consideration: what becomes of England if Henry dies? He was twenty years married to Katherine, this autumn it will be three with Anne, nothing to show but a daughter with each and a churchyard's worth of dead babies, some half-formed and christened in blood, some born alive but dead within hours, within days, within weeks at most. All the turmoil, the scandal, to make the second marriage, and still. Still Henry has no son to follow him. He has a bastard, Harry Duke of Richmond, a fine boy of sixteen: but what use to him is a bastard? What use is Anne's child, the infant Elizabeth? Some special mechanism may have to be created so Harry Richmond can reign, if anything but good should come to his father. He, Thomas Cromwell, stands very well with the young duke; but this dynasty, still new as kingship goes, is not secure enough to survive such a course. The Plantagenets were kings once and they think they will kings be again; they think the Tudors are an interlude. The old families of England are restless and ready to press their claim, especially since Henry broke with Rome; they bow the knee, but they are plotting. He can almost hear them, hidden among the trees.
You may find a bride in the forest, old Seymour had said. When he closes his eyes she slides behind them, veiled in cobwebs and splashed with dew. Her feet are bare, entwined in roots, her feather hair flies into the branches; her finger, beckoning, is a curled leaf. She points to him, as sleep overtakes him. His inner voice mocks him now: you thought you were going to get a holiday at Wolf Hall. You thought there would be nothing to do here except the usual business, war and peace, famine, traitorous connivance; a failing harvest, a stubborn populace; plague ravaging London, and the king losing his shirt at cards. You were prepared for that.
At the edge of his inner vision, behind his closed eyes, he senses something in the act of becoming. It will arrive with morning light; something shifting and breathing, its form disguised in a copse or grove.
Before he sleeps he thinks of the king's hat on a midnight tree, roosting like a bird from paradise.
Next day, so as not to tire the ladies, they cut short the day's sport, and return early to Wolf Hall.
For him, it is a chance to put off his riding clothes and get among the dispatches. He has hopes that the king will sit for an hour and listen to what he needs to tell him. But Henry says, 'Lady Jane, will you walk in the garden with me?'
She is at once on her feet; but frowning, as if trying to make sense of it. Her lips move, she all but repeats his words: Walk … Jane? … In the garden?
Oh yes, of course, honoured. Her hand, a petal, hovers above his sleeve; then it descends, and flesh grazes embroidery.
There are three gardens at Wolf Hall, and they call them the great paled garden, the old lady's garden and the young lady's garden. When he asks who they were, no one remembers; the old lady and the young lady are dust long ago, no difference between them now. He remembers his dream: the bride made of root fibre, the bride made of mould.
He reads. He writes. Something tugs at his attention. He gets up and glances from the window at the walks below. The panes are small and there is a wobble in the glass, so he has to crane his neck to get a proper view. He thinks, I could send my glaziers down, help the Seymours get a clearer idea of the world. He has a team of Hollanders who work for him at his various properties. They worked for the cardinal before him.
Henry and Jane are walking below. Henry is a massive figure and Jane is like a little jointed puppet, her head not up to the king's shoulders. A broad man, a high man, Henry dominates any room; he would do it even if God had not given him the gift of kingship.
Now Jane is behind a bush. Henry is nodding at her; he is speaking at her; he is impressing something on her, and he, Cromwell, watches, scratching his chin: is the king's head becoming bigger? Is that possible, in mid-life?
Hans will have noticed, he thinks, I'll ask him when I get back to London. Most likely I am under a mistake; probably it's just the glass.
Clouds are coming up. A heavy raindrop hits the pane; he blinks; the drop spreads, widens, trickles against the glazing bars. Jane bobs out into his sightline. Henry has her hand clamped firmly on his arm, trapping it with his other hand. He can see the king's mouth, still moving.
He resumes his seat. He reads that the builders working on the fortifications in Calais have downed tools and are demanding sixpence a day. That his new green velvet coat is coming down to Wiltshire by the next courier. That a Medici cardinal has been poisoned by his own brother. He yawns. He reads that hoarders on the Isle of Thanet are deliberately driving up the price of grain. Personally, he would hang hoarders, but the chief of them might be some little lordling who is promoting famine for fat profit, and so you have to tread carefully. Two years ago, at Southwark, seven Londoners were crushed to death in fighting for a dole of bread. It is a shame to England that the king's subjects should starve. He takes up his pen and makes a note.
Very soon – this is not a big house, you can hear everything – he hears a door below, and the king's voice, and a soft hum of solicitation around him … wet feet, Majesty? He hears Henry's heavy tread approaching, but it seems Jane has melted away without a sound. No doubt her mother and her sisters have swept her aside, to hear all the king said to her.
As Henry comes in behind him, he pushes back his chair to rise. Henry waves a hand: carry on. 'Majesty, the Muscovites have taken three hundred miles of Polish territory. They say fifty thousand men are dead.'
'Oh,' Henry says.
'I hope they spare the libraries. The scholars. There are very fine scholars in Poland.'
'Mm? I hope so too.'
He returns to his dispatches. Plague in town and city … the king is always very fearful of infection … Letters from foreign rulers, wishing to know if it is true that Henry is planning to cut off the heads of all his bishops. Certainly not, he notes, we have excellent bishops now, all of them conformable to the king's wishes, all of them recognising him as head of the church in England; besides, what an uncivil question! How dare they imply that the King of England should account for himself to any foreign power? How dare they impugn his sovereign judgement? Bishop Fisher, it is true, is dead, and Thomas More, but Henry's treatment of them, before they drove him to an extremity, was mild to a fault; if they had not evinced a traitorous stubbornness, they would be alive now, alive like you and me.
He has written a lot of these letters, since July. He doesn't sound wholly convincing, even to himself; he finds himself repeating the same points, rather than advancing the argument into new territory. He needs new phrases … Henry stumps about behind him. 'Majesty, the Imperial ambassador Chapuys asks may he ride up-country to visit your daughter, Lady Mary?'
'No,' Henry says.
He writes to Chapuys, Wait, just wait, till I am back in London, when all will be arranged …
No word from the king: just breathing, pacing, a creak from a cupboard where he rests and leans on it.
'Majesty, I hear the Lord Mayor of London scarcely leaves his house, he is so afflicted by migraine.'
'Mm?' Henry says.
'They are bleeding him. Is that what Your Majesty would advise?'
A pause. Henry focuses on him, with some effort. 'Bleeding him, I'm sorry, for what?'
This is strange. Much as he hates news of plague, Henry always enjoys hearing of other people's minor ailments. Admit to a sniffle or a colic, and he will make up a herbal potion with his own hands, and stand over you while you swallow it.
He puts down his pen. Turns to look his monarch in the face. It is clear that Henry's mind is back in the garden. The king is wearing an expression he has seen before, though on beast, rather than man. He looks stunned, like a veal calf knocked on the head by the butcher.
It is to be their last night at Wolf Hall. He comes down very early, his arms full of papers. Someone is up before him. Stock-still in the great hall, a pale presence in the milky light, Jane Seymour is dressed in her stiff finery. She does not turn her head to acknowledge him, but she sees him from the tail of her eye.
If he had any feeling for her, he cannot find traces of it now. The months run away from you like a flurry of autumn leaves bowling and skittering towards the winter; the summer has gone, Thomas More's daughter has got his head back off London Bridge and is keeping it, God knows, in a dish or bowl, and saying her prayers to it. He is not the same man he was last year, and he doesn't acknowledge that man's feelings; he is starting afresh, always new thoughts, new feelings. Jane, he begins to say, you'll be able to get out of your best gown, will you be glad to see us on the road …?
Jane is facing front, like a sentry. The clouds have blown away overnight. We may have one more fine day. The early sun touches the fields, rosy. Night vapours disperse. The forms of trees swim into particularity. The house is waking up. Unstalled horses tread and whinny. A back door slams. Footsteps creak above them. Jane hardly seems to breathe. No rise and fall discernible, of that flat bosom. He feels he should walk backwards, withdraw, fade back into the night, and leave her here in the moment she occupies: looking out into England.
Copyright © 2012 by Hilary Mantel
Title Page,
Copyright Notice,
Epigraph,
Cast of Characters,
Family Trees,
Part One,
I Falcons. Wolf Hall, Wiltshire: September 1535,
II Crows. London and Kimbolton: Autumn 1535,
III Angels. London: Christmas 1535–New Year 1536,
Part Two,
I The Black Book. London: January–April 1536,
II Master of Phantoms. London: May 1536,
III Spoils. London: Summer 1536,
Author's Note,
Acknowledgements,
Additional Praise for Bring up the Bodies,
About the Author,
What People are Saying About This
"Darkly magnificent...Mantel animates history with a political and psychological acuity equal to Tolstoy's."—The Washington Post
"Beautifully constructed...The wonder of Mantel's retelling is that she makes these events fresh and terrifying all over again....Sublime."—Janet Maslin, The New York Times
"Marvelous, intoxicating…Read Bring Up the Bodies for its chilling character profile, its period details on jousting and Tudor kitchens, its congregation of the seven deadly sins….Nobody should skip a heady word of Mantel's planned trilogy."—The Cleveland Plain Dealer
"Mantel has the maddeningly unteachable gift of being interesting....All is alive, silvery, alert, rapid with insight."—James Wood, The New Yorker
"Meticulously crafted…Superb…Highly entertaining…Brilliant."—Slate
"Fantastic…A more propulsive reading experience than rivals like Philippa Gregory's hugely popular novel The Other Boleyn Girl."—The Wall Street Journal
"There is no one else writing with Mantel's verve and control, her talent for richly wrought story, crisp pace, and direct prose."—The Miami Herald
"Mantel writes the kind of sentences you want to live in….Bring Up the Bodies isn't just her boldest book, it's also her best."—Michael Schaub, NPR
"[Bring Up the Bodies] is astringent and purifying, stripping away the cobwebs and varnish of history, the antique formulations and brocaded sentimentality of costume drama novels, so that the English past comes to seem like something vivid , strange and brand new."—The New York Times Book Review
"Hilary Mantel made waves in 2009 with her Man Booker Prize-winning page-turner, Wolf Hall…The second in her planned trilogy, Bring Up the Bodies stalks Anne Boleyn and the soap-opera worthy machinations of Cromwell and his evil allies to bring down the powerful wife of the king. Who knew history could be so sexy?"—Vanity Fair
"What's being called the Wolf Hall Trilogy is a remarkable work in progress, a series that makes the past feel immediate and—this is the best part—unpredictable. Even if you know the history, you'll find yourself racing through these pages to find out what happens next."—People
"After pulling off this literary feat twice, you realize the smartest person in the room isn't Cromwell after all—it's Mantel."—The Huffington Post
"Fans of Wolf Hall will relish this book, but Bring Up the Bodies also stands alone…Her characters are real and vivid people who bring to life the clash of ideals that gripped England at the time. She makes the past present and vital."—The Economist
"Bring Up the Bodies stands magnificently on its own...such is [Mantel's] skill"—LA Times
"You won't be able to tear your eyes away."—The Seattle Times
"In Mantel's hands, Cromwell's cunning, morally complicated orchestration of that historic slice through the royal neck is as exciting as any thriller."—Entertainment Weekly
"With wit, daring style, and a staggering breadth of historical knowledge, Mantel breathes new life into reclaimed territory."—Bookslut
1. The novel starts off with a description of hawks soaring in the sky and swooping in to slaughter their prey. In the same manner, the novel closes off with an image of a fox attacking a hen coop. What is the significance of these animals and what do they symbolize?
2. How has Cromwell's upbringing influenced him to become the shrewd and ambitious man that he is? What is the significance of Cromwell refusing to adopt the coat of arms belonging to a noble Cromwell family even as he widens the chasm between his father and himself? How does Cromwell view family and how is it different from his own experience growing up?
3. How is King Henry VIII described in the novel? Is he self-serving, or does he truly believe in the validity of his actions? Does he come over as a sympathetic character?
4. Katherine is accused by Cromwell of causing the split within the church, and of endangering her daughter Mary, by her stubborn resistance to the King's wishes. Do you view Katherine as a relentless and self-indulgent queen or is she noble for staying true to her beliefs?
5. Cromwell believes that England "will keep spiraling backwards into the dirty past" unless blunders are forgotten and old quarrels ended. How does this belief influence his actions in trying to build a new England? Does the king help or hinder him in this urge for renewal? How far are Cromwell's actions unselfish, and how far are they self-serving?
6. King Henry had fawned over all three women (Katherine, Anne, Jane) at one point in time. His past actions indicate that he loved his former wives, yet each affair proves temporary. How does Henry view love? Why do the women in the novel endeavor to wear the "poisoned ring?"
7. There is enormous power in a woman's gaze. How do the women in this novel utilize their feminine wiles to their advantage? What effect do they have on men subject to their lure, and what does this tell you about women's power over their male counterparts?
8. Birth and is a major conceit throughout the novel. As "nails give birth to nails," are children the product of their parents? Consider the parent-child relationships in the novel. What influence do parents have on their progeny?
9. When the King is thought to be dead after a jousting accident, there is a sudden rush to claim the crown. Are the players idealists, attempting to realize their political and religious ideals for England, or are they simply interested in getting power for themselves?'
10. Anne Boleyn is accused of committing adultery and even incest. Could there be any truth in these accusations, or are they complete fabrications by her enemies? How does she change once she realizes she is in danger?'
11. Cromwell seems very protective of Wyatt and saves him from death, even though he is widely suspected of being one of Anne's lovers. Why does Cromwell feel such a strong need to defend him when he vehemently accuses others of being the Queen's bedfellows? What sets Wyatt apart from the other men portrayed in the novel? What have Wyatt and Cromwell in common?'
12. Does the novel make you reconsider your view of the Tudors?
13. The story concludes with Cromwell's claim that there are no endings, only beginnings. The country now has a new queen and a new leading family. What does this mean for England's future? What do you think Cromwell's role will be in the new order?
14. The execution of Anne Boleyn is one of the most frightening moments in English history. Anne's last words are scripted to appease the King. What do you think would have been Anne's last words had there not been any consequences?
Bring Up the Bodies - Author Video
Mantel knows what to select, how to make her scenes vivid, how to kindle her characters. She seems almost incapable of abstraction or fraudulence; she instinctively grabs for the reachably real...In short, this novelist has the maddeningly unteachable gift of being interesting." —The New Yorker
"[Bring Up the Bodies] is astringent and purifying, stripping away the cobwebs and varnish of history, the antique formulations and brocaded sentimentality of costume drama novels, so that the English past comes to seem like something vivid , strange and brand new." —The New York Times Book Review
"Two years ago something astonishingly fair happened in the world of prestigious prizes: the Man Booker Prize and the National Book Critics Circle Award for fiction for 2009 both went to the right winner. The book was Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall, and it would have dwarfed the competition any year…It was a hard act to follow. But the follow-up is equally sublime…That ironic ending will be no cliffhanger for anyone even remotely familiar with Henry VIII's trail of carnage. But in Bring Up the Bodies it works as one. The wonder of Ms. Mantel's retelling is that she makes these events fresh and terrifying all over again." —The New York Times
"Bring Up the Bodies isn't just her boldest book; it's also her best — and it reaffirms Mantel's reputation as one of England's greatest living novelists." —NPR
"Hilary Mantel made waves in 2009 with her Man Booker Prize-winning page-turner, Wolf Hall…The second in her planned trilogy, Bring Up the Bodies stalks Anne Boleyn and the soap-opera worthy machinations of Cromwell and his evil allies to bring down the powerful wife of the king. Who knew history could be so sexy?" —Vanity Fair
"What's being called the Wolf Hall Trilogy is a remarkable work in progress, a series that makes the past feel immediate and—this is the best part—unpredictable. Even if you know the history, you'll find yourself racing through these pages to find out what happens next." —People
"After pulling off this literary feat twice, you realize the smartest person in the room isn't Cromwell after all—it's Mantel." —The Huffington Post
"the finest works of historical fiction in contemporary literature." —The Washington Post
"Fans of Wolf Hall will relish this book, but Bring Up the Bodies also stands alone…Her characters are real and vivid people who bring to life the clash of ideals that gripped England at the time. She makes the past present and vital." —The Economist
"Bring Up the Bodies stands magnificently on its own...such is [Mantel's] skill" —LA Times
"You won't be able to tear your eyes away." —The Seattle Times
"The worst that can be said about Mantel—her latest book makes you angry, because you want more." —Slate
"In Mantel's hands, Cromwell's cunning, morally complicated orchestration of that historic slice through the royal neck is as exciting as any thriller." —Entertainment Weekly
"With wit, daring style, and a staggering breadth of historical knowledge, Mantel breathes new life into reclaimed territory." —Bookslut
In Mandel's taut sequel to Wolf Hall, Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn have been married for more than two years, but unable to produce a male heir. Boleyn's position becomes tenuous—especially with Thomas Cromwell and young lady-in-waiting Jane Seymour working against her. Narrator Simon Vance shines in his portrayal of the characters, creating a range of distinct voices—including the increasingly tense Anne Boleyn and the earnest Gregory, Cromwell's mild-mannered young son who is eager to prove himself. Best of all, however, are the measured tones Vance employs for the conniving Cromwell. The narrator captures the soul of this complex character, a man of innate pragmatism and confidence who is also quietly haunted by regrets. Vance also nails the bone-dry wit of the character. In all, this is an exemplary audiobook. A Henry Holt hardcover. (May)
In her sequel to the Booker Man Prize-winning Wolf Hall, Mantel has done what only the most gifted novelist can: she has fleshed out an enigma—the historical cipher that was Thomas Cromwell, Henry VIII's fixer—and made us accept her interpretation of him as valid. Cromwell helped Henry annul his marriage to his wife of 20 years, Catherine, so he could marry the younger Anne Boleyn. But three years later, Anne has committed two fatal errors: she hasn't given the king a son, and she has become outspoken. Henry's eyes are on a younger, more placid woman, Jane Seymour. He wants to be rid of Anne, and it is up to Cromwell to see that Henry gets what he wants. VERDICT Mantel's crowning achievement makes Cromwell not just powerful but sympathetic. Mantel is a consummate setter of scenes: stunning, poetic descriptions are embedded in scenes of savagery and earthiness. The historical novel does not come any better than this. It will be as much of a success as its predecessor. [See Prepub Alert, 2/27/11.]—David Keymer, Modesto, CA
Second in Mantel's trilogy charting the Machiavellian trajectory of Thomas Cromwell. The Booker award-winning first volume, Wolf Hall (2009), ended before the titular residence, that of Jane Seymour's family, figured significantly in the life of King Henry VIII. Seeing through Cromwell's eyes, a point of view she has thoroughly assimilated, Mantel approaches the major events slantwise, as Cromwell, charged with the practical details of managing Henry's political and religious agendas, might have. We rejoin the characters as the king's thousand-day marriage to Anne Boleyn is well along. Princess Elizabeth is a toddler, the exiled Queen Katherine is dying, and Henry's disinherited daughter Princess Mary is under house arrest. As Master Secretary, Cromwell, while managing his own growing fortune, is always on call to put out fires at the court of the mercurial Henry (who, even for a king, is the ultimate Bad Boss). The English people, not to mention much of Europe, have never accepted Henry's second marriage as valid, and Anne's upstart relatives are annoying some of Britain's more entrenched nobility with their arrogance and preening. Anne has failed to produce a son, and despite Cromwell's efforts to warn her (the two were once allies of a sort), she refuses to alter her flamboyant behavior, even as Henry is increasingly beguiled by Jane Seymour's contrasting (some would say calculated) modesty. Cromwell, a key player in the annulment of Henry's first marriage, must now find a pretext for the dismantling of a second. Once he begins interrogating, with threats of torture, Anne's male retainers to gather evidence of her adulteries, Mantel has a difficult challenge in keeping up our sympathy for Cromwell. She succeeds, mostly by portraying Cromwell as acutely aware that one misstep could land "him, Cromwell" on the scaffold as well. That misstep will happen, but not in this book. The inventiveness of Mantel's language is the chief draw here; the plot, as such, will engage only the most determined of Tudor enthusiasts.
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MAN plant in Steyr is operating at full capacity: And now come the electric trucks
2019-09-07 2021-04-06 WebEditorLeave a Comment on MAN plant in Steyr is operating at full capacity: And now come the electric trucks
2019 will be the best year for the commercial vehicle plant since 2011.
First it was a test truck. This was followed by nine street-legal distribution trucks that have been on the road since the previous year. The practical experience gained with these commercial vehicles will be incorporated into the next generation of electric trucks, which will be manufactured by MAN Steyr in special vehicle construction from summer 2019. 50 trucks are to be built within nine months. These will be used in nine European countries, reports plant manager Dietmar Klein in the OÖN interview.
With this development kit, MAN wants to officially become the electric truck location of the commercial vehicle manufacturer belonging to Volkswagen.
Fully utilised plant
Officially, there is still no talk about possible quantities for the mass production. What is certain, however, is that the MAN Group, which belongs to VW, will need 5000 of its more than 80,000 electric trucks built each year by 2025 simply because of the stricter CO2 requirements for commercial vehicles. By 2030 it could be 8000. These additional tasks in special vehicle construction are currently affecting the plant in an unusual phase of "overload".
This year, 19,000 trucks are to be assembled in Steyr. By comparison, in 2017 the figure was 16,500. At the same time, parts production, which was to have moved to Munich by the end of the year, is still in Steyr.
As reported, the plant in Steyr is losing parts production and cab production as part of a restructuring of the plants. The plastic painting for all add-on parts was replaced. Painting has been in progress since January 7. In full expansion, all plastic parts for the up to 98,000 MAN trucks in Steyr will be given the right paint in three-shift operation, says Klein. The fully automated paint shop will be the largest plant for truck plastic add-on parts in Europe. "We are currently doing more than what the plant was built for. And that will certainly continue into the autumn, if not until the end of the year," says the Rhinelander, who has been in charge of the Steyr plant since the beginning of the year. That's why MAN has an unusually large number of leasing employees, around 150 of them. 2470 people are employed. The annual average for 2018 was 2300.
Klein says that the demand is "unusually high". Truck production last reached the capacity planned for this year in 2011. "We have to prepare for consolidation."
In 2018, MAN Truck & Bus Austria, as the location is officially called, generated sales of 1084 million euros. In the previous year, the figure was 1050 million.
2020 should also be wonderful! A total of 1.1 billion euros is to be made available at the main Munich plant by 2020, and as much as 2.4 billion euros throughout the Group.
In January, the new MAN development centre, where electric motors are also developed and tested, will also go into operation, said CEO Joachim Drees at the opening of a new paint shop on Monday in Munich.
MAN Works Council Chairman Saki Stimoniaris said: "The investments will secure the future of the workforce and the MAN brand". The paint shop alone secures 1500 jobs in Munich – "a dream", because ten years ago the company, which at the time did not belong to VOLKSWAGEN AG ST O.N. Aktie VW, wanted to relocate the paint shop. Together with the employment guarantee valid until 2025, this is a strong signal.
MAN relies on electric trucks
Drees said that MAN is investing a mid three-digit million sum in electric vehicles. The company plans to build electric city buses in series production in 2019, and electric trucks for urban distribution transport in four years. In 2025, no city will buy a diesel bus – although an electric bus costs half a million and is thus two and a half times as expensive.
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By Queensberry Promotions
They unbeaten giants will collide in an explosive 12 rounder at The O2, London on Saturday April 11, live on BT Sport Box Office, in one of the biggest fights in world heavyweight boxing.
'Dynamite' Dubois, is the current British, Commonwealth, WBC Silver and WBO International champion. Olympic silver medallist 'Juggernaut' Joyce, holds the WBA Gold championship and is the former Commonwealth and WBA Continental champion.
To launch the biggest domestic clash of 2020, the London rivals appeared on Good Morning Britain, where Dubois (14-0, 13 KOs) told his enemy: "I'm going to put you to sleep, bring your sleeping bag."
Joyce (10-0, 9 KOs) snapped back: "He's going to get knocked out. All my opponents have had winning records, who has he fought?"
The pair then went on to morning radio at Talksport where the hostilities continued and the pair faced off on balcony of The News Building in front of a stunning London skyline.
**PHOTOS FROM THE BALCONY SHOOT ARE FREE TO USE AND AVAILABLE ON THIS LINK**
The pair then appeared at a packed press conference in London's West End at BT Tower. Tension mounted and in a heated face to face, verbals were exchanged followed by Daniel Dubois shoving Joe Joyce and security being forced to step in.
Here are a selection of quotes from that event.
FRANK WARREN:
"It's a fantastic fight with two undefeated heavyweights fighting each other in the early stages of their professional careers. How often does that happen? It's quality, quality all the way through. These are big powerful heavyweights with dynamite in each hand.
"When they let punches go anything can happen. That is why it is a sensational fight for the fans. What is at stake? The winner will become a mandatory challenger for a world title. We've got a very busy eight months. Anthony Joshua has two mandatories, Tyson Fury fights Deontay Wilder on February 22 and they will have a rematch if the loser decides he wants one. By the time that dust settles, Daniel or Joe will be a mandatory challenger. The winner is looking at a world title fight inside a year and that is why this fight is happening.
"These fighters have self-belief and are putting it on the line. It is a special fight. Joe did the country proud with his Olympic silver medal, but Daniel is the new kid on the block."
DANIEL DUBOIS:
"I am confident in myself. He's going to turn into an old man in the ring. You're going to see him deteriorate, big time. He is making statements but I will prove myself to the world. I see a massive target and I'm gonna let loose. I am going to dominate, move up the ladder and all his fans will become mine after the fight.
"He is getting destroyed — knocked out. This is a new chapter, the next step in my career. I have got to move through Joe, take him out in good fashion and move onto the world. My Dad set me on this journey when I was a young kid and these are the nights we speak about every day. He is going to sleep and taken out in devastating fashion. He will need that sleeping bag. I won't miss him because he will be there and he's getting wrecked. Joe is going down."
JOE JOYCE:
"It is massive fight and I can't wait to knock him out, simple as that. I have experience and who has he fought? I have been to The Olympics and picked up wins against really good opponents.
It is a 50-50 fight and he can bang, but he will find out what this is about. I didn't box Daniel last year because he brought nothing to the table then, he does now. It is important to have belief and I believe I am going to do the job. Daniel is not ready for me and he's going to find that out."
SAM JONES (S-JAM Boxing):
"Who has Daniel beaten? Look who Joe has beaten amateur and pro. Daniel isn't ready for this and he won't avoid the iceberg. Joe is confident in taking this guy out. Daniel has potential and can come back, but he will unravel like an Andrex roll in this fight.
"He has never been hit on the whiskers and Joe will be landing big shots. Joe is going to train in Las Vegas where there are the best facilities in the world. There has been zero fallout with Adam Booth, but Joe is best when he is away from home training. Joe needs to show more and so does Daniel. This is a Fight of the Year candidate and someone is getting knocked out, simple as that."


Richard Dawkins is wrong: Religion is not inherently violent
Salon.com: If there's a single historical moment that captures what the author Karen Armstrong wants to convey in her new book, "Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence," it's the Christmas-Day coronation of Charlemagne in 800. "Pope Leo III crowned Charlemagne 'Holy Roman Emperor' in the Basilica of St. Peter," she writes. "The congregation acclaimed him as 'Augustus' and Leo prostrated himself at Charlemagne's feet." If you want to blame the human race's long, ghastly history of bloodshed on religion, Armstrong argues, be aware that faith is more often the servant than the master of politics.
"Fields of Blood" is panoramic work, even at a judicious 400 pages (excluding notes). It takes in the ancient civilizations of Mesopotamia, India and China before settling down for a good long look at the Abrahamic traditions: Judaism, Christianity and Islam, with the occasional side trip back to India when sectarian clashes heat up there. Throughout, Armstrong deploys the confident, even-handed and congenial voice that made "A History of God" (1993) and "The Battle for God" (2000) bestsellers. And her points are eminently reasonable. Religion, she insists, takes many different forms and "to claim that it has a single, unchanging and inherently violent essence is not accurate. Identical religious beliefs and practices have inspired diametrically opposed courses of action."
As enjoyable and informative as "Fields of Blood" is, it's a great deal of scholarship to expend on supporting an observation that seems pretty obvious. Is there anyone who actually believes that religion has been the cause of all the major wars in history? Apparently yes, as Armstrong reports having heard versions of this statement from "American commentators and psychiatrists, London tax drivers and Oxford academics." Yet the claim is so easily refuted by a quick look at the two World Wars — not to mention, say, the Russian Revolution, the American Civil War and the Mongol Invasions of the 13th and 14th century — that you have to wonder if the people making it actually care about its historical accuracy.
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Govt opens innovative new school in Christchurch
Shannon Williams
The Haeata Community Campus in Christchurch has officially been opened by Prime Minister Bill English and Minister of Education Hekia Parata.
The school is expected to be an example of what the 'future of education' can look like with its flexible learning spaces and a flexible style of teaching.
More than 900 students have already enrolled at the Haeata Community Campus, which caters for years 1-13. The Campus also includes the Ferndale School satellite, supporting students with additional learning needs.
"The open flexible design of the buildings on the campus complement the style of teaching and learning that the school is introducing," Parata explains.
"To see such innovation coming out of what was a terrible tragedy for Christchurch and New Zealand is inspiring. Haeata really is a learning campus for the future and for the whole community," she says.
"I would like to congratulate the foundation principal Andy Kai Fong, along with the Establishment Board of Trustees for their work setting up the new school. I would also like to thank the community for coming together to support the school."
The entire campus was designed and built as part of a $298 million public private partnership that includes three other schools. It was also part of the $1.137 billion Christchurch Schools Rebuild programme, which will see 115 schools built or redeveloped, including 23 brand new ones over 10 years.
"Thousands of children and young people across Christchurch are already benefiting not only from the most modern of learning environments, but also the new and innovative teaching methods the physical spaces encourage," says Parata.
According to Parata, ten brand new schools have now been built since the earthquake, with space for more than 6,500 students.
"Today marks another significant step forward, not only for the local community, but for the rest of the greater Christchurch region," she says.
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Mighty Blackpool FC
Full name Mighty Blackpool Football Club
Nickname(s) The Tis-Tas Boys
Ground Siaka Stevens Stadium, Freetown, Sierra Leone
Manager Joshua Coker – Coach: Abu Sankoh
League Sierra Leone National Premier League
Mighty Blackpool is a Sierra Leonean football club based in the capital Freetown. They play in the Sierra Leone National Premier League, the top football league in the country. Blackpool represents the West End of Freetown and heir home games are played at the Siaka Stevens Stadium in Freetown.
The club was founded in 1923 under the name Socro United and they are the oldest and most successful football club in Sierra Leone, having won the Premier League fifteen times and the FA Cup four times. They changed their name to Mighty Blackpool in 1954 to show their admiration for the former Blackpool and England player Sir Stanley Matthews.
Mighty Blackpool have an intense rivalry with city rivals East End Lions.
Although Mighty Blackpool have won the league title fifteen times, the last time they were league champions was in the 2001 season after a dramatic finish to the season saw them finish one point ahead of Old Edwardians.
In 1989 Mighty Blackpool reached the quarter-final stages of the African Cup of Champions Clubs; the first time a club from Sierra Leone had reached that stage. In the first round they beat reigning champions ES Sétif from Algeria and on the second round beat Djoliba Athletic Club from Mali, before losing to Tonnerre Yaounde from Cameroon in the quarter finals.
In the 2007 league campaign, a 2-0 win over Golf Leopards on 15 July meant that Blackpool were on 24 points from 12 games.
Mighty Blackpool's record in the African Cup of Champions Clubs has mostly seen them eliminated in the early rounds. In 1968 they were due to play Congolese club, Étoile du Congo in the Preliminary round but withdrew from the competition before the matches were played handing Étoile du Congo a walkover, and in 1975 they lost 3-0 on aggregate to Djoliba Athletic Club of Mali in the First round. In 1979 they again lost in the First round, drawing 4-4 with Accra Hearts of Oak SC of Ghana on aggregate but losing out on penalties 4-2. And in 1980 they lost to ASF Police of Senegal 4-1 on aggregate in the First round.
In 1989 they reached the Quarter-Final stage of the African Cup of Champions Clubs. In the Preliminary round they had a walkover, when Benfica withdrew from the competition. In the First round they beat Algerian club ES Sétif 5-3 on penalties after the two matches ended all square at 1-1. In the Second round they met Djoliba Athletic Club again, this time winning 2-1 on aggregate. They went out of the competition in the Quarter Final stage losing 4-1 to Cameroon club, Tonnerre Yaoundé. In 1992 they were again eliminated in the First round, this time by Canon Yaoundé of Cameroon after beating LPRC Oilers of Liberia in the Preliminary round.
In 2006 they played in the CAF Confederation Cup, losing to CSS Richard-Toll of Senegal in the Preliminary round.
Sierra Leone National Premier League champions: 15
Sierra Leonean FA Cup winners: 4
Performance in CAF competitions
African Cup of Champions Clubs: 6 appearances
1968: withdrew in Preliminary Round
1975: First Round
1989: Quarter-Finals
CAF Confederation Cup: 2 appearances
2006 – Preliminary Round
CAF Cup Winners' Cup: 3 appearances
1984 – First Round
1994 – Second Round
2008 – Eliminated in the Second round by CSS of Senegal (Stade Demba Diop)
Notable former players
Ibrahim "Inspector" Bah, Alhassan Bangura, Umaru Bangura, Albert Cole, Mohamed Kanu, Obi Metzger
Kabba Samura, Abu Tommy, Michael Tommy
Idrissa Sesay (Captain), Abdulai Bah (Vice Captain), Seama Sesay (GK), Sulaiman Jalloh, David Kamara
Isaac Davies, Johnny Caulker, Bai Bangura, Ibrahim Tommy, Mohamed Mansaray, Ibrahim A.S Kamara
Patrick Stevens, Ismeal Bangura, Mohamed Fofanah(Chucky), Gibrilla Kamara, Santigie Sesay
Abdul Rahman Conteh, Joseph Samura, Ibrahim Tunkara, Abdul Aziz Barrie
Mighty Blackpool FC are currently participating in the Breakaway Premier League.
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URL on 2016 Sierra Leone Football.com Young Player of the Year nominees
NEWS: Bundu Breaking Through | Hereford FC - The official website of Hereford FC on 2016 Sierra Leone Football.com Young Player of the Year nominees
Stem: Mustapha Bundu årets unge spiller - Morethanaclub.dk on 2016 Sierra Leone Football.com Young Player of the Year nominees
Sierra Leone Football.com Yearbook 2016 - Sierra Leone Football.com on Kamara seeks Sierra Leone return ahead of Ivory Coast fixture
Sierra Leone Football.com Yearbook 2016 - Sierra Leone Football.com on Kei Kamara wins Sierra Leonean Best Player & Goal King awards
Sierra Leone Football.com
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Felixstowe – developments to take the port into a profitable future
Sarah Samarasinghe, February 27th, 2018, in news
On 11th January 2018 the Secretary of State for Transport took part in a ceremony to launch the next phase of expansion at Hutchison Ports, Felixstowe.
For fifty years the port has been central to the UK's import/export market, and the new developments are designed to keep the port abreast of the latest logistics trends.
Larger container facilities at Felixstowe
The new programme of work will include creating a 13-hectare paved container yard backing onto Berth 9. For this to happen 3.2-hectares of land will need to be reclaimed from the seabed, requiring major dredging and sea level reconstruction. As the UK's largest container port, Felixstowe will benefit from the increased container facility which will offer direct access to berths 8 and 9 which were the first UK facilities built to handle two of the new super-size container vessels simultaneously. The new container secure storage area also allows easier access between these berths and warehousing areas at the port, meaning that the containers, which can be stacked six tall, can be more easily moved around the facility. Container-handling operations between berth and yard will be simplified so that more rapid transitions from port to distribution can be made. The new Felixstowe Logistics Park is designed to improve portside activity and to harmonise all the logistical activities that lead to Felixstowe whether they are road, rail, air or sea freight.
Felixstowe currently has 130,000 Twenty-foot Equivalent Unit (TEU) storage space, and the new yard, which should be finished early next year, offers a further 18,000 capacity.
Felixstowe rail improvements
For both importing and exporting companies, rail infrastructure can be essential. At Felixstowe port, the container operations have also been scheduled for further development, building upon their 2017 record of handling more than 1 million TEU arriving by train.
Rail to port facilities are to be enhanced, increasing train transport to and from the port to 47 journeys per day, and offering a substantial increase in warehousing operations between rail and port. The joint investment, funded by Network Rail and Hutchison Ports, covers the journey between Felixstowe and Ipswich by creating a second track as well as improving efficiency on the existing rail-track. The total cost of the improvements is expected to exceed £40 million and the port claims that over 100 million HGV miles a year are saved by using rail freight to and from Felixstowe.
Because Felixstowe serves all major British conurbations it makes a unique contribution to the logistics UK industry and as rail services are increasingly viewed as a vital component of onward shipping for both importers and exporters, the port's capacity to handle more rail freight and to streamline the customs-to-onward-freight process is expected to becoming increasingly vital to the port's competitive advantage in a post Brexit Europe.
Air Quality improvements
The managing company, Hutchsion has also succeeded in removing some substantial impediments to healthy activity at Felixstowe. An Air Quality Management Order was applied to the port by Suffolk Council in 2009, however, was lifted in 2017. Improvement in air quality has come from investment in cleaner technologies which have also driven efficiency savings throughout the port. The benefit to organisations using the port is threefold:
Direct and third-party employees are less exposed to air hazards, resulting in a healthier workforce
Innovations in container management have improved cost-per-container charges, giving a better return on each container's passage through the port
The effect of road vehicle activity on the local environment and public health will be reduced, offering the port a greater range of alternative activities such as leisure and tourism.
Felixstowe port conflicts
However, it's not all plain sailing for the freight port. A 120-hectare business park, planned for farmland near the port, has been given the go-ahead despite strong local objections. The new park, between Trimley St Martin and Kirton, is designed to reduce pressure on storage and distribution which the port says is intensifying although one local parish council believes this necessary development could better be sited closer to the port in areas currently underdeveloped by the port authority.
The current usage predictions suggest that around 3,000 lorries, mainly HGV, and 600 cars will visit the business park daily and the park will contain 10,000 spare metres of distribution space, including a haulage park and container storage facilities. Road hauliers claim that a secure haulage park is vital to the development of high-quality container transport through the port and point out that driver safety is currently being compromised by offsite parking facilities that do not guarantee hauliers safe, clean and comfortable spaces in which to spend their required non-driving hours.
Value-added developments at Felixstowe
One area where there is no dispute is the increased investment in automated facilities. From computer-led cranes handling container movements from quay to warehouse space, through to semi-automated pick and distribution services allowing companies to complete an import-to-end-customer activity from within the port itself, value-added activities are becoming a major differentiator of international port choice.
Shipping container transport, which can have narrow profit margins and tight deadlines, often seeks value-added facilities close to arrival ports, to ensure that maximum benefit is gained from local activity without adding cost for transport or increasing risk by seeking a value-added activity that includes movement of goods which always adds to both insurance and logistical overheads. The new business park at Felixstowe is expected to offer both a returns facility and value-added branded packaging and onward transmission systems which will benefit smaller shippers through the provision of previously in-house services directly at the port of arrival.
Let us do the hard work for you, Shipping, Freight Forwarding and Customs Clearance, we can help you source international shipping services. Simply contact us today if you wish to find out more.
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Home Where we are Special Monitoring Mission to Ukraine Who we are Chief Monitor Mark Etherington
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Mark Etherington
Deputy Chief Monitor of the OSCE Special Monitoring Mission to Ukraine
Mark Etherington, Deputy Chief Monitor of the OSCE Special Monitoring Mission to Ukraine.
(OSCE/Micky Kroell) Photo details
Mark Etherington was educated at York and Cambridge universities and served in the British Army's Parachute Regiment from 1984 to 1991.
He later worked in a variety of conflict and post-conflict settings, including for the European Community Monitoring Mission during the conflict in the former Yugoslavia. He established the OSCE Mission to Serbia and Montenegro, and was the Deputy Head of the OSCE Mission in Kosovo in 2002. He was provincial governor in Iraq for the Coalition Provisional Authority, and led the UK government's planning team in Helmand, Afghanistan in 2005. He has also worked in Zimbabwe, Haiti and Somalia for the UK government's Stabilisation Unit, and in Palestine and South Sudan. He was Deputy Chief Monitor of the OSCE SMM in 2014, later working on Syria 2016-18.
Ambassador Yaşar Halit Çevik
Chief Monitor of the OSCE Special Monitoring Mission to Ukraine
Antje Grawe
OSCE Special Monitoring Mission to Ukraine (SMM) Daily Report 11/2022 issued on 18 January 2022
KYIV , 18 January 2022
OSCE Special Monitoring Mission to Ukraine (SMM) Daily Report 9/2022 issued on 15 January 2022