The words came hot into a long harangue. He had been urging that he must have more money for his works at Calais. He was agitated because a French chalk pit outside the English lines had been closed to his workmen. They must bring chalk from Dover at a heavy cost for barges and balingers. This was what it was to quarrel with France.
Cromwell had his mind upon widening the breach with France. He said that a poll tax might be levied on the subjects of Charles and Francis then in London. There were goldsmiths, woolstaplers, horse merchants, whore-masters, painters, musicians and vintners....
The King's eyes had wandered to the grey river, and then from a deep and moody abstraction he had blurted out those words.
Henry was very grey, and his face, inanimate and depressed, made him seem worn and old enough. Cromwell was not set to deny it. The King had his glass....
He sighed a little and began:
'The heavy years take their toll.'
Henry caught him up suddenly:
'Why, no. It is the heavy days, the endless nights. You can sleep, you.' But him, the King, incessant work was killing.
'You see, you see, how this world will never let me rest.' In the long, black nights he started from dozing. When he took time to dandle his little son a panic would come over him because he remembered that he lived among traitors and had no God he could pray to. He had no mind to work....
Cromwell said that there was no man in England could outwork his King.