Wolf Hall
by Hilary Mantel
Summary
Booker Prize Winner 2009
In the ruthless arena of King Henry VIII’s court, only one man dares to gamble his life to win the king’s favor and ascend to the heights of political power.
England in the 1520s is a heartbeat from disaster. If the king dies without a male heir, the country could be destroyed by civil war....
Excerpt
Part 1
Across the Narrow Sea
PUTNEY, 1500
“So now get up.”
Felled, dazed, silent, he has fallen; knocked full length on the cobbles of the yard. His head turns sideways; his eyes are turned toward the gate, as if someone might arrive to help him out. One blow, properly placed, could kill him now.
Blood from the gash on his head— which was his father’s first effort— is trickling across his face. Add to this, his left eye is blinded; but if he squints sideways, with his right eye he can see that the stitching of his father’s boot is unraveling. The twine has sprung clear of the leather, and a hard knot in it has caught his eyebrow and opened another cut.
“So now get up!” Walter is roaring down at him, working out where to kick him next. He lifts his head an inch or two, and moves forward, on his belly, trying to do it without exposing his hands, on which Walter enjoys stamping. “What are you, an eel?” his parent asks. He trots backward, gathers pace, and aims another kick.
It knocks the last breath out of him; he thinks it may be his last. His forehead returns to the ground; he lies waiting, for Walter to jump on him. The dog, Bella, is barking, shut away in an out house. I’ll miss my dog, he thinks. The yard smells of beer and blood. Someone is shouting, down on the riverbank. Nothing hurts, or perhaps it’s that everything hurts, because there is no separate pain that he can pick out. But the cold strikes him, just in one place: just through his cheekbone as it rests on the cobbles.
“Look now, look now,” Walter bellows. He hops on one foot, as if he’s dancing. “Look what I’ve done. Burst my boot, kicking your head.”
Inch by inch. Inch by inch forward. Never mind if he calls you an eel or a worm or a snake. Head down, don’t provoke him. His nose is clotted with blood and he has to open his mouth to breathe. His father’s momentary distraction at the loss of his good boot allows him the leisure to vomit. “That’s right,” Walter yells. “Spew everywhere.” Spew everywhere, on my good cobbles. “Come on, boy, get up. Let’s see you get up. By the blood of creeping Christ, stand on your feet.”
“Just stand back,” Kat advises. “You don’t want bits of Thomas on your London jacket.”
No more does he. He backs off. “I wouldn’t care, but look at you, boy. You could cripple the brute in a fair fight.”
“It never is a fair fight,” Kat says. “He comes up behind you, right, Thomas? With something in his hand.”
“Looks like a glass bottle, in this case,” Morgan Williams says. “Was it a bottle?”
He shakes his head. His nose bleeds again.
“Don’t do that, brother,” Kat says. It’s all over her hand; she wipes the blood clots down herself. What a mess, on her apron; he might as well have put his head there after all.
“I don’t suppose you saw?” Morgan says. “What he was wielding, exactly?”
Reviews
“Mantel’s abilities to channel the life and lexicon of the past are nothing short of astonishing”—Ross King, Los Angeles Times
“A novel both fresh and finely wrought. . . [Mantel’s prose is] extraordinarily flexible, subtle, and shrewd.”—Wendy Smith, The Washington Post
“[Mantel’s] interest is in the question of good and evil as it applies to people who wield great power. That means anguish, exultation, deals, spies, decapitations, and fabulous clothes…”--Joan Acocella, The New Yorker
Author's Biography
Hilary Mantel is the author of nine previous novels, including A Change of Climate, A Place of Greater Safety, and Eight Months on Ghazzah Street. She has also written a memoir, Giving Up the Ghost. Winner of the Hawthornden Prize, she reviews for The New York Times, The New York Review of Books, and the London Review of Books. She lives in England.