The Mirror and the Light (5+*) by Hilary Mantel

Hilary Mantel ends her trilogy about sex and power with yet another decapitation but Thomas Cromwell handles his own death as coolly as he has the affairs of his fickle "cannibal king" since Anne Boleyn lost her head.  Despite being hoisted by his own petard, he turns England away from the Pope, enriching its treasury and altering history forever.  Old age haunts The Mirror and the Light as Cromwell looks back at the formative events in his life--which includes the trauma of witnessing a woman being burned at the stake as a boy--even as he continues playing the three dimensional chess required to maintain his position in a court populated by foolish, resentful men and grateful women whose intelligence (both literal and figurative) gives him a decided advantage. 

When it comes to maidenheads, Henry is easier to play than a penny whistle.

The king knows enough Italian to sing an amorous ballad by not enough to talk about money.

Mark Rylance's sympathetic performance in Wolf Hall colors my admiration for Cromwell as he ruthlessly ascends from blacksmith's son to Earl of Essex, but Mantel's interior narration provides an unshakable foundation. Cromwell does what the times require, and while he sometimes recalls me a Mafia consigliere with a Mensa membership (while awaiting execution in the Tower he requests a textbook for learning Hebrew grammar!), his continual self-reflection and loyalty to family and friends earn him passage to a heaven he probably doesn't even actually believe in.

Cromwell's assessment of embarking on a serious relationship near his dotage resonated in particular:

But what’s the point? he thinks.  She would die and leave me. Or I would die and leave her. It’s not worth it.  Nobody’s worth it.

Other noteworthy observations from a writer who rivals Shakespeare IMHO:

It’s better than gossip [updates on Henry's sex life].   It’s power:  it’s news from the court’s inner economy, from the counting house where the units of obligation are fixed and the coins of shame are weighed.

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. . . truth is hard to pluck from a battlefield

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What I always say is, wars begin in man’s time but they end in God’s time.

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Old men will tell you how the king’s grandfather, King Edward grew soft in middle age, his eye always rolling in the direction of any woman at court, wife or maid, under the age of thirty. He lolled on a daybed with supple flesh while his own brothers plotted against him, and when one brother was dead the other plotted alone: so golden a prince, lucky on the battlefield, blessed by God, was spoiled by sloth and neglect of business, because you cannot have your hand on your ministers when your fingers are creeping up a cunt.