The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  And we were guarded. In our pretty little walled garden we might as well have been in farthest Scotland rather than ten miles from the center of London. No one was allowed to come and see us without Father’s permission; he remembered the fate of the Yorkist princes too well. We did not, and found all the restrictions irksome.

  I was sure I could defend myself against any assassin. I practised with sword and bow and soon became aware of how strong and dexterous I was for my age. I almost longed for an evil agent to make an attempt on me, so that I could prove myself to Father and win his admiration. But no obedient murderer appeared to grant my childish wish.

  We were to take exercise outdoors. As I said, I early discovered my facility in physical things. I rode easily and well, from the beginning. I am not boasting; if I am to record everything, I must be as honest about my talents as I am about my weaknesses. It is this: I was gifted in things of the body. I had more than strength, I had innate skill as well. Everything came easily to me, on the field or in the saddle. By the time I was seventeen I was one of the ablest men in England—with the longbow, the sword, the lance; in the tourney, in wrestling, and even in that peculiar new sport, tennis.

  I realize such a statement is suspect. They let him win, you will say. One always lets the Prince, or the King, win. For just this reason I competed incognito as much as possible. Of course, my enemies twisted that as well, claiming that my doing so was just a childish love of disguises. But no. I, too, wished to test myself and got no satisfaction from any contest I might suspect was controlled. God’s blood! Doesn’t a prince have honour? Would a prince take pleasure from being “let” win? Why do they assume a prince’s honour is less, or his self-knowledge less, than their own? An athletic contest is above all a test—a short, clean test. They would deny me even that, and darken my achievements on the field of my youth.

  But I am digressing. I was speaking of our tame little exercises within the palace grounds, not the later tournaments and contests in which I competed. Arthur hated any exercise and would try to avoid it. Margaret and I were most alike physically, and she was my chief companion in climbing trees and swimming in the moat. She was three years older than I, and utterly fearless—I should say even reckless. She never thought before she hurled herself over a fence, or forced her pony to jump, or tasted a strange wild berry. People have accused me of being fearless, reckless, but I am not and never was. I learned that about myself early from watching Margaret. (And her later behaviour as Queen of Scotland was the same as her childhood behaviour in the confines of Eltham. Quite uncontrolled, and finally disastrous.)

  If Margaret and I were alike bodily, Mary and I were alike in spirit. We were, quite simply, made of the same stuff and always understood one another instinctively.

  No one was like Arthur, and he was like none of us . . . high and solitary and solemn.

  III

  We joined the court at Christmas and Easter and Whitsun. I used to count the months in between. Christmas was my favourite, and the long months until then (six or seven, depending on how early Whitsun came) seemed interminable.

  It was Margaret and I, of course, who most longed to go to court. Margaret because she would get new clothes, be petted, and receive presents and sweetmeats. And I? For those things, yes. But most of all, I would see the Queen my mother. And perhaps, perhaps . . . I never completed the thought, and cannot, even now.

  The winter I was seven, the King decided to hold Christmas at Sheen Manor. I had never been there, or, if I had, could not remember it. It was one of the older palaces upstream on the Thames.

  Winter had come early that year, and by early December the ground had been frozen for two weeks and was already covered with a light layer of snow.

  On the day of our journey from Eltham to Sheen, we moved so slowly that it took us all day to travel the sixteen miles. Those of us on horseback could not gallop, but had to ride in pace with the twelve ponderous wagons carrying our goods. Not until late afternoon did we reach the great forest of Richmond. This was a royal hunting preserve, and there were stag and deer and boar here. But the loud noise of our rumbling carts scared away any game, and I saw nothing as I passed through.

  And then we were beyond the forest, looking down on the Thames—a smaller, shallower Thames than the one at Greenwich—bathed yellow in the flat rays of the low sun, with the red brick towers of Sheen Manor rising along the water.

  Still, it took a long time to reach the manor. The great carts had to be restrained on the descent and lumbered even more slowly. I looked over at Margaret.

  “Shall we run?” she asked, as I had known she would.

  “Yes,” I said, spurring my horse without looking back, and together we galloped madly toward the manor. Margaret was shrieking and laughing so loudly she drowned out the cries behind us.

  We reached the manor gates a mile ahead of anyone else. We had been so intent on our fast ride that we had not noticed that the cries came from the manor as well as from our own party. Now, standing before the gates, we heard the frenzied shouts of a large crowd, then a sudden silence. And no one came to open the gates for us.

  Margaret made a face, dismounted, and tethered her horse. “We must find our own way in, then,” she said, making for a small service entrance. Disgruntled, I also left my horse and followed her. She put her shoulder to the old door and shoved, but it held fast. Then she eyed the panels and began trying to scale the door. Suddenly it opened and threw her to the ground.

  An angry-looking youth stood there glaring. “And who are you?” he said. He was enormous, or so it seemed to me.

  “I am Princess Margaret,” she replied stiffly, picking herself up from where she lay sprawled in the mud, her skirt up over her buttocks.

  He looked disbelieving.

  “And I am Prince Henry,” I said, hoping to convince him that we were together and truly who we claimed to be. He stepped out of the gate and saw the rest of our party approaching. He looked rather surprised to be able to confirm our claim.

  “All right, then,” he said. “I will take you to the King.”

  Margaret scampered after him, but I stood where I was. “And who are you?” I asked.

  He turned. I expected him to be angry, but his expression was amused. “I am Charles Brandon,” he replied, as if I should know him. “At your service, my Prince.” He grinned and bowed; that great boy-man, then twice my age, declared himself mine. To my innocent self, it was not just a court-worn phrase, but a personal pledge of service, a bond between us. I extended my hand, and he grasped it.

  It was a handshake that was to last us all our lives.

  He shouldered his way through the crowd, which was thick. They were all straining to see something, something hidden from us. Then it came into view: four mastiffs being hoisted aloft on ropes. They were being hanged! They danced and jerked on the ropes, whined and then choked, writhing as they frantically clawed at the rope with their helpless paws. Soon they were dangling limply, their tongues protruding. They turned slowly, and no one made a move to cut them down.

  Then I saw why. The King appeared. He stepped before the dogs and raised his hands for silence. He was wearing a grey robe trimmed with old fur, and his voice was high and thin.

  “Thus you can see: traitorous dogs must not rise against a King.” With each word, his breath made a visible puff in the cold, still air.

  He stood back and regarded the dogs and then turned to leave. Just then someone stepped forward and whispered to him. “Ah!” he said. “My children are approaching. We must greet them.” He made a gesture, and the crowd turned obediently toward the main gate.

  Margaret and Brandon and I stood where we were. As the crowd thinned, we saw what was lying on the ground beneath the dogs: the body of a lion. It was maimed and bloody.

  “What is it?” cried Margaret. “Why is the lion dead? Why are the dogs hanged?” She seemed merely curious, not sickened. I myself felt a great revulsion.

  “The King set the dogs
upon the lion. He meant it as a demonstration of how the King of Beasts can destroy all enemies. Well, the dogs had the best of it. They killed the lion instead. So the King had to punish the dogs as traitors. It was the only way to salvage his lesson.” Brandon chose his words carefully, but the tone of his voice told me he did not like the King. Immediately I liked Brandon better.

  “But the King—” I began cautiously.

  “Is very concerned about his throne,” replied Brandon, incautiously. “He has just gotten word of another uprising. The Cornish this time.” He looked around to be sure we were not overheard. “This is the third time. . . .” His voice trailed off. Or perhaps he sensed a coming welter of questions from Margaret.

  But her head was turned toward the crowd and the noise that met Arthur’s arrival into the manor grounds. The gates swung open, and Arthur rode in, clutching his saddle. He winced when he saw the eager faces and large numbers of people. A great shout arose on cue. The King stepped forward and embraced Arthur, almost dragging him from his horse. For a moment they clung together, then the King turned to the people.

  “Now my holidays will begin indeed!” he proclaimed. “Now that my son is here! My heir,” he said pointedly.

  He never noticed that Margaret and I were there; and a few minutes later we were able to slip easily in with our own party and endure nothing worse than a tongue-clucking from our nurse, Anne Luke.

  As we passed through the courtyard, I saw the body of the lion being dragged away.

  We were shown to our quarters, and our household servants began unpacking and assembling the furniture we had carted with us. Soon silver ewers of heated water were brought for us to wash ourselves with. The festivities were to begin that evening with a banquet in the Great Hall.

  Then Nurse Luke informed me that Mary and I were not to go.

  I could understand why Mary must remain in the nursery—she was but two! But I was seven and surely should be allowed to go. All year I had assumed that when this season’s Christmas revels began I would be part of them. Had I not reached the age of reason with my birthday that past summer?

  The disappointment was so crushing that I began to howl and throw my clothes upon the floor. It was the first time I had ever shown an open display of temper, and everyone stopped and stared at me. Well, good! Now they would see I was someone to take notice of!

  Anne Luke came rushing over to me. “Lord Henry! Stop this! This display”—she had to duck as I flung a shoe at no one in particular—“is most unlike you!” She tried to restrain my arms, but I flailed out at her. “It is unworthy of a Prince!”

  That had the wanted effect. I stopped and stood, quite out of breath but still angry. “I want to go to the banquet,” I said coldly. “I am quite old enough, and I think it unkind of the King to exclude me this year.”

  “A Prince old enough to attend formal banquets does not throw his clothes on the floor and scream like a monkey.” Satisfied that I was under control, she lumbered up from her knees.

  Now I knew what I had to do. “Nurse Luke, please,” I said sweetly, “I want so badly to go. I have waited for it all year. Last year he promised”—this was pure invention, but it might serve—“and now he makes me wait in the nursery again.”

  “Perhaps His Majesty has heard about what you and Margaret did this afternoon,” she said darkly. “Running ahead of the party.”

  “But Margaret is going to the banquet,” I pointed out, logically.

  She sighed. “Ah, Henry. You are a one.” She looked at me and smiled, and I knew I should have my way. “I will speak to the Lord Chamberlain and ask if His Majesty would reconsider.”

  Happily I began picking up the strewn clothes, already planning what I should wear. So that was the way it was done: first a show of temper, then smiles and favour. It was an easy lesson to learn, and I had never been slow at my lessons.

  At seven that evening, Arthur and Margaret and I were escorted into the Great Hall for the banquet. In the passageway outside I saw a band of musicians practicing. They hit many sour notes and looked apologetic as we passed by.

  As part of our education, all Father’s children were tutored in music. We were expected to be able to play one instrument. This was a source of much struggle to Arthur and Margaret. I, on the other hand, had taken as readily to the lute as to horses, and loved my hours of instruction. I wanted to learn the virginals, the flute, the organ—but my tutor told me I was to wait and learn one instrument at a time. So I waited, impatiently.

  I had expected the King’s musicians to be well trained, and now disappointment flooded me. They were little better than I.

  WILL:

  This is misleading, as Henry was extraordinarily talented. Most likely at seven he performed better than slipshod adult musicians.

  HENRY VIII:

  As we came into the Hall there was a fair blaze of yellow light. I saw what appeared to be a thousand candles on the long tables that ran along the sides of the hall, with the royal dais and table in between. There were white cloths for the full length of the tables and golden plate and goblets, all winking in the unsteady candlelight.

  As soon as we entered, a man appeared at our sides and bent over and spoke to Arthur. Arthur nodded and the man—all richly dressed in burgundy velvet—steered him toward the royal dais where he would take his place with the King and Queen.

  Almost at the same time, another man appeared and addressed himself to Margaret and me. This one was somewhat younger and had a round face. “Your Graces are to be seated near the King at the first table. So that you may see the jester and all the mimes clearly.” He turned and led us through the gathering number of people; it looked to me like a forest of velvet cloaks. He escorted us to our place, bowed, and left.

  “Who is he?” I asked Margaret. She had been at court functions several times before, and I hoped that she would know.

  “The Earl of Surrey, Thomas Howard. He used to be Duke of Norfolk.” When I looked blank, she said, “You know! He is head of the Howard family. They supported Richard III. That’s why he’s an earl now, and not a duke. He has to show his loyalty by seating the King’s children!” She laughed spitefully. “If he seats us often enough, perhaps one day he’ll be a duke again. That is what he hopes.”

  “The Howard family—” I began a question, but she characteristically cut it off.

  “A huge, powerful one. They are everywhere.”

  Indeed they were. Later I was to remember that until that banquet I had never heard the name. The Howard family. As King, I married two of them, executed three, and married my son to one. But they were all unborn that night, and I but a seven-year-old second son awaiting the day I must take clerical vows. Had I known what was to be, perhaps I should have killed Thomas Howard that night and forestalled it all. Or he, me. But instead he turned his back on me and disappeared into the crowd to pursue his business, and I propped myself up on one leg the better to reach the table, and the thing went forward as water running downhill toward its destination.

  A sudden fanfare of cornetts and sackbuts (slightly out of time) broke into the babble of the assembly. Instantly the people fell silent. The musicians then struck a slow processional march, and the King, the Queen, and the King’s mother filed slowly in, followed by Archbishop Warham, Lord Chancellor; Bishop Fox, Lord Privy Seal; and Bishop Ruthal, Secretary. At the very rear of the procession was Thomas Wolsey, the priest who served as the King’s almoner. He must have had little to do, as the King was stingy and gave no alms.

  She was here! My heart soared, and I could not leave looking at her—the Queen my mother. From earliest childhood I had been taught to revere the Virgin Mother, Queen of Heaven. There were figures of her in the nursery, and every night I directed my prayers to her. But there was one image I loved above all others: an ivory one in the chapel. She was slender and beautiful and infinitely merciful, and had a sad, faraway smile.

  Whenever I saw my mother, she looked so like the ivory figure that my heavenl
y mother and earthly mother merged in my mind, and I worshipped her.

  Now, as I stared at her slowly coming into the hall, it was as though I were glimpsing Mary herself. I strained forward and felt myself becoming dizzy with excitement.

  She walked beside the King, but her eyes were straight ahead. She did not look at him or touch him or speak, but walked on, ethereal and remote. Her robe was of blue, and her gold hair was almost hidden beneath her jewelled cap. She reached the dais. Arthur was beside her, and she reached out and touched his face and smiled, and they exchanged words.

  I could not remember her ever having touched me thus, and the number of times she had spoken privately to me were fewer than my years in age. She had borne me easily and just as easily forgotten me. But perhaps this time, when we were alone for the gift exchanges . . . perhaps she might speak to me as she had just spoken to Arthur.

  The King was speaking. His voice was thin and flat. He welcomed the court to Sheen. He welcomed his beloved son and heir, Arthur—here he made Arthur stand so that all could see him—to the revels. He made no mention of Margaret and me.

  Servers brought us watered wine, and the courses began: venison, crayfish, prawns, oysters, mutton, brawn, conger-eel, carp, lamprey, swan, crane, quail, dove, partridge, goose, duck, rabbit, fruit custard, lamb, manchet, and so on, until I lost count. After the lampreys I could take no more and began declining the dishes.