The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  It was not that way at court. There were many families at court, to be sure, and often the husband would be in the King’s household as an attendant in the Privy Chamber, for example, and his wife serve the Queen as lady-of-the-Bedchamber and his children be pages and maids of honour. They were entitled to lodgings at court, which they usually accepted, and so the Palace might house some two hundred families. But it was not a close group, and there never was such camaraderie as I saw that June night among the bridge-dwellers.

  We wound through the streets in the very heart of London. Houses here were closely packed, and each must have sheltered twenty inhabitants, judging from the number pouring out into the street. They were celebrating the end of their working day, and for a few hours would revel in the fading violet light.

  As we turned west and went past St. Paul’s and then left the city by the Ludgate, I suddenly knew where we were bound. We crossed the little bridge over the stinking, sluggish Fleet River and were soon there, at the Bishop of Salisbury’s house.

  It was almost full dark now. Father dismounted and bade me do the same. Once we were standing side by side before the Bishop’s door, he gripped my arm and said harshly, “Now you will tell the Bishop you are here to make a solemn protestation against your betrothal to Princess Katherine. You will sign papers saying it troubles your conscience. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said dully. So Father meant to have it both ways: an open betrothal, a secret disclaimer. The dowry business had not been settled. I had heard it from Brandon. People talked freely before him, and he in turn told me what I needed to know.

  Father gave me a shove and indicated that I was to knock for entrance. The Bishop opened promptly; it had clearly been arranged in advance.

  “The Prince is sore troubled in his conscience about the betrothal to his brother’s widow,” said Father. “He is here to assuage that conscience.”

  The Bishop murmured sympathetically and led us in. The papers were already spread out on his work table, neatly lettered, with a large space on the bottom for my signature.

  “He is anguished,” said Father. He played his part well.

  “Ah,” said the Bishop. “And what troubles you, my son?”

  Father had not rehearsed this with me. I had no idea of what to say, except the truth. “The thought of the Princess in my brother’s bed torments me! I cannot bear it!”

  Yes, that was true. The thought of her and Arthur together was repugnant to me. I wanted her entirely to myself, for myself. Yet she had lain with him. . . .

  “Because it would be incestuous,” supplied the Bishop. “To uncover thy brother’s nakedness, as the Scriptures say.”

  “No . . .” I wanted to tell him it was not so much because Arthur was my brother as that he was—had been—a man. I would have felt the same no matter who it had been.

  “He has a lively interest in Scriptures,” said Father quickly. “After all, he studied them in preparation for the priesthood. It would be strange, would it not, if he were not strict in his interpretation—”

  “Yes. It is an abomination to lie with a brother’s wife.” The Bishop smiled—an odd reaction to an alleged abomination. “We will put your conscience to rest, my Prince.” He drew himself up proudly and rattled off some words for me to repeat.

  “. . . detest . . . abominable . . . union with our dearly beloved brother’s relict . . .”

  Then he proffered a pen and made a gesture toward the waiting papers. I signed them, quickly. The pen was a poor one; it blotched the ink and dug into the parchment.

  “And by that my conscience is cleared?” I asked. It was a travesty, and I had perjured myself.

  “Indeed,” the Bishop said.

  “So easy,” I said. “So easy. One would expect that it should be more difficult. For a matter so weighty.”

  “The weightiest matters are often dispatched by a simple act,” he offered.

  “Come,” said Father, afraid I might say something else displeasing. “It is over.”

  WILL:

  Although Henry purports to be disdainful of the machinations and underhandedness here, some other part of him must have taken it seriously. I suspect that the first “scruple” in his conscience was planted that night, transforming a perfectly natural sexual jealousy of his predecessor into something profound and scriptural. Henry was a ritualist, and a superstitious one at that. Once he had signed the papers, he must eventually come to believe them. Nothing sent him scurrying like the hint that he had displeased the Almighty. Indeed, he saw God’s doing in everything, and strove to keep hand-in-glove with Him. He saw theirs as a special partnership in which, if he did his part, God would certainly do His. Do you remember that remark (not remember, of course, as you were not yet born)—it was much repeated—of Harry’s: “God and my conscience are perfectly agreed.” Harry could be comfortable with nothing less.

  HENRY VIII:

  Shortly afterwards, another wrangle with the dowry forced Katherine to abandon her separate household at Durham House and come to court to live off Father’s charity, such as it was. Neither her father Ferdinand, the King of Spain, nor her father-in-law, the King of England, wanted the expense of maintaining her household, and she could live cheaply at court once all her attendants were dismissed. In short, she was to live alone, penniless, friendless, and at Father’s sufferance. She was not to “come out” and mingle with the rest of the court, but keep herself apart and separate. Father warned me that on no account was I to attempt to see her, meet with her, or send letters to her. This in spite of the fact that as far as she knew, I was still her betrothed. (The secret of my journey into London on the eve of my fourteenth birthday had been well kept.)

  But word reached me of her pitiful state, regardless. She had no money at all, save what Father doled out to her, and he was hardly noted for generosity. If he kept his rightful son and heir in worn clothes and a cold, bare room, what would he do for a girl who could do nothing for him save remind him of the son he had lost, and plans spoiled?

  She had had no new clothes since coming from Spain, and those had been mended and turned many times. The fish on her plate was rotten and often made her ill. And she had found a strange confessor, a Fra Diego, upon whom she relied more and more. It was even said that he was her lover, and assigned her penance by day for the unspeakable things they did at night, and that she would do anything he said, so completely was she in his power.

  I never believed the more fulsome of these rumours, but the fact that they were being circulated at all meant something. I feared for Katherine, knowing that however difficult my own lot was, hers must be a hundred times more so. I, at least, was in my own country, speaking my own language, with my own friends and my own father (loathsome as he might sometimes be, yet he was mine). I was her only friend here, her only protector. I must see her, must help her.

  Now that she was at court, living in another wing only one floor removed from the royal apartments, it was far simpler to get a message to her. I had friends now, and those friends had friends. . . . I did not have to rely on the King’s servants.

  Where should we meet? I gave much thought to this. It could not be in the open. The ideal place would have been somewhere far from the Palace, some forest or open field, but that required too much cooperation from grooms and horses and even the weather. No, it must be a secret place, where no one would see, but where, if they did see us, neither of us could be compromised or suspected.

  In the mid-afternoon the Chapel Royal would be deserted. No Mass could be said past noon, and it would yet be too early for Vespers. No priest heard confession at that hour, unless by special appointment. But Katherine was known to be religious. . . .

  I sent her a message, asking her to come to the Chapel Royal where I would be waiting in the confession alcove, to help her examine her conscience, at three in the afternoon. I signed it, “T. Wolsey, King’s Almoner.”

  At a little before three I came to the chapel. It was small, as r
oyal chapels are, but richly appointed. There was an image of Saint Margaret there, with a crown of jewels and a cape of pure gold. The chalice and paten and ciborium on the altar were also of fine-wrought gold.

  The smell of incense never left the enclosed little chapel. With the doors closed, there was no outside light, no light at all save the candles lit before the images. They winked and fluttered, throwing strange shadows on the carved wooden faces above them.

  There was still a little time. I hurriedly knelt and lit a candle to Our Lady, praying that she would have me in her keeping. Then I slipped into the confessional alcove and sat on the stool, pulling a hood up around my head.

  I did not have to wait long. Almost as the courtyard clock had finished striking, someone entered the chapel. A crack of light shone in, then the door closed quietly. A rustle of material betrayed the whereabouts of the person, who came closer and then entered the alcove on the penitent’s side. I kept my head bowed, so as to hide my face. I heard her sink to her knees on the prie-dieu nearby. Then a hesitation, as she breathed lightly and then began, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have last confessed—”

  “Stop, Kate! I will not hear your confession!” I said, alarmed. I pulled back the hood from my head, revealing my face.

  She looked horrified. I could make out a pale face and the great, open O of her mouth. “Henry!” she whispered. “It is a sacrilege—”

  “I meant no disrespect for the Sacrament. But oh, Katherine, I had to see you!” I reached my hand out and grasped hers. “Three years! Three years they haven’t let me see you, or speak to you, or—”

  “I . . . know.” Her voice was soft and her accent heavy. Possibly she had understood very few of my words.

  “And you are my betrothed! I am—I am responsible for you.” Where I had gotten that notion I cannot say—certainly not from Father. It must have been from the knightly tales I still doted on. “It distresses me that you are alone, and have so little.”

  She flared. “And who told you that?” Spanish pride—my first glimpse of it.

  “It is well known. Everybody says—”

  “I have no need for pity!”

  “Of course not. But for love, my dearest Katherine—” My other hand sought hers. “I love you!”

  She looked discomfited, as well she might. “We must go back,” was all she finally said.

  “No one will find us here. Not for another hour,” I insisted. “Oh, stay a little! Talk with me. Tell me—tell me what you do, how you spend your hours.”

  She leaned forward. Our faces were only a few inches away in the close, warm darkness. “I—I pray. And read. And do needlework. And write the King my father. And”—this so low I had to strain to hear it—“I think of you, my Lord.”

  I was so excited I could hardly refrain from embracing her. “Is that true? And I think of you, my Lady.” If only I had had my lute and been some other place, I could have sung to her, sung of my love. I had already composed several ballads to that effect, and practised them well. “I will wed you, Kate,” I promised, with absolutely no authority to do so. “I swear it! As soon as possible.”

  “You promised to wed me on your fourteenth birthday. That was a year ago,” she said slowly.

  “I—” I could not tell her of the hideous “denial” I had made—been forced to make. “I know,” I said. “But I mean to, and soon. The King—”

  “The King does not mean you to wed me. That is clear. I am twenty years old, and no child—as others may be.”

  That seemed unnecessarily cruel to say to her only champion and protector. “I cannot help my age, my Lady. I was not free to choose the day of my birth. But I am not so young as you and others may think.” With those cryptic words (I had no idea then, and have none today, precisely what I meant by them), I squeezed her hand once more. “You shall see!” Then I whispered, “We had best leave. Priests will about be soon.”

  She rose hastily and gathered her skirts. A light lemon scent came to me, floating over the stale incense. Then she was gone.

  A moment later I stepped out of the confessional alcove, well pleased with my successful intrigue. I knew now that I loved Katherine and that I must marry her. I was also well satisfied that the scurrilous rumors about Fra Diego were lies. She had been too distressed by the thought of my desecrating the confessional by my innocent rendezvous. She was clearly a deeply religious, pious woman.

  WILL:

  And better would it have been for Harry had she not been so “religious” and “pious.” If only she had cavorted with that disgusting friar (who, incidentally, was later deported for gross immorality in London—imagine that!—in London!), it would have been worth an earldom to him during Harry’s divorce campaign. But no, Katherine was pure. How Harry ever got any children on her is one of the mysteries of matrimony. Perhaps the Catholics are right in declaring marriage a sacrament. Sacraments bestow “grace to do that which is necessary,” do they not?

  It is interesting to note that even at this tender age, Harry used the Church for his own purposes. I have no doubt that, had she consented, he would have cheerfully copulated with her in the shadow of the altar itself.

  X

  HENRY VIII:

  I now had a Mission: to rescue the Princess from her tower of imprisonment, as a proper knight should do. And being in love (as evidenced by the rush of excitement I felt whenever I pictured her) made it all the more imperative.

  Father was preparing to go on one of his summer “progresses,” which promised me freedom for the few weeks he was away. Once I had longed to accompany him and been hurt when he excluded me; now I just wished him gone.

  Considering that Father disliked going out among the people, detested being stared at, and was uncomfortable when he did not have complete control of everything around him, he made a surprising number of progresses. He viewed them as necessary, and then, the expense spared by living on another’s bounty for a month each year appealed to him.

  Ostensibly these progresses were to allow the monarch to escape from palace routine and business and go about, simply, in the country. In fact the purpose was to let the King see his land and subjects, and—more important—to let them see him. It was necessary to remind the people who their King was, and to show him at his finest. Wherever a royal progress went, people from miles around would line the roadside, waiting for a glimpse of their King. They would hold their children up to see. Sometimes a man with scrofula would stumble up and beg the King to touch him, as the common people believed this could cure the disease.

  A royal progress did not wander about aimlessly, enjoying the delights of the countryside, eating wholesomely rough country food by the unspoiled riverbanks. That was the pose. But in fact the route was carefully laid out during the winter months in order that all the wealthy landowners and nobles in the vicinity could prepare to entertain and house the monarch and his retinue. For the King did not travel alone; he took most of the court with him, which precluded simple rustic meals in the meadows. It required prodigious amounts of food, so that any man singled out to host a royal progress two years in a row stood in danger of going into debt.

  There was another, darker, reason for Father’s progresses: to ascertain the loyalty of the great nobles and to see for himself whether they were complying with his law against liveried retainers. One could never be sure. Edward IV had ordered the dissolution of these private armies maintained by the lords. They were a threat to him for obvious reasons. Once on progress he had stayed with the Earl of Oxford, one of the most partisan of Lancastrians. The Earl had his army of retainers lined up in uniform to greet the King with a great show of loyalty. Edward said nothing until he departed. “I thank you for your good cheer,” he told the Earl, “but I may not endure to have my laws broken in my sight.” He fined the Earl ten thousand pounds—a far greater sum then than today, when the value of money has eroded so alarmingly.

  On August first, the customary Lammas Mass was held in the Chapel Royal, in
which a loaf of bread made from the first harvested grain of the season was brought up to the altar. That afternoon the King departed for his progress. He would not return until near Michaelmas at the end of September, when the year had begun to turn and slip toward winter. There was always goose on Michaelmas, a hearty autumnal dish.

  I sat in an upper window, watching the royal party gather in the courtyard below. It was hot and sultry, and autumn and Michaelmas seemed a long way off. I felt dizzy with freedom. Everyone was going on the progress. I could see Fox and Ruthal and Thomas Howard and Thomas Lovell, as well as Father’s two finance ministers, Empson and Dudley. The King must think of finances, if not in the country sunlight, then late at night.

  Only Archbishop Warham had stayed behind, and my grandmother Beaufort. The nobles and court dignitaries not accompanying the King would return to their own estates, as no business would be transacted at court during the King’s absence. Business followed him, and court was wherever he happened to be.

  But there would be little business, because the whole world, it seemed, was lying idle during those golden weeks of August.

  They were golden to me. I spent them in almost continual sport, participating in forbidden jousts and foot combats at the barrier with my companions, risking my person time and again. Why? I cannot tell, even now. Yet I sought danger as a man on the desert seeks water. Perhaps because it had been denied me for so long. Perhaps because I wished to test myself, to see at what point my bravery would break, to be replaced by fear. Or perhaps it is simpler than that. “Youth will needs have dalliance,” I myself wrote, and this was one form of dalliance, a knightly, death-defying one. . . .