The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  I looked about me. This chamber was Father’s no longer, but mine. I walked, a little unsteadily, to the door leading to the King’s closet. This was where Father had spent much time, where he had summoned me often. (The term privy chamber was a misnomer. It was not private at all, but was the place where everyone personally attendant on the King converged: all the gentlemen and grooms of the chamber, the ushers, pages, servers, barbers, and so on. Beyond that, however, only select persons were allowed entrance. Thus the “closet” was truly the first privy chamber in a series of private rooms.) I flung open the door and stood looking at the bare, pitifully furnished room, recalling all the times I had been humiliated there. The hated monkey still chattered and jumped, even now at liberty to roam.

  “Take this creature away,” I said to the page. (I regret to record this as my second royal command.) I reached out and grabbed it by the scruff of the neck, thrust it into the boy’s arms, and said, “Dispose of it. I care not where!”

  The boy took the animal in his arms and carried it away. How easy that was! I stood amazed. Something I had had to endure for years, suddenly gone, swept aside with a word and a gesture. I laughed, delighted. Then I looked about the room, planning other changes. Was it cold? There would be fires. Was the desk old and lacking drawers? There would be a new Italian one, inlaid with rare woods. Was the room old-fashioned? Carpenters would repanel, sculptors redecorate, painters gild.

  From there I made my way into the Retiring Room—the first exclusively private royal room, and one to which even I had been denied access—the room where the King took his nightly rest. Father had not slept there in many months, but his great bed (eleven feet on both sides) still squatted in the middle of the room, like a Norman tower. I walked around it, slowly. The hangings were moth-eaten and shabby. I raised my hand and patted one fold, and a great puff of dirt flew out, choking me. Then—I know not what possessed me—I began striking the hangings frantically, beating them, raising clouds of dust. And I felt near tears . . . for what, I know not.

  My tears and the dust drove me from the bed, and just then my eyes fell on Father’s private meditation alcove. I sank down on his prie-dieu, trying to focus my eyes on the crucifix before me, although my eyes kept turning to the painting of the Virgin on one side, so like my mother. I prayed to be a good King, to be worthy. What else? I fear it was a cry for help, a scream of terror from my soul. Yet I trusted that God would hear. . . .

  I reeled away and fell across the bed. The strain, the day, and Wolsey’s wine had undone me. I slept, deeply.

  And awakened sometime in the dread, empty time of night. I could tell, not from the crier nor by the striking of the chamber clock, but by a feeling deep within me. We know that time, know it in ourselves. . . .

  I lay on the bed, not covered, still wearing my daytime clothes. It was cold; I was cold. I shook. Yet I felt different from before, until I remembered: I am King. And almost in the same instant, a half-forgotten saying from the Orient, repeated by Skelton, came to me: Youth, abundant wealth, high birth, and inexperience: each of these is a source of ruin. What, then, the fate of him in whom all four are joined?

  I was afraid. Then my very youth rescued me, put me back to sleep.

  “Your Grace.” I heard the voice, felt someone shaking me awake. I opened one eye and saw Brandon. “You must arise.”

  I sat up, wondering why I was dressed and on this strange bed. Then I knew.

  Brandon was standing before me, beaming. “They are waiting.”

  I was still half asleep, and my face showed it.

  “The people. They are waiting!” He gestured toward the window.

  I swung myself off the bed and approached the window slowly. Outside I saw people, nothing but people. No trees, no grass, no roads—only people.

  “They want a glimpse of you!” he said. “Some of them have been waiting all night.”

  I started to draw open the window, but he said, “No. They await your appearance, when you ride to the Tower.”

  Evidently the sound of voices, however faint, signalled permission for others to enter; a slender page burst into the room.

  “Your Highness,” he said, dropping to one knee. “I wish to—”

  He was interrupted by a virtual stream of other servants bringing food upon trays, as well as clothes. One of them bowed low and then began unbuttoning my outer garment. I pushed him away.

  “But, Your Grace,” he protested, “I am Clerk of the Wardrobe. And it is my duty to attire the King.” He gestured proudly toward his assistant. “We have already warmed these before the fire, in accordance with the protocol of the late—”

  “Enough!” I cried. “Just get about it.” And I was forced to endure the ceremonial dressing, where two men laced and buttoned and pulled and pushed. (Did my great-grandfather Tudor truly have such duties?)

  At last it was done and I was able to push them from the chamber. Brandon and I were alone, briefly.

  “What must be done?” I asked him. “Father kept it secret.”

  “You must ride to the Tower,” he replied. “A ceremonial taking command, as it were. In the old days, one King was crowned directly an old one died. Now, in our more peaceful, civilized days”—there was a faint smile on his mouth—“there is an interim. The old King must be properly interred, have respects paid. Yet the people still demand an immediate glimpse of their new King. They are impatient and cannot wait the full month until your father is buried. Hence the ride to the Tower.” He grinned. “It is a good omen. There has not been a ceremonial ride to the Tower in many reigns. Yours is the first peaceful, uncontested crowning in almost a hundred years.”

  Sleep still clung to me. “What date is it?” I asked.

  The door opened. “St. George’s Day,” said a voice I already recognized—Wolsey’s. “The feast day of England’s patron saint. A good omen.”

  Omens. I was sick of them already. I glared at Wolsey. “As any spring day would be,” I replied. “And as for my ride into London—”

  “All is prepared, Your Grace. The horses saddled, those who are to accompany you dressed and waiting.”

  Suddenly I hated him, hated his smug knowledge. “And who are those?” I asked. “I gave you—gave no one!—instructions—”

  “Those who love you,” he said blandly. “Your dearest companions and your sister. They will ride with you to the Tower, rest with you there. No Council members, no aged ones today. It is a day for youth.” He smiled depreciatingly, as if to exclude himself.

  “You as well,” I said to Brandon. “You must ride with me.”

  The day was fair, warm, already ripening toward summer. It charged my blood. I came out into the Palace courtyard to see many people waiting: my friends, my supporters and well-wishers. As I appeared, a great shout went up, a deafening roar. They cried themselves hoarse, their lusty voices rising in the spring air.

  And suddenly all was swept away: all hesitation, all awkwardness, all fear . . . borne to oblivion on the warm wind. I was King, and glad of it. All would be well; I sensed it, like a promise. . . .

  I mounted my great bay, a horse I had ridden in the lists and knew well, and turned him toward the Palace gates. As they swung open, I was stunned to see the unimaginably vast gathering of common people, surrounding the Palace grounds, stretching away on either side of the road to London as far as the eye could see, six, seven deep. Sighting me, they sent up a great cry. And I felt their presence as a kind, friendly thing, nothing to fear. They shouted for me, blessed me, cheered me. Without thinking, I swept off my head-covering and held my arms up, and they cheered all the louder. And I was warmed all over: the sun on my head, their approval around me.

  All along the way it was the same: cheering people, standing many layers thick along the riverbanks, as the strengthening sun sparkled the water. We shared that moment, they and I, making a mystic bond between us, exulting in that ultimate luxury: the beginning of things.

  We did not reach the Tower until nightfa
ll, so slow was our progress. The city walls of London glowed pink in the setting sun. As we crossed the Bridge, I saw yet more people leaning from the upper stories of their high houses, trying to glimpse me. They had had no time to prepare for this unannounced royal procession, yet they had strung the narrow passageway thick with garlands of fruit-blossoms that swayed in the brisk evening wind, showering us with petals of apple, cherry, pear. . . .

  Torches were already lit in the April twilight, great golden flares which turned the fluttering petals to gold as they fell.

  Now it all becomes a blur, like the aura from those torches. At the Tower, more trumpets. I am there again, I am seventeen. . . .

  I am escorted inside the fortress by the royal guard, costumed in the April green and white Tudor colours. I go to the White Tower, dismount, throw off my cloak, call for wine. Then am overwhelmed by tiredness. The magic is gone; my legs ache, my eyes burn. . . .

  The others follow me inside: Brandon, Neville, Carew, Compton. Someone brings wine in great goblets. Neville plucks two from the tray and hands me one in the familiar, careless gesture he commonly uses, turns to clap his hand on my shoulder, suddenly stops, the familiar gesture frozen, the old companions now King and subject. His blue eyes, so like mine, register dismay.

  “Your Highness,” he says quietly, his hand (again, so like mine) falling limply to his side.

  He waits for me to rescue him, to ease this strange moment of transition. I cannot. Then, miraculously, I can.

  “I thank you,” I answer naturally, and it is as if I have always been King. What takes others years to learn comes to me in that instant. I cannot explain it other than to say that at that moment I became King, and there was no turning back. That was my true coronation: the other but a sealing, a confirmation of what had already taken place.

  I knew in that instant, also, my goal: to be a perfect King, to surpass Henry V and King Arthur in greatness and knightliness.

  Afterwards I returned to Richmond until Father’s funeral in early May. I was told I must, in fact, hide myself, for a reason both flattering and disturbing: the people had cheered so for me, had been so overjoyed at my accession, that any further public appearance on my part would have been detrimental to the late King’s memory and his funeral. I was much amazed.

  WILL:

  Was Henry really as ingenuous as he paints himself? He records how the people welcomed him, yet purports to be surprised that it would contrast badly with his father’s memory. But one must remember his youth. He was but seventeen, and unsure of himself, despite the cheers. We who have known him only in his later years must take this into account. I, for one, believe him.

  Yet I must confess his self-doubts and hesitancy were well hidden, if indeed they existed. (A triumph of the royal will?) I saw him in London that day; I was upon the Bridge in that great, nameless crowd.

  He rode a gigantic horse, gorgeously caparisoned, and he appeared to us as a great golden god—broad-shouldered, handsome, and utterly at ease. He looked like a King and rode out among the people with all the eagerness of a boy (which he was, of course), unselfconscious and full of natural grace. The people loved him instantly, and he reciprocated: one of those rare affinities. They loved his beauty, his apparel, his lavishness and colour. Young Harry, who was raised in chill, darkness, and drabness, was to seek light, warmth, and blazing colours all the rest of his life. The people sensed it. And cheered it.

  HENRY VIII:

  There were many details to be attended to in the dreary interim, details spanning the burying of the old King and the crowning of the new. Everything must be planned simultaneously: there must be both a funeral procession and a Coronation procession, a funeral feast and a Coronation feast, funeral music and Coronation music. This meant, perforce, that the cakes must bake side by side in the royal ovens and the musicians must practise both musics at a single session. While the court wore black in official mourning, fittings were being taken for Coronation cloaks.

  What were my duties? I, like all the rest, must be measured for my Coronation robes. Unlike all the rest, I had other, pressing matters to attend to. If I were to be a true King, I must take control of the power Father had just relinquished. I must meet with the Privy Council, learn its ways. And I had much to learn. I, who had always been relegated to a shadowed corner seat during meetings, must now preside over them. Father had left me an intact Council. In a sense, this eased my task; in another, it made it still harder, for they were all Father’s men, disappointed that none had been named my Protector and disinclined to yield any power to me.

  Of the nine councilmen, all were accomplished. Seven were honest, two were not: Empson and Dudley, Father’s erstwhile finance ministers. In spite of the Council’s attempts to shield its own, lesser Crown servants managed to reach my ears with information regarding their unscrupulous methods of money-collecting and “law enforcement,” and how they were despised throughout the realm by noblemen and poor alike. It was they who had so tarnished my father’s reputation amongst the people in the closing years of his reign.

  I ordered them arrested, and exempted from the general pardon. I cancelled the bonds they held for the payment of their extorted loans. They were traitors, for their victims were “by the undue means of certain of the Council of our said late father, thereunto driven contrary to law, reason and good conscience, to the manifest charge and peril of the soul of our said late father,” as my proclamation said.

  They had imperilled my father’s immortal soul: for that they deserved to die. They were executed, as befitted their evil.

  WILL:

  So the tender-hearted youth, who so shrank from “political” executions, could be roused by “moral” crimes? He would not execute for a title, but for a soul. . . .

  HENRY VIII:

  Of the seven remaining councillors, three were churchmen: Archbishop Warham, the Chancellor; Bishop Fox, Lord Privy Seal; Bishop Ruthal, Secretary. For the laymen, there were Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, Lord Treasurer; George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, Lord High Steward; Charles Somerset, Lord Herbert of Raglan, Lord Chamberlain; Sir Thomas Lovell, Chancellor of the Exchequer and Constable of the Tower.

  They met at half-noon every day, regardless of the amount of business at hand. The meetings were exceptionally boring: the first one I attended directed itself to an hour-long debate as to whether the expense for the late King’s coffin should be deducted from the Crown’s privy purse or from general household expenses.

  Yet money was important, I realized that. What I did not realize was the extent of the fortune I had inherited, because the Councilmen tried to obscure this information and did everything to keep it from “the youngling,” lest he squander it. In the end it was Wolsey who secured the exact figures and presented them to me, totted up in his neat writing.

  As I read them, I tried to keep my expression blank. It was a Herculean task—for the figures were so large they were, simply, unbelievable.

  “Are these correct?” I questioned Wolsey, evenly.

  “Indeed,” he replied. “I got them from three separate sources, each one entirely trustworthy. And I have checked them myself four times.”

  “I see.” I put down the small, dangerous paper. It said I was rich, richer than any King of England had ever been—richer, most likely, than any king in the world. (Except the Infidel Sultan, about whose finances even Wolsey was ignorant.) I was numb. “Thank you,” I said, finally.

  I hardly noticed Wolsey as he turned and exited.

  Rich; I was rich. Correction: the Crown was rich. Whatever the King desired, he could have. An army? Done, and outfitted with the latest weapons. New palaces? As many as I liked. And people . . . I could buy them, use them to adorn my court, just as I would select jewels.

  So whenever I think back upon those first, halcyon days of my reign, I see but a single colour: gold. Shining gold, dull gold, burnished gold, glittering gold. Cloth-of-gold and golden rings and golden trumpets.

  I struck Fath
er’s treasure chests like Moses striking the rock in the wilderness, and a dazzling river of gold poured forth. The Crown was staggeringly wealthy, as Wolsey had indicated. Wealthy enough that I could invite any subject with a contested debt, an unredressed grievance, or merely a complaint against the Crown to come forward.

  We were overwhelmed by the response; hundreds of people came, and I had to appoint extra lawyers just to attend to their claims, most stemming from the cruel extractions made by Empson and Dudley.

  The majority of the claims were decided in favor of the plaintiffs, and the Crown paid. So some of the gold flowed directly back into the hands of common men who stood in sore need of it.

  It also flowed into the hands of another group too long without means: musicians and scholars and sculptors and artists. (I did not understand why those who elected to follow the calling of the Muse must traditionally embrace poverty as well, whereas a wool merchant can eat and live well. In my court, it would be altogether different.) And so they came—from Italy, from Spain (where the New Learning was sorely repressed), from the Low Countries, from the German duchies. Erasmus. John Colet. Richard Pace. Juan Luis Vives. I wished my court to be an exciting center of learning, to be an academy dedicated to the mind, in the Greek fashion. (I had myself begun studying Greek so that I might read those works in the original.)

  WILL:

  He certainly succeeded. Henry VII’s hard-gotten wealth financed the “learning academy” of Henry VIII, and soon hordes of hungry, high-minded artists from the Continent swarmed eagerly to England and wrote their friends to join them. (Impecunious scholars knew a bargain when they saw it; years of privation had deepened their appreciation of money.) Young Harry’s court was an intellectual’s dream. Here is an example of how one scholar (Mountjoy) lured another (Erasmus) to England: