The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  As well they should not, in spite of the current idea held by some that dividing up the Royal Treasury would enable everyone to dine on dainties for the rest of their lives. A mathematician friend of mine has calculated that if the Queen’s wealth were distributed equally throughout the kingdom, each person would receive exactly enough to purchase five loaves of bread, shoe one horse, and purchase one blanket. Hardly a luxurious life.

  But I digress. I speak now as a man, whereas I was then but a child, and as awed by the story of the King’s gold letters as anyone else. I lay in bed that night, imagining myself to be the young Prince. What would my life be like? I would lie beneath soft coverlets (I thought this as I scratched myself against the irritating rough wool), never have to do schoolwork, and have horses and hawks—in short, all the things an ignorant ten-year-old imagines when constructing the perfect life of another child.

  Over the next week I thought of the young Prince Henry constantly. When I awakened I immediately thought, “Now his nurse is taking him up and dressing him in fine linen.” When I went out to play I thought, “They are readying rooms of toys for him.”

  In truth, I was not far wrong. Upon birth, the infant Prince had been assigned his own household staff. He had his clerk of the signet, his serjeant of arms, and three chaplains, as well as a carver, a cellarman, and a baker—for his entertaining. He even had a special room set aside at Westminster for his future Council Chamber.

  I was playing near my house in the muddy main street when my fantasy world was shattered.

  “The Prince is dead,” Rob said, wiping his nose in the raw weather. Rob was an outsized boy who lived three houses away from me. I remember that the tip of his nose was bright red and his cheeks blotched.

  “What?” I said, forgetting to kick the leather-covered ball.

  “I said he’s dead. The new Prince.” Rob quickly took advantage of my pause to capture the ball for himself.

  “What?” I broke up the game by trailing after him, demanding, “What?” over and over.

  “I said he’s dead. What’s the matter? Are you deaf?” Rob planted his stocky legs in the mud and glared at me. I noticed that his hands had chilblains. There was red oozing between the cracks of his fingerjoints as well.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” He dismissed my question with the contempt it deserved. “ ’Cause God wanted it that way. Stupid!” He pitched the ball at my stomach and knocked the breath out of me.

  It was a fine answer—the very one that haunted the King himself, I was to learn years later.

  The King gave his son a funeral that stinted nothing. The hearse alone was bedecked with a thousand pounds of candles. Prince Henry, aged fifty-two days, was laid to rest in Westminster Abbey—where the shouts from the nearby celebratory tournaments had rung against the stones only nine days earlier.

  Curiously, Henry records the death in an almost Roman, stoic fashion, as if he confused the mood of the masque with the real event. It was most uncharacteristic of him, who was usually so vocal in his outrage.

  XIX

  HENRY VIII:

  But the next morning I had no thoughts for the people or what they would do with the pieces of my clothes, nor did I care. The next morning I had to make funeral arrangements; for Prince Henry had died in his crib even while the play was being enacted. My Hercules had not been able to overcome the serpents (sent by whom?—for we do not believe in Juno) that sought to take his breath.

  If he had lived, he would be thirty-five today.

  It was here the split began between Katherine and myself. Her grieving took the form of submission, of prostrating herself before the will of God, of devoting herself to His demands, in the form of prayer life and observances. She joined the Third Order of St. Francis, a branch of that discipline for those still in “the world.” But it enjoined the wearing of a coarse habit beneath one’s regular clothes, as well as rigorous fasting and long hours of prayer. Although its adherents remained physically in “the world,” in spirit they began to dwell elsewhere.

  I, on the other hand, turned outward. I looked into that inward-turning funnel of spiritual exercises that Katherine had flung herself into, and it frightened and repelled me. It was actions I understood—clean, precise, compelling actions—and it was here I must lose myself . . . or find myself and, in so doing, restore myself to God’s favour. I had not been perfect enough in my deeds; I had not gone to war in person against Christ’s (and England’s) enemies.

  Wolsey aided me, here when I most needed him. Despite his office as a priest, it was actions that he, too, understood best: the world of men, not of the spirit. And what was the world of men that was spread out before us, like a box of sweetmeats with its top flipped open?

  The Holy League—the Pope’s alliance against the French—waited to welcome England into it. His Holiness had drawn up a document recognizing me as rightful King of France, once I had vanquished Paris. Maximilian, the Holy Roman Emperor, stood ready to serve in the field beside me.

  I would take my place on the Continental stage, to pursue England’s lost dream of conquering France in its entirety. Perhaps that was what God truly required of me; perhaps it was here that I had failed Him. As King, there were certain tasks I must undertake, as surely as a knight at Arthur’s Round Table was given them, and to shirk them meant shame and cowardice. England had come close to conquering France, had once held huge chunks of French territory. Henry VI had even been crowned King of France in Paris. But that was nearly a hundred years ago, in 1431. Since then the French had rallied, had pushed us back little by little, while we Englishmen fought ourselves on our own land, until nothing remained of our holdings in France but little Calais and a pitifully small area surrounding it—some nine miles deep and twelve miles wide.

  Perhaps, when I conquered France, God would turn His face toward me. I became more and more convinced of it.

  My advisors and Council, by and large, were not convinced. Of my desire to redeem myself with God they were unaware; but they were against war with France. Father had spoiled them with his lack of involvement in foreign entanglements, and like any privileged state, they had got used to it. After all, it was Father’s leftover councillors who had renewed the peace treaty with France, behind my back. These churchmen—Ruthal, Fox, and Warham—a pacifist trio, continued to thwart me and preach endlessly of the uselessness, the expense, the evil of war. The nobles on the Council—Howard, Earl of Surrey, and de Vere, Earl of Oxford and Lord High Admiral, whose raison d’être was making war—were in favour of it. But the Church was not, and even the intellectuals (so carefully imported and cultivated to give a humanist polish to my court!) were not. Erasmus, Vives, Colet—they blathered and wrote such nonsense as “anyone who went to war because of ambition or hatred, he fought under the banner of the Devil.”

  Disgruntled, at one point I asked Wolsey to ascertain the exact cost of provisioning and equipping a force of thirty thousand men, so I would have true figures with which to argue. I made no muster rolls or correspondence available to Wolsey. By now I knew he was so industrious and resourceful he did not need any direction from me other than a vaguely worded request.

  However, as days passed without my seeing him, and as need arose to consult with him about a rumour that the fierce Pope Julius lay deathly ill, I made inquiries as to his whereabouts. At that time he lived in a small suite of rooms in the palace, adjoining the Chapel Royal, with only one manservant and one secretary. I did the unusual thing of going to his quarters myself. But Jonathan, his manservant, told me that his master was “moved to an inn in Kent, thereby to keep counsel with himself for a time.” I glanced into the plain, sparsely furnished room. All the table surfaces were bare; he had taken all his papers with him.

  “And where is that?”

  “At Master Lark’s, Your Grace. He has an inn called the . . .” The fellow twisted his face in remembering. “. . . Lark’s Morning. Near Chilham.”

  Lark. Lark. Where had I heard that
name? The Lark’s Morning. Good name for an inn. I would find it. By God, it would make a fine morning’s ride, and I was ready for one. Should I ask Katherine? A gallop together, in the damp March air—but no, this was her prayer-time. Nonetheless, I could ask. Perhaps she would . . . ? No. She would not.

  Thus we use our supposed “knowledge” of others to speak on their behalf, and condemn them for the words we ourselves put in their silent mouths.

  Having asked Katherine in my mind, and been refused, I was free to go alone.

  I enjoyed the ride, galloping over the bare, frost-hardened fields and dull brown earth. March is an ugly month, uglier even than November, its lifeless counterpart. I was glad to reach the Lark’s Morning (easy to find, on the main road to Dover), warm myself inside at the fire, and put some heated ale in my belly.

  The innkeeper’s daughter (she was too young and pretty to be his wife) seemed unusually flustered when she recognized me. I was accustomed, now, to the stir I caused by my presence (odd how easy it is to become used to being taken for a god), but she seemed more frightened than awed. This puzzled me. I made sure I spoke to her gently, to ease her fears.

  “I seek Thomas Wolsey, one of my almoners. Tell me, is he hereabout?”

  She smiled; or rather, her mouth twitched.

  “Father Wolsey,” I said. “A priest.”

  “Aye. He’s—he took quarters in the adjoining farmstead.”

  Farmstead? What possessed him? “My thanks.”

  The ramshackle building lay some fifty yards behind the inn, hidden by a hedgerow. That was fortunate, as it was such an eyesore it would have kept customers away from the inn.

  Outside, two little boys were playing. As always, when I saw male children, pain and (yes, admit it) anger rushed through me. I turned away, making my eyes leave them.

  I pushed open the loose, flapping door. Instantly I recognized the characteristic heavy odour of metal. A black-robed figure was moving about inside, stirring up the concentrated smell that was the very essence of war.

  “Wolsey!”

  He almost jumped—the only time I have ever seen him truly taken by surprise.

  “Your Grace!” So abruptly did he turn, the folds of his gown swirled like foam.

  “What are you doing here?” My voice was sharper than I had intended. Letting the door swing all the way inward, I saw piles and piles of shields, helmets, lances, mail shirts, swords, and handguns on the dirt floor.

  “Testing equipment, Your Grace. I have here a sample of each type available to us, along with its cost and delivery time”—he grabbed a sheaf of papers and began thumbing through them—“speed of manufacture, and accessibility. Before we can place orders, first-hand knowledge of the quality is required. For example, the foundry at Nuremberg . . . its shields seem decidedly flimsy to me, Your Grace.” He plucked an oval-shaped one from the pile. “Press here. You see? It indents too easily. However, one must take into account the speed of delivery, as opposed to Milan, from which shipments could take a year to reach us.” The facts came spurting out; his voice vibrated with excitement.

  “How have you . . . obtained all this?” I had given him his assignment on Tuesday; it was just now only Friday.

  “Your Grace! I consider it my privilege to carry out any task with thoroughness and speed.”

  Thoroughness and speed scarcely described his actions here. Monomania came closer.

  “Yes. I see. Well, do you have the figures?”

  “Of course.”

  Of course. I cocked one eyebrow.

  “The basic cost in arms, including cannon, would be twenty-five thousand pounds. Then there is the cost of rigging and preparing Your Grace’s seven warships. And, you had mentioned commissioning a ‘great’ ship as well?”

  “Aye. The largest vessel since ancient Rome.” I had designed her in my mind—a thousand-ton warrior. “I left my plans with the master shipwright at Portsmouth—”

  “I have them here.” He pointed to a leather portfolio resting on his rickety table. I felt not gratified, but peeved.

  “It would take two years to build,” he said. “Now, as to the provisioning—the carts, the tents, the food, the horses—oh, that’s the headache. Impossible to say. Take ten thousand pounds, and double that. But, oh! I have found something extraordinary! I know how Your Grace loves artillery, particularly cannon . . . am I correct?”

  “Yes.” My response was guarded.

  “Regardez!” He pulled out a sheet with sketches of giant cannon—bombards, the type used to break down city walls. “There is a foundry in the Netherlands ready to cast a set of twelve in bronze—beautiful creatures, each named after a different Apostle! Here is Saint John the Evangelist!” He thrust the sketch into my hand.

  “And the cost?” I kept my voice calm, although inside I was now ignited with war-desire. Its implements and adornings aroused me like a woman.

  “One thousand three hundred forty-four pounds, ten shillings per gun, with an added twelve pounds per gun carriage.”

  “That is a total of . . .”

  “Sixteen thousand two hundred seventy-eight pounds.”

  Outrageous. More than all the other regular cannon combined. But I must have them, no question of it. I lusted after them.

  “How long a delivery time?”

  “They are ready to cast them,” he said triumphantly. “They can be delivered to Calais by June.”

  “Well done, Wolsey, well done. But the total cost, all these considerations together?”

  “Sixty-one thousand two hundred seventy-eight pounds.”

  More than ten times the total government expenditure of last year! I was stunned.

  Reading my face, he said apologetically, “We shall have to ask Parliament.”

  “No! I shall not! I shall not go a-begging from my own subjects, like a boy! I shall pay for it all from the Treasury!”

  He allowed an actual emotion to cross his usually inscrutable face. It was exasperation. “Your Grace, Parliament would readily grant you funds for the war. Why not use the people’s money rather than your own?”

  “Then it will not be my war. I wish to be both its patron and its hero!” There, I had said it, my deepest desire—and surprised even myself.

  He spread his hands as if to say, There you have it. Well, then, there’s no remedy. “As you wish.” How beautifully he gave in.

  “Forgive me if I tread on painful ground,” he said. “But Dean Colet preached a pacifist sermon again, last Sunday at Greenwich.”

  “I have . . . convinced him.” I almost said “silenced.”

  “A relief for us all.” He smiled.

  “Pope Julius lies ill. What think you? Is he like to die? And if so, what does this do to our war?”

  “My sources say he is not seriously ill, merely diplomatically ill. He will recover. He means to push France out of Italy. Louis’s latest victories there—they come too close to home. No, the Holy League will stand.”

  “England, Spain, the Holy Roman Empire, Venice, the Pope—everyone against France!” I said ecstatically.

  “And England the only oak,” he said. “The only oak in a sea of reeds.”

  I was startled that Wolsey should speak so derogatorily about my allies. This man who collected and tested all equipment must surely have a reason. “Pray explain yourself.”

  He made a show of demurring. Then he spoke. “Ferdinand, the Spanish King—how reliable is he? He lured England into that sham of an expedition against the Infidels, which came to nothing.”

  True. My archers had sat and rotted in Guienne, while Ferdinand decided to attack Navarre instead.

  “It is Queen Katherine who inclines you toward her father. But is a son-in-law’s duty compatible with a King’s?” The words hung on the air between us. “And Maximilian, the Emperor—he is known as a liar. He prides himself on his lies. Why, when Louis accused him of deceiving him twice, he cackled, ‘He lies. I deceived him three times!’ As for Venice, she has no army. Now, what
a rabble—with you as the only true knight!”

  “But when an honest knight pursues the course of truth, what matter if his allies are false? God will direct him!” I believed that; truth to tell, I believe it still.

  “It is our duty to use our resources wisely against Satan,” he agreed. “But this alliance . . . how can you conquer, without unfeigned assistance? A false ally is worse than an enemy.”

  But I still believed in my allies. Nor did I realize that Wolsey inclined so toward the French. The French were civilised, masters of style, as was Wolsey, the butcher’s son. We are surprises to our parents.

  I changed the subject. “There is danger from the Scots. They obey no laws of honour or chivalry. They are like to attack whilst we are occupied in France.”

  “They are French allies. The ‘auld alliance,’ they call it. Although two more unlikely partners I am hard put to imagine!” The brawling Scots with the mincing French. Laughable. “Leave an able soldier behind to contain them.”

  “Howard,” I said. “Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey. He is from the North, he knows it well.”

  Just then, two dancing shadows came into the building.

  “Father! Father!” they called.

  How sweet. The little lads had an affectionate relationship with the visiting priest.

  “Mother does not feel well,” they whined.

  “I am busy.” Wolsey’s voice was hard.

  “She was sick last week, and you not here with us!”

  Wolsey was their father. This priest had sons!

  “I understand,” I said. “I know now what you do at the Lark’s Morning! I shall speak with you later.” I was shaking with rage, betrayal. “In London.”

  “No, Your Grace! I dare not leave you!” His face registered alarm. “It is true, I have sinned with the fair daughter of Lark! I loved her—but look you, I shall not keep her! If I have your love, I need no other! Pray, give me that love, and I’ll not look elsewhere! Never, never!”