The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  We passed out through the Bishopsgate of the city walls, and directly into the countryside. It was still in that darkest time of night, even at midsummer. I could not see what lay before me. Only Richard, motioning me on, guided me. He knew this road well. It was well worn between the Priory of St. Lawrence and the house of Wolsey, its protector and patron.

  Dawn came up early in the eastern skies to our right as we rode. I had tried, all the way and in silence, to banish the picture in my mind of the malevolent child my true wife had borne me. The darkness could not lend itself to this. I could bear to think about it in daylight, no other time. The curse was buried now, safely.

  Up came the sun. The countryside about us was fresh. The sun licked all the growing furrows of the fields, encouraging them as children. The intense greenness seemed a promise of explosion into fertility and, beyond that, ripeness. A green goddess presided over these fields.

  “Here.” Novice Richard reined in his horse and pointed straight into the rising sun.

  For a moment I saw nothing. Then the honey-coloured stones took shape before my eyes, growing into a large building.

  We galloped along the pathway, blinded by the rising red-gold sun.

  At the great gatehouse, a fat monk blinked once as he beheld, then recognized me.

  “Your Majesty.” He gathered his robes and scurried down to the entrance, where he did obeisance. “The Lady is in the Prior’s residence.”

  The Lady: a euphemistic way of denoting Bessie.

  Silently, Richard pointed toward a small house. It stood apart from the rest of the monastery, not attached in any way.

  “I thank you,” I said. I liked Richard. He seemed to have sensitivity and human love—as distinct from the divine sort, which often does not understand. I dug into my purse to reward him for his twelve hours’ journey. He stopped me.

  “Pray—make a gift to Our Lady in my name,” he said, his eyes boring into mine.

  Our Lady. The Lady. The very word was alive with devotion and emotion.

  “If you prefer,” I said.

  I made my way into the Prior’s lodging, where Bessie was. Wolsey had made all these arrangements. It was he who had selected this particular priory over any other. I presumed that he had had his reasons. For what characteristics would one select a priory? Worldliness, charity, comfort, anonymity?

  The Prior embodied all four. Once again my mind applauded Wolsey, whilst my soul condemned him as a blot on the priesthood.

  The Prior, alerted to our arrival, was all attentiveness and discretion.

  He was young. That surprised me. His name was Father Bernard (after Saint Bernard of Clairvaux?). He bowed and said, “When Mistress Blount came to us—sent by Cardinal Wolsey, who has a charitable nature and a kind heart—we decided to lodge her as a noble guest in our own quarters. For who, indeed, can judge another? The innkeeper in Bethlehem showed us the way: that all visitors are Divine Guests.”

  His flattery choked me, and my heart was broken besides.

  “Where is she?” was all I could ask.

  “In the apartments above,” he said, gesturing. “Above my own,” he added.

  I mounted the stone steps in the ancient quarters. There were carpets on the stairs, and I noticed that only the finest beeswax candles were mounted in the sconces. Unlit, and new: that meant they discarded the half-burnt ends, never using them. But once on the landing above, I forgot all these things, as a novice came forward at once, anxiously.

  “Your Majesty!” He fell to his knees.

  “Up, up.” I gestured. “The Lady?” I might as well use the euphemism, as all the rest did.

  “Into her labour. But not at the end yet, Sire, as it is the first.”

  Yes, the first always took longer.

  The novice removed himself; a hovering priest took charge.

  “The midwives and infirmarians are with her,” he said. His very words made me sure that they disapproved. “They think it will be soon.”

  Very well. I turned my back, indicating that he should depart from me. I looked out over the grounds of St. Lawrence’s, delighting in the order, the simplicity, the production. That was what I longed for in my realm.

  I thought of going to the church, which I could see blocked out before me, a great grey building. But I was afraid of missing the end of Bessie’s time, and also . . . I was too confused, I cannot write it clearly. But I felt that even cleansed as I was, it was presumptuous to visit the altar of the Lord. . . .

  “Your Majesty!” A young novice came to the chamber doors. “Mistress Blount has a fair son!”

  A son.

  “She calls for you.” He smiled. No condemnation there. (Was he too young? Too close to the source of temptation?)

  “I come.”

  I followed the young man through the doors of the waiting room, through the Prior’s receiving room, and into the inner guest chamber. I noted, even in my distracted state, that it was lavishly appointed.

  A midwife, accompanied by a nurse, came toward me, like a priest elevating a Host.

  “Your son,” they said, almost in unison. They presented a bundle to me. I peered into it.

  It was his face. Prince Henry’s. Exactly the same.

  Jesu! I wanted to cross myself. The dead child brought back to life again, in another child, one who could never inherit the throne—whilst the child of the Queen was born a thing accursed.

  “Henry,” I murmured, in recognition.

  “Henry!” they cried, all the onlookers.

  The wrapped bundle felt as heavy and vigorous as the other one. God had returned him to me. But not by Katherine.

  Now I shook. I could not think on it. I knew not what it meant.

  The midwife indicated that I should follow her. “In this chamber, Your Majesty, she awaits.” How delicately she phrased it.

  I passed through an adjoining room to find Bessie all bathed, perfumed, coiffed, and awaiting my attendance. Curiously, I did not find her beautiful, but false. Women after childbirth should not resemble perfumed courtesans.

  “Bessie,” I said, coming to her side. The morning light was streaming in through windows on the right side of the room. Motes danced in the sunlight. The casements were cranked wide open, and the mixed, heady smell of the infirmarians’ herb garden below was rolling into the chamber. I fancied that the odour made me drowsy. For I was suddenly and overwhelmingly sleepy.

  “We have a son,” she said.

  “Yes. We have a son. I have seen him.” My head was swirling, muddled. “He is . . . perfect.” Such a stupid word. Such a word that said everything.

  “He looks like you.” She smiled, touched my hand. All that filthy passion, made beautiful in an infant. God’s grace? I knew not. My head spun.

  “We will name him Henry,” I said.

  “And for his surname?” she gently nudged.

  “Fitzroy. A traditional way of saying ‘son of a King.’ ” She smiled. “For this has happened before.” She stopped smiling.

  The infant had been bathed, swathed, and put in his cradle. I stood looking over him for a long while. His resemblance to my lost Prince Henry was unsettling.

  My wife had had a monster. My mistress had had a healthy son.

  Clearly, God was giving me a message. One too blatant for even me to ignore.

  I spent the remainder of the long summer’s day at the Priory. Bessie fell asleep, sleeping the sleep of the young and healthy, undisturbed by conscience, worn out by natural physicality.

  The Priory was a neat little community. It nestled in the slightly rolling foothills of Essex, which looked like green knolls. Everything seemed ordered and elevated into more than the everyday. I walked through the stables, the kitchen garden of herbs, the greater vegetable garden. Everything was kept in the most transcendent order, as though the Lord might appear at any moment and call for a stewardship account. In polishing the hinges of the gate between the herb garden and the kitchen, an unknown brother was welcoming God Himself,
for who knew when He might come?

  Yet, at the same time, the Prior’s quarters were meant to exude luxury. The Prior would claim it was to honour the Priory. Yet would it honour Christ? Would Christ have a bed of down, in case visitors stopped by? Yet He would surely welcome visitors. And we are commanded to make ready for them. Did He require of us a bed of down, or a bed of straw?

  Henry Fitzroy was christened in the chapel of the Priory—a dainty thing with stone carvings resembling lace—with Bessie and me in attendance. Wolsey was godfather, and Bessie’s sister Katherine and a nun from the nearby convent of Chelmsford acted as godmothers. His christening robe was a Blount one, fashioned and embroidered by a woman on the ancestral Lincolnshire lands. They would make a family legend of Henry Fitzroy. Good for them, as I could offer him little. It was good they could offer him much.

  I stood next to Bessie and held her close.

  “We have a son,” I said, “that will bind us forever.”

  “Not as I wish, with our hearts. Oh, Henry, I—”

  I stopped her. As I could not give her my heart, I did not wish to receive hers. It was not a thing I could keep in trust.

  “Bessie, you have had my best.”

  I touched her hair—her marvellous, rich hair.

  I had spoken truth. She had had my best, and it was a sad, unstraight thing, my best. Yet we had a son.

  XXVIII

  Wolsey and I sat in a private room at York Place. Although it was July, and the sounds of summer on the Thames could be heard through his open windows (and the smells be smelled), Wolsey made no concession to the season. His crimson satin was garnet-coloured in places where the sweat had soaked through, but only his use of a Spanish fan gave any indication that he felt warm. It was a huge one, used in Spanish dancing, which Katherine had once given him, to pretend that she liked him.

  “Francis has lost,” he said. “The money was not enough.” He indicated the letter containing this news.

  “Good.” Every gold piece out of Francis’s treasury gladdened me. “He was a fool to spend it so.” Maximilian had died, leaving the office of Holy Roman Emperor open. Francis had tried to buy the votes of the German electors, but had been outbid by Charles. Now Charles was Holy Roman Emperor as well as King of Spain. It was no surprise to anyone except Francis.

  “The Habsburg boy has one foot planted in Spain and the other in Germany,” murmured Wolsey.

  “That positions him to piss all over France.” I laughed at my schoolboy humour.

  Wolsey smiled indulgently. “Yes.”

  “What is this business about the mad monk?” I suddenly asked, catching Wolsey off guard. I enjoyed doing that, for reasons I do not care to explore.

  “The German? Luther?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. I would like to read his ‘Ninety-five Theses,’ the ones he nailed up on the Wittenberg church doors. Obtain a copy for me. You know I enjoy theology.” More than Wolsey himself, I daresay.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. He has caused quite a stir in Germany. The Church there was—well, quite corrupt. And Pope Leo—really, it was stupid of him to try to raise money for that new basilica of his by selling indulgences. I know, it seemed easy at the time, but it was too visible. Especially since the whole project of a new St. Peter’s was questionable. Many sincere people don’t see a need for it at all. It was all Pope Julius’s idea to begin with. And then Julius died and left Leo stuck with the mess!”

  “Inconsiderate. The only way out is for Leo to die. But the Church does need reforming. . . .” Against my will, I let myself think back on the Priory of St. Lawrence, with its fat, worldly, and mannered monks. Not a Luther among them. No tortured souls there. “And that Priory of St. Lawrence which you sponsor is a case in point.”

  He fanned himself rapidly, and the perfumed wood scented the air. “Was it not satisfactory? Was it unclean? Were the accommodations not comfortable?” he asked in alarm.

  “Indeed they were. But they smacked more of Herod’s palace than of the inn of Bethlehem.”

  “I plan to close it soon,” he said hastily. “And use the income to found the college I had planned, at Oxford.”

  “Oh, yes. ‘Cardinal’s College.’ So the rich monks will give way to poor scholars. Good. And as for . . . Mistress Blount? Have you . . . ?” I let the question dangle.

  “Married a fortnight ago. It had to be with a ward of mine, from Lincolnshire. I took my time, Your Majesty, and looked about, but I had to settle. The property was good.” He shrugged apologetically.

  “Who was it?”

  “Gilbert Tailboys.” He paused. “Son of the mad Lord Kyme.”

  “Lord Kyme was declared a lunatic two years ago! I remember the legal hearings!”

  “Yes. Therefore the property went to his son Gilbert, even though Lord Kyme is still alive.”

  “Is it—the madness—what kind?”

  “I don’t believe it is hereditary.”

  But perhaps it was. In youth, Lord Kyme had seemed normal. Holy Blood, what had I sentenced Bessie to? Marriage to a man who might go insane at any moment?

  “She was not easy to marry, Your Majesty. It had to be with someone whose background had some question about it.”

  Just as hers did. Because of me.

  “Where are they now?”

  “In Lincolnshire. Living in Skelyngthorpe Castle there, on the borders of the great forest of Kyme.”

  Stuck away in the northern wilds, with only an incipient madman for a companion.

  Bessie, forgive me.

  No, she could never forgive me. I would not, had someone wronged me so.

  “Where is my son?”

  Again, the uncomfortable admission of things gone awry. “With his mother.”

  “But—” I had given orders that he be maintained by Wolsey as his ward.

  “She begged for him, Your Majesty. So I allowed her to keep him until he is weaned. Then he shall come to me. I made her sign papers to that effect,” he assured me.

  “It will be impossible to retrieve him.”

  “Difficult, but not impossible. The advantage is that, far away from court as he’ll be, no one need know of his existence—unless you decide to make it known.”

  “Yes.” That was true. Why flaunt him in Katherine’s face? His existence served no purpose other than to torment us both, whereas he might bring Bessie some little joy.

  Now I wished to speak no more of this painful subject. It was closed forever.

  “The meeting with Francis,” I said.

  Wolsey understood all my meanings. “You will scarce believe this, but yesterday a letter arrived, requesting me to make the arrangements for the French meeting site as well.” He handed me the letter.

  What a strange fellow this Francis was!

  “Then do so.” The whole business had begun to get out of hand. From a simple meeting between the two of us, it had ballooned into an affair whereby the entire English court would meet the entire French court. Such a thing had never been done before, in either ancient or present-day practice. My courtiers were either wildly enthusiastic about it or disdainful of the idea as a whole. No one was indifferent. Wolsey was one of the enthusiastic ones.

  “I suppose since Leonardo da Vinci died, and Francis could not have his services as he’d hoped in designing the tents—” Wolsey attempted a look of modesty.

  “He took the next best thing,” I assured him.

  For once Wolsey did not seem to suspect sarcasm. “I intend to do my best for him.”

  Suddenly I remembered something that gave me great pleasure: Francis had reputedly bought a substandard painting of Leonardo’s just to placate him and entice him to France. Ha! Now he was out his money, out of Leonardo’s services, and stuck with the dark painting of the half-smiling woman that everyone agreed was ugly.

  “And I am showing my good intentions on my face,” I said, fingering my new beard. Francis had proposed that neither of us shave until the meeting, as a token of good faith. I was no
t sure I liked myself with a beard. Certainly it changed my face.

  WILL:

  As it turned out, Katherine hated the beard and begged him to cut it, “for her sake.” Still trying not to cross her, still half hoping for an heir, Henry succumbed and shaved the beard. This provoked a diplomatic crisis, as Francis was thereby offended, and Henry’s ambassadors had to explain the circumstances. Francis’s “dear mother” Louise hastened to assure them that “men’s love is shown not in their beards but in their hearts,” and the incident was smoothed over.

  Then, belatedly, Henry started growing the beard again just prior to his departure. Thereby it was not long enough to offend Katherine, but could serve as a token of goodwill toward Francis. Such are the weighty considerations that diplomats must deal with.

  HENRY VIII:

  June, 1520. I stood on the castle deck of Great Harry in the fairest winds God ever sent mortal man. We skimmed across the Channel—nay, we flew. The great sails, painted to look like cloth-of-gold (trompe-l’oeil, the French say—oh, they have a word for everything!), billowed out and did their duty. We were bound for Calais, to undertake the great meeting between the French and English courts. It had all come about, despite the deep reservations of everyone on both sides.

  Including—perhaps most of all?—Katherine, who mounted the steps up to the forecastle to stand, now, by my side. Part of me noted how slowly, how painfully she moved. Her arthritis had made stair-climbing difficult for her in the past two years. The other part of me welcomed her presence as a companion.

  “Look, see! There is Calais!” I had sighted it only once before, but took an authority’s pleasure in pointing it out to her.

  Before us was France and the cupped, fine landing beaches of her northern coast. Behind us, equally visible, were the high white cliffs of England.

  “It looks so harmless,” she said.

  “It is harmless. For the land you see is England, the Pale of Calais.”