The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

The men made formations, made a perfect alignment. Then they fell back, leaving a large gap in their center. A glittering figure appeared far back in that central gap—like Moses striding through the Red Sea.

  Francis came closer, his great stallion picking its steps carefully while he seemed unconcerned with what his horse did. Once it stopped to accept some sweetmeat from a child, and its rider leaned forward and patted its neck. This while another King waited! I felt anger—and insult—rising within me.

  Casually the rider brought his horse back onto the prescribed route (one wondered if he would have dismounted for a picnic?) and faced me again, while riding forward slowly. I did likewise. No one else moved.

  Francis and I inched toward one another, with thousands of eyes upon us. I watched him intently as he approached. Now we were within ten feet of one another, and I could see every detail of his costume—a thing overburdened with lace and jewels, altogether too gaudy. We faced each other stiffly. Then he suddenly dismounted, with a surprisingly fluid motion. One moment he was seated on his horse, the next striding toward me, arms outstretched. Then I myself dismounted, strode forward, and embraced him with all the heartinesss that strangers reserve for one another. I could feel the surprising strength in him as he grasped me. Then we drew back and looked full into one another’s faces for the first time.

  He is not handsome, was my first thought. I noted many flaws in his countenance, flaws I admit I welcomed. His nose was large and long, and made him resemble a ferreting animal of some sort. But he was large—perhaps my own height.

  “Brother!” he said, kissing my cheek.

  “Frère!” I said, kissing his.

  We drew back and held one another at arm’s length, and Francis smiled. “I am happy to welcome you!” he said, in oddly accented English.

  “Let us all embrace!” he cried, wildly. “Let there be a great ceremony of love!”

  Soon all the courtiers were dismounted and mingling, although hardly engaging in a ceremony of love. But they were speaking, which in itself was astounding.

  “You will dine with me tonight!” said Francis, in a low voice. His French was much more pleasing than his English. He turned and gestured toward the crowd with pride. “If only our ancestors could have beheld this—and our friendship!” He squeezed my hand with his cold, jewelled fingers.

  On the great royal dais in the temporary banquet hall in Ardres that evening, I looked condescendingly at Francis, seated beside me. He was a boy, an overeager child. There was that about his person which was un-royal. It was a pity Louis had not given Mary a son. For true royalty is there from the first moment a child draws breath, and Francis did not possess it, that mysterious substance.

  Still, he wore the Crown of France.

  Over and over I found myself observing him, noticing his hose and his cap and his facial expressions.

  The King of France.

  His Most Christian Majesty.

  Was it he who had fought at Marignano, won Milan, and left twenty thousand Swiss mercenaries dead?

  Beside him on the dais sat Queen Claude, her belly puffed up with the eight-months child beneath. She had already borne Francis two sons.

  At my right hand sat Katherine, gamely biting her lip and bearing her painful joints.

  “Ah! The surprise!” exclaimed Francis, as the servers brought in platters heaped high with yellowish-green pyramidal shapes. The head steward walked stiffly, bearing a golden tray with the artfully arranged fruits toward us. He knelt and presented it.

  “La Reine Claude!” announced Francis, plucking the top fruit off the apex of the pyramid, and depositing it ceremoniously upon my plate. “A royal fruit, developed by our own gardeners at the Palace of Blois, which will honour my beloved Queen forever,” he proclaimed. A dainty, pearl-handled knife and fork were set out for me to use in eating it, and a pitcher of frothed cream to dribble over it.

  The fruit was succulent—sweet, juicy, with just a hint of sourness to give it tang.

  “As my Queen,” said Francis, when I told him this—in French. Francis’s English being poor, we conversed entirely in French. “You must develop a fruit or flower for your fair Queen,” he said.

  All falsehood, as his later ungallant remarks on Katherine made clear!

  All about us were our courtiers, purposely scrambled and sitting together at the long trestle tables. Afterwards they would dance together, too, the men and ladies. Up and down the tables, conversation seemed lively.

  “I understand you are a formidable dancer,” Francis said. “It must be an English talent. For your fair ladies that have remained at my court in the wake of the widowed Queen’s hurried departure . . . ah, they dance as if it were their profession!”

  Some few unimportant people had remained in France after Mary had eloped with Brandon. But what of them? They were negligible.

  “What dance measures do you prefer?” he pressed me. “I will instruct my musicians.”

  “I dance anything. It is of no matter which begins.”

  “A monarch without modesty!” he exclaimed. “How refreshing!”

  As the tables were cleared away, the musicians began to assemble in the far end of the hall. There were not as many of them as in an English ensemble, but I trusted they would make decent music.

  Katherine and I would lead out the first measure, an Alhambra-rhythm, as danced in Spain. She could still do a turn and execute a measure to those melodies, recalling her girlhood.

  The company applauded dutifully. Then Francis and his Queen did a slow, dignified dance.

  Now both Claude and Katherine could be retired, while Francis and I danced with others, having honoured our spouses.

  Francis brought a woman over to me. I had seen her in the French company and at once began speaking French to her, when Francis corrected me.

  “She is one of yours, mon frère.” He touched her bare shoulders lightly. “An Englishwoman. Mary Boleyn.”

  The lady bowed. She was wearing a May-green gown, as I recall, that wrapt round her shoulders and breasts. Her hair was that honey colour which always aroused me, whether in fabric or hair or just the sun streaming into a room. It was my weakness. How did Francis know?

  I took her as my partner. “An Englishwoman, harboured in the very French court?” I murmured. She followed my every movement, as no Englishwoman ever had. It was both maddening and seductive. “How many of you were there?”

  “Not many,” she replied. “My sister Anne, for one.”

  I looked about to indicate curiosity. In France, I already felt, everything was indirect, including questions.

  “She is too young to be here. She does not yet put up her hair. A wild creature, so our father says.”

  “Perhaps France will tame her.”

  “That is his hope. In truth, France does not tame, but refines, boldness.”

  The message was clear. I took it. “When we return to England, we would take comfort from your presence,” I said.

  One sentence. So much simpler than the untutored business with Bessie.

  “As you wish,” she replied, looking at me. She did not touch me.

  That inflamed me more. She was a clever courtesan.

  For courtesan she was. I could recognize one by now. This one had been polished by Francis to a high sheen. Had he enjoyed her? What had he taught her?

  I had resolved not to involve myself with women, after the business with Bessie. But a practised courtesan? Surely that was different.

  And the truth was that celibacy was irksome. The marital duty was a thing apart from all else, and did not even break one’s celibacy. I dutifully did what I should with Katherine. But it did not quiet my blood. This Mary might just do so.

  It was well past midnight in the English tent-city surrounding the palace at Guines. Some of the tents in the great assemblage gave off an eerie glow, like resting fireflies: the effect of candlelight shining through cloth-of-gold on a dark night. Even as I watched, some lights were extinguished and faded
out into the night.

  I dismounted on sudden impulse and waved away my attendant, who was waiting to accompany me to my apartments. I wished to walk alone in the night air.

  Is there anything as soft and debilitating as a June midnight in France? The very air seemed voluptuous, but in a sweet sense, like an overripe virgin. Or a fruit left a bit too long on a tree, giving forth a characteristic odour to attract wasps. I inhaled deeply; I had to admit we did not have such nights in England.

  Torches illuminated the immediate area of the palace. I moved to the periphery, in darkness on the edge of a ridge between the royal area and that of the courtiers. A warm breeze lifted my hat and blew it from my head. I started to go after it but it tumbled away, into further darkness, the decorative white feathers on its rim making it resemble a playful will-o’-the-wisp as it bobbed along. The apparition was a blackness rimmed by white, and it called something to mind, something unpleasant—but what? Something dark in the center and white beyond, retreating and teasing. . . . I plumbed my mind for images and could find nothing that should so disturb me.

  The breeze rose and turned into a wind, tugging at my cape like an impatient lover. I thought of Francis and our meeting this day. The Frenchman had been what I had expected in physical appearance, yet not in manner. He seemed to mock everything, and take pleasure in startling others by his unorthodox behaviour. He did not convey the dignity of a king, despite his titles and military victories.

  Military victories . . . war. I had fought here, against France. Our ancient enemy. The French breezes were soft, and the apples juicy, particularly the ones from this region. It would be sweet to own this land. . . .

  I slept as if drugged, and perhaps I was: by the night air, or the apparition? The next morning I slept well past the time when the sun threw squares of light onto the deep red and blue silk carpet by my bedside. Suddenly a clatter of rings accompanied the wrenching open of my velvet bed-curtains, and the face of King Francis stared in at me, a sardonic smile on his lips.

  “I am come to be your valet,” he said. “I wish to wait upon you.” He bowed low.

  Where were my regular attendants? How had Francis gained access to my chamber? How dare he intrude upon me to see me at my most vulnerable? If I had not done so already, I would have hated Francis from that moment.

  I climbed from the high royal bed and faced this intruder. He stood smiling, fully attired, hands on his hips. He knew I would desire to use the jordan, yet he stayed planted in his chosen place. I was equally determined not to use it in his presence.

  “Why are you here? My guards—” I began, aloofly.

  “Were pleased to admit the King of France,” he finished.

  I looked about. Where were my clothes? My Clerk of the Wardrobe had evidently been dismissed along with the rest of my personal attendants. I strode over to the wardrobe room where many garments were hanging, with still more in trunks.

  “Since you wish to be my valet,” I said to Francis, “select my attire.” Let the fool carry out his preposterous mission, then!

  Francis stepped up to the long, peg-studded pole. From each peg hung a garment. He made studied poses beside each one. At length he selected a wine-coloured doublet and matching surcoat.

  “To enhance your enviable colouring,” he said, grinning, as if it were a clever observation.

  I dressed in his selections as hurriedly as possible. I have observed that nothing gives one man advantage over another like conversing with him naked, or not in a fit state to receive others. All the while Francis stood staring at me, a smirk on his weasel-like face. He chattered away about everything, omitting the most obvious: the reason for this unprecedented visit.

  While awaiting my barber, who daily trimmed and washed my short beard, I asked him, “Why have you come?”

  “To know you better, mon frère. To know your person.”

  What a liar he was! I was about to tell him so, when Penny the barber appeared at the door with his customary bowls of scented hot water, towels, combs, scissors, and razors. I settled into a chair and submitted myself to his ministrations.

  A great white towel was draped about my shoulders, and then Penny brandished his silver scissors and began snipping my beard. Francis stood where he was, observing. Would he never leave? I felt my anger rising.

  “Do you still use that type of scissor?” Francis asked, with mock incredulousness. “In France we have a new sort. I am sure you would prefer them, once you had the opportunity to compare.”

  I truly hated the man. Yet I am not clever with instant retorts, as Wolsey and my jester Will are.

  WILL:

  To be lumped with Wolsey! A compliment, or an insult?

  HENRY VIII:

  “This does well enough,” was all I said. “My beard and it are well acquainted.”

  “Yet too long an acquaintance can turn to . . . indifference, is that not correct? As in marriage?”

  Penny’s shears whirled near my throat. I dared not move an inch. “Your own?” I replied.

  “I have been married scarce five years,” he shrugged. “And already three children—”

  “The third is not yet born,” I snapped.

  “But will be soon,” said Francis dreamily. “I hope it will be a girl. I would like a daughter, what with two sons already—”

  “You must strive, then, to be as devoted to your daughter as to your mother. Filial love is a sublime thing, blessed by God.” All the world knew Francis and his mother had an unnatural relationship, or at least an abnormal one for mother and son. It was said he never made a move without her advice, and closeted himself with her until noon every day for “consultations.” She in turn called him, “Mon roi, mon seigneur, mon César, et mon fils.”

  For an instant his smug face altered. Then he smiled. “Indeed,” he said. “I shall name her after my beloved mother. I can think of no greater honour.”

  Evidently, I thought. Pity you cannot marry mere yourself. He was truly disgusting.

  WILL:

  And would Henry not have been closeted with his own mother, had she lived? How closely linked are jealousy and disgust? Why have no learned men studied this? I myself find the question more absorbing than the dreary debates raging today about the true nature of the Eucharist.

  HENRY VIII:

  Penny being through, I raised myself out of the leather chair and removed the towel. “I have business to attend to,” I said pointedly.

  Still, Francis continued to stand before me, smiling absurdly. Must I make a banner and wave it before his hooded eyes? “I thank you for your assistance,” I said. “But now duties call us in separate directions.”

  He bowed. “Indeed. Yet we shall meet later—in the afternoon, for the first joust.”

  Protocol dictated that I accompany him through my private apartments. Reluctantly I joined him and together we left my bedchamber, traversed the inner chamber, and opened the door into the large Privy Chamber. At least a dozen attendants looked expectantly toward us.

  “Bon jour,” said Francis, lifting his plumed bonnet.

  The chamber was some twenty feet wide. Before we had crossed ten, Francis abruptly paused. He put one finger against his cheek and raised his left eyebrow. Then he plucked off his head-covering and tossed it into one corner.

  “Wrestle with me, brother!” he cried.

  He caught me off guard. Before I could even alter my stance, he came at me, hitting me unfairly, throwing me on my back.

  A row of surprised courtiers stared down at my shame. I knew now why Francis had selected a tightly fitting costume for me—it hampered my movements quite effectively.

  He stood back, a false look of consternation on his face. “O! O! Sacre bleu!” He uttered a string of similar French inanities.

  But he did not offer me his hand or help me to my feet. Instead, he stood well back, trying to appear surprised.

  I rose to my feet. “In France, do you not customarily give an opponent the chance to prepare for a co
ntest?”

  “One must always be prepared for the unexpected, cher frère.” He rolled his eyes toward the painted ceiling and shrugged. “Life seldom warns us when she is ready to strike a blow. I merely imitate life.”

  I stripped off the confining surcoat. Let us fight, then, away from public eyes, and defy the protocol banning such contests between monarchs!

  “Imitate an athlete, then—if you can!—and let us wrestle properly,” I challenged him.

  I approached him. Even now my muscles quiver as I relive the moment and remember how I longed to take him.

  “I never repeat an act,” he said loftily, backing away. “Particularly successful ones.”

  “You prefer to repeat mistakes?” I advanced toward him.

  He looked down at the floor. “How dusty the floor is.” His brow furrowed.

  “It is French dirt,” I said. “It seems to lie everywhere.”

  “What a pity you fail to appreciate my realm. How fortunate you need never set foot here again. Fate is kind.”

  “How fortunate that we are ‘brothers’ and you may bask in your false titles in perfect safety.”

  He raised that eyebrow again. “Perhaps Edmund de la Pole’s younger brother, Richard, might make much the same statement to you.” He smiled. “Fortunately such statements are harmless and amusing to us both.” He bowed again. “À bientôt, mon frère!”

  De la Pole! How dare he mention the name of that traitor, who even now was somewhere in France, waiting to be “recognized” as the legitimate King of England? And Francis was shielding him, keeping him in reserve!

  I threw the wine-velvet surcoat and doublet (still flecked with floor-dirt from Francis’s perfidy!) in a far corner.

  “Give them to a French beggar outside the Pale,” I ordered my page. As he started away, I added, “Be sure to bestow them on the most ill and deformed person present.”