The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  These were unsatisfactory examples, not apropos to my case. No, this would not do.

  My son was my son! All knew him to be such. I could not confer legitimacy upon him. But I could confer titles upon him, make him noble, educate and prepare him for the throne and name him heir in my will. He was but six years old, and there was time to let the people know him and learn to love him, so that when the time came . . .

  I stopped stock-still. The answer had been before me all the time. Not a perfect answer, but an answer. I would make him Duke of Richmond, a semi-royal title. I would bring the boy to court. He must be hidden away in the country no longer.

  Katherine would be unhappy. But she must recognize that only in this way could Mary be protected against self-seekers lusting after her throne. Our daughter deserved a better fate.

  WILL:

  One which she did not receive, alas. What Henry most feared has come to pass. The Spanish King Philip II saw Mary only as an opportunity to make England an appendage of Spain. He married her, pretending love; when she refused to put the entire English treasury and navy at his disposal, he left her and returned to Spain. She weeps and pines daily for him. She is the most unhappy of women.

  XXXII

  HENRY VIII:

  There would be a formal investiture ceremony. Along with my son, I would elevate others: my cousin Henry Courtenay would become Marquis of Exeter; my nephew Henry Brandon, Charles and Mary’s nine-year-old son, would become Earl of Lincoln. I would make Henry, Lord Clifford, Earl of Cumberland; Sir Robert Radcliffe would become Viscount Fitzwalter, and Sir Thomas Boleyn, Viscount Rochford. (There are those who snicker at this last appointment, assuming it was made on Mary Boleyn’s merit. This is blatantly untrue—Sir Thomas had served me faithfully on many delicate diplomatic missions.)

  WILL:

  However skilled a diplomat he may have been, he could hardly have been the man of choice to send to the Vatican to plead your annulment case before Clement! Henry showed remarkable blind spots at times, and Thomas Boleyn was an outstanding example. The man was quite clearly a sycophant, willing to sell his children for the highest title.

  HENRY VIII:

  It was held in June, 1525, at Wolsey’s magnificent palace, Hampton Court. Yes, it was finished at last, sitting on its banks of the river twenty miles upstream—a good six hours’ row—from London. Here the Thames had shrunk to a friendly, smaller stream, with only a slight rising and falling due to the tide. All around was green: green meadows, trees, flowering shrubs. The air seemed clear and purified . . . like Eden itself?

  One could glimpse the palace walls as one approached by boat. They were of rich red brick, glowing in the early morning sun. The palace proper was set well back from the boat landing-stage. Not until one disembarked and climbed the steep path up from the riverbank was one rewarded by the sight of the intricate, symmetrical structure, surrounded by its wide, sparkling moat. The moat was ornamental; Hampton Court could have withstood no siege. It was a pleasure-palace, built for beauty and comfort and the delight of all the senses, and it made all older palaces, no matter how opulently appointed, seem dismal by comparison.

  WILL:

  The French, of course, had already begun building those airy, luxurious palaces now known as chateaux. Not for them the cramped, damp fortresses of days past, where one could have comfort and beauty only at the expense of safety. Katherine was right in her suspicions—Wolsey was more French than English.

  HENRY VIII:

  I had never been particularly interested in buildings, which is curious in light of the fact that I designed ships. But as I walked up the broad, inviting—and yes, vulnerable—approach to Hampton Court, I felt something leap within me. I wanted—no, needed—a new palace, one I could design myself . . . to be on land what Great Harry was on the sea. Immediately a name for it came into existence: Nonsuch.

  Even as I began imagining what form my Nonsuch might take, I was diverted by the sights and sounds around me. Wolsey’s retainers filed out, their scarlet-and-gold costumes achingly bright in the clear, early-morning light. They formed a human hedge—a well-trimmed one—for us to pass through, for they were all almost exactly the same height. (I knew that Wolsey chose his showpiece servitors for height, and his advisers for wit, regardless of their looks. An admirable division of qualities.) Trumpeters followed, their silver instruments catching the sun. They blew a fanfare. I sat my horse and waited.

  I had not long to wait. Wolsey was a master at timing, and I heard the crunch of gravel beneath his mule’s feet long before he reached the outer portal, a great gatehouse.

  He emerged, his red satin catching the sun even more brilliantly, if possible, than the silver trumpets. He always contrived to have a grand entrance, by one means or another. Yet it was no use. He was fat and old. The yards of red satin merely emphasized the fact, like wrapping a plump turnip in gleaming ribbon.

  WILL:

  When Henry himself was fat and old, he turned the matter to his own advantage, employing layer upon layer of gold-embroidered velvet, gleaming with jewels, making his shoulders three feet across, a great yoke of strength, while baring his still-thin calves in clinging hose. Aye, Henry knew how to display himself, turning even his physical disadvantages into a stunning triumph of vision.

  HENRY VIII:

  He dismounted, sliding off his beast like an ungainly sack of meal, and walked—waddled—slowly toward me.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, bending as low as his girth would permit, “Hampton Court is yours.” He straightened and smiled, and I smiled back. All was proceeding according to form. I motioned to my men. But before I could do anything further, Wolsey held up his hands—great white things, like a fish’s underbelly.

  “No, Your Majesty. What I said, I said truly. Hampton Court is yours.” He fumbled in his bosom, and all the while the morning sun glinted off the folds of his satin. At length he stopped and pulled out a scroll.

  “It is yours, Your Majesty.” He came up to me and put it into my outstretched hand, making a great arc out of the motion.

  It was a deed to Hampton Court. Affixed to it was an affidavit, signed and witnessed by two lawyers, that he was offering it as a gift to his sovereign.

  I looked about me. All this—a gift? The strengthening sun hit the new red bricks, and already a heat was growing on them. They flamed against the clear June sky. Inside the compound were more apartments, two stories high, circling two inner courtyards. Wolsey’s triumph-piece. How could he give it away?

  I was embarrassed. To refuse was an insult, to accept was to cause Wolsey great pain.

  I lifted my head and tried to look at the throbbingly blue sky overhead, tried to think. But I got no further in my head-lifting than the row of elaborately decorated chimneys I glimpsed, tantalizingly, just beyond the outer courtyard. I wanted this place!

  “Thank you, Wolsey,” I heard myself saying. “We accept your gift, with great thanks.”

  His face did not change, nor betray any emotion: in that instant, my admiration of him leapt tenfold. A consummate master of dissimulation!

  WILL:

  A very bad example for Henry, and worse yet that he admired it. At that time, when Henry was presented with Hampton Court, his face was a looking-glass; all men could read by its reflection what passed in his mind. Within a few years he became the man who said, “Three may keep counsel, if two be away. And if I thought my cap knew my thinking, I would cast it into the fire.” By the end of his life, he could pass a pleasant evening with his wife, knowing he had just signed a warrant for her arrest the next day. Wolsey gave him his first instructions in the art of subterfuge, deceit, and acting—and as always, Henry soon surpassed his teacher.

  HENRY VIII:

  I tucked the deed into my belt. “Let us proceed,” I said, as if nothing unusual had happened, as if my heart were not pounding and my mind racing with excitement at the thought of owning Hampton Court.

  “Of course.” Again he bowed. Then he remounte
d his mule and led us into the inner courtyard.

  I was eager to see what lay just beyond the great gatehouse. I was not disappointed: the square expanse of perfect green grass in the first courtyard was surrounded on all sides by beautifully executed double-storey apartments, all in the same red brick, all with wide windows. From the upper storey one could probably see the surrounding meadows, and the Thames itself. And as the sun slanted down in the late afternoon . . .

  I became aware that I had stopped, so I urged my horse forward. Wolsey had already mounted the specially assembled platform at the far end of the courtyard where the investiture would take place. The spectators would stand on the grass before it. And probably tear it up, was my first fierce thought. I could not bear to have anything mar the perfection of my new possession.

  We mounted the platform, Katherine and I. Painful as it was for her, Katherine’s presence was necessary to confer approval upon the proceedings. Without her, dissidents could always make a case that the Queen had not concurred, and rally round her as an excuse to foment a war. Katherine knew; Katherine understood; as a mother, Katherine appreciated the threat to her own child that I was trying to avert.

  WILL:

  Katherine loved you, you blind fool—the only one of your wives who did! She would have walked naked should you have commanded it!

  HENRY VIII:

  The platform was tastefully laid with Wolsey’s Turkish carpets to hide the raw lumber beneath. There was a chair-of-state for me to sit in while I bestowed honours. Wolsey had thought of everything. But then, was that not why I had elevated him?

  All were assembled. It was near noon, and the sun was straight overhead. Gone was the sweet warmth of early morning. This sun was hot and beat down upon us. I looked longingly at the few feet of cool green grass in a shaded corner of the courtyard. Where was my son?

  Again the trumpets sounded, and from yet another courtyard he approached, coming through the arch and then mounting the platform alone.

  He was dressed in velvet, and his six-year-old face was so serious. So white. He kept his eyes fixed on me the entire time, and as he came closer I could see the beads of perspiration all across his forehead. The heavy velvet . . . yes, he was hot. And afraid. As I had sweated in the dampness of Westminster so many years ago, as I approached my own father. I could feel it all again, could feel the sword across my shoulders, could feel the fright as I looked into my father’s blank eyes. . . .

  But I was not like my father! Surely he could not be afraid of me! And such a beautiful boy, too. My heart broke as I beheld him—everything I had longed for in a son, and with the Tudor red hair!

  I made him Earl of Nottingham and of Somerset and Duke of Richmond, while Katherine fidgeted beside me, and our own daughter, Mary, stared at him with frank curiosity. He then took his place on the platform beside the only other dukes in the realm—Howard and Brandon. Fitzroy now outranked them both, as Duke of Richmond was a semi-royal title. My sister Mary, Brandon’s wife, reached out her hand to the boy and laid it on his little shoulder. She was still beautiful, and had that contented look one wears when one is cherished and in turn cherishes the cherisher. So she was happy with Brandon. Good.

  In the front row of court personages I glimpsed Bessie Blount Tailboys, witnessing her son’s—our son’s—triumph. She was still pretty, and her masses of blonde curls accentuated her healthy complexion. I looked at her and smiled. She returned the smile. There was nothing between us, nothing. How had we gotten this son? A miracle!

  Now the others must come. Henry Brandon, my nine-year-old nephew, to be made Earl of Lincoln. He was big and boisterous and clumsy, like his father. I glanced once again at my son, standing so still and apart from the others, his face so grave . . . no, Henry Brandon was different, cousins though they might be.

  Then came Henry Courtenay, my first cousin. I elevated him from Earl of Devon to Marquis of Exeter. True, there had been suspicion of his family’s loyalty, at one time. But he had been guileless and eager for friendship. I remember his clear blue eyes; they looked straight into mine as I pronounced the words that changed his status. They were the color of a faded blue gown, and utterly without malice. I was to remember them years later, they were to haunt my sleep, when he was found to be a traitor. In my dreams they were always looking at me, and at the same time the sun beating down on my head, making rivulets of sweat trickle down my face. His face was clear and one would have thought him at Ultima Thule, so cool was he.

  I wanted this over now. I was hot, uncomfortable, and hungry. I must confess I also looked forward to the sumptuous banquet I knew Wolsey would have prepared. His banquets were legendary, and each time he tried to surpass his last effort. Most important, it would be cool inside. The sun was a torch overhead.

  There were only a few more. Henry, Lord Clifford, became Earl of Cumberland. Sir Thomas Manners, Lord Roos, became Earl of Rutland. The lowest-ranking ones were last: Robert Radcliffe, to become Viscount Fitzwalter, and Sir Thomas Boleyn, to become Viscount Rochford. As Sir Thomas came forward, I was conscious only of a deep relief that the ceremony was ending. As he approached, I glanced briefly toward his family assembled on the platform.

  And then I saw her. I saw Anne.

  She was standing a little apart from her mother and her sister Mary. She wore a gown of yellow satin and her black hair fell down over her bodice—thick and lustrous and (I somehow knew) with a perfume of its own. Her face was long, with a pale cast, and her body slender.

  She was not beautiful. All the official ambassadorial dispatches, all the puzzled letters later written describing her, agree on that. She had nothing of the beauty I had come to expect of court women, none of the light, plump prettiness that honeyed one’s hours. She was wild and dark and strange, and my first awareness of her was that she was staring at me. As I looked back at her, sternly, she did not drop her eyes, as all good subjects are taught to do. Instead she continued staring, and there was odd malice in her eyes. I felt unreasoning fear, and then something else. . . .

  I was forced to attend to the ceremonious words and procedure transforming her father Thomas into a viscount, and then it was over, and we could retire to Wolsey’s Great Hall for the celebratory banquet.

  Katherine said nothing and kept her eyes averted. It had been humiliating for her, I realized—but one must face facts. I reached out and touched her shoulder. She shrank away as if she had been touched by a leper. Mary danced around us, anxious to get to the festivities. She did not care about the Duke of Richmond one way or the other.

  Wolsey preceded us, leading everyone to his Great Hall. He himself flung open the door, then stood back for the expected gasps of admiration.

  He was not disappointed. The tables, to accommodate some three hundred people, were set in finest linen and gold plate. A special table set apart had been prepared for the King, the Queen, and those honoured by their elevation this day. Tactfully, he had set my son on one side, while placing Katherine and Mary on the other.

  I looked forward to having my son beside me so that I might talk to him and know him better. Bessie was relegated to a place at an “ordinary” table. It was a delicate situation. She was the mother of the principal guest of honour this day, yet she was not my wife—indeed, she was someone else’s. Wolsey had followed the proper protocol.

  Henry Fitzroy was clever, although a bit shy. He answered my questions but seemed to have little to say for himself, unlike my nephew Brandon, who talked loudly (with nothing to say) and helped himself to things before they could be passed in proper fashion.

  The hall was abuzz with voices. Even in the blessed cool darkness, all this noise was distressing. I looked about me. I did not have to disengage myself from conversation with Katherine, as she did not deign to speak with me, but instead picked daintily at her plate, her eyes downcast. The ceremony had hurt and bewildered her. I knew that, yet what else could I have done?

  The hall was shuttered against the noonday heat, and therefore had that
strange, seasonless, climateless feeling we experience only rarely . . . sometimes upon waking, when we suddenly think, “What day is this? Where am I? How old am I?” It was June, yet it was cool; it was midday, yet it was dark; I was married, yet the son at my side was not my wife’s; and I was in love with Thomas Boleyn’s daughter.

  Yes. I knew, even then, that I loved her, that I must have her. How strange, considering that I had never spoken one word to her. How strange, considering (although I did not consider it then!) that I am a cautious man, seldom making any decision without much deliberation. It is hard for me to take a final action. Yet I knew beyond doubt that I loved Anne Boleyn, that I must possess her, that I would die else.

  How I had scoffed at love and lovers! I knew nothing of it. I knew the respect and courtesy I brought to Katherine; the fond laughter and passing lust with Bessie; the awe in which I held my mother. But about this madness I knew nothing.