The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  He beamed, but looked about uneasily, checking to see whether anything was in gross disarray. “I am honoured that you would see fit to come here without notice. It means you regard this as your home, as I hope you always will.”

  Home? One is not nervous in one’s own home; one does not sweat or pace about, or peer out windows. No, Hever Castle was no home to me, nor ever would be.

  I smiled. “Thank you. I was hunting, and—” I gestured apologetically toward my hunting clothes.

  He twitched a bit and went to inspect the ale. “The ale is superb,” I said, sparing him the trouble of asking.

  “Would you care for something more? To strengthen you for your return trip? Not that I wish you to return; I would be honoured if you would stay the night, it would be—” He was fairly comical in his frantic desire to accommodate and flatter me.

  “No, Thomas,” I assured him. “I must needs be in London early in the morning.”

  His son George strode in, clad all in velvet, and stood stock-still, staring at me.

  He was a comely lad of twenty or so, all bedecked in courtier fashion. I had heard he wrote music and played the lute with talent. I said as much, and requested that he play one of his compositions for me, a request which seemed to embarrass him. He complied, however, disappearing from the chamber and returning a few moments later with a mother-of-pearl-inlaid lute. He sang one melody, a plaintive minor tune to do with lost love. It was quite good. I told him so, and meant it. He showed me his instrument, which he said had been made in Italy, and I duly inspected it.

  Lady Boleyn then appeared, and other members of the household. They bustled about and laid a fire, as it would soon be growing dark, and nights in old stone manor houses are damp and cold even in July. But where was Anne? Somehow I could not bring myself to ask.

  The sun set, but the light lingered on, as it does in high summer. Boleyn talked to me incessantly, trotting after me like a trained puppy. I did not hear him, and gave noncommittal responses. Still no Anne, and soon we must be gone, or suffer through a long, drawn-out supper laid in our honour.

  I passed the small leaded windows along one side of the hall overlooking the tidy Boleyn garden and grounds. The stream which fed their moat trickled through the garden, lined by weeping willows. The wind had risen, as it often does in early evening, whipping about the branches. They were so green they almost glowed, and so thin and whiplike they seemed to writhe like living things.

  It was then I saw her, standing by a far willow: a thin figure with long hair that tossed and waved like the branches surrounding her. Anne.

  She was wearing green, light green, and her gown billowed in the wind, causing her to sway like the stalk of a flower. She reached out to touch a branch with her hand, and it was the most graceful movement I had ever seen.

  I became aware that I had stopped and was staring. Thomas cleared his throat beside me.

  “My daughter Anne,” he said. “She is back here with us at home, as the Cardinal sent her from court. It was most unfair—”

  “I am sure.” I turned and pushed past him. “I will speak to your daughter myself.” Earlier I had seen the door that opened onto the garden. Now I would avail myself of it.

  “Pray do not accompany me,” I said to the trailing Thomas. “I will go alone.”

  Before he could protest, I was out in the garden, slamming the door behind me. It clanged and made that peculiar noise which tight-fitting doors do when suddenly closed. In another part of my mind I thought that the Viscount must enjoy a draught-free hall in winter.

  But that was in a small part of my mind, and went almost unnoticed. The larger part was straining toward the slim figure in the far end of the garden. Resolutely, I made my way toward her.

  She must have heard me approaching, yet she did not turn. She kept her back to me until I was a scant two yards away. The wind had risen and was lifting her skirts in great swirls. She wore no covering, no shawl. Was she not cold? Still she stood, motionless, save for the tossing of that extraordinary hair.

  “Mistress Boleyn,” I said loudly, and she turned.

  What had I expected? I knew she was not like her sister Mary, yet I was ill prepared for this dark wraith.

  She looked at me with wide eyes, great black eyes, child’s eyes. “Your Majesty,” she gasped, then swooped to the ground like the brushing of a butterfly’s wing. All I could see for a moment was the top of that black head, a gleaming part in the middle. As she rose, the wind caught her hair and for an instant her face disappeared, like a pale spring moon covered by fast-moving clouds.

  Then she faced me. She was tall, and her magnificent black hair enveloped her like a mantle.

  I knew not what to say, yet I must say something. “Will you not join us inside?” The first sentence that ever I spoke to her.

  Her eyes met mine boldly. “I prefer the garden just at sunset. The wind comes up, and the clouds become streaked—”

  “An artist,” I said quickly, not realizing how sharp it sounded. “Yet even artists must have fellowship.”

  “Yes. I am told that there are certain quarters of London where they . . . congregate and enjoy their own sort of fellowship. I should love to join them!” Her voice was fierce.

  I remembered my own longing to run away and sail the seas. We were alike . . . our souls were alike. . . .

  “They do lascivious and bold things there, Lady.” I was testing her. What would she answer?

  “That affrights me not. I could join them or not, as I chose.”

  She looked at me, her eyes burning into mine. A pale face, rimmed by black hair . . . I shivered, felt an eerie prickling on my neck and arms. . . .

  “Would you be a Gypsy, then, and live with the outcasts? For these ‘artists’ are accounted as the damned.”

  “No. The damned are here, at Hever, in a great limbo decreed by the Cardinal. He sent me here, for daring to love a man already betrothed!”

  “It is your home.”

  She looked back at the warm, golden stones of Hever. “It was never home to me.”

  “Then return to court,” I said. “Return, and serve the Queen. As maid of honour.” I promoted her on a breath. “And your brother George,” I added on sudden impulse, “can become a groom of my bedchamber. You should come together.”

  She smiled, and it lighted her face as the sun shining through a leaf. “Truly?”

  “Truly,” I said solemnly.

  She laughed, and was no longer a fey creature with swirling witch’s-hair, but the woman I had been waiting all my life to love. It was terrifyingly simple.

  “Will you come?” I asked, shaken.

  “Aye,” she said.

  I held out my hand and she took it, and together we walked back to her father’s hall.

  It was strange to reenter the hall and find everyone still standing unchanged, whereas I had been utterly transformed. I dropped Mistress Boleyn’s hand as her father came toward us anxiously.

  “I wish Mistress Anne to return to court,” I announced, before he could open his loose-lipped mouth. “And George as well.”

  “But the Cardinal—” he began, his brow furrowing.

  “The Cardinal be damned!” I shouted, causing everyone to turn in our direction. I lowered my voice. “I am King, not the Cardinal. If I say Mistress Anne and Master George shall come to court, the Cardinal has nothing to do with the matter. And if I say the Cardinal should depart for his Archbishopric in York, then to York he shall go, and straightway.” I was shaking with anger. Did the Cardinal rule, then?

  But I knew what he had meant. He feared and revered the Cardinal above his King. How many other people in the realm felt likewise?

  It was already dark as we mounted for our long ride back to London. We would not reach Westminster until well past midnight. As soon as they were out of eyesight of the Viscount, my companions, having assured him that they were not in the least hungry, dug into the linen-wrapped food parcels the royal cooks had prepared in the mor
ning for them. They ate ravenously as we rode along.

  I should have been hungry, but I was not. The moon, in its last quarter, did not rise until we approached the outskirts of London. Even then I was neither hungry nor tired, but strangely filled with energy and purpose. The rising moon illuminated the sleeping city, and from a distance I thought there could be no fairer city, no more fortunate ruler, no more blessed land.

  Anne was coming to court!

  And once there, she would become my mistress—no, my lover, for “mistress” was too circumscribed, too curtailed. My lover, my confidante, my soul-mate. Yes, my soul-mate. My soul, alone too long, needed this fellow wanderer. Together we would make a whole. And, wandering stars no more, joined, blaze through the sky. . . .

  How can I explain it? There was something in her which drew me, as if lying on her breast I would know everything in life I desired to, and the unopened door would open for me. . . .

  At base it is inexplicable. Something deep within Anne called to something deep within me. And the calling was powerful; nay, undeniable.

  XXXIV

  In a fortnight I must go and make my progress about the home shires. And then, when I returned, Anne would be waiting for me, having by that time settled herself at court. Knowing this made each day of the progress (normally so satisfying for me) something that only served to bring me one day closer to my goal, my desire. . . .

  But when I returned, and made my customary call on Katherine, I was disappointed to find no hint of Anne’s presence among her attendants.

  “I had assigned a new maid of honour to your entourage,” I said when we were at last alone. “Mistress Anne Boleyn.”

  Katherine wheeled around and faced me. “Yes. After the other—’

  “She is nothing like her sister,” I informed her quickly—too quickly.

  Katherine, clad all in black, raised her eyes to heaven. “God be thanked for that.”

  “Mistress Anne is chaste, and very concerned with matters of learning.”

  “You seem well acquainted with the lady. Is she to be your next mistress?” Katherine cried. Her whole body shook in the noonday light. Part of me wished to take her in my arms and comfort her; another part was repelled by her.

  “I do not wish to cause you discomfort,” I said. “I merely enquired as to whether she had come to—”

  “I will not permit it!” she shrieked, and came at me—slowly, in light of her dignified bulk and the distance. “First that Blount creature, then the Boleyn girl—all at court, all paraded before me—”

  “Of course not!” I pushed her back with one hand, summoning all the outrage I could find within myself. “Wife, you forget yourself. I have no mistresses, nor have had for some three years past. I have no wish for mistresses—and if I had, it would not be Boleyn’s scrawny younger daughter, fresh from the French court!”

  Katherine drew herself up. “Of course not,” she agreed.

  She is true royalty, I found myself thinking of Katherine in admiration. “Mistress Anne is nothing to excite any man’s imagination,” I sneered.

  Yet she excited mine. Even as I exited from the Queen’s inner chambers, I looked for Anne. A flock of young, pretty attendants clustered about, but she was not among them. Wearing an artificial smile, I made my way to the outer doors, wondering all the while where Anne was.

  It seemed that Anne was hiding herself from me, if indeed she had come to court at all, as Katherine had cleverly avoided answering. Whenever I called on Katherine, Anne was not there. Whenever Katherine came in state for any special ceremony, Anne was not there. I was near despair, but I could not enquire of Katherine a second time.

  The next few weeks were torturous for me. I was so obsessed by Anne, I could hardly give myself to the necessary duties of kingship, such as the day I was to entertain a group of merchants from the Wool Staple of Calais.

  I was in no humour to receive the merchants of Calais. Perhaps it was my own failing, but I was in no way sociable. I wished I could take the religious licence and become a hermit for a time. I would not care if I had to give up my fine robes and rooming. To be a hermit, to be utterly alone and responsible only before God, seemed a luxury—more of a luxury than palaces and robes and royal duties.

  But such surcease was not permitted me. I was King. Therefore I must be always at everyone’s disposal. A common man might become a hermit, but I, never.

  And a hermit never burned as I did. I burned to see Anne. And burned with a desire to change things, change myself, change my entire life.

  The merchants of Calais paid audience in my Receiving Chamber. They were full of talk of wool quotas, and money exchange, and they bored me exceedingly. As the noise level rose to intolerable levels, I begged leave to retire to my inner chambers for a few moments.

  As I waited there, I became aware of voices just outside my inner chamber. A public gallery adjoined the receiving rooms, and I had given leave for the wool merchants’ attendants to have access to them.

  “Nay, but His Majesty must protect our interests in Calais,” one voice said, a high, disagreeable one.

  “His Majesty knows nothing of trade, nor of finances,” said another. This one was smooth and seemingly knowledgeable. “The Cardinal takes care of all that. Why not apply for a position with him?”

  “The Cardinal is not King,” said yet a third voice, deep and sarcastic, “although he would like to think himself so. Many things in life bring surprises, and I believe the great Cardinal may come upon one soon.”

  “The Cardinal is never surprised,” said the second voice.

  “The Cardinal is intelligent,” allowed the third voice, “yet intelligence is not . . . how shall I say it? There is an intelligence beyond ordinary intelligence. By that I mean an ability to see which way things will go, to look at things as they are and predict in what direction they will flow. The Cardinal is sadly lacking in that ability. He sees the immediate, but nothing beyond that.”

  I must confess that by this time my ears were straining to hear this extraordinary conversation. Keep in mind that for upwards of fifteen years no one had dared to speak truth to my face; therefore I was reduced to hearing it behind my back.

  “He does well enough by that.”

  “For now,” said the third voice. “But I predict it cannot last.”

  “Whyfor not?” began the second voice.

  “You know nothing!” cut in the first, querulous voice. “Stuck away in Calais! This is your first time at court, is it not?”

  “Aye,” said the deep third.

  “You cannot know anything beyond stinking wool and an occasional royal visit. These people are different. They behave differently, they think differently—”

  “What people, Rob?” The deep third voice again.

  “Court people, you fool!”

  “Then you’re the fool. They are as you.” A pause. “Yes, and the King, too. He may look as Apollo come to earth, he may have riches exceeding yours—still he’s but a man. With many cares, cares that exceed yours. Withal, he still must use the jordan upon arising.”

  They all laughed at this.

  Did they imagine me using the Jordan, then? That thought was offensive. I pressed closer, to hear better.

  “We all must use jordans,” the first, unpleasant voice said. “Else we be dead. So what does that prove?”

  “Nothing. You are correct, Nicholas”—so, first-voice’s name was Nicholas—“the jordans are necessary for all. Doubtless even Our Lord had to relieve Himself whilst on earth. That did not detract from His message.”

  The third voice again. Who was this man? I determined to meet him. Saying that Our Saviour . . . ! Yet He was fully man, is that not what the Church Councils had decided? Then He must have—I slammed my mind on such thought. And charged out into the audience room once more.

  The emissaries had ceased their chatter and were expectantly awaiting my re-entrance.

  I settled myself into the grand audience chair and nodded f
or them to continue. They did, as if they had not been interrupted for a passage of time.

  “Your Grace, the scales in use in Calais—” A man began.

  “I trust your plan to replace the old method of weighing per sheep with the more modern one of pure wool volume,” another said.

  “And who invented that?” I said. “The French?”

  One of the men stepped forward to make apologies. “Aye,” he said. “But the French have perfected a new way of weighing wool—”

  Always the French! Was I never to be free of them?

  “I favour whatever method brings the most money to England,” I said. “I leave it to you gentlemen to determine the most efficacious.”

  They presented several other petitions, and I gave them all due consideration. Then, mercifully, the audience was done. They hurried to the gallery door to admit their servitors, as these important merchants could never carry their own books or cloaks. A large group streamed in.

  Which was the deep-voiced speaker? How could I single him out from the swarming rest of them? Not once had he spoken the name of his master; cautious fellow, that. I admired him all the more.

  The entire company were gathering up their goods and issuing instructions to their attendants. I began to walk among them. This occasioned stoppage of conversation and much obeisance, which was quite the opposite of my intention. As soon as I came within a length of a man, he turned, smiled, and stood like a frightened rabbit. God’s blood! And kings are expected to know their subjects’ minds?

  I heard no voices, as they fell silent whenever I was near. But as the company prepared to depart (it was time for yet another royal audience for me), near the door I heard a phrase—and a tone—that was reminiscent of the mysterious one I had overheard. I approached the merchant and his assistant, who were engaged in putting on their cloaks and gathering their parcels.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said. They both stared at me, startled. I turned directly to the assistant. “Were you in the walk-gallery just now?”