The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  “Yes,” he said, without hesitation.

  “Did you speak to your fellow assistants about the Cardinal? Did you mention that perhaps even the King uses a jordan?”

  The man was small and saturnine, and there was no flinching on his part. “Aye.” He looked me boldly in the face.

  “Think you not that I am an eavesdropper,” I said haughtily, “but the voices were clear—” I stopped. Why was I apologizing to this lad? “Your voice was beguiling. Your words made sense. And you had special humour. I am in need of a jester. I invite you to come to court in that capacity.”

  He remained impassive. Finally he spoke. “My Lord, I am not trained in formal joke-making. Nor would most of my observations be tolerable to court listeners.”

  “No. They prefer bawdy references over astute comments. But there is room at court for both. I will get a low fellow—”

  He grinned. “I can be bawdy far more readily than astute.”

  “Then you will come?” I asked. “There is great need of such as you.”

  “Since Queen Katherine has become so pious?”

  He was correct, yet out of bounds. “Watch your tongue!” I heard myself saying.

  “If I must watch my tongue, what point in being a jester?”

  All this time the man’s master was staring, as if in disbelief of the exchange.

  “In private you may say what you like,” I agreed. “But before others, there are certain topics not to be mentioned.”

  WILL:

  That is how I came into King Henry’s employ. It was all happenstance, as the greatest events in our lives are. I can assure you I had no portent that the King himself was hearing my words as I passed the time with some rather dull companions during that audience, nor could I remember my words.

  But I do remember seeing the King that day. He seemed burdened, distracted, not at all the young creature I had seen many years ago on his way to Dover, nor even the godlike one I had glimpsed from afar in Calais. This was an older man, one with many cares and envies. I agreed to enter his service for reasons which eluded me at the time. Certainly I had no desire to wear a costume and entertain thick-headed court people. But the King drew me. And needed me, so I sensed. (Vanity?)

  He would not permit me to return to Calais with my master, insisting that all my possessions could be sent. In truth, they were not many. I was to become part of court from that moment on.

  I quickly perceived that a man could never be free at court. Like a compost heap, this mass of festering humanity was always hot, full of bad humours, and in the midst of colourful decay.

  At the top of it all was the King himself, trying to oversee this seething mass. His “household” was also his government, which must be always near at hand. I was surprised at his memory and almost supernatural recall of details. He did not forget me, even amongst the throng, or amid his ever-pressing duties.

  HENRY VIII:

  Will never learned that expediency, which is why he eventually became my private jester. He and the court were simply not suitable partners, as consequent events proved. Yet his wit and observations were invaluable to me; I liked to keep him about me.

  XXXV

  Wolsey was to have a great banquet and feast for upwards of one hundred guests, to celebrate something or other; I cannot remember what. He surreptitiously circulated the guest list to my chamber. I added several names to it, including Mistress Anne’s, then smuggled it back to him, as I was supposed to be ignorant of the proceedings.

  Would she be there? Would Wolsey issue the correct invitation? If he did, would she accept? I had at last ascertained that she had come to court. But perhaps she might be too retiring . . . or wonder why she was included amongst the hated Cardinal’s celebrations. God’s blood! Was there no place on earth where I might see her without being dependent on others to bring it about?

  Etiquette demanded that I don a disguise for the occasion (as I was ostensibly not among the guests), and I decided upon that of a shepherd. But I could not arrive unaccompanied, I must have fellow shepherds. Thus I chose them: dear Brandon, my cousin Courtenay, William Compton, Edward Neville, and Anne’s father, Thomas.

  It was late October, but still mild. A slight row upstream on the Thames would be enjoyable, especially as a fatted moon would soon be rising. My companions and I would row to York Place and wait until the fête was well under way to make our entrance.

  The oars dipping in the moon-coated water made reassuring sounds. Water had a soothing effect upon me. She would be there; I knew she would. Pray God she would!

  We reached York Place in a short time, as it lay near the heart of London. Now that Hampton Court was officially mine, Wolsey was reluctant to entertain me in it, although he continued to live there.

  The landing was strung with late-blooming flowers, and there were discreet lights along the walkway. All around me there was a great commotion; my companions were unruly, slapping and hitting one another boisterously, so that they must surely attract attention. I spoke to them sharply, and they subsided, then followed me quietly along the pathway.

  Outside the palace we paused. Every window glowed yellow from the torches and candles within. Just as I was gesturing to my men, a deafening roar and tumult drowned our voices. The sound was followed by several loud splashes in the Thames. Small cannon.

  “They welcome us,” I said. “How kind, as we are all foreigners.” I looked around at the faces of my companions, ill-lit by the light from the palace windows. “You all speak French, do you not?” They nodded, not quite in unison. “That is fortunate, as we are lost French shepherds. Come, my friends.” I led the way to the Cardinal’s great studded door and banged on it. It was promptly opened by a servant who stared at us and pretended to be quite dumbfounded by our costumes and presence.

  “Where is your master?” I demanded in my best French. Someone else scuttled up to translate. The servant bowed and gestured that we should follow him.

  The Great Hall was brightly lit, more brightly than it had seemed from the outside. Before us stretched long tables, all in readiness for the banquet. An early-season fire crackled in the enormous fireplace, and all about was the buzz of voices—a buzz which silenced itself as we appeared in the doorway.

  A server came to our sides and inquired after our business. I played my part and answered in French. He then gestured helplessly toward his master, Wolsey, resplendent in scarlet satin and seated under the canopy of estate. At the sight of us he heaved himself out of his great carved chair and waddled forward—although his robes concealed the waddling and made him seem to float serenely toward us.

  “Strangers!” he cried. “How did you come here?”

  I answered in French, to which he held up his hands as if in ignorance.

  “They are Frenchmen! French shepherds!” he said pointedly. “Yet even though we feel animosity toward their King, we must bid them welcome.” He gestured toward one of the long tables.

  Long ere he had done so, I had scanned them all. Was she there? I could not see her.

  I took my place and ate a full banquet, which later was described as “splendid and glittering.” I suppose it was, with all its silver and gold plate and sumptuous courses. I knew not, I was so impatient to see if she were present. What did I care for food or plates or dainties? I had had fifteen years of them!

  After the banquet there would be games of chance—mumchance and shovel-board and Noddy. We must perforce go around all the tables, playing against the guests, at Wolsey’s expense. He had bowls and bowls of ducats about. At every gaming table I searched for Mistress Anne, but she was not to be found.

  At length, Wolsey had a trumpet blown. “I am ready to retire to my chair of estate,” he announced, gathering his glimmering satin folds about him. “But now I perceive that there is one greater than I present in the company, one who rightly may claim the chair. I beg you, if you know him, to identify him, so that I may do him honour.”

  What a silly game this was! I was
weary of such. I was weary of much, truth be told.

  “Sir,” said Henry Courtenay—ever the eager courtier—“we confess that among us there is such a noble personage; and if you can pick him out, he will be pleased to reveal himself and accept your place.”

  Now the clever eyes of Wolsey flicked back and forth. He could immediately eliminate the shorter men in their shepherd’s costumes. That still left me, Edward Neville, and Charles Brandon. Brandon was broader and thicker than I, so Wolsey could make a distinction there. Neville was bareheaded (although masked), holding his headdress in hand. His thick red-gold hair glinted in the torchlight and drew Wolsey’s eye.

  The portly Cardinal approached Neville. “It seems to me the gentleman with the black cloak should be even he,” he said, offering his chair to Neville.

  Neville hesitated, unsure of what further action to take. I rescued him by laughing and pulling off my visor. The entire company joined suit.

  The Cardinal turned, discomfited. “Your Majesty,” he said quietly. “I see I was deceived in you.”

  Years later he was to claim that moment as an omen.

  But all things are seen in retrospect as omens. I could say Katherine’s initial delay in her sailing to England, my having had the dream of a white-faced woman . . . all were omens. Should we think in such fashion, all of life would become one giant omen, and we should fear to stir.

  Regardless, the fête must proceed. After the initial embarrassment, Wolsey was able to cover his awkwardness and signal for the festivities to continue.

  There was to be masked dancing, and the musicians assembled in the gallery. Twelve of us were to lead partners in an intricate round. We were free to choose unknown ladies.

  Where was Mistress Anne? I searched the company and still did not see her. Wolsey had solicitously ordered a number of torches damped. The resulting dim light merely shadowed all faces and turned each person into a trimmed headdress and a gleam of satin. They all stood two and three deep near the walls, and it was impossible to see a single face behind the first row.

  Mistress Carew was in front, smiling. She danced well; I supposed she would do as well as any other. I made my way toward her and was on the point of asking her to join me when all at once I saw Anne. At first she was but a row of pearls gleaming like a supernatural halo. Then within that circlet I saw her face.

  She was standing well back from the others, as if to forestall being chosen as anyone’s partner. There was no torch near her to show her. Nothing betrayed her presence save the luminous pearls encircling her head.

  I pushed my way over to her, to everyone’s surprise, not the least her own. She stared at me as I approached.

  “Your Majesty.” She lowered her head. I took her hand and together we went to the middle of the dance-floor.

  In the brighter light, I could see that the startling crown of pearls was attached to a small velvet cap. I complimented her on it, and she replied that it was the fashion in France. Her voice was low—unlike the fashionable high voices of our court ladies. Her gown was also different; it had long, full sleeves which almost completely obscured her hands. She had designed it herself. Then I thought it charming. Now I know why she needed to do so—to hide her witch’s mark! But as I took her hand to dance, I did not discern the small sixth finger, so skilfully did she conceal it beneath the others. . . .

  She danced well—better, in fact, than any of our Englishwomen. When I praised her for it, she shrugged, and once again gave the credit to France.

  “I learned there. Everyone dances well in France. There I was accounted of little accomplishment in the art.”

  “France,” I laughed. “Where all is false, where artificiality is elevated to an art form. Because they are hollow at the core, they must celebrate the exterior.”

  “You are too harsh with France,” she said. “Too quick to dismiss its very real pleasures—among them, the ability to appreciate the pretend.”

  “A polite word for ‘the false.’ ”

  She laughed. “That is the difference between an Englishman and a Frenchman!”

  “The French King is a case in point,” I muttered. What had she thought of Francis?

  “Exactly! And he is delightful!”

  Francis? Delightful?

  “At least your sister thought so,” I said censoriously.

  She drew back. “Yes, I believe she did,” she paused. “And she was certainly in a position to compare.”

  “As you could be,” I said. “Although you must begin on our shores.” There, I had said it. Her presence, her nearness, inflamed me. I must have her! “Unless . . . you know already of Francis’s . . . ?” I must know now, it was important that I know now. I did not want that, I could not bear it. . . .

  “No. I know nothing, save what Mary said.”

  She talked? She told? I was thankful, then, that I had not consorted with her after the first year or so of her marriage. A woman who repeated details? Foul, foul!

  “I am entirely unschooled in such matters, Your Grace,” she said. “I need a teacher.”

  No regret for the lost Percy, to whom she had pledged herself? Even at that moment I was struck by her disloyalty. But as it benefited me, I did not dwell on it. Rather, I made up excuses for it. There, I told myself. It proves she never really loved him.

  “I could teach you,” I said boldly.

  “When?” Her answer was equally bold.

  “Tomorrow. Meet me”—oh, where to meet?—“in the minstrels’ gallery above the Great Hall.” When did Katherine dismiss her? “At four in the afternoon.” A favourite dalliance-time.

  Just then the minstrels ended the measure. Anne quickly disengaged her hand from mine, nodded, and was gone. “I thank Your Grace,” she said lightly, before sliding away. For one unpleasant instant the movement reminded me of a quick, dark snake I had once seen near the wall in Eltham’s garden. . . .

  Tomorrow it would begin. Tomorrow.

  All about me the courtiers waited, silver visors in place. We would dance—yea, dance all night. Let Wolsey bring fresh torches!

  The minstrels’ gallery, overlooking the Great Hall, was shadowy and entirely private. Light exploded into the Hall from the row of windows along its length, but it left the minstrels’ gallery untouched. Not that Anne should have anything to fear from the boldest daylight. She was young, and entirely flawless.

  I had not yet decided what to do with her. I would make her my mistress, yes, of course, I knew that. But after the coupling . . . curiously, I thought of the coupling more for her sake than for mine. I did not need the coupling to bind me to her; that had happened the moment I saw her at Hampton Court; the strange bonding had taken place on the instant. The coupling was for her. Women were so literal. Until there was a physical thing, she would not consider herself bound to me.

  I waited. The apartments (vacant since Mary Boleyn’s gradual decline in my life) stood at the ready. I had ordered them scrubbed, aired, and freshened, and the bed made up with finest Brussels-laced sheets. I would conduct Anne to them within a half hour . . . and within an hour, we would begin our life together. Whatever that meant, whatever that led to. . . .

  I waited. I watched the great squares of light from the windows change their shape on the floor of the Great Hall as the sun sank lower. Finally they were long, thin slivers; then they faded and dimness reigned in the Hall.

  Anne was not coming. She had broken our tryst.

  Perhaps Katherine had detained her. Perhaps Katherine had suddenly needed her presence at some ceremony or other. Perhaps Katherine had even become fond of her and wanted her only to talk, to keep her company.

  Anne was so winsome, that was likely.

  I was ready to descend, by the little stone steps, when a page approached, hesitantly. “A message,” he said, thrusting it into my hand. He bowed and then hurried away.

  I unfolded the paper.

  “Your Grace,” it read. “I could not keep our appointment. I feared for my integrity. Na
n de Boleine.”

  She feared for her integrity? She feared me? She teased me, rather! She had already admitted she would give herself to the artists in their dens! But not to a King! No! She would give herself to Johnny-paint-a-board, but not to King Henry!

  And to have agreed to the time and place, and left me waiting! Sending a page in her stead! As if she would disdain to do her own unpleasant business. And the unpleasant business was—me. The King!

  I removed Anne from court within a fortnight, sending her back to Hever. It was easily done: the mere writing out of an order, signed, sanded, sealed. As King, I had power to move people about as I would, transfer them from one post to another. But I seemingly had no power over my wife, my daughter, my fantasized mistress. Women! They rule us, subtly if you will, but rule us nonetheless.

  XXXVI

  At first, as the autumn shrank into winter, I missed her. Whatever had called me to her to begin with continued to call me. As yet I knew not what it was. . . .

  But it was not to be. Whatever that thing was, perhaps I was never to taste it. And to what purpose, anyway? I was married, and Katherine was my wife.

  There were many diplomatic matters to attend to, foremost among them arranging a proper marriage for Princess Mary. A “proper marriage,” of course, meant one that was diplomatically astute.

  O God, I had become like my father!

  In early 1527, the “proper marriage” for Mary was with a French prince. Certainly we did not want to ally ourselves with the Emperor; he was too strong, after having so soundly defeated Francis. Even now his unruly troops were holding Rome—and the Pope—terrorized as they looted and rampaged in “celebration.” If we allowed him his head, he might become a latter-day Julius Caesar. Julius Caesar belonged in histories, not staring one directly in the face. (And engulfing one. England had been Roman once—and once was enough.)