The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  I gripped the wooden ball I held in my hand as tightly as possible, then let fly at the targets. My ball smashed right through the center, scattering the pins like ducks. It then rolled on and on down the green, catching up to Wyatt’s.

  “Ah! It is mine!” I said, pointing toward the faraway balls with my little finger, upon which was the token ring Anne had given me. Wyatt could not fail to recognize it.

  He strolled forward with a smirk. Suddenly I hated the way he walked. “By your leave, Your Grace,” he said, “I must measure to ascertain the distance.” Then he began twirling something on a long chain, so that at first I could not determine what it was. Then I saw it for what it was: a locket of Anne’s. I had seen it often round her neck. He stretched out the chain mockingly and walked slowly to the balls.

  I glared at Anne. She looked back at me, and all I could discern on her countenance was embarrassment. Not shame, not apology.

  “I see I am deceived.” I turned and began walking back toward the palace. I should not have shown my hurt so nakedly, but I was stunned.

  Wyatt continued his walk, his back to me, unaware of my anger. The rest of the gathered ladies and courtiers merely stared, or so I am told. But Katherine heaved herself from her chair and followed me across the newly clipped grass.

  “My Lord,” she said.

  I turned, surprised to find I had a follower. She stood there in the fresh May sunshine, heavily clad in her preferred costume and old-style headdress—a wooden one that encased her head and was overlaid with decorative material. It was so heavy it had made her sweat from the exertion of running only a dozen yards.

  “Yes?”

  “Stop it! Stop it now!” She was shaking. I said nothing. I could see the beads of sweat on her forehead. “I cannot bear to see you so shamed before all. And for . . .” Her voice trailed off, but with a jerk of her head she indicated Anne, who had not even turned to see me go. “In front of all men. And I must watch.”

  Suddenly I lashed out at her, as if she were the cause of it, merely for making the wounds deeper. “Then cease to watch, Madam! Cease following me about!”

  She looked stricken and stood mournfully rooted as I stalked away, seeking refuge in my privy chamber.

  It was cool there, at least. And empty. All attendants had been dismissed, let out into the warm May sun. At last I could pour my own wine without having to request it of some bumbling fool. Must never hurt a server’s feelings. No, never. So one must wait a good half hour for a service one could perform for oneself in a half-minute.

  The wine was good. I poured another cup, then leaned down to pull off my boots. I flung each one forcefully against the farthest wall. One hit a tapestry and raised a great deal of dust. Of what use were the chamber scourers, then? Filth. Negligence. All was disgusting.

  “Your Majesty, Margaret of Savoy would be displeased to see her gift treated so.”

  I whirled round to face Wolsey’s bulk. He had evidently taken the first opportunity to retreat into the shade. From the way he eyed my wine flagon, I knew he was waiting to be invited to help himself. Instead I grunted. “She cannot see,” was all I said.

  “Still—” He sidled up to the wine. Suddenly he disgusted me, too.

  “Take what you like. Drink it all.”

  He needed no further invitation. Soon the flagon was empty. He belched—discreetly, he thought. In fact it was not. Then he turned and looked at me with the same mournful expression Katherine had worn.

  “Your Grace,” he began dolourously, “it grieves me to see you so unhappy.”

  “Then mend it! End my unhappiness!” I had not meant to scream, but I did. “It lies within your power!”

  He knitted his brow in such fashion as to suggest that he was thinking deeply. It impressed those on councils, but I was used to it and knew it was merely a time-serving device.

  “You are Cardinal! You are Papal legate! You represent the Pope in England! Do something!”

  Still he stood with furrowed brow.

  “Or, by God, I shall end it myself! With whatever means I must use! I care not what they are!” As I said it, I knew I meant it.

  Later that evening, I waited within my chambers. Would Anne send word to me? Would she make amends, assure me that Wyatt meant nothing to her?

  No. She did not.

  XXXIX

  But things changed from that day forward. Wolsey was at last able to badger His Holiness into granting permission for a trial to be held in England, provided another Papal legate sat alongside him. That legate was to be Cardinal Campeggio, who must travel all the way from Rome. This would take months, especially since he was old and troubled with gout, but at last I had within my grasp that which I desired above all else. My case was so clear that judgment was pre-assured, and I would be released from the bonds that grew daily more irksome.

  Katherine had become ever more hovering and solicitous, acting more like a mother than a wife. Anne had continued her wayward ways, always assuring me that they were necessary dissimulations.

  “If the Cardinal knew we were betrothed, he would not work so diligently on your behalf,” she said. “He intends you to take a French princess, Renée, I believe.” Her light voice skipped over the name. “He has long hated the Spanish alliance.” For some odd reason, I remember her running her slender fingers over the traced carvings of a chair as she spoke. Her touch was so graceful I watched it as I would a swan gliding on a pool. Beautiful, elegant. Like everything she did.

  “So we are to deceive the Cardinal? ’Tis not easily done,” I warned her.

  She smiled. “More easily than you think.”

  Her eyes had a peculiar look, and I suddenly felt uneasy. Then the look slid away and she was once again the beautiful girl I loved.

  “All will be well,” I assured her. “In only a few weeks’ time it will be over. At last. And we shall be married.” I went over to her and took her hand.

  She returned my touch and looked up at me. “I cannot wait, I sometimes think, to become your wife.”

  Was that the happiest moment of my life? The time when I was at the crest, and all else a falling off?

  By this time the entire realm knew of my marital dilemma, and awaited the arrival of the Papal legate as eagerly as I. It was early spring, 1529. It had taken nearly two years and countless emissaries and missions to obtain Papal permission to hold this trial in England.

  When Campeggio, the Papal legate, arrived in London, he was pleased to tell me that Clement himself had advised Katherine to follow the politically expedient policy of entering a convent, as had the devout Jeanne de Valois, freeing King Louis to remarry for the sake of the succession. His Holiness was bound to release anyone from his or her earthly marriage in order to make a heavenly one.

  I was overjoyed. This solution would please all. Katherine was already on the border of the religious life, having taken the vows of the Third Order of St. Francis, and had a great proclivity for it, spending as much time in prayer and devotion as any nun. Clement would be spared a time-consuming and embarrassing trial. I would be spared the possible disapproval of my subjects, who loved Princess Katherine and were already muttering against Anne as a commoner.

  In a few days Campeggio, accompanied by Wolsey, dragged himself off to see Katherine, and happily presented his proposal. Katherine refused, saying that she had no “vocation” for the convent life, but that she would agree if I also took monastic vows along with her and went to live as a monk.

  The woman baited me! She was determined to mock and thwart me at every turn. It was then I began to hate her. Hate her for her smug Spanish feeling of superiority over me. She was a Spanish princess, I but the scion of an upstart Welsh adventurer. That was how she saw me. And she believed she could serenely command forces that I could not: the Emperor her nephew, the Pope his prisoner. Let little Henry do what he will in his little kingdom, she seemed to be saying with amusement. In the end I will snap my fingers and bring him to heel.

  Very we
ll, then. I should meet her in the arena—the arena of the Papal court.

  It was the first time such a court had ever been held in England. A reigning King and Queen were to appear on their own soil before the agents of a foreign power, to answer certain charges.

  It was to meet at Blackfriars, the Dominican convent, and Wolsey and Campeggio were seated in full array, just below my throne. Ten feet below theirs was Katherine’s. Katherine had vowed not to appear at all, as she held any ruling outside Rome to be invalid, even though the Holy Father himself had given permission for it! She was a foolish and obstinate woman!

  Yet upon the opening day, she answered the summons from the crier, “Katherine, Queen of England, come into the court.”

  Ah, I thought. Now she sees the justice and gravity of the case. Now at last she understands.

  She came slowly into the room and proceeded to her chair. Then, instead of seating herself, she abruptly turned to her right, bypassed the astonished Cardinals, and mounted the steps toward my throne. When she was within five feet of me, she suddenly knelt.

  I felt sweat break out all over my face. Was the woman mad?

  “Sire,” she began, looking up at me and trying to lock our eyes in an embrace, “I beg you, for all the love that has been between us, let me have justice and right; have some pity and compassion upon me, for I am a poor woman, and a stranger, born out of this realm. I flee to you as to the head of justice within this realm—”

  She was truly mad! Everyone was staring, half at me, half at her. Such a thing had never before been seen in court. I myself stared back at her. She still had her eyes raised toward me. I looked at her, hardly recognizing the young girl I had once loved. In her place was an enemy, determined to bend me to her will and make a fool of me.

  She continued, “I take God and all the world to witness that I have ever been a true, humble, and obedient wife to you, always conforming to your will and pleasure. I loved all those whom you loved, only for your sake, even though they were my enemies. These past twenty years I have been your true wife, and by me you have had many children, although it has pleased God to call them from this world. . . .” She paused, as this was a painful moment for us both. I ached as well as she. Then she looked up at me once more, and turned the most telling part of her well-rehearsed testimony upon me.

  “And when you first had me, I take God to be my judge, I was a true virgin, without touch of man. And whether this is true or not, I put it to your conscience.”

  She then paused again, and looked at me, her eyes burning into mine. How dare she do this to me? Expose my own inexperience, before all these witnesses? She, as a non-virgin, must have been aware of my state. Now she sought to humiliate me!

  I sat silent—a charitable response—until she dropped her eyes and went on with the rest of her speech. It was stupid and irrelevant. At its end she drew herself up and, looking at me once more—only this time in hatred—turned her back and walked out of court. Another piece of unheard-of behaviour.

  “Madam!” the usher called. “You are called again!” Three times he repeated it.

  “It does not matter,” she answered. “This is not an unbiased court for me. I will not tarry.” She disappeared from the doorway.

  Everyone stared at her, at her short figure receding from view in the shadows of the corridor.

  Such a thing was unbelievable in any normal court of law. To appear and then disappear. To refuse to take one’s appointed place, but then appeal the case before the other defendant.

  And furthermore, to make a fool of me! That was her principal motive. How had she expected me to answer her?

  She was pronounced contumacious, and the trial proceeded. It was extremely boring. Many old men gave testimony to their prowess at fifteen (to bolster the claim that Arthur was fully capable), and there was much searching for a witness who could produce irrefutable evidence that Arthur and Katherine had consummated the marriage; but of course no such witness was forthcoming, as none had been lodged beneath the bed. Day after day the trial crept along while Katherine’s seat remained empty.

  Katherine’s defence—Warham, the Archbishop of Canterbury, who had vacillated on the whole issue; Bishop Fisher (him again!); Bishop Standish of St. Asaph’s; Bishop Tunstall of London; Bishop Ridley of Bath and Wells; and George Athequa, Katherine’s Spanish confessor—presented a muddled case. They made no sense at all. Mine, on the other hand, presented a strong case. But it was no matter; at the end of all, just when the verdict was due, Campeggio rose and announced that as this was a Roman court, and all courts in Rome were suspended, due to the heat, until October, therefore this one was also suspended.

  As his quavering voice read this pronouncement, there was a silence, then a stirring, in the room. Clearly the case was closed, without judgment, and given back to Rome.

  Then Brandon rose and banged his great hand on the table. “It has never been merry in England since Cardinals came amongst us!” he yelled. The entire gathering broke into discord. I was livid with fury.

  XL

  WILL:

  The poor, indecisive Pope had sent many instructions to England along with Campeggio, but the most important one was: do nothing. Delay the trial as long as possible. Then advoke the case to Rome. Campeggio had merely followed advice, in this case all the more compelling because just the month before, Francis had been soundly defeated in his last desperate attempt to retake northern Italy. The Emperor had decimated his forces at Landriano, and now that all the dust had settled, the Pope and the Emperor had come to terms in the Treaty of Barcelona. The Emperor’s troops released Rome, and set the Pope free. The Curia and its Cardinals came flocking back to Rome, and soon the advocation of Katherine’s case (always Katherine’s, never Henry’s) to Rome had been decided in the Signatura and a few days later by the full Consistory. Campeggio had had no choice.

  But Wolsey was stunned. This undercut all his power. The Pope, his spiritual master, had betrayed him. His other master, the King, felt betrayed. Between them both, he would be ground as fine as grain in a mill.

  HENRY VIII:

  So they thought they had won. They—Katherine, the Emperor, Pope Clement—thought they could chuckle and dismiss the problem of King Henry VIII and his conscience—never a weighty one for them. They were wrong. All wrong. But what to do?

  I was finished with the Pope. He had failed me—nay, betrayed me. Never would I consult his court at Rome.

  I was finished with Wolsey as well. Wolsey had failed me. Wolsey must have known of all this long ago—after all, he had seen the commissions!

  Wolsey—he who was master of all facts, from the herbal remedy used to treat the Papal piles, to who was the Cardinal with the most family connections in the Curia—had proved worthless in this, my greatest concern. He had been nothing but a glorified administrator and procurer after all, not a man of vision or ideas or even insight. He had been meet enough to serve me only in my own green days.

  I had outgrown him. I could do better myself.

  And I would do better myself. I would rid myself of Wolsey and then proceed . . . to wherever the road would take me.

  Campeggio was to leave England, and sought permission to take leave of me. At that time I was staying at Grafton, a manor house in the country, and only with great difficulty could I provide lodging for Campeggio. Wolsey accompanied him and was dismayed to find no room for himself. I did not wish to speak with him at this time, but I was compelled. Many of my Council and advisors were eager for me to dismiss him and even have him tried for treason. Their legal excuse was that he had committed “praemunire”—broken an ancient law against asserting Papal jurisdiction in England without prior royal consent. The real reason was that they hated him.

  In meeting me, Wolsey was deferential and shaken—a different Wolsey than I had ever seen. He lapped about my hand as a puppy, scampering about, wagging his tail to please. It sickened me and made me sad. I had no wish to witness this degradation.

  “You
r Majesty . . . His Holiness . . . I did not know . . . I can undo it all. . . .” No, such phrases I did not wish to hear from Wolsey. Not from proud Wolsey.

  I gave him permission to retire. Strange it is to think that I never saw him again. When Anne and I returned from our hunt the following day, both he and Campeggio had departed. I knew in what direction Wolsey was bound, so I sent Henry Norris on horseback to overtake him and present him with a ring as token of our continuing friendship.

  Evidently the scene was embarrassing. Proud Wolsey leapt off his mule and flung himself upon his knees in the mud, grasping the ring (and Norris’s hand) and kissing it wildly, all the while wallowing knee-deep in the mire. I grieved at the vision.

  Yet I could not reinstate Wolsey. He had failed me in my Great Matter, and only my clemency saved him from the enemies clamouring for his head. He was of no political use to me now. It was my wish, and command, that he retire to his Archdiocese of York and perform his spiritual duties there, for the rest of his life, quietly and without molestation.

  This Wolsey proved singularly unable to do. He could not bear to be disconnected from power. The wild moors of Yorkshire did not soothe his spirit or speak to him. He was a creature of civilization and artificiality; he longed for the comforts of court: for satins and silver, for golden goblets and intrigues and spies. He judged himself to be still of worth to those in high places—if not to me, then perhaps to the Emperor or the Pope, who might pay him well for what he knew.

  We apprehended his letters selling himself, in precisely those terms. His Italian physician, Agnosisti, had served as message-carrier. A clumsy device, but Wolsey was desperate.

  My heart was heavy. There was no choice. Wolsey had delivered himself into the hands of his enemies at court and in Parliament, who had long been crying for his elimination; to them, mere banishment was not enough. He had clearly committed treason. And the penalty for treason is death.