The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  HENRY VIII:

  It was July, and even the dawn was warm. I had been dressed for what seemed like hours, and as I stood in the courtyard ready for the horses to be brought out, I waited for the sky to lighten—and for Anne to appear. Eventually she did, wearing a grey hunting gown and cap. Coming through the pale dawn, she was almost invisible. She gave me a smile, and then a yawn. Unlike me, she had slept well.

  The small party—just myself, Anne, her brother George and cousin Francis Bryan, and five grooms—left the cobbled courtyard as the sky began to lighten in the east. The sound of the horses’ hooves seemed unnaturally loud to my ears. I suppose that deep inside I was afraid of Katherine hearing.

  After the castle was far in the background, I breathed easier. By this time the sun was coming up and shone with all the promise of a high summer day. Anne rode beside me, as I had been aching for her to do on my summer progresses for the past four years. The others rode discreetly behind.

  As we passed under the green boughs, heavy now with their full growth of leaves, I looked over at her, marvelling at how well grey became her. There was not one colour that did not suit her—an unusual thing in a woman.

  As our horses came close together on one narrow path, I leaned over toward her.

  “We are not going back,” I said.

  She looked puzzled, then ill at ease. I could tell she was thinking of her possessions, clothes, jewellery, books, all still in her apartments at Windsor.

  “We can send for your things later. Certainly I have left more behind than you!” Then my voice changed. “Yes, I have left more behind than you have. I have left Katherine behind. Forever.”

  She stared at me in disbelief. Recklessly, I went on. “I shall never see her again! I hate her! She has done everything within her power to bring about my ruin. And yet she still poses as my solicitous wife. Nay, I shall never see her again!”

  Anne smiled. “And where are we bound tonight, my love?”

  “Deerfield. To the royal hunting lodge there.”

  Deerfield was a rather tumble-down, ramshackle building that had been a great favourite of my grandfather Edward’s. I liked it because it was so different from the formal palaces. There were only ten rooms, all of them roughly planked, with low-beamed ceilings. The floors slanted, as the old supporting beams underneath had begun to sag. Downstairs a large room with a stone fireplace functioned as a dining hall, as a warming area, and as a place simply to gather and talk.

  It gave me the illusion whenever I was there that I was just an ordinary man, a man who went hunting, walked through the woods, ate a simple supper of venison, and sat before the fire with a cup of wine and his beloved beside him. Tonight I was that man, and more.

  Anne was beautiful, with the fire playing upon her face. I sat beside her and merely watched her in amazement that such a creature could exist. I thought of the snug bedroom upstairs and the wide, if hard, bed within it. Could not she give herself to me now? I had cast Katherine aside.

  We were alone. I reached out for her and kissed her—at first sweetly, then more urgently. Soon I was so aroused I could hardly restrain myself. I fumbled at the strings of her bodice and was surprised when she passively let me undo them and caress her breasts, then kiss them. The fire made strange shadows on her face and body, but that only enhanced the experience. At length I stumbled to my feet and pulled her up. Without a word, we ascended the pitted old wooden steps. By the time I reached my chamber door I was in such a fury to get inside that I would have kicked in the door, had it been necessary. But it was not. The door opened easily; I had not yet locked it. As I took Anne’s hand to bring her inside, I felt a resistance. She stood planted firmly outside the threshold.

  “No—I must not,” she said.

  I felt near explosion. “God’s blood! Come inside!”

  “No. And if I do, I am lost.” She gently pulled me back out toward her, looking at me imploringly all the while. “I want you so,” she said. “But I cannot. Our child must be lawfully born. Else all this is for nothing, and I am indeed what the people call me—the King’s Great Whore.”

  Before I could say anything further, she slipped away from my grasp and ran down the corridor to her own quarters.

  I spent another sleepless night.

  The days, nonetheless, were pleasant ones. Hunting from sunup to sundown, with a fine huntsman’s supper each night, lute-playing and games by the fire, and camaraderie.

  Then came the expected letter from Katherine. It was another of her sickening “all is sweet” ploys. She was sorry she had not been awakened in time to say good-bye to me. She would be happy to know that I was well.

  Never better since I was out of her sight! Hateful bitch! I sat down and immediately dashed off a reply—telling her that she cared little for my peace of mind or my health, since she was bent on destroying both. And, in fact, both were greatly improved when I was away from her. I dispatched it without even rereading it. I had had quite enough of her childish games.

  The next week passed peacefully, then came another missive. In this one she took me to task, saying that I owed her a face-to-face good-bye.

  Why? So she could berate me? I waited until I had left Deerfield and come closer to London, then called a Council meeting. This was no longer a private matter, as far as I was concerned, but a state one. I wanted everyone to know what I was doing, and why. Together the Council and I drafted a formal letter to the Princess Dowager stating that her disobedience had so displeased me that I did not wish to see her again.

  When my progress was completed a month later, the Council sent her another letter, telling her that I was returning to Windsor and wished her to move to Wolsey’s old house, The More, before then. While she was there she was then to select a permanent place of residence and thereafter to retire there.

  It was done. It was done. I could hardly believe it of myself. Why, then, did I feel such a mixture of euphoria and despair?

  The news of my separation from Katherine spread quickly and was not always well received. Unfortunately, it coincided with the beginning of the Parliamentary measures taken to reform the Church. All the old was being dismantled, the people seemed to feel, and there was no secure haven anywhere.

  On May fifteenth, 1532, Convocation acknowledged me as Supreme Head of the Church in England. On May sixteenth, More resigned as Chancellor.

  He came to me, carrying his Seals of Office, the very ones that Wolsey had been so loth to surrender.

  I was, as I remember, reading in my inmost private chamber. I bade More enter—something I rarely allowed anyone to do. Not because of pride, but because it was the only sanctuary I knew, and to have others tramping about it would have spoiled it. But More was different.

  “Thomas,” I said, coming forward to greet him. “How fortuitous that you should come to see me now!” It was true; I had been feeling sad of late, and Thomas More always had a soothing effect on me. Then I noticed that he had a dolourous look upon his face. And that he had something in his hands. Not a present—from Thomas?

  “Your Grace,” he began, “it pains me—”

  Then I knew. I knew before he had even begun to unroll the wrappings of what he carried. He meant to leave me.

  “No, Thomas!” I cut him off, as if by so doing I could make it untrue. “You must not! I need you!”

  “Your Grace needs no one who cannot, in good conscience, support your policies. I fear that at last the exigencies of the situation have weighed so upon me that I cannot continue, in good faith, to serve you.”

  Thomas could not leave me. “Why?” I pleaded.

  “Convocation’s decision to submit to the charge of praemunire and to acknowledge you as ‘Supreme Head of the Church in England’ leaves me no choice.” His calm grey eyes looked into mine.

  “It has nothing to do with the Chancellor!”

  “It has everything to do with the Chancellor, Your Grace. I am your chief minister. If I cannot support your measures in my heart, of what
good am I?”

  “Inestimable good. The people respect you. The peers respect you. Those abroad respect you. There is not a man in England more esteemed.”

  “In other words, you want me as a figurehead who will give an aura of sanctity to your doings. Your Grace, I love you well, but even for you I cannot sacrifice my conscience. It is the only gem I have. As you know,” he laughed, “I have accepted no bribes. I left the Court of Requests as poor as I entered it, and shall leave the Chancellorship a bit poorer, I daresay, as I spend prodigious sums in boatmen’s fares from here to Chelsea.”

  I had no answer. Everything he said was true. I did want him to give a stamp of approval on my course. With More at my side, I could be forgiven anything. I was deeply ashamed.

  “Thomas, I want you to stay,” I said, simply.

  “Your Grace, I cannot,” he replied, equally simply.

  With that it ended. He handed me the Great Seal and his golden collar, smiled wistfully at me, and took his leave.

  Thomas, gone! The clearest head, the most sensible voice, the deepest mind of all those I knew. Did everyone desert me? Must I fight alone? And for what was I fighting? There were times when even I did not know. Only that I must go on.

  XLV

  There was Katherine yet to be disposed of, settled in some way. She had disobeyed my orders to select a permanent place of “honourable estate and retirement,” and stubbornly stayed on at The More, in the environs of London.

  Very well, then. I would decide for her, and there she would betake herself. I selected Ampthill in Bedfordshire, a manor about forty miles north of London.

  I sent a deputation of thirty councillors to give her the following orders: Remove yourself to Ampthill within a fortnight; reduce your household servers by two-thirds; cease to style yourself Queen; acknowledge me as Supreme Head of the Church in England.

  As I expected, she refused the last two orders. She said she would gladly release anyone from her service who would not recognize her as Queen, and that her conscience would never permit her to acknowledge her “husband” as Supreme Head of the Church.

  Oh! That woman, that stubborn, hateful woman! To cling to something that did not exist—how revoltingly pathetic!

  And Mary . . . she proved to be entirely her mother’s daughter and none of mine, in her behaviour toward me. She was contemptuous and rude, continually speaking of her mother and the wrongs I had done her, and of the Church and the wrongs I had done her. In truth, I knew not what to do with my daughter, as I loved her, but knew her now to be totally against me. In sorrow I sent the sixteen-year-old girl to the manor of Beaulieu in Essex, with a household of her own.

  I must put a stop to the incipient questioners and sceptics in the realm. What would silence them better than having Warham, the Archbishop of Canterbury, celebrate my wedding to Anne? As highest prelate in the land, he stood as quasi-Pope to the people. In addition, he had “married” me to Katherine. For him now to officiate at my wedding to Anne would say plainer than anything else that the first marriage was indeed void. I would insist that he do so.

  But, astoundingly, he refused. More than that, he denounced me and my “concupiscent desires” and took a grave moralistic stand on the issue of separating from the Pope. I stamped out of his presence.

  Alone in my chambers, I paced. Things seemed as hopeless as ever. More had left me. The highest ecclesiastical authority in the land did not see fit to marry me to Anne. The Pope continued to fulminate against me. Only Anne and Parliament stood on my side.

  But just when it seemed everything must stay as it was forever, everything changed, as suddenly as a summer squall.

  God intervened, and Warham died. True, he was an old man, in his eighties, but I had despaired of ever being rid of him. He had been there since my earliest boyhood, and seemed to be less a man than the office itself, God-given and eternal.

  It was August of 1532 when Warham died. I could now find a new Archbishop—one more pliant to my wishes. And whom should I select for the honour? I knew the answer already: Thomas Cranmer.

  Cranmer was amazed when I informed him of my decision. He was but a simple priest, he protested. Surely a bishop—

  I reminded him that Thomas à Becket had been less; had been only a deacon.

  “But, Your Grace,” he stammered, “he was truly a holy man, whereas I—I—”

  “You also are a holy man. Of that I have no doubt, Thomas. Look! Both your first names are Thomas! Is that not an omen?”

  He still stood with a hangdog look. Never had a nominee for Archbishop of Canterbury received the news of his elevation with less enthusiasm.

  “I will expedite the bulls from the Pope—I mean, the Bishop of Rome—installing you with all due haste. By this time next year, you will be well acquainted with your duties as Primate of all England!”

  Once again he turned his woebegone eyes upon me. I was elated with the decision, and he was downcast!

  “Yes, Your Grace,” he finally said. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Now I knew in what direction my path lay, and it lay clear. With Cranmer as my Archbishop, duly approved by the hectored (and soon to be discarded) Pope, my Church in England would indeed be legitimate. Free from the Pope, yet sanctioned by him, Cranmer, legitimate Archbishop, would marry me to Anne, and also pronounce on my so-called marriage to Katherine.

  Anne was jubilant. At long last, after more than five years of waiting, the end seemed in sight. The bulls should not be long in coming. In the meantime, I had another treat for her: Francis and I were going to meet in Calais, and she must accompany me, just as if she were already my Queen. Francis had shown himself of late to be sympathetic to me and my cause—I suspect because it was against the Emperor’s—and was eager to meet and discuss many things.

  This would be the first time I had crossed the Channel or beheld Francis since 1520—twelve long years. Since then we had both lost our erstwhile Queens and acquired new ones. We had lost much else, I supposed, and cared not to speculate on it.

  Anne was to be my wife and Queen, and it was only fitting that she begin to wear the royal jewels, which were still in Katherine’s possession.

  I sent a messenger instructing her to surrender them, and Katherine gave me the reply I should have expected. She demanded a written message in my own hand to that effect, since “nothing less would convince her that her husband had so far taken leave of his sense of what was fitting as to demand them of her.” She would not give up her jewels “for such a wicked purpose as that of ornamenting a person who is the scandal of Christendom, and is bringing vituperation and infamy upon the King.”

  Why did she persist in this harassment? Her actions merely annoyed and irritated (but never succeeded in threatening) me. She was petty and pathetic.

  There were those who speculated that Anne and I would marry in France. But no. Any marriage must take place on English soil and be conducted by an English priest, thereby making it incontestable.

  When I first glimpsed Francis, I thought how he had aged. Then I realized he doubtless thought the same about me. We both stood and stared at one another. This time there was no Field of Cloth of Gold, just a simple royal manor house beyond the Pale of Calais.

  Francis was heavier now, and even more gaudily costumed. His youthful gaiety had hardened into a restless sort of cynicism. His stay in the Spanish prison after his defeat by Charles had done little beyond making him more determined to spend himself in hunting and pastimes. Already thirty-eight, he had not yet become a statesman and seemed oblivious to such concerns. I felt a full fifty years older than he. The last five years had seen to that. I had entered them a youth, still under Wolsey’s tutelage, and emerged entirely my own creature, much to my own amazement. In a way, I still stood blinking on the rim of the new world I surveyed, not yet used to it.

  Things had not gone as I wished. There was much ado over my bringing Anne with me—my Queen, and yet not my Queen. Francis’s new wife, being the Emperor’s sister
(he had had to marry her to gain his freedom), naturally refused to receive her. Francis’s own sister, Marguérite, also refused. This hurt Anne, since she had served Marguérite when she was a child in France.

  Francis had finally offered, lamely, the Duchess of Vendôme, a lady with—how shall I say it?—a rather tarnished reputation. This insulted Anne more than all the other rebuffs. In the end, Anne met with no one, but remained alone in Calais, bedecked with Katherine’s jewels, while I met privately with Francis outside Calais.

  We had much to discuss. Mainly it concerned the Pope and Charles: terrors and scourges of us both. Francis suggested that a Papal council concerning my marriage be held in France. He promised to tell His Holiness that I would abide by any decision this council came to. I myself was sceptical of this, but I could not guarantee, even to myself, how I would feel should the Pope grant me my declaration of nullity at this late date.

  We retired to Calais, where I found Anne quiet and dispirited. Being almost in France, where she had passed her early girlhood, and yet unable to pass into the land itself, had told on her. Her sister had gone to the French King’s bed and been warmly received. Anne herself had refused both Francis and me, and her reward was to be labelled the “goggle-eyed whore” and to be met in France by a whore—presumably her social equal?

  When I entered the royal apartments in Calais, I found a strange sight. Anne was asleep in a padded chair. Her head was tilted back and her mouth open, a position suggesting great ardour—except that she was obviously unconscious. On her neck were Katherine’s jewels. Coming closer, I saw that she was wearing them all: the earrings, the bracelets, the necklaces. It was as if she had decided to put all on in an attempt to flout the ostracism—to say, in effect, I shall wear the jewels regardless. Even if I must wear them alone.