The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  “Ah!” said Cromwell. “But you have no copy with you?”

  “No, alas. But we can send for one.”

  “That will take weeks,” said Cromwell sadly. “And the wedding—which cannot proceed without it, of course—is scheduled for this week. You understand, this changes everything. The nuptials cannot be solemnized—”

  “That is no difficulty.” They even talked in unison. What was this between them?

  “I am afraid it is.” Cromwell was cold.

  “We ourselves will act as surety for the documents. Bind us, toss us in prison, keep us pent up until the documents are safely in your hands. We are yours to do with as you like.”

  The imbeciles! I turned to Cranmer and the Bishop of Durham. “What think you of this?”

  I expected them to agree with me, but they shook their heads sadly. “In our opinion, no impediment to the marriage exists.”

  “There is the impediment of allying ourselves to the heretical princes of the Schmalkaldic League itself,” Cromwell pronounced, turning on his own creature.

  “Because the Pope says so?” I said quietly, exposing the weakness of that argument. Truly we were backed into a corner of our own making. “Is there no remedy,” I cried out, “but that I must needs put my head into the yoke?” I felt like a trapped animal, a sacrificial bull.

  “I am not well handled,” I muttered, looking at each face in turn. “No, I have not been well handled in this matter.”

  WILL:

  From these ominous words, the downfall of Cromwell can be dated. Henry was now convinced that his chief minister had engineered the Protestant alliance for secret reasons of his own. From there it was but a short step to believing that Cromwell was a Protestant plotter who meant to make the Church of England Protestant. Cromwell was too clever to have made such a blunder as being misled about Anne; therefore it must have been part of a larger scheme.

  HENRY VIII:

  Anne had been detained at Dartford on a pretext (also arranged by Cromwell), but now there was no reason for her not to proceed to London. Glumly I gave orders that she was to recommence her journey. The grand celebrations I had planned now rose before me to mock me. I was to be married to a horse in a glittering and staggeringly expensive public ceremony. I was to receive said horse on the heath and common adjoining Greenwich Palace, where golden tents were to be set up, pavilions of silk; even now, a horseman was riding about London, crying out that all who loved their lord the King should proceed to Greenwich on the tenth day of Christmas, to meet and make their devoir to the Lady Anne of Cleves, who would shortly be their Queen.

  The royal request was obeyed by tens of thousands, who flocked to the environs of Greenwich and the bare fields that had been prepared for the reception of my fourth bride.

  I had not slept in two nights, spending every moment searching for a legal barricade to this nightmare. But there was none, although I was ready to try the most obscure reasoning. Once the marriage was performed, it would be even more difficult to set aside, as a thing uncompleted is easier left as is than a standing building dismantled. The possibility of staying married to Anne was unthinkable. I simply would not do it.

  But the hour drew closer when I would have to receive her.

  It was near dawn when I gave up any hope or pretence of sleeping. I arose and descended the bed-stairs stiffly, taking care not to awaken poor Culpepper, who slept on his pallet at the foot of the bed. I made my way, as quietly as the darkness would allow, over to my prayer-corner. But what began as a cry for God to deliver me from this trial ended with a plea for the revelation of His will and the stalwartness to carry it out.

  “O God, Heavenly Father, Maker of all things—spare me from this travesty, deliver me from this cruelty—” Even as I formed the words with my lips in the cold, still air of the room, they died away before the Presence of God in my mind. I was struck dumb by the glory of God, the shining Presence, the knowledge that He was with me. All my own words and desires faded away—or rather seemed to make up some part of a Whole which I sensed, glimpsed, grasped—a Whole so dazzling and yet peaceful that any earthly thing was blessed merely by being a small part of it. And I was willing—no, eager—to do whatever was assigned to me by God, to co-operate with Him. So my words changed into a lover’s murmur of “Yes, yes . . . all that I have or may be, is Yours.” It was somehow ordained, meant to be, that the Lady Anne and I must wed. For what reason I knew not, but it would be revealed. Perhaps we were to have a son who would be a great poet or warrior. A son—how was I to get a son upon her? With men, such things are impossible, but with God, all things are possible. Such carnal details seemed a trifling matter in that transcendent moment.

  I arose from my prie-dieu a committed man, eager to show myself God’s man. I rang for my attendants. Time to begin dressing, no moments of dalliance today. Culpepper rolled over and rubbed his eyes. The grooms of the bedchamber appeared, bringing torches, bowls of scented water, and heated towels. It struck me that I was being married as a mighty monarch, a King in his prime, and that this time I would savour all the details and nuances attendant on it. I felt free, detached, observant. (Was this what placing oneself in God’s hands meant? If so, it was a curious feeling—to experience oneself as an outsider.)

  So I watched myself being made ready, I watched as a large but still muscular man (underneath the fat) was washed in scented water, then patted dry with white linen and massaged with rosemary oil. I watched as his barber combed and clipped his thinning reddish hair, noting casually that there was as yet no balding, but just a general sort of fading and lessening of what, only ten years earlier, had been remarkable hair. The beard, too, was not as thick and showed white in places, but neither was it patchy and scraggly. I saw, in short, a man who was not what he once was, but not yet what he would be. Not young, not old. A transitional man.

  And now—the wedding attire. When I ordered it, I had allowed every profligate desire to express itself. Each layer of clothing sought to outdo the one just beneath it. Now they were to be fitted together in one blinding ensemble. Culpepper held out the first undergarment, which was of finest China silk, embroidered with white. It was so light it almost floated as he passed it to me; and the sleek feeling as it slid down next to my skin was like a seductive serpent. But the layers after that became heavier and heavier, encrusted with gold thread and gemstones, Oriental pearls and silver of Damascus, until only a man of my breadth and strength could have worn them all.

  I have worn armour and I know how heavy that is; but this was its equal. Yet what are gold and jewels but civilian armour?

  My bride awaited me. My fate awaited me. Neither was what I would have chosen, but the ways of God were mysterious, and imperious. In just this frame of mind, I went forth for the public reception of Anne, Princess of the Duchy of Cleves.

  The day was fair and clear and cold. Against the hard blue sky the golden tents sparkled, like galleons tossed on a sea. The standards above them snapped smartly like sails. Perhaps someday it would be possible for men to sail on an icy sea . . . if a ship’s hull were constructed of very thick wood, several layers. . . . Ah, what could I not do that day, what might I not invent, if only in imagination?

  I rode surrounded in glory. Such a company of bravely bedecked knights—six thousand in all, counting the King’s Guard, yeomen, pages of honour, spears and pensioners, and all their trappings: the crimson velvet, the antique gold, the knots of gold—shining clearly and sharply in the January morning.

  There were thousands more awaiting us on the broad heath—the Germanic merchants of the Steelyard on the east side, glaring across at their rivals, the merchants of Genoa, Florence, Venice, and Spain. In between were our own English merchants—all told, some twelve hundred men.

  Down from Shooter’s Hill came Anne of Cleves in a carved, gilded chariot, drawn by horses trapped in black velvet. Like Diana drawn by steeds. . . .

  So I told myself, and so the noble chroniclers recorded it. On the parc
hment of the Kingdom, Diana, chaste and beautiful and athletic, was met by Jupiter, mighty and lust-filled and benevolent. You can read how glorious it all was, how the earth shook at our encounter and all the Kingdom rejoiced. Truly that day we all believed it, I as much as any other—and so history is made, so it becomes fixed like fruits preserved in wine long past their season.

  Side by side, the Lady Anne and I rode down the hill and across Black-heath, and all my subjects cheered. The Thames (which had not frozen) was filled with boats with satin sails and banners, shooting off fireworks.

  That was the public side. But once we reached Greenwich Palace, once the chariot was put away and the black velvet taken off the horses—then I was but myself again, a rebellious small boy inside the magnificent and ordained structure. I squirmed and fought. Once again I did not want to go through with it. The saintly resolve that had begun my day did not outlast the sunset. I gathered Cromwell and my Privy Councillors about me, balked, whined, complained. “If it were not for my Kingdom and that I have proceeded so far in the matter, I would not do what I must tomorrow for any earthly thing.”

  I fell back into bed, ashamed of my weakness. I was no saint, although I had felt like one in the early dawn. Real saints remained saints all day, through the ups and downs of real weather, real people, real pain—not the wraithlike ones of a dreamy dawn. They did not fall into bed querulous and disappointed in themselves. They were not filled with anger and rebellion.

  I did not want to marry the Lady Anne, now or ever. She had a beautiful chariot, but it was not the chariot I must take to my bed. I would prefer the chariot—yes, I would prefer to cover its wheels with my bed-furs—rather than its mistress.

  Yet it must be. The nuptial ceremony was to take place early on the morrow, at eight o’clock. I had scheduled it for that hour, as if that would get it over with—when in fact it would be just the beginning.

  As I lay in bed, berating myself for not being a saint, my thoughts finally became more realistic, more pragmatic. I was about to embark on an arranged marriage. Such things had happened since the beginning. (Were not Adam and Eve an “arranged marriage”?) Ordinary men had the pleasure of choosing their own mates, but to be a King meant to be a pawn in one’s own game. I was fortunate in that I had twice chosen from my own subjects, just as an ordinary man might do, for love. Now that was past, just as my youth was past, and I should count myself lucky. I had gotten away with it twice already.

  And one of my choices could not have been more disastrous. No arranged marriage could have equalled its horror. So how was I to judge?

  My sleep was broken and fitful. I dreamed I was a child again, being held by my mother. It was a wished-for memory, for to my knowledge she had never held me.

  LXXXVII

  January sixth, dawn. Twelfth Night . . . always my favourite holiday. How ironic that it should be my linkage-day with Anne. . . .

  Grunting, I flung aside the covers. Reminiscing—an old man’s game. Was it come to this? Truly I would do it no more. Action was always better than contemplation. Any action.

  So once again I sank down on my prie-dieu and sought God’s blessing and guidance. Once again I felt full with His strength. Was it to be thus every day for the rest of my life? Was that why the manna lasted only one day in the wilderness? Was that why Jesus told His disciples to only ask for “this day our daily bread”? I asked; it was given. And I went forth to marry Anne of Cleves.

  Cranmer married us. All was in order (save my numb heart). The chamber was filled with well-furred and bejewelled attendants and pure beeswax candles that fluttered only slightly in the draft. I gave Anne a ring inscribed “God send me well to keep,” kissed her, and made her my wife. And all the while I felt nothing.

  There was a banquet, as was customary. The hours passed, and Anne and I scarcely saw one another. Like Perseus with Medusa, I dared not look at her, lest I be turned to stone and be unable to complete what I knew lay ahead.

  The short winter day ended, and the long night began. There would be sixteen hours for us in the bridal chamber—sixteen hours of “transport” for common men, but duty for a King.

  We were alone. All the attendants had withdrawn, leaving us in the bridal chamber. It was the very utmost in sumptuousness. Upon the great bed were silken sheets from Persia, and in the corner, urns smoked discreetly with incense. True passion would not have needed such servants, but in its absence we put our faith in them.

  How many times had I, in fantasy, made love to a stranger? I imagined it as a circus of voluptuousness, where all impulses might have free reign, because this unknown female would be willing for all, unable to censure or pass judgment. Now I was faced with the reality: a large shadow behind a silken screen, as Anne moved about, undressing. Was it my imagination, or did she deliberately delay? Was she as un-eager, as frightened as I?

  The candles burned noticeably lower. I had thought by this time to have it all done with, finished. What was taking her so long? I poured out one cup of wine, then another. I wished to find, and maintain, a state in which I could perform mindlessly. I wanted enough wine in me to dull my trepidations, yet not enough to incapacitate me—a balance not easily achieved.

  She emerged, moving slowly out from the screen, walking toward the bed. I approached from the opposite side. The candlelight blurred her features, and I took care only to gaze upon her hair, which was long and golden and shining where she had combed it out over her shoulders.

  She climbed clumsily into bed. I followed. Then we sat, side by side upon the slippery sheets, staring ahead, not daring to look at one another.

  She is a foreigner, I told myself, far from her homeland, married to a stranger. A virgin in bed with a man, sold into a marriage on the basis of a portrait. How frightened she must be! I at least had had some semblance of choice in the matter; she had had none. My heart went out to her, and in that moment I reached out for her, for the gentle virgin bride. . . .

  I kissed her and, shutting my eyes, began to caress her. It was cold in the room, and her natural modesty would cry out to be uncovered only in darkness and under the bed-wraps. I blew out the candles on our nightstand, leaving only the red, jumping flames of the fireplace to light the room. The fire crackled and sighed; Anne sighed, too, relaxing in my arms.

  How soft and warm her gown was, how thick and sensuous her hair! Truth to tell, how good it felt to hold a woman, a maiden, in my arms again. I put my hand on her breast, under her gown.

  Instead of the firm, high breast of a maiden, I felt the slack dugs of a woman long past her prime. I was so shocked I snatched my hand away with a startled cry. Anne jumped, and I felt her pull away.

  It couldn’t be true! I couldn’t believe my own hand, surely I must have touched a pillow instead. I reached out with my other hand, trying to pull her back toward me, and my hand landed on a soft, quivering, wrinkly mass—her abdomen!

  “You lied!” I cried. “You are older than you claim, you are withered, dried up! I have been cheated!”

  She leapt out of bed, terrified of my ranting in English. The fraud! I vaulted off the bed and snatched the covers she clutched to herself, revealing her body in all its horror. Her breasts were hanging and shrivelled, her abdomen so paunchy and bloated—

  “Pfah!” I cried in revulsion.

  She looked at me and her eyes narrowed. “Pfah!” she spat in return, pointing at my member, which was hanging exposed outside my nightshirt. “Pfah!” she repeated, then made a diminutive sign and began laughing. A long stream of that repulsive German followed, as she continued to revile me and insult my manhood.

  And why should my member not be small and shrunken up at the sight of her? I took it not as a reflection on myself. She looked like a witch as she cackled there in the firelight. I began to imitate her, sticking a pillow under my nightshirt to capture her grotesquely ugly belly, but she only laughed all the louder. I began laughing, too. Suddenly I realized that this strange woman had not embarrassed me, but only amused m
e, and that I felt freer in her presence than in anyone else’s I had ever met. Our laughter mounted higher and higher, until we were convulsed by it and gasping for air.

  Our laughter then slowly died, and we faced one another. In the dull firelight, which was usually so kind to women, she was still frightfully ugly. No, not frightfully, for I was no longer afraid of her, nor she of me. But the situation—O sweet Jesu, the situation! I was husband to a wife I could be no husband to. And that was no laughing matter.

  I sank my head morosely into my hands, and thus I remained for several moments. I became aware, then, of the most debilitating tiredness. I longed for sleep; my head spun. I looked over at Anne and saw her watching me warily, like a bird eyeing a cat.

  She was afraid of me. Between my fingers (where she could not see me looking) I saw the apprehension and animal fright on her face. Then I remembered what Will had told me the people claimed was Christina of Denmark’s answer to my inquiries about her eligibility: “His first Queen he killed with a broken heart; his second was unjustly executed; and his third was killed through lack of care after childbirth.” And then, “However, if I had two heads, one of them should be at the King of England’s disposal.” I had thought it one of Will’s jests, and laughed. Now I wondered if he had been truer than he realized.

  WILL:

  “Truer than he realized.” Oh, Henry, Henry! It was you who were blind and deaf to what you had become in the eyes of Europe. When you sent your envoys out, seeking another bride, you were no longer the great matrimonial catch you had been before your Great Matter. No respectable Princess wanted to marry you! She felt it would be taking her life in her hands—that, at the very least, you were jinxed, even if you did not deliberately seek to undo your wives. Luckily, the Duchy of Cleves was so shielded, and the Lady Anne so ignorant of English and gossip, that her brother agreed to your suit. No, Henry, I did not jest. In fact, I censored the worst of the current remarks—the quotes I gave you were the only repeatable ones!