The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  HENRY VIII:

  But those who made refrains were ignorant! They had no idea of what they spoke. And why did they always take the woman’s side? Katherine did not die “of a broken heart.” She died of Anne’s poison and her own foolish pride. If only she had co-operated with me, she would never have ended her days in the fens! No, she would have lived in luxury and shared Mary with me, grown old in honour. And Nan—thank God the common people did not know the true blackness of her soul, the degradation of that Witch—lest they tremble and shiver in their beds and never know safety again. Even from the grave she cursed me, headless demon! And sweet Jane. God took her from me, and God alone knows how I would have ransomed my kingdom to save her. The people made a ballad for her, and spoke kindly of me then. How had their minds been so poisoned since? It was Anne—Anne operating beyond the grave, in spite of everything I had done to disempower the Witch.

  I felt as if she were right there. Oh, wrong was I to have conjured up her shade! I fought to free myself from it; I reached over and touched Anne of Cleves’s arm, startling her.

  “Let us sleep,” I said in as low and gentle a voice as I could. She could understand the intent, if not the actual words. She smiled slowly, then followed me back to bed, so preposterously appointed for love. Together we slid down into the satin and passed the calmest bridal night of any new-wedded pair since Mark and Isold.

  We overslept. They awaited us at early Mass in the Chapel Royal, then went ahead and said Mass without us. They awaited us in the Privy Chamber, fresh garments at the ready, a great silver bowl of spiced wine for our comfort. They awaited me at my Council Chamber, where Cromwell, Cranmer, the Admiral, and others expected to detail the plans for the obligatory post-nuptial jousts, tournaments, and banquets. They awaited us impatiently, eagerly, lecherously, like a pack of schoolboys suddenly privy to the private life of their schoolmaster. And I, the schoolmaster, avoided them and played truant like a student: our roles were reversed.

  The wan January sun streamed in the windows, warming nothing. I glanced at Anne, sleeping beside me. Yes, she was as ugly as I had thought. The emasculated sun was still strong and merciless enough to shadow all her pockmarks and show her liver-coloured skin. Her yellowish buck teeth protruded from her lips as she snored on. Yet I was no longer repulsed by her. She seemed like an ally, a strange companion in this misadventure of mine—with Cromwell as my adversary.

  Yes, Cromwell. I had thought him my ally, yet who was he really? He had appeared conveniently when Wolsey had left court, ostensibly to act as Wolsey’s agent in the tangled financial affairs he had so uncharacteristically left behind. In doing so he had established himself as a powerful man, or, if not powerful, a man of consequence, one to be reckoned with. Wolsey’s ruin was his gain. And from there he had maneuvered himself into my confidence. How? By his unscrupulous manipulation of the Church. The undoing of the Papacy: Cromwell’s insight. The domestication of the English clergy: Cromwell’s project. The dissolution of the monasteries: Cromwell’s grand design. These moves had made me supreme over the Church, and monastic wealth had replenished what I had wasted of my inheritance in French wars. But what had they done for Cromwell? No man does anything that does not ultimately benefit himself most; I knew this now, although I had not always known it. In Wolsey’s case that benefit was obvious, and showed itself ostentatiously. But Cromwell had garnered no titles, gloated over no possessions, sported with no women, and exalted in no high rank or office. He was not Chancellor, and wore no gold chain. He did not preside over Court of Star Chamber or over Parliament. What drove him? What did he want? Whatever it was, finding himself in my confidence, making himself indispensable to me, and yoking me to the Flemish Mare—all were part of his plan. Although I did not know that plan as yet, I knew Cromwell well enough to know that he would have a plan, for nothing in his life was happenstance. So I would watch, and wait. And in the meantime . . . I glanced over at Anne . . . I would have to pretend that we were man and wife. And catch Cromwell out. In that, Anne would serve a purpose.

  I let her sleep. I had no desire to be surrounded by people until I had my thoughts on course. Let everyone think we slept late because the marriage was a grand success. It served my plans better.

  Thus do we become old. It is not in our aching knees, or in our rheumy eyes. No. It is in the transforming of what in youth is a simple pleasure into something false and face-saving. The wedding night becomes a political ruse. In this we betray ourselves, surprise our own selves in the distance we have already travelled on our life’s journey.

  Afore noon, Anne and I, attired in our “second day” costumes, greeted Cromwell and the other Privy Councillors before adjourning to a midday feast. In these short winter days, dinner was served when the sun was at its height. I took care not to smile overmuch, lest it be misinterpreted. Let them puzzle over exactly what I felt; let them wonder how pleased I was; let no one be sure of where he stood with me.

  A rush of pleasure filled me at the situation. I enjoyed leaving men in limbo, uncertain as to what exactly was happening to them—or was about to happen. It was an ugly feeling, and I was ashamed that I could relish it so. Yet emotions and feelings were not sins, were they? Only actions were sins, and I had done no unkind action. In fact, I was behaving in a most generous and kingly fashion toward them. I spoke vaguely of “our pleasure” in the Lady Anne, and invited them to join us in “our dinner.”

  Fifty members of the court dined with us in the Great Hall. Anne and her ladies from Cleves, all identically got up in headdresses that reared up around their faces like the wrinkled ears of elephants, chattered away to each other on the dais.

  Cromwell, in his customary plain black robes, was seated just down on the table to the right, talking gravely to Brandon. I noticed that he left his wine untouched. Brandon did not, of course.

  Across, seated at the other table, were the women. Brandon’s new wife, Katherine. (I persisted in thinking of her as his “new wife,” even though they had been married as long as Princess Elizabeth had been alive.) Bessie Blount—now Lady Clinton. My eye lingered fondly over her, but she was no longer the Bessie I had known. She was thin and coughed often, pulling her furs as close about her as she dared, for fashion’s sake. She was consumptive. I could see it, mark it coldly in one part of me, whilst the other winced. Not Bessie . . . she could not grow old. We want the sharers of our youth to remain forever young, to remind us of what we were, not of what we are. Best to die young, then? Certainly, for those to whom your existence is a touchstone, an affirmation.

  Princess Mary, dressed all in purple. She loved the colour, and, as she was entitled to wear it, saw no reason not to have her headdresses, her handkerchiefs, her shoes, as well as her gowns, the colour of squashed violets. No reason, save that it was singularly unbecoming to her and made her face look yellow. Next to her was a rare, pretty creature who knew everything about colour and how to use it. She had auburn hair and the fair skin that sometimes goes with it, and wore dusky pink, which made her face and hair seem of sublime tints. She was chattering away to the Princess Elizabeth on her left. Elizabeth’s startling red hair was drawn demurely back into a snood, and she was attired in modest brown. Although only six, her manner was so grave and her demeanour so old that from across the room she seemed to be old Margaret Beaufort, come again to taunt and judge me. Her black eyes—keen, sharp buttons—were the very same. But the creature next to her—all froth and frills and foam—was making her laugh. Who was the lady?

  A splash of spittle landed before me. Anne was speaking. I turned. Yes, she was saying something, but I could not understand a word. I motioned to one of the envoys from Cleves, Hostoden, and asked him to come and translate.

  “She says she is well pleased with such a godly company,” he repeated stiffly.

  “Tell the Queen”—how strange it sounded!—“that I will engage a tutor for her straightway. She must needs learn the language of her people.”

  Anne nodded vigorously
, her headdress swaying. Again I thought of elephant ears. “They are in England now,” I said. “It is time that they lay aside their native costumes and dress according to fashion here. I shall have the court milliner measure the ladies of Cleves tomorrow.”

  When they heard this, they were indignant.

  “They say it would be immodest to lay aside their proper headdresses,” Hostoden said. “It is a wickedness to display the hair.”

  “God’s breath! If they cannot conform to English custom and costume, they should return to Cleves!”

  They scowled at this pronouncement, then agreed that they would do so. I was flabbergasted, insulted. To quit England so readily? Yet my indignation lasted but a moment, as I saw that in reality it was to my advantage to send away as many of these foreigners as possible and replace them with Englishwomen. In my youth, the court had been a bright place, as bright with youth and beauty as a summer field spread out with wildflowers and butterflies under the sun. There was still youth and beauty somewhere beneath the English sun, and it must be brought to court.

  Anne looked startled and frightened at the thought of being left alone. But I reached out and touched her stiff, brocaded shoulder.

  “As an English Queen, you should be served by Englishwomen,” I said, and Hostoden conveyed my words. “This is your home now. And I shall employ—I shall send—” I motioned for Cromwell, a slight flicker of my eye and finger, and he was instantly beside me.

  “Your Grace?”

  “You have provided all things for Lady Anne, but no language instruction,” I chided him. “I desire straightway that a tutor be found, a person so skilled in his craft that by Candlemas my wife shall speak to me in perfect English.”

  Having been given an impossible task, Cromwell accepted the commission unemotionally. He bowed, a stiff little smile on his face.

  “Yes, my Cromwell,” I said smoothly, “I am so anxious to hear my dearly beloved wife speak to me in my own tongue. It will complete my happiness.”

  A flicker of worry crossed his brow, that brow trained so well in Italy. Then he did his masters well. “As you say, Your Majesty. In your pleasure lies my happiness.”

  And your welfare, I thought. And your very existence.

  I nodded expansively and chucked Anne on the cheek.

  That evening, after the light supper of cold venison, pudding, and bread, a slim young man was announced. Anne and I were once again retiring to the “bridal bower,” and the rest of the courtiers and attendants had withdrawn—doubtless to jest and pity me. Well, their laughter and their pity would be short-lived.

  “Yes?”

  “I am sent by the Lord Privy Seal,” the lad said. “To teach the King’s English to the Princess of Cleves, God save her.” He flourished a basket of books, pens, and paper.

  Crum—always daring in fulfilling a request. Who would have thought of sending someone to begin lessons this very night? Only Crum.

  I motioned the young tutor in, sat him down with my bride before a table.

  “I . . . am . . . Anne.

  “You . . . are . . . Martin.

  “He . . . is . . . King Henry.”

  I fell asleep to this refrain on the second night of my new marriage.

  LXXXVIII

  For the next week or ten days, Anne gave herself over completely to her English lessons. I was astounded by her concentration and diligence. Every morning when I left her, I kissed her on the cheek and said, “Good morning, sweetheart.” At night before going to sleep, I gave her yet another chaste peck and said, “Sleep well, my dear.” By the fourth morning she was able to say, “Good morning”; by that evening, “And you as well, husband”; and before many more days were out she was inquiring solicitously about my state business, my Council meetings, and the forthcoming nuptial tournaments and celebrations. Soon I would have a talking horse.

  She was also (as befit a domestic beast) docile in allowing her women to be sent back to Cleves, in being assigned a whole new group of attendants, and in being measured and outfitted for a new wardrobe. Her “elephant ear” headdresses were cheerfully surrendered, and she showed a surprising taste for luxurious fabrics and fashionable gowns. She certainly had the frame to carry any extravagance in weight or colour. It was truly like trapping a great horse.

  I spent my days closeted in meetings, poring over the latest diplomatic dispatches regarding the “amenity” between Charles and Francis. They must catch no wind of the lack of success in my new marriage, and rather than trust anyone, I must play my part so well that no one, not even Cromwell, would suspect. So I acted the happy bridegroom, watching myself as though I were detached, marvelling at my own ability to dissemble. It is a talent I suspect everyone possesses. Those who lament, “I can never lie, my face gives me away,” are the cleverest liars of all.

  Forward went the plans for the great national celebrations. Protocol must be served, and on a windy day in late January the jousting barriers were put up in the tiltyard of Whitehall Palace; the brightly coloured flags were raised, and the spectator stands were hung with the Tudor colours.

  Crum had employed an innovation: the royal boxes were enclosed, and heated with braziers. We were to gaze out at the contestants through glass plates.

  The day of the royal tournaments was blustery and overcast, one of those days that seem grey throughout. But inside the royal glass boxes it was high summer, with all the chattering and uncovered necklines that accompany warmth.

  Anne was wearing a square-cut golden velvet and cloth-of-gold gown, and on her hair she had a thin gold wire coronet set with emeralds—quite the latest fashion. She seemed exuberant to be attending this joust.

  “In-a Cleves, ve haf no such tang,” she enunciated carefully.

  No, I supposed not. What an insufferably dull place the Duchy of Cleves must be! Poor thing—coming to England and being hailed as Queen must have been the most extraordinary thing in her very ordinary life. Well, let her enjoy it while she could—for this preposterous charade would last only a few months more, until Charles and Francis had their inevitable falling-out.

  The trumpets sounded, ringing out unnaturally clear in the cold. (Why does cold seem to intensify colours and sound?) I stood and gave the signal for them to begin. The flower of England, young men in their prime, rode forth to entertain us, the aging patrons of England.

  I glanced over at Brandon, leaning back in his Eastern leather chair. Lately he had been affecting the ways of a sultan, claiming that his old bones felt more comfortable in Persian stuffed chairs, and that smoking their foul-smelling water-pipes improved his mood. Now he was watching the contests with half-lidded eyes. He was not unlike a bullfrog on a giant lily pad; but I remembered his face, fierce behind a visor, as it was in 1524, when he all but killed me in a tournament. . . .

  “We could show them something, eh?” I touched his shoulder. He did not respond. Either his hearing was defective or he was lost in thought. No matter. Beside him, Crum made a disgusted motion toward the water-pipe.

  I could not help but notice that we seemed to be divided into two groups: old men and young women, the latter watching the young men perform on the field.

  On Anne’s side of the box were spread out all her newly appointed ladies-in-waiting and maids of honour. I watched them, in a sort of intellectual fascination with youth—or so I fancied.

  A flicker of white: lace being waved, a handkerchief . . . the handkerchief that day, the black/white May Day when Anne had dropped it to Norris . . . I had not known pain could survive intact like that, as if it had a life of its own, but now it ripped through me, leaving me weak and sick.

  The handkerchief moved again, a piece of cloth and lace, a real thing, not a ghost. Holding it was that ethereal creature in pink whom I had seen at the wedding dinner. She waved at Culpepper, who was now fastening her satin colours on his arm. Yet she did not love him, I could tell, by the way her eye wandered and she chattered gaily to her companions. Once he was not looking, she crumpled u
p the handkerchief and wadded it in her hand. And when Culpepper fell, she scarcely noticed.

  She put her plump little hand up to her bosom, and then it all came clear to me: this was the creature for whom Culpepper had requested the velvet, the one he had meant to seduce.

  Evidently he had not succeeded. No maiden would ever have regarded her seducer as inattentively as this—what was her name?—this Howard girl regarded Culpepper. They were carrying him off the field now, and there were bright spots of blood in the snow beneath him, but Mistress Auburn-Tresses was whispering to another lady and giggling.

  She stuck out her slippered feet to warm them against the brazier, touching them to the singeing metal, then pulling them back just in time. It was a dangerous game, and sure enough, she cried out in pain after the sixth or seventh time.

  I made my way down to her, and pulled off her slipper. Her foot was so tiny and warm, like a child’s. I had forgotten that there is a time in life when one’s feet are plump and rosy. It seemed that mine had been hard, callused, and cold for all my living memory. But this foot was succulent, there was no other word for it.

  I looked up at her face, and it was as tender and succulent as her foot. She still clutched the handkerchief, but tears glistened on her flushed cheeks, and her cushion-like lips quivered. She was the most sensual creature I had ever touched, the most fleshly and entirely of the senses, of this earth . . . and I knew, in that instant, that I must possess her.

  I said nothing. I stood up, made my way back to my royal seat.

  It was settled. She would be mine. I had but to speak to arrange it. I lived in a world where all desires could be satisfied, but where the lack of desire had been the fearsome thing, the thing that weighed on me and made me feel dead.