The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  The wound was not exactly numb, but warmly and blissfully insensitive to pain.

  “Now the salve, which will heal and soothe. Goat’s fat, compounded with ground pearls and burnt lead.” He mounded it up all over the open sore, like meringue on an open tart. “Now.” He looked pleased at his artistry.

  “The pain is gone.”

  “Aye. Now, bandages will enable you to dress and go outside your chambers, but they are bad for the healing. Try to lie abed, unbandaged, as many hours as possible. Tonight you must on no account stir out of your bed.”

  So I was bedded, with a heap of pillows beneath my hurt leg, and thick coverlets of fur over me. The fire, composed entirely of sweet apple and cherrywood, snapped and sighed with hissing, scented breath.

  “To help you sleep,” said Dr. Butts, offering me a green syrup in a small silver beaker. The taste was like the feel of the ointment: a sting, followed by bliss. I was happier than I had ever been; it made me so.

  “This will help you get through the last few days until Twelfth Night. When it is in your belly and veins, it overpowers the pain. But take no more at any one time than half the beakerful. And no more than three times a day.”

  “Yes. Yes.” I saw him place a full bottle on the mantle, where it glowed as pretty and precious as liquid emeralds. “Catherine . . .” I mumbled. “The Queen . . .” Catherine, still waiting outside . . . poor child . . .

  Tell her I am floating in another world, where nothing matters or is felt. . . .

  But when he looked for Catherine, my wife was not there. She had quitted the chamber on her own, and gone elsewhere.

  I slept deeply that night, kept submerged well below the surface of wakefulness by the magical green syrup. When I awoke, it was already past sunrise. The sky outside the windows was clear blue, and little ribbons of sunlight fell in parallel bands to the floor. I had forgotten about the leg-mess until I swung my feet over the side of the bed. Then a wallop of pain like an oaken beam felled me back onto the pillows. My adversary was awake, and alert. Very well, then. I rang for Dr. Butts. He came and dressed my leg in its daytime-going-about bandage, and administered a proper dose of the syrup. Then I called my Clerk of the Wardrobe, and together we selected a jewel-enlivened costume that would draw all eyes to my chest and away from my lower body.

  That was to be my strategy for the next three days. Disguise the infirmity. Kill the pain from within. Use dress as an ally in this battle between me and disease.

  Catherine I let scamper away with her friends. It was she, more than anyone else, from whom I must conceal this weakness. Released from her place by my side, she bounded off with all the court dandies and poets, the Howard clan with all its cousins, and even the peculiar offspring of the Scots and Irish chieftains. These latter were supposedly to stay on and serve a season at court to become “civilized.” They certainly needed it. The Scots princeling was huge, covered with freckles, and affected some sort of multicoloured woollen wrapping with a phallic fur-bedecked purse dangling coquettishly over his manhood. The Irish prince had a face as white as ivory and an almost womanish, perverse beauty, and played a native harp, which he suffered never to be separated from. Neither lad knew how to dance, how to present himself to a foreign ambassador, or how to make teasing, insubstantial conversation with ladies.

  I had proved myself by the dancing-recital of the night before; no one would suspect that necessity now compelled me to sit quietly amongst the more settled ladies and courtiers. These were the middle-aged—those who had retired from the frivolities of youth, but who were in their intellectual prime. Unfortunately they were much given to discussing theology, philosophy, and politics.

  These folk were, in the main, women. Katherine, Brandon’s young wife; the widow Latimer; Lady Anne Herbert; Joan Champernown. They were pious, brilliant, articulate. And, I suspected, a bit Protestant—as, I was forced to admit, all young people tended to be. Protestantism was new, radical, engaging. It attracted restive minds. Further along the line it shaded off into heresy, but these pretty ladies were merely dabbling in its water, exercising their minds in the only way permitted them. How dreary it must be to be a woman, I thought, looking round at them. To have so few areas in which you were allowed to stretch yourself. No wonder Protestantism was savoured so. It was an unknown sea in which they could dive deep and taste the exhilaration usually forbidden to their sex.

  “Well, Madam Katherine,” I addressed the widow Parr, “I am pleased that you could come to court.”

  “I am gratified that Your Majesty included me,” she said, bowing her head. So the “delicate matter” was passed over in a civilized way. Her old husband, Lord Latimer, had been a conservative northern Catholic, a sympathizer with the Pilgrims. My invitation to his widow meant that I did not include her in her late husband’s treasonous leanings.

  I looked at her. Her gold-red hair, with the deepest widow’s-peak (how appropriate!) I had ever seen, was pulled neatly behind a severe little black cap. But her face was pink-cheeked and merry—quite at variance with the asceticism of her mind. She was only twenty-nine. Why was it that a woman seemed to take on her husband’s age, and the fact that the widow Latimer had been wed and widowed by two old men stuck to her and coloured one’s impression of her? Certainly she herself was not ancient. Then I heard her speaking to Katherine Brandon, and I knew why.

  “. . . but as Our Lord was constrained, by His Passion, to restrict His forgiveness at the time merely to those nearby—that is, He explicitly forgave the thief beside Him on the cross; He specifically forgave His executioners, who were dicing for His robe—‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do’—He did not say, ‘and thou also, Pilate, and Caiaphas,’ although surely in His heart He included them. . . .”

  Was this her holiday talk? What, then, was her serious talk?

  “Madam Latimer, you are far too joyless,” I chided her. “Surely at Our Lord’s birth, when He came as a babe, as God’s gift to mankind, it is morbid to dwell on His coming betrayal and death.”

  Her dark eyes danced with excitement. Theology, then, was what inflamed her passion. “Ah, Your Majesty! But it is all one, that is its perfection, its mystery. The Kings brought frankincense and myrrh—shadows of His future death and burial. ‘Mary took all these things, and pondered them in her heart.’ She ‘pondered’ them, she did not rejoice, or sing; no, it was a heavy thing. I have often wondered,” she said dreamily, like Culpepper stroking a particularly fine piece of velvet, “what Mary did with the gold, frankincense, and myrrh.” I noted that she did not say “Our Lady” or “the Blessed Virgin.” “Did she store it in a cupboard, somewhere amidst the linen, and look at it once in a long while, or by accident after she had finished her ordinary tasks after an ordinary day, waiting for Joseph to stop work and return? Did she touch it then, and feel the miracle all over again, have an epiphany of her own?” The widow Latimer was the most unabashed romantic I had ever encountered, but only for things unknown, unseen.

  “She doubtless sold the gold and spices to pay for the trip to Egypt.” It was Elizabeth who spoke, in her practical way. But why was Elizabeth amongst these intellectual matrons? What would attract a child here? Did she long for a mother that much? “After all, the gold would have been heavy to transport, and the exotic spices would have attracted too much attention. However, selling them in Bethlehem might have alerted Herod. Probably they waited until they were in Egypt. The Egyptians would have been more blasé about those items.”

  The women looked at her, then nodded. “The child speaks true,” said Lady Herbert.

  Elizabeth laughed. “The Holy Family were people, with all the considerations of any other people.” She turned a guileless, smiling face to the widow. “Would you sometime be so kind as to check my translation of Proverbs? I am attempting to translate it into Greek.”

  The flattered widow nodded.

  Charles’s wife, the Duchess, produced a small book of devotions. “This I have found so helpful.�
� The others all bent their heads over it, like chickens in a henyard when fresh grain has been heaped on the ground. I cursed my leg, to have confined me in this clucking flock of secular nuns.

  “Ach! Zere you are, my child!” A fluster and rustle of material, along with a fine spray of saliva, announced the arrival of Anne, Princess of Cleves. “Und Henry!” Her voice rose with genuine gladness. Standing before our group was the great dray-horse herself, all shimmering in yellow satin, spreading her particular brand of good cheer. And I was delighted to see her. Rising slowly (in deference to Sir Leg), I greeted her.

  “Sister!”

  We embraced warmly. Her sturdy arms almost swayed me off my balance. I was astonished at how glad I was to see her. “Pray join us.”

  She grabbed a low stool (which a page was sitting on) and sat herself down. I expected her presence to lighten the devotional atmosphere, but to my surprise she joined right in and seemed to know all the translations and prayer books and even the printed copies of sermons which circulated amongst the religious salons. Elizabeth came and sat beside her, clearly fond of her and delighted at her presence. I had done well to make her my “sister.”

  So the day passed, sedately and in friendly company, and now there were but two more to overcome. That evening, Dr. Butts repeated the medical treatment of the leg. To my disappointment, it looked unimproved. He dosed me well, and sent me to bed at the earliest socially acceptable hour.

  XCIX

  The next day was easily passed in preparation for the climax and abrupt ending of the Christmas festivities, the Twelfth Night banquet and masked ball. In every chamber the lords and ladies were sleeping late, to store up reserves for the hours of revelry ahead. Then there were costumes to be adjusted, accessories to be located (how to strap on the stag’s antlers, carefully transported from Yorkshire?). Arrangements for returning home necessitated visits to the stables and checking harnesses and wagons. The pastry chefs were frantically baking Twelfth Night cakes, with their beans hidden deep inside, to satisfy the appetites of the entire company. The string, keyboard, and reed consorts were rehearsing, for several hours of dancing music would be required, and that allowed each musician to contribute an individual favourite or personal composition. We would hear the regional melodies of Oxfordshire, the Cotswolds, East Anglia, Wales, and even Scotland (if the young Laird could be persuaded to perform, rather than flirt with his contemporaries). O rare excitement, Twelfth Night!

  All this busy-ness enabled me to escape scrutiny and also to make the necessary arrangements for my own needs. I had purposely delayed the presentation of my Christmas gift to Catherine. Now I would unveil it at the most dramatic moment possible: midnight on Twelfth Night, at the time of the unmasking.

  My own costume? I would be one of the three Kings—Balthazar. He was the most mysterious one, the one about whom least was known. That gave me freedom to construct a most elaborate costume, with a fantastical headgear and beaten silver mask, and long trailing cloth-of-silver cape. Behind me would come my camel. Brown velvet, with two wool-stuffed humps, and proper splayed feet, it took two men to bring him to life. Culpepper would be the front part, Edmund Lacey the rear. They spent Eleventh Day practising in the Great Hall, to ensure that they did not end in a tangled mess on the floor at the important moment.

  Will was relieved of his duties for the occasion, and prepared his costume like everyone else.

  “You need a holiday,” I told him. “Go, join in with my guests. They are so exuberant they will laugh at the most indifferent things. Pity to waste a first-rate comedy master on them. I have engaged the lads in training to provide entertainment. Come, sit at the high table for the feast. I command you!”

  He laughed—or was it a laugh? “What? With you and the Princesses, both of them dispossessed or discredited in some way? Do I belong in that company? Truly?”

  “We are all misfits up there,” I heard myself saying. A King with a malady, I thought, but did not say. “All with some blot on our records, but there, and strong, nonetheless. I would be honoured to have you amongst us.”

  His face opened up; he was momentarily disarmed, and able to accept affection.

  “I would be honoured also,” he said quietly.

  I had not seen Catherine since the onset of my leg malady, and had been grateful for her presence elsewhere. She romped about much more than my daughters, which led me to the conclusion that romping was a trait of personality, not of age. Brandon still romped, and he had passed fifty some time ago. His bride, Katherine, did not, and she was some thirty-five years younger.

  All was in order. That evening everyone took his meagre supper in his rooms, freeing the Great Hall for the decorating and festooning. I followed suit, glad to have cinnamon-flavoured porridge and spiced ale, plain black bread and then an early bedtime, all under the guise of resting up for the morrow.

  Dr. Butts checked my leg, and although it was no better, he pronounced it no worse. That pleased me. It meant I could dance the following night.

  It would take a full hour for me to array myself in my costume, so delicate were its lacings and workings. The visor of beaten silver was so thin it was like tissue, and as easily crumpled. Culpepper and Lacey wriggled into the camel costume with much muttering. It was hot in there, they protested, and the pouches of food and flasks of wine they had strapped on themselves would hardly suffice until dawn.

  “You must imagine yourselves to be camels, able to go days without nourishment,” I said. Their grumbling displeased me. It smacked of softness, an abomination in an Englishman. We must be strong, not effete like the whining Frenchman.

  They muttered some more. “Silence!” I thundered. The brown velvet humps obeyed.

  We delayed changing into our costumes until we were done with the banquet. Visors did not permit for ease of eating.

  The Great Hall was bright with the characteristic colour of candle and torchlight. No matter how many pounds of beeswax and tallow one employs, the resulting light is never the clear, bright colour of sunlight or moonlight, but always retains a golden hue. Tonight, ten thousand pounds of wax gave their best, but the upper reaches of the hammerbeam ceiling were lost in haze and shadow, and one was aware that outside this artificial blaze of light and warmth, the winter crouched. The mead hall—wherein all feasted, kept company, and a Norse poet had said life was like the lost sparrow who found his way in while the darkness waited coldly outside. But the passageway was brief, too brief, and all too soon he found himself outside, and dying.

  I was inside tonight. No need to dwell on such melancholy, darkling thoughts. My leg was quiescent, whether of its own accord or by the physician’s skill, who could say? No questions, ask no questions, accept what is. Questions stink of the rottenness under all the bright things.

  I took my place with my Queen and family at the high table. It was the first time in two days I had seen Catherine, and as always, I was stunned by her sheer physical beauty when seen afresh.

  “My love,” I whispered, reaching over to stroke her cheek, soft and as smooth as ivory.

  She smiled.

  The feast was superlative. Even in deepest winter, and after having fed this entire company for a fortnight already, the master cooks presented three separate courses consisting of twenty-five dishes each. There were twenty large Twelfth Night cakes, one for each table. The most elaborate one was presented to the royal table on an ivory board. It had towers and turrets and a checker-board design: an exact facsimile of Nonsuch Palace!

  I cut into its fruited, glazed surface and offered slices to everyone. Last of all, I took my own piece.

  Who would find the bean? I must confess I hoped to. The good fortune it foretold I fain would have—some sort of assurance, no matter how flimsy, that the coming year would be blessed.

  Mouths moving, chewing, all up and down the table. Who would bite on the lucky bean, the symbolic fortune-bringer?

  “Pff—toooo!” Anne of Cleves extracted the coveted bean from her mouth
by spitting it onto her plate.

  “It is the Princess of Cleves!” announced Will. Everyone nodded, pretending to be relieved that now they could eat without danger of choking or damaging their teeth. Everyone was secretly disappointed.

  “It is the year of the Lady Anne,” I said to the company at large. “At the royal table, my most noble sister has the lucky bean.”

  There was clapping, and then one by one the others from the lower tables singled out by Dame Fortune stood up.

  “I have it,” William Paget spoke, from the nearest table. He sounded apologetic. Next to him, Bishop Gardiner glared.

  “And I!” boasted Tom Seymour, arising from the next bank of tables. He waved the silver bean aloft. “Ha-ha!” He sounded like a pagan god of plenty.

  “I have it,” said Niall Mor, the Irish lad, slowly coming to his feet. He was clad in his familial cloak, with a gold shoulder-brooch as large as a lump of coal and as intricately fashioned as an earring from Damascus. His red hair glowed like the fires of hell.

  Catherine kept her eyes on him and did not shift her gaze to the next table when a fat Cambridgeshire baron began crowing, “I have it here!”

  WILL:

  The Fates were correct. Of all the adults at the King’s High Table, Anne of Cleves would certainly be considered the luckiest, at least from our vantage point today. At least she is still alive, on good terms with everyone, and reportedly enjoying life.

  HENRY VIII:

  The tables were cleared, their great red runners rolled up, the trestles beneath them collapsed. The Great Hall was emptied, ready to be transformed into a staging-place for revels. I could hear the sounds of the musicians assembling, plaintively tuning their instruments in the gallery overhead.