The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

As I made my way back to my chamber to costume myself, I became aware of scuttlings and movements in the darkness of adjoining passageways and alcoves. Hampton Court was blessed with hidey-holes where lovers could steal their privacy. This was curious, as Wolsey had planned the layout and design, and as a churchman he should have had little interest in providing for such needs, as he had allegedly abjured them.

  In my inner chamber, I had my leg surreptitiously checked and re-bandaged by Dr. Butts. He wrapped it in fine silk, so although it was tightly bound it would not be bulky.

  “For tonight only,” he cautioned. “Silk is not an agreeable bandage. It does not absorb. So, should the sore weep, it will leak and be visible. But it looks dry for now. It should keep for a few hours, at least.” He nodded. “Take a good dose of the soothing-syrup.”

  “Nay. It dulls the pain but it also befuddles me, and I must needs remember all the dancing-steps.”

  I turned to look at myself in the mirror. I was unrecognizable, a vision from the East.

  The Great Hall, too, was unrecognizable, utterly transformed from our eating-place of only an hour earlier. A throng of strangers milled about on the floor. A harem-girl. Merlin the magician. Several nuns. There was Pope Adrian, the only English Pope, looking remarkably like myself. (Who had done this?) There was a headsman with a hood and bloody axe, Friar Tuck, painted savages from the New World, werewolves, crusaders. At the far end of the hall, Jezebel. She was wearing a scanty costume that revealed three-quarters of her body, and next to her was a man dressed as Elijah, ranting and raving. As she moved, I knew her—Catherine!

  I was appalled. The Queen of England! How dare she appear almost naked in public, dressed as a harlot and an evil queen? Jezebel was wicked, a symbol of wickedness, and an enemy of the Lord. I watched carefully as Elijah harangued her, pointing his fingers sanctimoniously at a mock Torah. Behind them came a pudgy, greasy-haired King Ahab, licking his fingers and giggling. Who were her accomplices? The onlookers laughed and cheered them on, clearly delighting in the sacrilegious display.

  No one took notice of my elaborate costume, even with the camel trailing behind. No, they were too enthralled with Jezebel.

  A Cleopatra entered the hall, with snakes coiling around her belly. They cosied up to her and slithered into the private reaches of her costume. A drunken Mark Antony followed, and then Julius Caesar, falling down regularly in fits. Foam spouted out of his mouth (replenished from a container of whipped egg whites he carried). The crowd cried, “Fall, mighty Caesar!” Every ten feet he obliged.

  Troilus and Cressida made the next entrance. They hung upon each other, these lovers of ancient Troy, kissing and caressing. Then a large company of oiled athletes grabbed hold of Cressida and, before Troilus’s weeping eyes, pulled up her skirt and made sport of her, fingering her private parts, whilst she swooned in ecstasy and jerked spasmodically in mock fulfilment.

  What had become of the gentle, knightly disguises of my past? Was this what Twelfth Night had turned into? I looked round. A few old-timers were decked out in the beautiful, intricate costumes I had expected, whilst all around them rioted obscene youth.

  The Abbot of Misrule appeared on the dais, to a great gasp. He was a human-sized private part, complete even to a ring of circumcision. Around his feet sprouted black wires, to mimic pubic hairs, which shook and swayed. The organ itself stood upright, turgid and blushing. The Abbot wiggled back and forth to command attention.

  “Dear company,” a muffled voice spoke from the organ. “It is not often that I have the opportunity to appear before such a noble group.” Scattered laughter. “I stand before you, at your service.” Screams of laughter. “Some of you have seen me often. To others I am as yet unknown.” He bowed toward the “nuns.” “Or perhaps not so?” More laughter. “Now you are all agreed to do exactly as I command you. I desire, therefore, that everyone with a body-part like my own gather at the far end of the Hall. Those who are cloven between the legs, stay here.”

  Eager to see what he had in mind, the entire company rushed to obey. I was pushed along in the company of men, so that I lost my camel. But what matter? My costume, my entire idea, was passé. No one cared about the Wise Men, or their camels.

  Game after game followed, under the direction of the Abbot. Obscene, silly games. When the youngsters tired of them (for obscenity runs its course, like any other novelty), they were ready to dance.

  The dancing would begin with the basse dance, a stately, slow entrance step designed to show off elaborate costumes and set a tone of solemnity. Set in the midst of this rowdy, bawdy evening, it seemed out of place. But perhaps it would help turn the mood, let me recapture the ambiance wherein I felt most at home. I looked round at the glittering company, all animal-masked and yet half naked. Somehow it made me shiver.

  “And so we dance, to bring the days of Christmas to a close. Each man choose a partner, for reasons of his heart,” said the Abbot. He sounded weary.

  Until now I had refused to speak to Catherine, because I was so offended by her costume. Now I said, “I, the wise astrologer, the magus, would fain dance with . . . Jezebel.”

  From the midst of the company, Jezebel came slowly and insolently forward and took her place by my side.

  As the rest of the men took partners, I allowed myself to gaze at Catherine, in all her wanton disguise. I drowned in the sight of her: her waves of thick auburn hair, her ivory-skinned body, her voluptuous belly, indented like an hourglass.

  “We are citizens of the East,” I bowed. “It is fitting that we should keep company.” Silent, she inclined her head. I took her jewelled fingers. It was the first time in days I had touched her, and it sent pulsations through me.

  Behind the Abbot of Misrule the partners lined up, like a great snake. At last everyone was paired off, and the creature began to move, undulating slowly forward to the coaxing notes of flute and shawm. I felt the hairs prickling on my neck at the ancient, commanding music, and at the sexual nearness of this creature by my side. This creature, who was also my wife. But never truly mine, never mine, I always sensed . . . and so it heightened the leaping desire in me.

  “Jezebel was evil,” I whispered. But it was only words; I did not care that she was evil. She beguiled me. (Or was it merely desire for the moist ecstasy that lay beneath her gauzy skirt? To this day I do not know.)

  “She had a fool for a husband,” whispered the creature. She made it all sound excusable. “Ahab was so intimidated by the prophets. As More and the Pope tried to intimidate you. Thanks be to God I have not such a womanish husband.” She squirmed toward me for a kiss, and as she turned, a gap appeared in her costume’s belly-band, and I could see the red hairs guarding her secret places. O God! It triggered my blood, and I felt myself stirring. Had she twisted that way before? Had others seen? Seen what only I was privileged to possess? And have access to?

  The tempo livened.

  A double bransle. Good. Now I would show myself. About a third of the company left the dancing, knowing they could not compete.

  “Play on,” whined the Phallus-Abbot. He tilted somewhat. Was he wilting? As if he could read our thoughts, he bent over. “The end draws nigh,” he rasped. Then he sought a chair and slumped into it.

  The double bransle was a middling sort of dance. It required a knowledge of steps, but did not demand a great deal of rigour. Catherine and I executed it neatly. But she did not speak during all the dances, keeping a mysterious silence. At length there were only the exhibition dances left, at which I intended to perform. Always in the past, this had been the grand culmination of the evening, the performance the entire company yearned for. But now I sensed that it was an indulgence, not a desired offering. It was something the people allowed the monarch to perform, humouring him, not something they truly relished.

  I danced perfectly, keeping pace with the music, the increasing intricacy. One by one the others faded back, leaving only me. I commanded the stage as I had done before, as I always had done, or believed I
had done. My timing was perfect; there was no fault in my performance. I landed precisely as I should, and stood rigid, my arms outstretched. Applause, as manners dictated, filled my ears. As I stood, slippers clinging to my perfectly positioned feet (and no wetness within), I heard the clock tolling midnight.

  “Christmas—Christmas departs,” mourned the Phallus. “Our costumes we must lay by, our everyday lives take up.” He bowed, shuddered, swayed. “We must unmask.” He ripped off his head-covering, that impudent, rounded protuberance. It was Tom Seymour. The company gasped.

  The pox-infested Francis I removed his mask. Bishop Gardiner!

  When my turn came, I peeled off my own silver visor carefully. “I, Balthazar, King of the East, happily existed for one evening amongst you. Now I am consigned to darkness again, to await another resurrection.” People clapped and pretended to be surprised. “There is yet another gift and surprise to be revealed,” I announced. “It is this.” I held aloft a velvet-lined box, wherein nestled a golden coin, minted but a fortnight past. “A gold sovereign, in honour of my beloved Queen, Catherine. On this side is her likeness. On the other, the seal of England, with her own motto, the motto I have bestowed upon her: Rutilans Rosa Sine Spina. The Rose Without a Thorn.”

  Now true silence fell upon the company. To mint a special issue of coin, in honour of one’s bride . . . such a token of love robbed them of speech. As it robbed Catherine.

  “O Your Majesty—” she began, then her words died.

  I encircled her waist. “Unmask,” I commanded.

  Stiffly, she obeyed. She peeled the mask from her eyes, said softly, “I disguise myself as what I am not—a Jezebel.” She stretched out trembling fingers to grasp the coin of honour. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  It took over two hours for all to unmask, and after the first few moments it grew tedious. But it was an integral part of the ceremony, and I would not cheat anyone of it. I stood, as if I thirsted to know every identity, and laughed as loudly as anyone.

  But by the time it was done, it was past two and my ardour had fled. In my mind I wanted to bed Catherine, but my body betrayed me and cried out for sleep, rest, mending. Duty obliged me to be the last to leave the hall, and I never failed my duty. Besides, there was a sweet satisfaction in seeing a thing through to its end, in surveying the empty Great Hall, strewn with discarded silken scarves and gold-dust and spots of spilled wine, and knowing it all well done. A satisfaction that gave its own benediction.

  Then I stumbled to bed, alone, in the odd early hours between Twelfth Night and the dawning of the workaday world.

  C

  I slept disjointedly for hours, burrowing about in rumpled sheets and mounds of covers. When at last I sat upright, I did not feel rested. Quite the opposite. I should have felt better oriented if I had remained awake all night.

  I looked down at the leg, still wound round by its silken bandages. I had neglected to unwrap it last night. Now I did so, expecting to find it saturated with fluid and adhering to the ugly crater beneath. To my surprise it was dry, and as I removed layer after layer of silk, it remained so. The edges of the wound were dry and healing.

  I had a desire to spit at it, to aim right in its scabbed-over centre. Now it dried itself! Why not a week ago? I hated the sore with a hatred theologians said one should reserve for the Evil One.

  By that afternoon, the courtyard was thick with folk saddling up to embark homeward. The sky was clear. We were blessed in that, for they would have a safe journey. I felt both a loss and a relief at their going.

  As soon as the last carts rumbled away, I summoned the Privy Council to meet. There had been no business done for more than a month. Of course, there was less business to transact in winter. All the courts of Europe observed a month-long hiatus to celebrate Christmas. No messengers or ambassadors or spies could travel easily across the frozen, rutted roads, and certainly a sea voyage would be sheer folly. It was impossible to conduct a war, so that all campaigning had to end by October, cancelling battles in mid-fight. Nonetheless, some things needed attention, and the time was at hand.

  One by long-faced one, they filed into the Council Chamber, which had been kept pristine and sacrosanct during the revels. Paget, the Principal Secretary, brought his writing materials with him, all arranged in an eelskin case.

  “A New Year’s present?” I asked him.

  He nodded, smiling. It was a most fitting gift for a secretary of the Council.

  “Now, most worthy company,” I said, leaning forward on my knuckles across the oaken table. “I would be appraised of every situation outside our little world of Hampton Court.” I nodded toward Norfolk. “As ranking peer, and lately our ambassador abroad, speak. What word have you received from our envoys?”

  He rose, his ermine-trimmed mantle (it was ancient; the fur was yellowing) drawn close about his neck. “France is quiet,” he intoned, like a liturgy. “Francis is fevered and restless. Charles is beset all about by the problems of his chop-logic Empire. It was an unlikely concoction from the start, entirely a whim of Charlemagne’s. Now Charles V must preside over its dissolution.

  “Specifics, Norfolk,” I reminded him. Without a Cromwell to keep men to the issue at hand—God, how they wandered. Cromwell . . .

  “The Lutheran revolt goes on,” he said. “All the Low Countries and half of Germany have been seduced. The other half of the Empire fights back, like a man taken with plague. The heretical outbreaks are the black pustules which weaken and drain the entire system. Spain is the patient’s mouth, wherein the medicine—orthodox Catholicism—is poured in full-strength to combat it. Alas, all it does is burn the mouth—as the Inquisition is blistering Spain—without ever touching the buboes themselves.”

  “My, my. Such poetic analogies. I now understand where your son gets his wild conceits and fantastical metaphors. And to think I thought you merely a tough and literal-minded soldier. But what of the Scots? You have fought them; you know them best of anyone. What news from our spies there?”

  “The North mocks you,” he said plainly. “They are a nest of traitors you must needs clean out again and again.” His eyes danced. He loved killing Scots, riding over the River Tweed and burning their simple homes and terrorizing them. “But they have no truck with the Emperor,” he had to admit. “They are not at the moment in league with any of Your Majesty’s enemies.”

  “May I speak?” young Lord Clinton, all bursting with power and prowess, asked politely. I gave him leave. He stood slowly, and as he rose, his physical presence dominated the table—except where it met my own presence. There it stuck.

  “I am Lincolnshire born and bred,” he said. “A Northman of the realm. You know not, any of you, what it is to be a Northman. We live and take our selfhood from the moors, the wild mountains, far from London and courtish ways. We are conservative, it is said. Those on the frontiers are always conservative. They believe in werewolves and saints. There are no half-measures about them. Percy of the North—Northumberland, to be correct—was called Hotspur. We are either hot or cold, and our loyalties outlast our lives. We believe—”

  “What is it, Clinton?” I cut off his inferior poetical ramblings. “Is there something I need to know concerning the North?” I could almost feel Cromwell behind me, sarcastically asking the essential questions.

  “The Pilgrimage of Grace began in Lincolnshire. Its leaders were executed, and others as well. But the spirit, the spirit lives on! The sight of ruined monasteries infuriates them. They want—”

  “By God!” I exploded. “I executed Cromwell. Why, that was one of their very demands! I repudiated the alliance with Cleves and the German Protestants and took a bride as Catholic and old-family as they could have invented. What more could they possibly want?”

  “The old ways back.”

  “What, will they next want the Roman Empire restored, so that they can be protected by a friendly garrison in York, as they were a thousand years ago? Perhaps they’d like the Wall of Hadrian patched up
, too—as if that ever stopped a Scot!”

  “Your Majesty,” he protested, “I speak not on their behalf, but to warn the Council of possible trouble.”

  “Yes, I appreciate that. Your warning is well taken. So my troubles come from the North, rather than from across the Channel?”

  “I agree,” chimed in Brandon. “Although I prefer fighting on the Continent.

  “Ah, your names suit you well. Norfolk for the North, Suffolk for the South.” My faithful warriors. But aging. How much longer could they lead my armies forth to battle? Norfolk was sixty-eight, Brandon, fifty-six.

  “The Scots are quiet for now,” I mused. “I hold Alister MacDonald hostage, as it were. That’s what the young Laird is, a surety that his father won’t make trouble. But the western Lord of the Isles is not the same as the government—whatever government there is.”

  Cranmer spoke. “They have never seen you,” he said simply. “To them you are but a name. If they but beheld your person—”

  True. There was a special bond formed between men whose eyes met, and I had evoked that bond between myself and my subjects on the very first day of my Kingship, when I rode forth to the Tower. They looked upon me, knew my love for them, and were mine. But my own subjects of the North had never seen me. Londoners had; Kentishmen had; even Frenchmen had. But Lincolnshire men, Northumberland men, Yorkshire men, Scotsmen—no.

  “Why, I’ll go there,” I said, almost in wonder.

  “A progress,” prompted Bishop Gardiner. “A great progress, to show yourself to Scotsmen as you once showed yourself to the French at the Field of Cloth of Gold.”

  Yes. Of course. I was lost in the vision of it, stunned by its implications. It would solve everything.

  As we left the Council Chamber, I touched Lord Clinton’s arm. “You shall host us,” I said. “You shall show us the hospitality of the North.” He looked pleased. “And Lady Clinton? I trust this will be acceptable to her?”