The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  CX

  Some of the Privy Council thought there should be an open trial, so that Catherine could speak and defend herself. I suspected that she would not wish it, but I permitted a deputation to visit her and ascertain this for themselves. A trial meant delay, mess, ugly details. If Catherine had wanted to live, she had had an opportunity to do so, and with a clean record. She had rejected the respectable escape I had offered her through “widowhood.” Now she would equally reject any stumbling-block between herself and a blazing death as Queen. Trials and legal proceedings would hinder the drama she was determined to play.

  They returned convinced that the Queen wanted no trial. As I had predicted.

  Neither did I want a trial, even with her in absentia. I did not want to endure the witnesses and the recounting of details that would haunt me forever. And to what purpose? She was guilty. She had married me only out of greed and ambition, when she was by canon law and usage another man’s wife already; had committed adultery with one of my attendants and plotted my death. Did I truly need to have all those wrongs reiterated?

  Parliament, which would meet on January sixteenth, would pass sentence on her. I attended the opening session, sitting above the assembly of Lords and Commons as they met in the Chapter House of Westminster Abbey. Lord Chancellor Audley addressed them, congratulating them upon the good fortune that permitted such a fine and wise sovereign to reign over them, Henry the Eighth, by the grace of God King of England and France and Lord of Ireland.

  I smelled spring. I smelled apple blossoms and felt the warm air of April on my cheeks, my cheeks which were firm and unbearded. In some far inner ear I was hearing the herald’s call at Richmond, that afternoon when I had first become King. I had been bursting inside with fear and eagerness, trembling right on the brink of the veiled future. Now that future was past, the candles burnt to their sockets, and yet the words remained and still brought fear upon me.

  One by one, they rose and bowed, until the entire assemblage was standing.

  “Let us give thanks to Almighty God who has preserved for so long a time such an exceptional Prince over this Kingdom,” Audley said.

  Yes, preserved . . . like an old thing past its prime. Fish were preserved in brine. Exceptional Prince . . . well, the words meant a different thing now.

  It was decided that the Bill of Attainder against the Queen would be introduced into Parliament in a week’s time, and that I need not be present. I could give my assent by letters-patent under the Great Seal of England, so as to spare myself “the grief and pain of hearing once again the wicked facts of the case.” Thus the husband and wife were both ghosts at their own proceedings.

  The Bill of Attainder was read in Parliament three times: on January twenty-first, on January twenty-eighth, and finally on February eighth. On February eleventh, the Queen’s death warrant became law.

  The Bill covered more than just the Queen’s high treason. It gave Parliamentary sanction to the trial and condemnation of Culpepper and Dereham and the sentence of misprision passed against the Howards. It also made it a crime, in the future, for any unchaste woman to conceal her state from the King, once he showed an interest in marrying her.

  This latter made me a laughingstock. Jokes were circulated to the effect that no woman in the kingdom would be eligible; that only a widow could pass the test; that the competition for my hand would be negligible, and so on. If I had cared any longer about such things, I would have been offended. But I did not intend to marry again. Women disgusted me, and I counted myself fortunate to be at last beyond the need of them.

  As I had grown older, my needs grew fewer and fewer. At one time it had been important to me that I have a powerful body and a pretty wife. Both these things were now taken away, and their possibilities were gone. I had wanted riches and beautiful palace furnishings, but now I had them and they delighted me not. Building Nonsuch Palace was a chore, not a pleasure, and I decided on the instant not even to bother to finish it.

  All I wanted now was the respect and love of my subjects, and a modicum of health. Dwindling needs, but fiercely coveted nonetheless.

  On February twelfth, Catherine was transported by water from Syon House to the Tower.

  I saw them when they made their way upstream, past my windows at Whitehall. A doleful little flotilla, the Queen’s boat being guarded between a galley full of Privy Councillors in the fore, and a barge with the Duke of Suffolk and his soldiers to the rear. Catherine’s vessel was curtained and closed and—Jesu be thanked—I was unable to glimpse her, although I tried. Darkness was closing in, as I had forbidden them to start until I was certain that in the short winter afternoon London Bridge would not be reached before total darkness enveloped it. I would not have Catherine see Dereham’s and Culpepper’s heads impaled above the bridge, and I knew she would look for them, even as I had looked for her as she passed.

  The barge stopped at Traitor’s Gate, and Catherine, dressed all in black, was taken from the water-stairs to her prison chamber. Her short cold journey was over.

  There were curiosity-seekers on the landing, all gaping at her. One of them wrote this ballad:

  Thus as I sat, the tears within my eyen

  Of her the wreck, whilst I did debate,

  Before my face me thought I saw this Queen,

  No whit, as I her left, Got wot, of late,

  But all bewept in black and poor estate.

  “To be a Queen fortune did me prefer,

  Flourishing in youth with beauty fresh and pure,

  Whom nature made shine equal with the stars,

  And to reign in felicity with joy and pleasure,

  Wanting no thing that love might me procure,

  So much beloved far, far beyond the rest,

  With my Sovereign Lord, who lodged me in his rest.

  “Now I know well,” quoth she, “among my friends all

  That here I left the day of my decay

  That I shall get no pompous funeral,

  Nor of my black, no man the charge shall pay;

  Save that some one perchance may hap to say,

  ‘Such a one there was, alas! and that was pity

  That she herself disdained with such untruth.’ ”

  She appealed to poets. All bewept in black and poor estate. . . . Seeing her mounting those stairs had snared yet another man’s heart, got her another partisan.

  That was her last outside appearance. Within the Tower there was none to be swayed by her beauty and wistfulness.

  That evening she made a startling request: that a block be brought to her cell so she could practise laying her head upon it. She was determined to make a pretty showing before the assembled witnesses on the morrow. I was told she practised daintily upon the thing for upwards of an hour, approaching it from many different angles and laying her head sideways, left and right, and hanging straight down, enquiring of her unhappy attendants which made the better composition.

  And how did I pass that night? I lay awake all through it, and in February, the nights are long. It had been night already when Catherine reached the Tower, and it would be still night when she mounted the scaffold to have her head struck off.

  It was the same scaffold that Anne had climbed, and More, and Fisher, and Buckingham, and Neville and Carew. Some fancy had arisen among the common people that “indelible stains” marked the spot on the flints below. This was nonsense; I myself had inspected the flints and they were ordinary enough, and nothing remained on them. As for the scaffold, it was still serviceable, and building another one because of squeamishness would serve no purpose.

  Nights in February are also cold. This night in particular was damp, with the damp that paralyses you. It was worse than the clean cold of snow and ice. I could scarce move my limbs, even underneath all the furs mounded to warm me. The blazing fire did nothing to aroint the cold. What did Catherine feel, in the ancient Tower? She had always been so sensitive to cold. I remembered how she had sent those furs and blankets to Reginald
Pole’s traitorous mother, the Countess of Salisbury, in the Tower, lest she take cold. I had chided her for being softhearted. Aye, softhearted she was, toward everyone—the aged, traitorous Countess; the unemployed former secretaries and relations of the Duchess, her accomplices in sin. Toward anyone in need she was melting. She stopped not to question whether they had brought that need upon themselves.

  It lightened somewhat in the east—a poor excuse for dawn. Outside my chamber window the vexed Thames slapped more furiously. I could not imagine how chilling those waters must be.

  So: it was come. The day of the sentence, the day another Queen of England must die.

  I had done my grieving, and arose determined to spend the day with my children. They were the only comfort left to me, the only things I had produced that nothing could mar or sully.

  CXI

  I had notified them by way of their governesses and chamberlains that February thirteenth was to be reserved for me, their most royal father. They were to spend the entire day in my company, doing what they most loved doing. For I would fain know those things, as to know a man’s pleasures is to know his heart.

  They were to come to my chamber at eight o’clock, prepared for this day of recreation.

  Mary arrived as the very stroke of eight began. She brought a large satchel, and I assumed it contained books. But I was delighted as she pulled out a viol, a viola da gamba, and a recorder. “My greatest pleasure,” she said, “is to play music all day long with no one to tell me ’tis time to attend to other things.”

  Music. I, too, would have music all the day long. I grabbed Mary and kissed her on both cheeks. “You cannot know how that pleases me!” And I spoke true.

  Mary pushed herself away and began to ruffle through her music-notes. So much like Katherine . . . I found, to my astonishment, that my fond memories of Katherine had resurrected themselves. Mary was twenty-six now. A woman, four years older than my silly, false wife. She had never liked Catherine, and I had resented that, but brushed it aside as an old maid’s envy of a young wife. But Mary had evidently seen things I had not. . . .

  Edward now came, brought by his nurse. The sweet-cheeked boy waddled in, so swathed against the cold he was as bloated as a man four days in the water.

  “And what would you like to do this day?” I asked him.

  “Faith, he has a puppy he loves well,” started his nurse.

  “I would have the snake,” he said quietly.

  “A serpent?” I asked.

  “He has collected them, Your Majesty,” she apologized. “In the fields near Hampton. He seems to have . . . to have a way with them.”

  He nodded. “Yes, fetch my snakes!”

  The nurse brought in a large box. Now I became curious and lifted the lid. Inside were many dark shapes, which did not stir.

  “They are sleeping!” cried Edward. “They have no eyelids, so when they sleep it must be dark, and they tuck their heads down, so.”

  “He found some eggs,” said the nurse. “And is trying to hatch them.”

  “And I shall succeed!” he said.

  “Good boy.” I chuckled. “I should like to see you succeed.” I touched his golden hair. He was so delicate. The fat of the previous autumn had melted away, leaving him luminous and lean-bodied. His skin was so fine it glowed. “And what of your pup?”

  “He takes little interest in it,” admitted the nurse. “He seems to prefer serpents to true loyal animals.”

  I shrugged. He was but four years old. The important thing was that he had an interest.

  Mary was settling herself with her music and instruments, and Edward was playing with his snakes, when Elizabeth arrived.

  “My Lady Elizabeth,” I said. “And what have you brought?”

  She straggled in, dragging a large box after her. With a sigh, she let it rest. “Materials to make Valentines. Red and white paper, and two volumes of poetry.” She ripped off her fur cap. “Tomorrow is St. Valentine’s Day.”

  St. Valentine’s Day. O sweet Jesu! I would be fresh a widower upon St. Valentine’s Day, my sweetheart having just been beheaded. How fitting.

  “And to whom shall you send them? Do you already have a Valentine?” I must keep things at a child’s level.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “but I must make my message cryptic, or sacrifice my pride.”

  She was wise. Would that it would stay with her as she grew to womanhood, and not be scattered before the look in a man’s eye.

  “So settle you down, and we shall spend a day together doing as we all like! And at dinnertime, you shall all have your favourite dishes—whether they are healthy or not, or go together or not.” I had taken great pains to find out their favourite treats.

  “And Father,” said Elizabeth, “what shall you do? What is your favourite activity?”

  Music. Above all, music. “I shall compose a new ballad. And force myself to be ready by nightfall. Then I shall perform.”

  We began our tasks, and the sun rose, coming into the chamber.

  The cannon sounded from the Tower. It was not easily heard, in midwinter, with all the windows shut tight and stuffed with lambswool against the cold. Mary’s playing all but drowned it.

  Elizabeth rose, putting aside her red cuttings. “What was that?” she asked quietly, laying her hand on my arm.

  I looked into her eyes. “It was the cannon,” I said. “Announcing that the Queen is dead.”

  The Queen was dead. Catherine’s head was gone.

  “I shall never marry!” cried Elizabeth.

  The others looked up: Mary too old to react, Edward too young.

  “Elizabeth,” I said, reaching for her. I would explain it all to her, explain it to this intelligent child.

  She was gone from my reach. “Nay,” she said, pretending there were no tears in her eyes. She had cleverly placed herself beyond scrutiny. “Marriage is death,” she shrugged. “I would have none of it.” She gestured toward the Valentines. “This, and no further. Valentines are pretty.”

  I went to put my arm around her. When I did, I felt a stiff unyielding thing. She wanted no comforting.

  It was I who wanted some comforting, some warmth. But that was beyond reach as well.

  The Queen was dead.

  Catherine had been led forth onto the scaffold just before dawn. She had worn no mantle against the chilled air. The audience assembled was, for the most part, indifferent. Catherine had had no partisans, no champions.

  That in itself was curious. There was none of my Queens who had gone undefended. Katherine of Aragon had had her violent defenders, churchmen who had been willing to die for her, the northern men who had fought on her behalf. Anne Boleyn (due to her witchcraft) had had those who willingly sacrificed their lives and political careers for her. Jane was mourned by the entire realm. Even Anne of Cleves had inspired loyalty and become beloved in certain circles.

  But Catherine? It appeared that no one who really knew her loved her, aside from two or three base men who wanted her favours. Once they were dead, no one stepped forward to ally himself with her. Even her “friends” tumbled all over themselves to denounce her and disassociate themselves from her. They had swum toward her like water rats when she first became Queen, demanding places in her household (black-mailing her?); now they swam away with equal alacrity.

  But why go over this so intellectually? Yes, it was telling and surprising that Catherine was left naked of supporters at the scaffold, but . . .

  The scaffold. She had mounted it, helped up by others. This is the part I delayed recounting, this is the grisly part. To omit it would be dishonest, yet . . . oh, would God it had not occurred!

  She stood still in the frosty air, all in black. (All bewept in black and poor estate.) About the scaffold were all the court, and foreign ambassadors. She had everyone’s ear, and every word she uttered would be remembered and whispered and repeated abroad.

  Before her was the block upon which she had practised the night before. (Curious that s
he had not asked for a special swordsman, as had been granted her cousin Anne. But then, she had practised upon the block. Both Queens sought to turn a state execution into a showcase for themselves—to make themselves legends.)

  She said, clearly, so that all might hear: “I die a Queen, but I would rather die the wife of Culpepper. God have mercy on my soul. Good people, I beg you, pray for me.”

  Then she put her head on the block—expertly—and the axe severed it. It rolled but a little way in the hay. Functionaries gathered it up, and spread a black cloth over the body trunk, still kneeling in the black dress beside the block. Blood was gushing from the severed neck, but the cold air quickly congealed it. They lifted her body away, but did not put it in the coffin yet. Let the blood drain out first, else it would foul the coffin.

  Two pages scrubbed off the block, to cleanse it of Catherine’s mess. The space beside it was rinsed with steaming water from pitchers. I was told that the smell of the water mingling with blood made many bystanders ill.

  Then Jane Boleyn, Lady Rochford, was pulled toward the scrubbed-up block. She was allowed to speak, in accordance with custom.

  “Good Christians,” she said, “God has permitted me to suffer this shameful doom, as a punishment for having contributed to my husband’s death. I falsely accused him of loving in incestuous manner his sister, Queen Anne Boleyn. For this I deserve to die. But I am guilty of no other crime.” Seeing Catherine’s black-covered lump, she began to scream. Then, shaking, she laid her head and submitted to the axe.

  After all the blood had run out of her, they put Catherine in the coffin, and buried it in the Chapel of St. Peter-ad-Vincula within the Tower, only a few feet from her cousin Anne Boleyn.

  And it was done. Her corpse lay in a box, neatly covered over.

  Mercifully I did not hear their scaffold statements until nightfall, when the children had gone. Then I heard them. Then I lay in bed (not warm, merely pretending to be) and heard them.