The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  My sister’s son, the heavy-lidded, red-haired King, Jamie, looked for another son to replace the two he had lost. His French Queen was pregnant again, and that made Jamie feisty—a foolish way for a King in his position to behave. The Scottish side of the border was far richer than the bleak English moors leading up to it, and Edinburgh was within easy reach of the Duke of Norfolk and his twenty thousand men. That made it simple for us to inflict harm on the Scots, but difficult for them to retaliate in kind. I warned my nephew that I still had in hand “the rod that had chastised his father,” but it was his choice to turn deaf on me. So I decided to wait until autumn, when all the grain would have been gathered in, before giving the Duke—now mouldering in disgrace up North—the signal. Poor Jamie. He would wish he had come to York.

  The French—and this I found stunning to believe—had made a treaty with the Turks! Yes, Francis coyly averted his eyes while Suleiman parted the thighs of Europe and thrust himself deep up inside, right to the gates of Vienna—pissing (to complete the metaphor) right on the bed of the Habsburgs. In fact, it was Francis himself who lifted the bedcovers.

  But the Grand Turk: the Caliph of All True Believers! To have embraced him as a brother! True, the man was said to be magnificent, a jewel of his time, a gentleman beyond any in Europe who called themselves such. And a general more brilliant than any we could claim since the Lionheart. He had taken Belgrade in 1521, and the following year he had defeated the hitherto unconquerable Knights of Rhodes, forcing them from their island fortress, although, as befitted a true knight, he had allowed them safe conduct to the island of Malta. Indeed, he had even escorted them there. In 1533, Charles’s brother Ferdinand had been forced to recognize Suleiman as overlord of Hungary. And now this treaty with France, which allowed the French to buy and sell throughout Turkish dominions on a par with the Turk; to have resident consuls of their own in Turkish lands; to act as official “protectors” of the Christian Holy Places. And in exchange? What had Francis promised Suleiman in exchange? England?

  Oh, Suleiman was ruthless, smooth, and clever. He had expanded the Turkish Empire until it bulged at the seams and oozed into Europe—at Francis’s invitation. And he knew how to make an arresting ploy, both to call attention to himself and to amuse others. Such was his sending me a crocodile.

  I received word that this creature was awaiting me at the docks of Dover. The florid letter said that in token of the Grand Caliph’s great esteem of me, and since we were already neighbours, and soon to be closer ones, he wished me to see for myself one of the grand warriors of his Empire, upon which a general of the Levant should model himself. The animal had been taken, with great fight, in the Nile Delta, and shipped north—first with the Turk’s own galley-transport, and then transferred to a French vessel, courtesy of Francis. He had heard I kept a zoo at the Tower, and knew that the Tower had a moat wherein the creature could sport itself. I need only supply it with dogs and cats for food.

  “A crocodile? Awaiting me at Dover?” The animal had arrived at the same time as the letter.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Thomas Audley, the Chancellor, smiled.

  “Is it alive?”

  “Evidently it survived the journey, but it is in poor condition.”

  “So I must nurse a sick crocodile back to health?” God’s blood! What a presumptuous thing for Suleiman to have done! Now I would be forced to cosset the beast, employ means of helping it survive the winter—oh, curses upon him! “Think you we can transport it here to London without its expiring?” I was curious to see it, and see it alive. Not dead, pray God, that might set the ghosts going again in my head. . . . Hush, go back, Catherine is only a skeleton now. It was rotting flesh that disturbed me, not bones.

  “Yes, if we bring it slowly. The menagerie-master will know what it needs once it arrives.”

  The menagerie-master: a strange fellow named Rufus Quigley. He was tall and thin and surprisingly young, and seemed to esteem animals above people. Evidently he understood them better. He lived in a hut on the Tower grounds with a hedgehog and a half-dog, half-wolf creature for companions.

  “Well, then give orders to have it transported tenderly to the Tower.”

  To it, the Tower would be a refuge, a place of succour—how ironic. A crocodile! I was now eager to behold it, the legendary creature of the Nile. . . .

  I had always assumed that I would someday experience certain things for myself. The Pyramids. The Nile, where Moses was pulled from the bulrushes. The Holy Sepulchre, where Christ had lain. The blessed city of Jerusalem. Some imaginary day, I would stride upon the sacred pavement of the Crucifixion . . . because I wished it so, and therefore events would arrange themselves to suit my inner needs. I still longed to do so, but without the airy assumption of my youth that it would all come about. In the meantime, the closest reality: a big crocodile that needed to be housed, fed, nursed, transported, wintered.

  I received word from Audley that the beast, in its cage, strapped to my best transport wagon, was due to arrive at the Tower on Thursday next. Along with the beast was a special sealed cylinder, from the Turk himself, for which he wished “all dignitaries” to be present for the opening and reading. The crocodile business was to be state business, then.

  In the meantime, Master Quigley had been alerted. Consequently I received a request from him to have access to certain monastic manuscripts which the Crown had retained, so that he might peruse them to ascertain the crocodile’s feeding habits. I granted it, very impressed with him . . . and pleased that I had retained as many monastic manuscripts as I had done. They would prove of great benefit to future Quigleys.

  The beast awaited us. There, in its monstrous crate in the shadow of the Tower’s outer walls, it stood. I myself, and the Privy Council, were curious and eager to behold it, although they pretended to be merely performing their duty. I had invited Elizabeth and Edward along to see the spectacle; Mary proclaimed herself above “trips to the zoo.”

  This was foolish of her. In faith, a trip to the zoo was a coveted experience, and one I rarely granted, upon Master Quigley’s advice that human visitors were unhealthful to the beasts.

  As I have said, Father had had a zoo, a menagerie. He was attracted to beasts of all sorts, but only in a symbolic sense. A beast was not a creature in its own right, but only insofar as it stood for an abstract trait—honour, kingliness, or some such. He received presents from noblemen and rulers conforming to this fancy. When he died, the poor beasts almost all died with him, having outlived their dynastic symbolism.

  Over the years, newcomers had joined the Royal Menagerie, out of happenstance and ill luck: a wounded wolf, a three-legged turtle, a blind snake. Thus the Royal Menagerie had gradually turned into an Animal Hospital, run by Rufus Quigley, where sick creatures recovered and became friends of man. Suleiman’s crocodile was the only ferocious, whole beast we had received in years.

  Gathered round the ornate crate, we looked respectfully at Master Quigley. He had several muscular men grouped about him, all clad in leather suits (to withstand the crocodile’s teeth, so it was thought), holding nets and great prodding spears. From the crate there was only silence.

  Standing close by me were those most eager to hear the words of Suleiman—my Privy Councillors, and others concerned with matters abroad. To put it neatly and quickly: there were those who thought action abroad was necessary sport, good for the character and morale; others believed that England should avoid all foreign entanglements and devote herself to home matters, specifically the religious dissension which was growing daily. I held the reins of both factions, keeping them both under control, but they snapped and snarled at each other with increasing fractiousness. As long as I was here to restrain them, all would go merrily. But Edward? What would he do, how could he manage these contentious men?

  Before the workmen, with their iron crowbars, were to step forward, I must read the letter from Suleiman. Breaking the seal (which was compounded of Arabian gum, and not like ours at all), I
unrolled the creamy vellum (also not like ours in the least; it must have come from a Middle Eastern animal), and read his greeting:

  Most High and Mighty King, Lord Henry, King of England, France, and Ireland, we, Suleiman, Sultan of Turkey, Allah’s Deputy on Earth, Lord of the Lords of this World, Possessor of Men’s Necks, King of Believers and Unbelievers, King of Kings, Emperor of the East and West, we greet you.

  Whereas, we wish to assure ourselves of your continued favour and good will to us, we hereby present unto you a creature from our own dominions. It is a beast of strength, as we ourselves are strong; of endurance, as we ourselves are able to endure vicissitudes of climate and fate; of cunning and power, as our defeated enemies have found us to be. Grant it a home, as I pray you will grant us a home in Europe. Although we, and our people, may seem as strange to you as this beast, yet I assure you that we both can, and will, live in your climes, and thrive there. Your most professed brother, Suleiman.

  So! This was meant as a symbol of Levantine adaptability! The fool had no notion of the miserable death to which he condemned the crocodile: an English winter.

  I re-rolled the scroll, and motioned to the workmen. “Set the beast free.”

  “This is insolent, intolerable!” The birds of prey on my Council lost no time pressing close to me. “The Turk announces his intentions to penetrate Europe and remain there,” hissed Henry Howard.

  “Aye,” said Stephen Gardiner, the wily Bishop of Winchester.

  “He has already penetrated Europe,” I muttered. “He took Belgrade in 1521, and almost took Vienna last year. He is in our midst already, however much we would like to believe otherwise. Now the problem is to dislodge him.”

  “It is God’s problem to dislodge him,” said William Petre, one of the two Principal Secretaries.

  “God needs arms and legs,” replied Thomas Seymour. “And I stand ready to offer him mine.”

  “And I,” said his brother, Edward Seymour.

  Poor lads. They had never been to war, and ached to go. Perhaps to deny a young man the opportunity to fight, to pit himself against what he believes is evil and the enemy of his soul, is cruelty. Old men, in their day, had tried to prevent me from doing so. They were right, in their way. The issue with France in 1513—today it is entirely forgotten. What was important was the fighting, and my proving to myself, through actions, that I was no coward, no shrinker from violent deeds. Until then I had not known what I was.

  Prudence preached caution. Wait and see how well the Turk withstood a European winter—like its creature. Let Charles oust the outsider. It was his task to do so. It was his realms that Suleiman violated; it was he who claimed the title of Holy Roman Emperor. England had no need to become involved; why spend ourselves on distant shores? But there was a gathering force at home, a force which was gaining power, and would explode us: the religious issue. Was it not politic to drain it all off into war, diffuse it for my Edward?

  The last of the wooden stays gave way, and fell to the ground. The workmen stood to one side, and Quigley approached the crate, making odd clucking noises. He hesitated before the entrance, as all was silent and dark within. Was the creature merely quiescent, or was it stuporous and near death?

  “War is folly,” breathed Petre, near my ear. I understood him. It was folly. What he did not understand was the other side of folly.

  “But when an evil takes root, to avert the eyes is equal folly,” I admonished him.

  From within the crate came a scraping and, eventually, Quigley’s backside. He dragged the crocodile out by its forelegs. The beast lay sprawled, limp, upon the earth.

  “I think he is ill,” Quigley said. “He barely exhibits any movement. It has been a long, hard journey for him. I must needs resuscitate him with sugar-water.”

  The company were disappointed. They wished to see the creature thrashing and threatening, not weary and in need of sustenance.

  Elizabeth drew near me. “It seems a goodly creature,” she said. “I would gladly forfeit my time to attend to it.”

  A goodly creature? Forfeit her time, from her studies? “Nay, my dear,” I said. “It is more seemly for you to attend to your books.”

  “But if I could help Master Quigley—”

  “A girl? Help him? And neglect your studies, your—”

  “My studies are for me alone,” she said. “They help me naught in ruling, for I shall never rule. They help me naught in being wed, for I shall never wed. Therefore it seems to me that of all persons in Your Majesty’s realm, I should have the most freedom to do as I like. I am of danger to no one, being a female, and of use to no one, being judged illegitimate. Therefore I pray you, let me be. If I wish to spend my life and hours tending to a poor dumb beast, who is the poorer for it? Not you, as you have no other use for me.”

  Her insolent eye, her saucy remark and countenance—these were the very whips of madness to me. Anne Boleyn’s daughter, I must never forget it. She was not mine, she was Anne’s.

  And Mark Smeaton’s? There were those who noted a resemblance to him, who made whispered asides. Whispered, because should they come to my ears, such talk was treason. They came to my ears anyway, secondhand, by favour-curriers and gossip-scavengers. Mary was supposed to have remarked once that Elizabeth resembled “her father, Mark Smeaton.” I did not reward the person who reported this to me.

  “I have a use for you,” I answered. “A use close to my heart.”

  I wanted Elizabeth to like me, to care for me in a filial way. God’s blood, I wanted my children to love me! I had hated my own father; now fate seemed to have arranged it so that my own must hate me in turn.

  “I have no place next to anyone’s heart,” she said. “Nor do I wish to be there.”

  I could see the tiny beads of sweat gathering on her scalp, the scalp from which sprung hair of the selfsame colour as mine. The sun had climbed high enough now to begin its July oppression, and soon it would be intolerable to stand unprotected under it.

  “So young, and yet so hard?” I asked.

  She turned away, embarrassed; and in truth, I sounded like a suitor. The only persons I wished to woo now were my children. No more women. I was done with them.

  Others were listening. “If you wish to attend to the beast,” I finally said, “it could have no wiser or kinder nurse. Only I pray you, be careful—as once its strength returns, it will grow vicious. Never approach it alone, without Master Quigley.”

  I turned to the gathered company. “Well, we have seen it now. Truly it is a formidable beast, but in need of nursing. Let us leave it.” I shielded my eyes against the ever-hotter sun. “ ’Tis no time to be out of doors in direct sun. Come—join me in. the banqueting house at Hampton. We shall pass the summer afternoon as summer afternoons are meant to be passed.”

  This impromptu gathering would be the first heartfelt social gesture I had made since Catherine’s . . . since the winter. Hitherto I had gone through the motions, in hopes of feeling something; today I longed to luxuriate in the intensity of high summer. A long afternoon in the banqueting house—the banqueting house which had not been used for several summers—appealed to me, appealed with no thought of whether it was right, whether it would help me, or whether my physicians would recommend it. It appealed on its own terms.

  The banqueting house in question crowned the manmade “mount” at the far end of the Hampton gardens. Anne had laid out all the plans the year Elizabeth was born, but as they were elaborate and called for a great deal of labour, the construction had required another year or so, and the growth of the plants even longer. Only now was it all as we had envisioned it, that summer so long ago, when I had thought Anne Boleyn would always be beside me, and the banqueting house would hear her ringing laughter. . . .

  Ghosts, ghosts. I wafted my hand before my face as if to clear the way of cobwebs. They blocked everything, everything, entangling me, dimming my vision of what lay ahead.

  The mount, then: it was raised on a brick foundation, and the
n, atop that, the great sixty-foot mound of earth heaped there by workmen to make an artificial hill. It was now covered with a carpet of thick, fine grass, planted all over with fruit trees—cherry, apple, pear—and with myrtle, box, bay, and laurel cunningly clipped in topiary fashion to resemble beasts and other fancies. Scattered amongst these was a collection of rare sundials I had acquired from the monasteries, as well as gaily painted wooden beasts—dragons, lions, unicorns, greyhounds, griffins—holding shields and vanes for royal arms. The pathway up to the top wound gently round the mount and was planted with daisies, marigold, snapdragon, rosemary, camomile, and lavender. The gravelled path was only wide enough for three or four abreast, and so, as we climbed it, the party stretched out far behind me, like children trooping through the woods.

  On top stood the summer banqueting house. It was built on a stone foundation, with wooden trelliswork sides; already, climbing vines and flowers entwined themselves on the inviting ladders, so that inside the house it was all greenish light, and the faint stirring of leaves, which served as a cool filter for the glaring sunlight. Here we would pass the afternoon, supping on strawberries and drinking Verney, a sweet white wine.

  I had sent word back to court that some ladies should join us. The only ladies left at court were the wives of my councillors, and some who had official functions, and a few of Catherine’s leftover attendants.

  They came, almost every one of them. Perhaps they were bored, or perhaps they welcomed an opportunity to spend a summer’s afternoon in their husbands’ company. Brandon’s young wife, Katherine; Joan Denny; Joan Dudley; Anne Seymour, Edward’s wife; and Mary Howard, widow of Henry Fitzroy.

  I envied them, all those happily married couples. That was all I had wanted: to be a faithful husband, with a loving wife for life. Why had it been denied me? But envy is a corruption, yea, it is expressly forbidden. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife. . . . But it was not my neighbour’s wife I coveted, it was his happiness with her. Nor anything that is thy neighbour’s. Happiness, then, as well.