The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  “You dream,” said Chapuys.

  “A man should dream, and a King must do so,” I insisted. “And such may yet come to pass. Odder things have done so. Nay, I have not given up hope that someday the Pope and I . . .” I left the sentence vague, unfinished. Unspecified wishes came true sooner than detailed ones.

  “May I take a private leave of Mary?”

  “Indeed,” I said. “She would be grieved if you did not.”

  Chapuys, gone from England. Another bridge to the past down. Sooner or later, if one stays alive, they all go. The destruction process is inexorable; we behold it so readily in the ruins of buildings but not in ourselves. I wondered what it was like to live to be a hundred. Some men did. There was a region in Wales where a pocket of extremely old people were said to survive, men and women of eighty and ninety, whose parents still lived. Perhaps one got past the point where all the bridges were down. Once that was over, it must be like being reborn. To float in an endless present, with no past whatsoever, but disconnected from the bustling young. . . . This, I think, would be the “limbo” that theologians examine. Was it a reward, or a punishment? Was it the bliss of complete freedom, or just a self-contained nothingness?

  Whatever it was, I was unlikely to experience it. Already I had lived as long as my own father, longer than almost any of my immediate and not-so-immediate family. The Tudors were not a race whose days were long upon this earth, no matter how much they honoured their fathers and their mothers.

  CXVIII

  One thing I must attend to, before hazarding my person across the Channel: I would have Holbein finally execute the formal dynastic portrait of the Tudors upon the wall of the great Audience Chamber at Whitehall. There persons attending me could also behold my father, the founder of our greatness, and my gentle mother, who by coming to his marriage bed ended the royal claims of the House of York. On the wall, with Holbein’s genius, we would all be united as we had never been in life: Jane and the boy Edward would gaze fondly upon one another; my father would see his grandchildren; Jane and my mother would be both within my arm’s grasp, never to leave me. Art is cruel, for it celebrates what never was; art is kind, for it creates whatever we long for, and gives it substance, everlasting substance.

  Posing was not as easy as it had once been. I did not relish standing for long sessions, and even sitting had become tiresome. Holbein suggested I might be portrayed seated upon a throne, with the rest of my family grouped around me: the children below, my father and mother behind, standing on a dais. We had brought out, from the Royal Treasury, a bonny throne captured from an Irish chieftain in the 1300s. It was carved with the loveliest, most sinuous forms. But its arms squeezed me so on both sides of my trunk that I grew bilious, and the ancient wood creaked with my weight, straining so that I feared the rungs would pop out.

  I had grown huge, and there was nothing to be done about it but to acquire larger thrones. It was impossible for me to reshape my body, and there was a certain voluptuous pleasure in admitting it and passing by the temptation to try to change myself, which brought back too many shameful, burning memories. Now I would be fat, and let chairs and armour and women accommodate themselves to me, rather than the other way round. There was freedom in old age and ugliness; a freedom the young and comely could not possibly imagine.

  At length Holbein decided on the composition, the grouping. Of the seven people, three were dead. He would use my father’s death-mask as a model, and my mother’s wooden funeral effigy. Both were kept in a crypt in Westminster Abbey near their tombs. To paint Jane, he must rely on the picture he carried in his own mind, as well as old charcoal sketches from life in his studio.

  Jane . . . As Holbein’s skilful touches created an image of Jane beside an image of myself, I ached. There was such an emptiness in my life now, and nothing to fill it. For my disgust of women had not slackened; there was no woman I desired, or could even tolerate. I was done with them.

  But something to fill the void, to be companion to me. It was a fearsome thing to be so utterly alone. Why did not needs die with the person who had created them? Appointing someone else to fulfil the needs was grotesque, and never worked.

  All through the month of May I sat for Holbein. It was an unusually hot and humid May, wherein to be indoors was stifling, and to pose in my heavy ceremonial robes, trimmed with fur, took the constitution of a Lowlands plough-horse. I was obliged also to keep my velvet hat on at all times, as I combined sitting for the portrait with holding interviews and audiences. I never went without the hat nowadays, except when at long last I drew the bed-curtains about me at night. I was almost completely bald now, and would not shine my pate in public. But the hat was so hot; like having a weasel curled up on top of one’s head.

  If I was uncomfortable, Holbein was equally so, having to remain standing for hours, concentrating upon every detail of my costume, and imagining an entire person from a ceremonial death-mask. Yes, Father’s wax head, mounted on a stand, stood on a little table to my right. It looked so very much like him I felt as though I were once again in his presence.

  Toward the end of the month, as I had half expected, a new Imperial ambassador, Francis Van der Delft, came from Charles to present his credentials. As his name implied, he was a Hollander, coming from that peculiar place where the ground oozed constantly. It was also the place where the forces of heresy festered and spawned, where Charles had great difficulty in retaining the people’s loyalty.

  I received him on a sticky morning, when I wished I could be outdoors in a light linen shirt. The man was pleasant enough, with a wide, flat face and a thick waist; but his news was not. There was trouble over my title. Charles could not grant me my full title of Supreme Head of the Church in England in any treaty document, nor could he promise to defend me should the Pope decide (after Francis was subdued) to turn on me. In short, although Charles would be my ally, he would not be so while calling me by my proper names. And if I accepted that, it meant . . .

  Oh, it was an old game, a war of words. We would eventually find an acceptable style, but in the meantime the summer, and good campaigning weather, were fleeing. “And how does your predecessor, Eustace Chapuys?” I asked him.

  “Well, Your Majesty. He is with the Emperor Charles now, in Innsbruck, but plans to go south by autumn. He sends you his fond regards.”

  So he was truly gone. Back home. Was it home after all these years? How long does a place continue to feel familiar to one after a long time away?

  “And I to him. Tell me, the Emperor—”

  Just then I heard a sound of wood hitting wood, followed by a groan. Holbein had dropped his palette, face down, upon the floor.

  “It is of no account,” I assured Holbein, “except for your own labour lost in blending paints. The floor matters not.”

  He was kneeling and muttering, trying to pull the palette up, where it had stuck fast. I bent down to help him, bracing for a hard pull. To my surprise, the palette came up easily; a child could have pulled it away. Holbein fumbled with the brushes, his hands shaking.

  I looked at him. His face was flushed and sweating. It was entirely too hot to be working inside today. With glee I said, “Enough! We shall not continue. It is cruel to pen ourselves up so.” I turned to Van der Delft. “Let us continue our interview out of doors, in the Privy Orchard.” To Holbein I said, “You are free to do whatever you like.”

  While the Imperial ambassador and I strolled beneath the blossoming cherry, apple, and pear trees, caressed by sticky-sweet breezes from the south, Holbein went to his apartments, lay down on his narrow bed, and died of plague.

  Plague! The word itself was a call to fear, but in striking Holbein, it had announced its grinning presence within the heart of the palace itself. And Edward was at Whitehall! I had brought him here to spend the summer, so that he could observe court life and feel at home in a grand palace. Edward had been sketched by Holbein, had seated himself within a few feet of him, just seven days before his death!


  I must get Edward safely away, and then flee myself. But where would be the safest place? Already, reports were coming in of the severity of the outbreak in London. Corpse-piles were starting to mount in the cross-streets. No one wanted to touch the bodies, let alone bury them. At Houndsditch, near the gun-foundry, someone doused the pile with hot oil and then set a torch to it. They shovelled dirt over the smoking, greasy ashes, making a gruesome little hill.

  The plague was prevalent in the Southeast, all through the villages of Maidstone, Wrotham, West Mailing, and Ashford, and at Dover. As yet there were no reports of any sickness to the west. I would send Mary west to Woodstock. I would also go west, with Edward, back to Wiltshire, to Wolf Hall.

  The Seymour brothers would come; as Edward’s uncles, it was fitting. The rest of the court must scatter, and the Privy Council function as a unit only by means of messengers.

  I called together the Council and explained briefly what we must do.

  “The plague rages,” I said, “and we must flee. No bravery; I want no bravery. Wolsey showed ‘bravery’ and stayed working in London, until eighteen of his staff died. You are too precious to me for that. I therefore command you to leave London within forty-eight hours. Take as few with you as possible. The plague travels with people, we know not how. If anyone in your household is stricken, move immediately.”

  They all looked back at me, seemingly healthy. As Holbein had been, when he perched Father’s wax death-mask on a stool, just scant days ago. . . .

  “Since we must now part, to reunite in autumn, God willing, I must open all my mind to you,” I told them. “We prepare for a war with France. The Emperor has already declared war on Francis, and it is our intention to join him, taking the field in person.”

  At this bold pronouncement, the French-leaning members, such as Edward Seymour and John Dudley, looked unhappy. The non-fighters, like Wriothesley, Paget, and Gardiner, likewise had clouded countenances. But since Seymour and Dudley were essentially soldiers and wanted war, and Paget and Gardiner were Imperialists, there was something for them in the Continental venture regardless.

  “At this moment the negotiations are tangled, but only over diplomatic style. England will war against France and solve the Scots problem once and for all. Their insubordination has grown intolerable. I will not permit them to flourish unchecked any longer. France is the source of their encouragement and rebellion. We must no longer smite the cub, but slay the mother.”

  Norfolk and Suffolk looked resigned, but tired. They were old. A Continental army meant that they must lead it. Of course, Norfolk had his flamboyant son to assist him. Suffolk had no one, his son having died betimes.

  “I myself am bound for Wiltshire, with my son. I will stay at Wolf Hall.”

  If Edward Seymour was annoyed by my commandeering of his ancestral seat, he did not show it. He merely sat calmly and nodded, as if he had known it all along.

  “I will have at my command a group of trusted messengers, with the best horses from the royal stables. I expect to conduct the business of the realm as well as humanly possible, and I will speed all things to you for your consideration. In the meantime, I pray God will keep us and spare our lives.”

  One and all, we crossed ourselves.

  Let it not be me, each of us prayed. Spare me.

  CXIX

  Would I go alone Wolf Hall? I would have preferred it; but as King it was necessary that I have a few reliable others to accompany me, preferably including a Seymour, as I was going to their home. Edward Seymour I could not ask after all, I had realized that. He was too important to the realm; better he should go into seclusion at some other place and preserve his life, if our party were stricken. Thomas—now there was company, there was amusement . . . but at bottom he was a man so empty of matter that he had never held a position of importance, and hence would be no loss to England should he succumb to the plague along with myself.

  Is there any worse verdict that can be passed on a human life? He is expendable. His death would make no difference. I shuddered in even thinking it, as it seemed to be a curse. I liked Tom Seymour, I had not meant it ill. . . . But the truth was, his presence was not essential to any activity or person.

  There needed to be a woman, a woman’s influence during this exile. A soft woman, a kind woman, a woman concerned with Edward, who could further his studies, as I was not keen on bringing tutors along. The widow Latimer, Kate Parr—was she still at court? I had been remiss in disbanding all the remnants of Catherine’s household. As I had no intention of marrying again, I knew that once Catherine’s ladies had left, there would be no more women at court. Not that I cared. But my attendants, my Council, my musicians—they cared. A monastic court would not appeal, would not draw the finest minds. So I lingered and delayed, keeping a posthumous court for a dead Queen.

  The Lady Latimer was still at court, although she had already submitted a request to be allowed to return to Snape Hall, her late husband’s estate in Yorkshire, to take care of her three stepchildren. I sent for her.

  She appeared promptly, and when I made what I assumed would be a startling request, she made a startling answer.

  “I prefer to go straightway to my own home,” she stated. “My lands, my servants, my Lord Latimer’s children—they will need me there, with all the confusion—”

  God’s blood! Did she not understand? There was death about, not “confusion.” The plague was not something that needed a competent administrator to direct it. Furthermore, my request was not a “request.” A royal request is an order.

  “Madam,” I said, “I cannot spare the time to debate with you. You will accompany Edward to his mother’s home in Wiltshire. You will direct his studies whilst we await the abatement of the plague. We shall depart tomorrow morning. You may spend this evening writing directives to your servants and tenants at Snape Hall.”

  She glowered; then nodded her head in assent, jerkily.

  “I know it is dictatorial,” I found myself explaining. “But the times compel it. I do not look forward to spending months evading this clever assassin, the plague. I do not ask my subjects to do anything that I myself am not willing to do. England needs you, Madam.”

  She demurred, but the flattery won her. Only it was not flattery. I had spoken true. I was England, and Edward was England, and at this juncture we urgently needed her.

  “Who else accompanies us? Will you bring tutors?”

  “No,” I answered. “I have ordered Cox and Cheke to depart for their own safety. So you must select the appropriate papers and texts to take.”

  She looked disheartened. “I am no scholar.”

  “The plague elects many to fill positions with which they are unfamiliar.” Yes, the plague had a terrifying cleansing effect, as inexperienced men and women grasped at openings above their accustomed stations. Priests suddenly were elevated to bishops; apprentices to masters; stableboys to horse-masters.

  “Tom Seymour will come,” I added. “Edward will need a man’s company. He has been too exclusively among women up until now. By Saint Mary, his uncle Tom’s as far from effeminacy as anyone I know.” I did not add that he had but the external trappings of a man, in my opinion; for to a five-year-old externals would be sufficient.

  “He has consented?” she asked.

  Oh, she was innocent! Consent? There was no “consenting” involved. Obedience was my due, not consent.

  “He will,” I said dryly. “You may count on his presence.”

  Early in the morning, before the death-carts had even begun their collection, we left Baynard’s Castle, whence we had fled from Whitehall after the first plague attack, riding toward St. Paul’s. The great houses near the Thames were dark and still. Occasional crosses marked the doors. But on the whole this area did not appear to be hard hit. Only as we approached the city walls, turning west at St. Paul’s Hill, where the dwellings became smaller and more crowded, did the number of crosses increase, until they appeared on almost every door. Then,
as St. Paul’s Way turned left into Ludgate Hill, right before the Lud Gate itself, there it was: a corpse-pile.

  I held my breath as I saw it, for the very air surrounding plague victims was known to be contagious. I motioned to those in my party to do likewise. I would not lose any of them: not Will, not my old familiar Dr. Butts, not Lady Latimer; no, not even boisterous Tom Seymour. As for Edward, he was my life.

  The pile of dead were naked. Their limbs protruded like forlorn branches of cut trees. Those at the bottom were already darkened and putrefying; those at the top were so lifelike that you could not believe them dead. This was plague, that breathed on you and left you breathless, but beautifully preserved . . . for a little while. Flies were thick on the lower portion of the heap, making an obscene humming noise, writhing in iridescent waves over their feed. On top of all, like an offering, lay a naked maiden, pale and lovely, her golden hair serving as a funeral pall. Even as we passed, death-defying scavengers climbed on the human pile, searching for jewellery.

  Outside the city gate, men were digging trenches. The dead would be thrown in, up to the top, and some little dirt shoveled over them. The men who dared to handle the corpses often followed them within a few hours. As I saw and smelled their sweat, I knew these were braver than any of King Arthur’s knights. What Galahad would have fled before, and Lancelot would have avoided altogether, these men faced unflinchingly.

  Suddenly I realized that I knew not what had become of Holbein’s body. Had it been properly attended to? Surely so!

  WILL:

  No. Holbein was consigned to just such a trench-interment, where he decayed cheek-by-jowl with a tavernkeeper or a wet-nurse, and their dust is now mingled.

  The plague brought about moral dislocations in every aspect of life. Neighbourliness evaporated, as everyone fled from the sick and refused to touch them, leaving only extortionists, whose greed exceeded their fear, to tend the dying.