The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  Within two weeks the number of victims had fallen to nothing. But we must wait another fortnight to be sure. Then it was back to London, back to life as usual.

  The dispatches from the scattered Privy Council showed that their minds had returned to business, and they were eager to resume their duties. Bishop Gardiner was bored with tending gardens with Audley in Suffolk; the roses were blooming, but they failed to take much joy in them. Wriothesley and Cranmer, consigned to a parish in Colchester, had attempted to interest themselves in local history and had even compiled a booklet on the baptisms in all the nearby parish churches (spending days copying the parish records). They found themselves becoming quite immersed in it, imagining what these families were like, making up stories to one another to explain the spacing of births and the particular names chosen. But they soon wearied of it, not being particularly imaginative to begin with, and found themselves at a loss to fill their hours.

  Petre, in Huntingdonshire, had begun studying the lace woven in the district. There were many different patterns, and the common folk claimed that “Good Queen Katherine” had introduced the skill there. That was nonsense, of course. Katherine did not go out amongst the common women and teach them to make lace. She herself did not make lace, or have any knowledge of how to do so. The fact that much lace was made in Spain meant nothing. I did not know how to shear sheep, even though raw wool was England’s prime export. At any rate, Petre concluded that Cambridgeshire and Huntingdonshire lace might be exported and serve as a money-making industry for England.

  Henry Howard, lounging about his familial estate in Norfolk, amused himself by drawing up plans for a great estate of his own on the site of St. Leonard’s Priory in Norwich, to be called Mount Surrey. It was to incorporate all the Italian innovations, and become a Mediterranean villa in the damp mists of East Anglia. Between arranging for builders, glass-masters, sculptors, and painters for his palace, he gave himself over to poetry and heraldry. The unreal world to which he was temporarily consigned was most congenial to him, and he flourished in it.

  Anthony Denny and John Dudley, who had gone farther west, one to Devon and the other to Padstow, at the very edge of Cornwall, wrote intriguing descriptions of the region, particularly of Cornwall, where, Dudley said, the inhabitants were tiny and dark, with all the houses and doorways and chairs sized to them, so that a regular man might crack his head in passing from one room to another. On the south coast, he said, they were all pirates, or “wreckers” who lured merchant ships onto the rocks with false lights, and then plundered them. He did not rest well, wondering every night if he would be stabbed in his sleep. “I long for the treachery of civilized men,” he wrote.

  In mid-July he had his wish, and we all reunited in London, at Westminster Palace, to pursue just that.

  How good it felt to be back at work! And to have all my workers ready at hand. Not one had been lost to the plague, and even London, which had been hit most severely, had made a recovery. As we rode back into the city, there was little sign of disruption, and few clues that there had been an injury to the society. With no one to direct them, no one to order them, the surviving Londoners had proceeded to take responsibility for their own little streets and half-streets, and the newly elevated people, wearing offices as yet green to them, seemed to be managing well enough. The heaped plague-pits were already grassing over, and that for some reason both soothed and disturbed me. So quickly . . . yes, why not?

  The Imperial ambassador, Van der Delft, had just received a communication from his master. It seemed that Charles had had a successful campaign already, and had scored some notable triumphs in Luxembourg and Navarre. He looked to continue the war on the northern front, but would pass the coming fortnight at Landrecies, directing the siege there. If I wished to enter the campaign after that date . . . ?

  “No, no,” I said. “It is too late in the season, and we cannot ready an army now, with midsummer already past.” Not to mention the plague. “Next season, next season, we shall join him. How long does he plan to campaign?”

  “Not past September,” Van der Delft replied. “He has family business then—a wedding.”

  “Ah.” I smiled. “I also. I have my own wedding.”

  The ambassador grinned. “Your own, Your Majesty?”

  “Aye. Ah, ah, do not mock me, sir”—I began laughing, as I could see his surprise and unasked questions—“although I know ’tis a temptation.”

  “I wish you happiness,” he said simply.

  “I do truly seek it,” I answered.

  “Then you shall find it.” He looked straight into my eyes. I liked him; he seemed honest. We would not spar and parry, as I had done with Chapuys, but that was well enough.

  “I pray so. I shall wed the widow Latimer, as soon as all is set in order. Now, though, as to this war business—Charles and I have settled satisfactorily the title confusion, as being addressed as ‘Defender of the Faith, etc.’ will content me. I lack but the proper means—in winds and moneys—to come to France before spring. But I shall do so, and in person. You may tell your master that I will lead my soldiers myself, as I did in the glorious campaign of 1513—the Golden War!”

  My God, I grew excited just thinking of it! Oh, my blood stirred! To wear armour again, to camp again, to hold war council meetings in the field-tent . . . how sweetly it beckoned!

  As soon as he returned to London, I spoke to Bishop Gardiner about my intention to wed Kate Parr.

  “I wish you to marry us,” I said.

  “Not Cranmer?” His tone was distant, judging. Yes, Gardiner was jealous of Cranmer, jealous of his closeness to me and his privilege in sharing so much of my life.

  “No. It must be someone whose orthodoxy is beyond question, as Lady Latimer is suspected—unjustly, of course—of leaning toward the Reformers. Your performing the ceremony will silence those tongues.”

  “Will it, Your Grace?” Still he appeared aloof, cool, uncommitted.

  “As best they can be,” I retorted. “Nothing ever silences tongues altogether.”

  “Are you so very sure she is not a Reformer?” Each word was measured out and flung at me.

  “Because her foolish friend Anne Askew goes about preaching? Each person is responsible for his or her own soul. We are not our brothers’ keepers in that regard. Many of my friends have gone astray, misled by false doctrines—does that taint me, so long as I do not follow them?”

  With difficulty he smiled. He had such thin lips. I realized, just then, that he seldom smiled; on him it seemed artificial. “No, Your Grace.”

  “Then you will perform the ceremony?”

  He could not refuse a royal request.

  “I would be honoured, Your Grace.”

  I myself would have preferred Cranmer, as I loved him and therefore wanted to include him in anything of importance in my life. But I had spoken true to Gardiner; it was politically necessary that a conservative conduct and sanction the marriage ceremony. I would protect my Kate from the enemies who would seek to discredit her, for no other reason than that I loved her and trusted her.

  It was to be a family wedding, with all my natural family present—my children, and my niece Lady Margaret Douglas, daughter of Margaret and her second husband, the Earl of Angus—then my family by affection, certain members of the Privy Council and their wives. Altogether that made nearly a score of witnesses.

  Gardiner married us on July 12, 1543, in the withdrawing chamber of the royal apartments at Hampton Court. The day smiled upon us, cool and fair, with the distinctive sleepy scent of box trees from the knot-garden below entering the chamber, which had been decorated with lilies and poppies.

  My Kate wore a lavender gown, a teasing choice, for purple was royal, yet also betokened penance and mourning. . . . No matter, it was the colour of periwinkles and set off her red-gold hair.

  I stood, once again, taking a bride. I had only one prayer: Almighty God, send your favour upon my marriage, as you never have in the past. Do not let
it end in unhappiness, as have all the rest. Surely I deserved a happy end after all my misfortunes in matrimony.

  “I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful Day of Judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it,” intoned Gardiner, standing before us in his bishop’s robes.

  Disillusionment? Bad experiences? Weariness? Were these “impediments”?

  “For be ye well assured, that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God’s word doth allow, are not joined together by God: neither is their matrimony lawful.’

  No, there was nothing in God’s word forbidding marriage between tired, aching people.

  “Henry, King of England, Wales, and Ireland, King of France, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in sickness and in health: and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

  All those things I wanted to do, with all my heart. “I will,” I answered.

  Gardiner turned to Kate. “Katherine Parr, Lady Latimer, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health”—oh, let it be in health, do not let her have to nurse me—“and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

  “I will.” Her voice was faint. Had something given her pause? The “sickness”? The “forsaking all other”? For she was young. . . .

  “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” He looked round at the company, smiled his thin February smile, and said, “I do.”

  Then, taking our right hands together, he directed me to say:

  “I, Henry, take thee, Katherine, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance: and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

  Marriage promises. They took in both sides of life: no sooner did they say “better” than they said “worse,” no sooner “richer” than a quicker “poorer.” In the midst of our greatest happiness they were worded to remind us of woe, and bound us to include wretchedness in with our rejoicings.

  Kate then repeated the same vows.

  Gardiner took from me the ring I had for her, plain gold, with no engraving at all. I put it on her finger, her cool slender finger. “With this ring I thee wed,” I said, “with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, amen.” There. It was done. How differently I would fulfill these vows than I had with my previous wife.

  “Kneel,” said Gardiner, and we did so, upon the blue velvet cushions laid before us. “O eternal God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind. Giver of all spiritual grace, the Author of everlasting life: send Thy blessing upon these Thy servants, this man and this woman, whom we bless in Thy name: that, as Isaac and Rebecca lived faithfully together, so these persons may surely perform and keep the vow and covenant betwixt them made, and may ever remain in perfect love and peace together, and live according to Thy laws: through Jesus Christ Our Lord, amen.”

  “Amen,” murmured the people.

  “Forasmuch as King Henry and Katherine Parr have consented together in holy wedlock,” said Gardiner, addressing the whole company, his voice rising, “and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands: I pronounce that they be man and wife together.”

  He raised his hands over our heads. “God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost, bless, preserve, and keep you: the Lord mercifully with His favour look upon you: and so fill you with all spiritual benediction and grace, that ye may so live together in this life, that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. Amen.”

  We rose, man and wife. The gathered company broke into movement, embracing, swaying together, laughing. We turned to them and accepted their good wishes, joined them in celebrating.

  Mary, the bridesmaid, came to us and threw her arms around us both. She kept her eyes averted, but I spied tears spilling down her cheeks. She had known Kate for a long time, ever since Kate first came to London with Lord Latimer and visited court to meet scholars. They had grown fond of one another then; and though she would never consider Kate a “mother,” she cared deeply for her as a friend.

  Elizabeth came over, as well. Awkwardly she extended her arms to embrace Mary as well as Kate. She said nothing, just hugged us. Words were difficult for her—that is, words from the heart.

  Then we were released to the custody of the company. The press of people in the chamber was warm, but it was a close warmth, a happy summer warmth. They were wearing their sheerest linens, and some of the women had left off their headdresses, letting their hair fall free, like maidens—even the strict and humourless Anne, wife of Edward Seymour. Yes, she might actually be attractive, in bed; perhaps Seymour was not the prig he pretended to be.

  Bed. I was not supposed to be thinking of bed, even to the extent of other men’s beds.

  In the adjoining Privy Chamber our wedding feast was laid. There was a bride-cake, and silver bowls of woodruff-flavoured wine, and strawberry tarts. From our loyal lairds in Scotland came a smoked salmon, and the deputy of Calais had sent French cheeses.

  Kate and I led the way to the table and ceremoniously took sips from the silver wedding-cup and tasted the bride-cakes. Outside the windows, the sun held itself in the sky for hours, heating the gardens below, so that their scents perfumed the room. I was drowsy, dazzled, entirely a captive of the senses. All I could think was: How delightful this is, to be suspended in time on a summer’s afternoon. . . .

  And then I saw the shadows growing longer, the hollyhocks casting shadows twice their length; and the air coming in the open casements was subtly different. The afternoon was turning into eventide. The plates upon the white-linened table were empty, and our guests awaited our dismissal.

  Alone we were, with the ruins of our wedding feast around us. “Come into my apartments, Kate,” I said. They were now her apartments as well. “Come.” I held out my hands and drew her in. She came, a little hesitantly, following me into the little private chamber next to the bedchamber.

  “Oh!” she cried, seeing a carved oak footstool beside the fireplace. It had been her childhood seating place at her mother’s feet.

  “I had it brought from Kendal,” I said. “So that you would feel at home.”

  Her stiffness disappeared, and a great smile spread across her tight face. “How did you know?”

  “I enquired,” I answered. It was simple enough. There were old servants who remembered. Had neither of her doting old spouses bothered to ascertain her preferences?

  She flung her arms around me, as if I had given her the pearls of the Orient. “All the way from Westmorland,” she murmured, and it might as well have been from the Orient.

  “I wanted a bit of your girlhood to follow you here,” I said, “so that becoming Queen would not be too abrupt a change.”

  “Ah. Yes.” She fingered her necklace. “Queen. I am Queen.”

  “Indeed.”

  Now there was nothing more to say. We stood facing one another, awkwardly, while outside it darkened and a cool wind came up. Soon we heard the gentle drop-drop-drop of rain on the garden below, striking the leaves and rolling off. The sound of summer rain . . . soft, like the murmur of bees.

  The tension between us mounted. She feared me, feared that I would demand a husband’s rights after all. And the thought was revolting to her; that was obvious.

  “Let us retire,” I finally said. “I am weary.”

  In
side the bedchamber there were two beds set up: my accustomed one and a smaller one, of carved walnut with ivory insets, that I had obtained for her. The finest linen lay upon her bed, maiden-linen, never slept on before. A coverlet of white wool was folded at its foot.

  “For you, Madam,” I said, and I was pained to see her joy at beholding a separate bed.

  “I will retire now.” This was so formal, more formal than a state banquet. I seated myself upon a padded bench alongside the window and began to remove my garments. First the embroidered silk shirt that I had saved for this, my wedding day. Then the linen undershirt, with its neck-fastenings. Now it was all revealed: my bulging belly, uncorseted. I shot a look at her to see if she were watching, and what her face showed. Indeed she was watching, but her expression was . . . expressionless. Next I removed my breeches, then my hose. My legs were exposed, with the purplish veins mapping them all over. She was to see all, see exactly what I was made of, of what infirmities. I stood thus for a full moment or two before ceremoniously pulling my nightshirt on and veiling this ruined work of nature, like draping an obscene statue. With effort I mounted the steps and then climbed into bed.

  “You may undress behind the screen,” I told her, indicating the silk-hung frame set up in the corner.

  “No.” She carefully began to remove her own garments, with movements so graceful and deft it was like a dance. There was only a glimpse of nakedness, however, and it was so quickly done that it tantalized rather than soothed. In an instant she was in her bed, her head on the swansdown pillow. She stretched out her hand and took mine.

  “Shall we pray, my Lord?” Before I could reply, she began a lengthy conversation with the Almighty.

  It was a disappointing act, an insulting one. Yet had I not abjured the pleasures of women, on my own accord? Wherefore, then, should I find fault with her chaste behaviour?

  Side by side we both lay for hours, listening to the July rain, pretending to be asleep.