The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  As for Charles, he and I sent a volley of accusations against one another. His preposterous claims were that (1) I had evaded the agreed-upon march on Paris; (2) I had used the siege of Boulogne (falsely prolonged) as an excuse to avoid a true mutual commitment; (3) I had agreed that Charles could act as “Arbiter of Europe,” and that was what he was attempting now to do, and why he had made separate, private peace with Francis; and (4) I should hand Boulogne over to him in his capacity as arbiter, and he would award it as he saw fit.

  I, in turn, had grievances against him, mighty ones. I flung them at him, but he failed to react, or even to refute them. I said that (1) Charles was guilty of treason toward me, that we had agreed that either of us might negotiate separately but neither should conclude a treaty without the other; (2) Charles was bound by treaty to act as my ally, not as a negotiator between France and England; (3) English merchants in Spain were being subjected to the Inquisition; and (4) Spanish troops had entered French employment.

  But these were futile, rearguard gestures. The truth was that I had lost my ally and stood naked to whosoever wished to attack me. Even the Pope was proceeding to call his General Council, which would meet at long last in Trent, not in Mantua. I was beleaguered and abandoned, alone on my island kingdom.

  Even that would not be so fearsome, if the island itself were only united. But half of it was given over to enemies, French sympathizers. I kept my Border troops busy harassing the Scots, making pitiful little raids into their territory. In one of those, my troops had accidentally desecrated the tombs of the Earl of Angus’s ancestors in Melrose. This turned Angus against us—he who had been our stoutest ally—and he and Francis, as well as the infant Queen’s council, began plotting for revenge. The form that revenge would take was a Franco-Scottish invasion. The plans were (my spies were able to ascertain this much) for France to send a force to Scotland via the northwest and another just to the Border in the east. Released from bothering with Charles, the rest of the French forces could attack England from the southeast by sea. Francis could raise an immense fleet if he so desired, and since the prevailing winds were from the south across the Channel, he could effect a landing in almost any season.

  I was half sick with worry about these things, when Gardiner insisted on a special audience with me to raise alarmist concerns about the growth of the Protestant faction in our midst.

  “In your absence this summer they have grown like pestilent weeds,” he said. “But unlike weeds, the frost does not kill them. Nay, they hibernate in winter, meeting secretly in one another’s homes, spreading their sedition, infecting others with it.”

  I was weary of this, weary of having to stamp out things, prune the kingdom, control sedition. Ungrateful, malicious dogs! There were always such, prowling and sniffing about the kingdom, lifting their legs and pissing on the rest.

  “Let them but show their faces, I’ll cut them off,” I promised.

  The Great Turk continued to correspond with me, for mysterious reasons of his own. He inquired after the crocodile—which was miraculously thriving, having been quartered near the hot springs in Bath, in the southwest part of the country—and offered to send me eunuchs for my court. He himself, he wrote, was luxuriating in winter retreat in Constantinople. How did we ever endure those northern winters, he asked? One January in Vienna had been enough for him. He sent me a Koran. A month later another long, chatty letter arrived. Suleiman was a friendly fellow.

  I must confess I enjoyed his communications. They took me far away to a confusing but perfumed land, made me forget the chill-induced misery I grappled with daily in the palace.

  CXXV

  That I was miserable that winter, I readily record. Only Kate served as a comforter, and I thanked God every day that I had had the grace to make her my wife. For she was a source of grace to me. She was a quiet spot to which I could always return, who was never sharp or cross or unable to give.

  The children revered her as well, and she brought out the very best in them. They were gathered together in the palace under her tutelage, and I felt, at last, that we were a family. Kate, mother of none of them, and “wife” (in the carnal sense) of no one, yet made us a family. That was her special grace.

  Spring, 1545. The French invasion was even now being equipped, and it would certainly come before Midsummer’s Day. To ready our coastal defence system, which stretched from Deal to Pendennis, guarding our entire southern flank, I had to extract more money, in the form of loans and taxes, from the people. I expected them to grumble and resist, but they did not.

  WILL:

  Hal’s enemies expected them to rebel, and were sorely disappointed. The theory went like this: the English people were brutalized by a bloodthirsty, rapacious monarch who denied them the religion they desired (Catholic or Protestant, depending on the speaker); made them sign oaths which they detested; repressed them and robbed them. They but awaited the opportunity to rise up and free themselves from his oppressive yoke. But the people of England seemed to agree with “Old Harry” that the French were the enemies, the Pope a meddling foreigner, and the Scots traitors. King Hal was right in fighting them, and they would join him in sacrificing to protect their country. Had not the King gone in person to fight? Had he not spent the winter inspecting and fortifying his southern coastal defences? Did he not intend to captain a warship against the Frenchies? Could his countrymen offer less? Gold, jewels, coin, even touching personal possessions like crosses from Jerusalem, ivory combs, and wedding rings arrived every day at Whitehall. Far from revolting against the “tyrant,” the people supported him in his hour of extremity.

  HENRY VIII:

  I stood prepared for war, to the best of my ability. In the south of England, I had almost a hundred thousand men in arms, divided under three commands: one in Kent under the Duke of Suffolk; one in Essex under the Duke of Norfolk; and one in the west under the Earl of Arundel. My fleet of over one hundred ships lay anchored near the Solent.

  In the North, against Scotland, Edward Seymour commanded an army poised right beside the Borders. And standing offshore, the Lord Admiral John Dudley was at sea with twelve thousand men, waiting to grapple with the enemy.

  At Boulogne, which the French had vowed to recapture, I had put Henry Howard in charge, to fill the position vacated by Brandon. I prayed that when the time came, his valour would not melt into hotheadedness and bravado.

  July 18. It was just after the second anniversary of my marriage, and I had prepared a special celebration for Kate. We would dine aboard Great Harry, my flagship, which was waiting in the Solent, that channel between the Isle of Wight and Portsmouth, on our south coast.

  Great Harry had gone through many refurbishings and refittings since her launching in 1514. At the time she was built, navies were but “armies at sea” . . . floating platforms carrying soldiers to grapple with enemy soldiers at sea. But now ships were converted into fortresses, stocked with rows of cannon, and the job of sailors was not to engage in hand-to-hand combat with enemy sailors, but to man the killer guns and destroy entire ships. Great Harry, although a bit clumsy and old-fashioned in her overall design, had adapted herself well to the renovations, which pleased me. I did not wish to scrap her, as others had urged. Her sister ship, Mary Rose, had likewise made the transition and was ready to do battle, as soon as the French were sighted. Our information was that Francis had bade his fleet of two hundred thirty-five ships adieu near Rouen some days ago.

  Two hundred thirty-five ships . . . and we but one hundred. Truly, the hour of testing had come.

  Nonetheless I was proud of my forces, proud of my fleet, in a way one can be only when one has offered one’s best. We had poured every sacrifice into our defence and readiness for war; we had stinted nothing. Now God would have to make up the rest.

  Lamps were being lighted in the July twilight when Kate and I arrived at the pier to board Great Harry. Kate had dressed in what she laughingly described as her most nautical costume, and I was touched by her
efforts to join in the spirit of the occasion.

  Stepping on board, I felt a great surge of near-carnal love for my flagship. The smell of the linseed oil which had been used to rub down the seasoned wood; the almost voluptuous creaking of the stout rigging and hemp ropes; the stirrings and rustlings of the bleached linen sails, gathered tidily in their bindings: what a ship was she! She and I had grown and changed together, and in her I felt a summary of myself. . . .

  “Your Grace.” The captain, Viscount Lisle, Lord Dudley, bowed to us. I acknowledged him. But for this moment I did not wish to speak of common things. The sky was half on fire with the reflection of the setting sun. I went to the rail and looked out to sea, where the waters were flat and untroubled, and there was no wind. At this moment England seemed inviolate, protected by all the elements.

  Kate stood beside me. The calm I felt in my person, a sort of afterglow like the departed sun, was crowned in her presence.

  “Your Majesties!” A raucous voice sounded behind us. I turned to see Tom Seymour, bending one knee, his plumed hat held at an angle. His uncovered hair glowed, reflecting the red sky.

  “Thomas.” I held out my hand, indicating that he should rise. “We are pleased that you could join us.” I used the royal we. The truth was that I never consulted Kate about these things. She was usually amenable to guests; therefore I was acutely aware, by her quick stiffening, that she did not wish Thomas Seymour to be present at this private occasion.

  “And I am deeply grateful that you should invite me.” He sauntered over to us and took his place at the rail, letting his muscular arms hang over the side. “Are you trying to sight the French?” he said. “They are coming from the south, if they come at all. Such poor sailors!” He shook his head, and all that mane of hair swayed.

  “We talk not of the French,” said Kate. “We are here to celebrate a private matter, and to inspect the King’s flagship.”

  “Peace be unto you,” said an old, familiar voice. Brandon was aboard. I turned to see him, standing bearlike on the oiled deck.

  “And unto you.” I held out my hands. “We sound like bishops.” I laughed.

  “Not quite,” he said. “We are not discussing property.”

  We embraced on the deck. “How is your army?” I whispered, for Kate would have no politics to spoil this evening.

  “Well,” he said. “We are at the ready in Kent to defend England against whatever comes our way. I think they will most likely land there.”

  “If they do, you know when to light the signal fires?” I had ordered a system of beacon fires to be laid all across the entire southern coast of England, the first torch to be touched as soon as a Frenchman was spotted.

  “Aye. There’s a great heap near my encampment, and willing torchbearers to spread the flame.”

  I was loth to release him. “Think you all of this shall come to pass? Will we truly be invaded, for the first time in four hundred years?”

  “I fear so,” he said. “The invasion fleet is on its way.”

  “Invasions fail,” I said. I could not hold myself apart from the others much longer.

  “If God is willing,” he replied.

  We were being rude, clinging to each other and whispering secrets. I turned and saw the fair table set up on the deck, and gestured toward Kate and Tom Seymour, who were standing ill-at-ease against the rail where I had left them. I broke from Brandon’s embrace and gestured toward the table. “Come.”

  It was a well-set table, with places for four, laid with gold plate. But the goblets were not proper goblets at all; rather they were wide-bottomed vessels that did not spill when the ship swayed. The decanter of wine was shaped likewise, and was called among glassblowers a “captain’s decanter.” We must be properly nautical on the King’s flagship.

  We seated ourselves, Kate and I at either end of the tiny table. “Welcome,” I said, raising my glass. “On the eve of our final battle with France, I cherish your friendships.”

  They all drank. “It is also, by a singular coincidence, the week of my wedding anniversary.”

  We all drank once again. “I have had two years of great happiness. I know the Seymours rejoice with me, and therefore I wished you, Tom, to share in our celebration. It has been a long, lonely path since your sister’s death. Would that Edward could be present as well.” I meant my son.

  “But he’s too busy defending the northern borders with his twelve thousand men,” snapped Tom. He meant his brother.

  I put down my glass.

  “I mean his appointment to command the army of the North,” continued Tom. “After his impressive showing in France, it is to be expected he’d be put in some high position.”

  “He is an able, trustworthy, and brave commander,” I said. “England can make use of such. We have had the example of men like Brandon here, a soldier all his life, and of great service to me. Soldiers such as he will likely die in a camp-bed at an advanced age.” I clinked my bulbous glass against Brandon’s.

  “But what of Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey? He’s a general’s son, playing at being a soldier. He behaved like a moonstruck youth at Boulogne, rushing out and leading raids to no purpose. Near got himself killed. He’s a lunatic poet. Why have you left him in command of the Boulogne garrison?”

  Tom’s eyes . . . they were faintly red. No, it was but the sunset’s glow. My imagination.

  “Because I believe him to be the best man for the task,” I said. “Despite his nature. He’s wild, he needs a proper channel for his action. War will shape him, calm him.”

  “Fah.” Tom hated Henry Howard, as the new always hates the old that lords itself above all. Several years ago the Duke had attempted to arrange marriage alliances between the families. Tom was to marry Mary Howard, Henry’s sister and the widow of my Henry Fitzroy. Henry Howard had put a stop to it on the grounds of the “demeaning” of his family blood. The Seymours had never forgiven or forgotten the slight. If they were good enough to marry with a Tudor king, why not with a Howard lord? But the Howards considered themselves above the Tudors. . . .

  “You overspeak yourself,” I reprimanded him. “And do insult my hospitality. It is not they whom I have invited to be present on my flagship, but you. Pray attend myself and my guests at table, not absent rivals.”

  He started, opened his mouth, and then shut it.

  “Yes, I said rivals. You envy them, and are filled with malice and rancour. You need not be; you have your own gifts, which they have not.”

  “And what are they?” He shrugged. “They win me no glory.”

  The gift of attracting women, I thought. Not men, but women. Even Elizabeth had shown herself susceptible to his charm, which puzzled me. “Your immense energy,” I said. “You are like a thousand suns.”

  Like all shallow men thrown a sop of flattery, he smiled, took the bait to his den, and subsided.

  A slight breeze stirred, and we felt it on our cheeks. It was not a soft caress, but a warning. I fill the French sails, it whispered. I shivered and looked out at the horizon.

  The master-cook brought out the fanciful dessert: a great pastry, in layers, replicating Great Harry. Tiny pennants flew from her four masts, and exact miniatures of cannon were mounted on her main deck and gun deck. As the ship was placed before me, two of the cannon “fired,” making a snap and a puff of smoke.

  “A salute for each of our years of marriage,” I said to Kate.

  She burst into rare laughter. “O Henry!”

  That address between us was forbidden in public. I frowned; Seymour frowned, Brandon frowned. Seymour, indeed, looked angry.

  “Nay, gentle wife,” I reproved her smilingly. “That is our private talk.” Then I changed the subject. “Yet I know we shall look back upon this date as marking a great anniversary for our realm. We stand on the brink of a great battle,” I said. “May we prevail, with honour!” I raised my fresh-filled glass.

  They solemnly drank. Each of us prayed. For it was a fearful hour for England.
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  Faces were lit only by the candles set on the table. All around it was now dark, except for the lanterns set up on deck; I permitted no open flames on board ship.

  “I must to my post,” said Brandon. “I have a far ride to Kent.”

  “It will be a long night,” I said. “My thoughts go with you.”

  He grasped my hand. “To be alive is to fight the French,” he laughed. “Remember, Your Grace, how we planned it all, at Sheen?”

  Sheen. Vanished palace. Vanished youths. “Old men fight boys’ battles. Well, good night, Charles.” I heard his heavy footfalls crossing the gangplank.

  “I must take my post as well.” Tom commanded Peter Pomegranate, a fine, new-built ship. He was much more a seaman than a soldier.

  “You are anchored one of the farthest out,” I said. “You will see the French first. Set double watches.”

  “They won’t approach in darkness,” he said cockily.

  “There will be instruments that enable men to come right alongside in darkness, someday,” I said. “Perhaps that day is now.”

  “Not for a thousand years. The stars can tell a captain where he’s located on a map, but not what lurks beneath his hull. No, there’s no way to read rocks by the stars. And it’s rocks—”

  “Tom,” I said. “Keep watch in the night. That is a royal command.”

  “Aye.” He bowed, took Kate’s hand. “I will obey all His Majesty’s commands. Bless you in your marriage; I pray daily for you.”