The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  His distinctive step, higher and more prancing than Brandon’s, sounded on the gangplank.

  “I think he has become light-witted,” murmured Kate.

  “I think he has become dangerous,” I said. “Ambitious, cankered, eaten up with envy—dangerous.”

  “Nay, Your Grace!” Her voice rose. “He does not—does not deserve such weight. He is too insubstantial ever to amount to anything dangerous.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “But I will watch him. I like him not. I regret that I invited him to join us.”

  “I do not. It was a kind thing to do, and you are ever kind.” She put her arm about my waist, boldly. She had never done this before. “So kind, I think that I have never shown you how my heart warms to your great love.” She was pressed up against me, resting her face on my chest. I bent to kiss her, and she did not pull away; indeed, she returned the kiss, deeply.

  There was a royal chamber below decks, where I had quartered on my passing to Calais. It was large, well appointed, and completely private. It was held in readiness for me at all times, and afforded a blissful retreat. “Kate—” I murmured, as I made my way toward the steps leading below, with her clinging to me. “Kate, wife—”

  In that wooden chamber, well belowdecks, with its stout door and no window at all save a round porthole, Kate became my wife at last. I was gentle with her and she with me, and as it was a prize I had thought never to win, I received it with awe and gratitude and wonderment. I can say no more; to do so is to desecrate it. I will not insult her body by describing it, nor our actions by narrating them.

  CXXVI

  It was dawn now, and I stood alone at the rail of the ship. I had come out here on deck, in that darkest time of night, to wait for sunrise.

  There was a holiness about “watching in the night.” The early monks had known this when they set their first worship hour at midnight. And indeed it did possess its own benediction. I prayed as I stood there, prayed for England, and it seemed my prayers might be better heard for the sky being hushed and empty.

  I prayed that we would withstand this assault, the largest ever launched against England. It was my fault that this had come to pass; it was my mishandling of our affairs with France. I had done the worst thing one can do in hunting: I had injured the beast without killing him, thereby maddening him, driving him to fight for revenge.

  I had done the same with Scotland, I saw that now. “It was not the marriage so much as the wooing,” a Scots noble had protested. I had behaved stupidly and rashly in Scotland; so anxious was I to achieve the union almost within my grasp that I had let my impatience gain the upper hand, had insulted and bullied them until they had no choice but to turn to France.

  Oh, I had been a fool! But must England pay the price for it?

  Let it fall on my shoulders, I prayed. Spare the realm.

  But I knew in my heart that I was the realm, and the brunt of my shortsightedness and whatever ineptitude still remained in me after all these years must be paid by common Kentish soldiers, by the sailors on these hundred-odd vessels assembled here in the bay.

  My hours with Kate were forgotten as I stood there in agony. With her I had been a man, but in this battle and invasion I was a king; and as a king I bore the guilt of having brought my country to this pass. Deliver us, O Lord, from the hands of our enemies.

  Now the sky was growing light, and I could see the horizon, a faint flat line with nothing on it. The French were not yet in sight. The wind always dropped at sunrise and sunset, and soon would pick up. I knew today was the day we could expect them. I knew it would be today.

  The sailors changed watch, traditionally, at four o’clock. Now the morning watchman came out on deck, and I heard him speaking to his fellow, who had stood from midnight until four. They both sounded sleepy.

  The sun came up over the eastern rim of the horizon, over land, and struck the tallest gathered sails, touching their puckers and pouches. Men were stirring. I smelt coals being lighted in the galley. My private hour was gone, and I was given back into the hands of the world.

  A breakfast was served to Kate and me, and our captain and first mate, on the selfsame table as the night before. This time the table was spread with brownish homespun cloth and pewter plates, and we were surrounded by shouting men. We ate “sailors’ fare”—hardtack and salted meat and heated ale—so we could see what provisions our men subsisted on. They were dismal. The hardtack almost broke my front teeth.

  “ ’Tis said if one rolls off a table, it will kill anyone who might be sitting beneath,” the server said, a skinny lad of about sixteen. He laughed in a neighing way.

  “The salted meat will make us thirsty in two hours,” said Kate. “What do you do upon the high seas to combat that, since you cannot drink sea water? If you must drink on account of your food, does that not add problems in your provisioning? Should you not carry something else?”

  “Meat untreated with salt cannot keep,” said the first mate. “Carrying live meat in the form of chickens and cattle is even more of a problem than carrying extra barrels of water.”

  “Why carry meat at all?”

  “The sailors cannot work without it. They subsist on bread well enough for a while, but when it comes to doing any strenuous tasks”—he shrugged—“they have no strength on just bread.”

  “Man does not live by bread alone,” bellowed the captain, thinking himself witty.

  “Evidently,” replied Kate, in her most queenly manner. Those who quoted Scripture to make jokes irritated her.

  “So the sailors live on just this?” I asked. It was quite remarkable.

  “On long voyages, yes. Pity the Spaniards on those ships to New Spain. It takes weeks to get there, and when they do, half the crews are dead,” said the captain. “We are all thankful that Your Majesty, in his wisdom, has shown no interest in this so-called New World.”

  The New World, with its painted savages and stone cities, had never seemed worth the trouble to me.

  “It is astonishing that any vessel survives that voyage,” I said. “It seems to me—”

  Suddenly an immense boom sounded, followed by a thudding splash in the harbour waters. The ship rocked violently, and the food spilled off the table. The hardtack indeed hit the deck like rocks.

  I leapt up, rushed to the rail. The French! French sails filled the line of horizon; sails spaced out like nails hammered at regular intervals into a great board. And coming toward us was a great galleon warship; it was she who had fired the opening shot into the harbour, mockingly. Even while I watched, another round was fired. The war had begun.

  I turned to the captain. “I must to shore, to command the land forces,” I said. “May God grant you victory.” Another boom, and another wave rocked us, this one so fierce that I lost my balance and fell against the captain.

  “As soon as we have crossed the gangplank,” I said, “cast off to do battle.”

  I grabbed Kate’s hand, and we hurried to shore.

  Horrified, I watched as Great Harry set sail. It was a long process, and all this time the French were closing in, hoping to sink the English flagship while she slumbered, tied up. What a victory for them that would be! I scarcely breathed—as if not breathing would hold back the time—as my ship cast off, neatly evading the French, who almost ran aground in pursuing her.

  Meanwhile, the other galleys were approaching. My navy must meet them, although outnumbered almost two to one.

  “We must withdraw to Southsea Castle,” I told Kate. I had not meant for her to be present at the actual fighting. But she seemed to have stomach for it—even lively interest. “There I can oversee the battle, and command the forces on land as well. All messengers will be seeking me there.” What was happening in Kent, and Sussex? As we scrambled up the hill to the castle, I saw no line of signal fires. But it would take several hours for them to flare all the way across the southern coast.

  As I entered the main gate, puffing and panting (for such exertion was almost bey
ond me now, and added to that, the terror and excitement), I heard the sound of more cannon echoing in the harbour below. I turned to see the host of French galleys approaching, like a great encircling arm, but one that came not with love. My own ships were as yet floundering about, the winds against them. All about them the sea was pockmarked with enemy cannonfire.

  I crossed into the inner ward of the castle, and behind me the new portcullis clicked into place. Newly designed levers had been used, and the device slid elegantly into its slots. Even in this hour of extremis, I could appreciate the beauty and power of using the very finest in material, in castles and military hardware as well as in personal adornments. It paid to use the best, to demand it, regardless of the groans of little men, shortsighted, petty “economizers”—

  Of what was I thinking? Of portcullis levers, when my country was being attacked! Was this, in itself, not madness? The old mad King . . . no, not I. Not I.

  From the keep, high and protected, I looked down on the harbour now. The size of the French fleet was staggering. It seemed to expand and fill all the seas, like poppies in a summer field. Against them, cupped in the Solent, was the valiant English fleet.

  Take sail, take sail! I commanded them; my mind shrieked it. Wind, arise! But their sails fluttered, empty, the inconstant wind against them. Only the most expert seaman could manuever a ship under those conditions.

  Mary Rose now moved; her captain had been able to use the antagonistic wind to his own advantage, and the sails caught the waffling breeze and began to pull the ship around.

  How gallantly she rode! I felt the same surge of possessive pride as I had about the fortification I had just passed through, only much stronger; I had known this ship a long time, and she was named for my sister.

  She was a pretty toy, as war toys always are. As she bobbed on the water, her green-and-white pennons jerked and snapped, and I could see the red of her heraldic flags, including that of the Vice-Admiral, flying from her topgallant masts. Her rows of cannon glinted from their crouching places within her belly. She looked almost like the pastry fantasy we had eaten the night before. On her I had hedged my bets, and ordered both soldiers and sailors aboard, to deal with any battle contingency. She was a pastry that had cost my treasury a heap of gold.

  I turned and saw my militia leaders approaching, the men under my command here. I would have to lead them out against the French, should the enemy effect a landing. They hailed me, coming up beside me and laying their helmets on the stone wall. Together we watched the engagement below.

  The French were bunched at the wide entrance to the Solent. The variable wind hampered them as well. But they were able to send forth oared galleys, small, maneuverable vessels, to harass our great men-of-war. These were small, light ships peculiar to the Mediterranean; and as such, I had deemed them unsuitable for the waters near England. Now we would see if they were of much use to the French, who had elected to retain them in their navy.

  Like hunting dogs surrounding their quarry, the galleys darted and feinted with Great Harry, which was easing slowly toward the Channel entrance. The French galleys meant, of course, to draw our entire fleet out into open sea, to tease us into rushing out into the ocean, where their superior numbers could destroy us. We, on the other hand, hoped to entice them into the Solent, where our knowledge of local currents and hidden shoals would put them at a disadvantage, and where we could fire upon them from Southsea Castle.

  Now Mary Rose must tack, must abandon the delicately angled course she pursued, if she hoped to make the open sea. Our strategy was that our premier warships would be drawn out, but only they—Mary Rose and Great Harry. The lesser warships, Soverign, Peter Pomegranate, Matthew Gonnson, and Regent, would hold back.

  Mary Carew, wife of the Vice-Admiral on board Mary Rose, came hurrying over to us, clutching her headdress. It was wishful thinking, as there was little wind, and therein lay her husband’s problem.

  “O sweet Jesu, bless them!” she cried. She heaved herself up against the stone wall, scraping her arms raw.

  “Aye. May He,” I said.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh!” She pressed herself up against the stones, half-climbing over, like a naughty child. Yet her face was strained, and red drops of blood were appearing, evenly spaced, along her lower lip where she had bitten it. “No, no!” She quivered and groaned.

  “Madam,” I said, “ ’Tis said that it brings ill fortune upon a fighting vessel for its relatives to look upon it whilst under sail. Perhaps you should—”

  “Aaaaah!” She gave a choking noise and began clutching at her throat with one hand, whilst pointing hysterically with the other. She was tedious; no wonder women were not permitted on board ships. Annoyed, I turned away from her and looked for Mary Rose myself.

  She was . . . not there. She was gone, sinking. Even as I watched, she turned on her starboard side and slid out of sight beneath the grey waters of the Solent, whilst the most pitiable, hideous cries rose from below decks. Rose—and were drowned. The high-pitched shrieking, which carried across the water like the death-squeaks of rats, turned into a grotesque gurgle, as the entire ship slid as neatly under the water as my portcullis had into its housing. Only two masts remained above water, and frantic men clung to them, gesturing and crying.

  Mary Rose was lost; lost in a moment.

  “What happened?” I cried. I had had my head turned toward Mary Carew, had been conversing with her. Yet that had been scarcely two minutes.

  “The ship—listed,” said Kate. “It seemed to be pushed over. The balance was bad; it tipped on the instant—”

  “But by what?” The wind had been very light.

  “It seems—by itself,” she said, confused. “I could see nothing that would have pushed it thus. It was almost like a drunken man, losing his balance. A drunken man falls, not for that he is pushed, but because he is drunk. Thus seemed it with the ship.”

  “A ship does not founder upon nothing!”

  “This ship did,” she insisted.

  “God! God! God!” screamed Mary Carew, seeming to hear her husband’s cries from the lost ship.

  “He is safe,” I assured her. “Only those belowdecks will have—will have—” I could not finish. “Those who could jump clear are swimming. I see them now. Rescue boats will pick them up.”

  “George cannot swim!” she cried. “He hated water, hated being in it—”

  I reached out to hold her, as now I could say nothing to comfort her. Unless the Vice-Admiral were one of the men clinging to the masts, he was lost, if he truly could not swim. Already there were dots surrounding the site of the wreck. Dead men? Or swimmers?

  Hysterical, she tried to fling herself over the wall. I pulled her back, and she began to beat on me, pulling at my clothes and clawing at my face.

  “Why should you live?” she shrieked. “Why should he”—she pointed at the militia-captain—“and she”—she gestured at Kate—“and even he”—she threw a pebble at a lazy circling gull—“and my George not?”

  I gestured to the guards. “Take her away. She is a danger to herself. Confine her.”

  Two huge Hampshiremen encircled her and led her away, making a cage of their arms.

  I, too, wished to shriek and cry. Mary Rose, with six hundred men, lost. And for no reason, no apparent reason, save—Divine will. God’s finger had reached out and touched my pride, my beautiful ship, and sunk her. As punishment? As warning?

  The way Kate laid her fingers on my arm, I knew she was thinking the same thing. The masts of the ship pointed at me like the handwriting on Belshazzar’s wall. But what did it say? I could not read it clear. O, I was weary of these hateful, muffled messages from Him. . . .

  Great Harry swung about, executing her turn perfectly. The fault lay not in the lack of wind, then, or in the captain’s skill, but in the very design of Mary Rose. But what? She had proved seaworthy for thirty years. What had happened to her now? Truly it was the handwriting. . . .

  The nettlesome French ga
lleys provoked Great Harry, emboldened by the shocking sinking of the man-of-war Mary Rose. Now our English row-barges, a counterpart to their galleys, streamed out to engage them. I had thought row-barges, combining both sail and oars, to be transitional vessels that we soon would not need. But here they carried the day, and did what the great warships could not: chased the French away. Now the French fleet lay outside our Solent waters, waiting to pounce.

  Night fell, and the action ceased. Our vessels were anchored in the Solent, and the French were around the spit, invisible. The rescue boats had saved thirty-five men from Mary Rose, and they had all been on the open top deck, and swept directly into the sea. They were for the most part seamen, unschooled, superstitious, and hard—unable to describe what had happened to them or their ship. They were of no help at all in reconstructing the tragedy. Sir Gawen Carew, George’s uncle, aboard Matthew Gonnson, had passed near Mary Rose just as she had begun to tack; he claimed that George had cried out, “I have the sort of knaves I cannot rule!” Had they mutinied?

  Thirty-five out of six hundred. I sat in my quarters in the granite bowels of Southsea Castle and pondered that fact. Kate was with me, sitting glumly at my side, tracing meaningless patterns with my walking stave on the floor.

  “They will attempt a landing during the early hours of dawn,” I said. “On the Isle of Wight. Their plans are to establish a camp there, and then take Portsmouth—in reprisal for Boulogne.”

  “How do you know this?” she asked.

  It was obvious. “As an old soldier, I know.”

  “And you must lead the militia here of twenty-five thousand men, when they land?”

  “ Yes.”

  “They have landed no other place?”

  “No.” The signal fires had not been lighted. The French were, thus far, confined to our area.

  “So they concentrate their fury upon you?”

  “Yes.” Good that it should be so. I worried about Boulogne. Had they left it alone? Or were they harrying it as well? If they did, could Henry Howard and his garrison hold it?