The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  “The ship—” she began, hesitantly.

  “Was a great loss,” I finished. I did not wish to discuss it, even with her.

  Dawn, at five o’clock. I had barely slept. The French were ashore on the isle; I could feel it. I went up to the highest point of the keep to try to spy out the landings. But the island was too big, and if they had effected a landing, it was on the far side, invisible to me.

  “Light the signal fires,” I ordered a soldier in the warming room. “We have certainly been attacked here, and the coastal defences must be alerted.”

  If the French took the Isle of Wight, then they would have a secure base from which to mount other attacks. They could be victualed from France as easily as I could victual Boulogne from England. Better, in fact. For the isle was protected by a natural moat of its own, and could serve as a fortified French enclave. The isle was now weakly defended. What was happening there?

  The French had indeed made a landing, as we later were told. They had come ashore, shouting and proclaiming the land as Francis’s, planting a French flag, and dancing around it with glee. Then they went on a looting and pillaging rampage, in the time-honoured way for soldiers to reward themselves. Unfortunately for them, the isle had few inhabitants to plunder and terrify. Disappointed, they returned to their boats. There was no need for me to lead a militia. The French had departed before I even received official word that they were there.

  Where were they now? Still lying in wait outside the harbour? I would leave them there, and leave my fleet, too. That would effectively block their way into Portsmouth.

  “Come, Kate, Queen, we must leave this place,” I ordered my wife. Mary Carew had spent the night weeping and flailing, at the news that her husband had not been one of the thirty-five saved. I sent word that she was to return to London with me, and be placed under Dr. Butts’s care. “We must leave this place of death.” Yes, Southsea Castle had become that to me, even though no actual deaths had taken place within its walls.

  The air was hot and humid. Sticky salt breezes were stirring, as we made our way out across the causeway and then onto the rutted path called London Road, but only because it led to London. It was certainly not a road. We were strung out along it like pilgrims en route to Canterbury in the olden days, picking their way along dirt paths.

  CXXVII

  The day was sullen, hot. My mind was entirely occupied by thoughts of the French, and the loss of Mary Rose. I did not see the pretty climbing roses on the fences we passed (yet, if I did not see them, how can I here recount them?), nor did I notice the bouncing curls of the village children. I was anxious to know what had happened elsewhere along the coast, and whether the French had been able to effect a landing anywhere.

  By late afternoon we were near Basingstoke, and I decided to rest there. I had been up since dawn, and the night before I had scarcely slept at all. Whom could we quarter with? My own Lord Chamberlain, William Sandys, had built a house just north of Basingstoke; I remembered that now. He had built it in the shape of an H, “to honour Your Majesty” he had said, but I knew it was only because that design allowed for the new features he wished to include, such as the long gallery and many windows.

  But Sandys had died recently, and the house had come into other hands—I knew not whose. As King, I had the right to quarter in any man’s house; yet I preferred to know my host.

  I passed the church in the village, a typical parish building dating from the time of Henry II. I certainly would not call upon the priest there to house us. He would insist on doctrinal discussions in exchange for his hospitality, and I had no desire for that.

  Outside Basingstoke I found Sandys’s house—“The Vynes,” a sign announced at its entrance. I looked down its long entranceway, bordered on each side by young lime trees. Someday they would grow giant and sheltering, but for now they were as yet tender and easily felled. They bespoke newness, yet they had already outlived their planter.

  Our little party came down the mile-long avenue of struggling trees, and faced the great mansion. It was all of red brick, clean-edged and new. It was beautiful; beautiful as most of my palaces never were, for they were so large, or else built by other men. . . .

  Kate pulled up beside me. “Sandys has built a magnificent home.” She paused. “Pity he could not live to see this moment.” I must have made a depreciating gesture, for she continued, “The moment his sovereign came to visit. Think you not the ‘H’ was intended for this? Think you not that whatever chamber you lodge in tonight will be designated the King’s Chamber, and kept as a shrine forevermore?”

  She looked so fierce! “Ah, Kate—”

  “Can you not understand?” She sounded angry. “You bring the people joy. They will build an entire house on the hope that someday you might see it, visit it!”

  She spoke true. Yet I had seldom allowed myself to consider it enough, to luxuriate in my subjects who revered me so. Instead, I had addressed myself to foreign potentates and powers: Francis, Charles, the Pope. They would never honour or keep a single thing that I had done.

  We halted at the end of the brave tree-bordered drive. I sent a groom to the door to announce our presence. It opened; then the groom was left to wait for a quarter-hour whilst confusion erupted within.

  At length a man appeared, squinting his eyes as if he beheld an eclipse. “Your Majesty,” he stammered. “I am but a merchant, a poor unworthy servant—forgive me, but I cannot—”

  “Cannot offer your King a night’s shelter?” I kept my voice low and gentle. “That is all I ask. My Queen and I are weary, and would break our desperate journey en route to London. We ask only for a bed, and two small meals. Our party is small”—I indicated our few companions—“and if they cannot comfortably lodge here, they can find a place in the village.”

  “Nay, nay—” He jumped about and waved his arms. “There is space aplenty here.”

  “Poor man,” whispered Kate. “Your royal presence has quite unstrung him.”

  “My Lord Chamberlain Sandys built this house,” I said. “Oft he begged me to come and lodge with him, but I was never able. Consider this a debt, then, that I pay to my loyal servant; one that I neglected and left too late. ’Tis a personal matter between us; it concerns you not.”

  He bowed nervously. I knew what he was trying to say. Unexpected events try us most. I put my fingers to my lips. “We do what we can. And if we do that, then that is acceptable to Almighty God.” And to anyone else, I added silently. For my part, the greatest favour he could do me was to provide me with silence and a bed.

  “Aye. Aye.” He kept bowing.

  The man was Geoffrey Hornbuckle, and he was a merchant. He dealt in importing steel pins, in exchange for furs; and he had known William Sandys since babyhood. The entire village had been proud when Sandys went to make his fortune at Court; although Hornbuckle had actually made more of a fortune by staying in Basingstoke. No matter, though, to the common mind: fortunes made at court were always magical, and better than those made at home. Sandys’s house was the envy of the village. And then, suddenly, the house was for sale, and Sandys entombed in the local church. Hornbuckle had bought the property, feeling both obligation and guilt. His friend was dead; how could he assume his property, walk in his shoes? Yet letting another do so seemed more of a betrayal. At last, reluctantly, he had let himself take possession of the property, although even now he felt himself to be but a caretaker, a keeper of a memory.

  “You are not young,” I said bluntly. “You may not have the luxury of preferring Sandys’s memory, in exclusion of your own living, for years. This is your house now. You must believe that.”

  He laughed—always a sign someone does not wish to listen. “Would you care to see the chapel? There is dazzling stained glass . . . it honours the Tudors. . . .”

  I smiled, and gestured—also a sign of deep disinterest. “The light is fading,” I said, “and we are weary. I think I would prefer to rest. Would you ask your steward to send us some refresh
ments? Light fare. Then we would sleep.”

  He looked disappointed. Now that he had accustomed himself to our presence, he wished us to act royal and give our blessings to his manor.

  We were quartered in a fine chamber on the second floor. I was surprised to see my own arms on the ceiling. Sandys had had them mounted there as a mark of loyalty.

  But I was truly too weary, and heartsick, to care about The Vynes. My Mary Rose had been sunk (by inhuman hands), and my realm was under attack. God seemed to be showing His angry face toward me once again. And this time I was truly ignorant of where and how I had offended. Exhausted and confounded, I crawled into the great carved bed and fell instantly asleep, even though it was still twilight outside.

  The chamber faced north, and so there was no morning sun. Yet I awakened early, agitated and uneasy. Kate yet slept peacefully beside me (for the merchant had no knowledge that we kept separate beds, nor did I feel it politic to so inform him).

  I left the bed and stood for some moments before the window. The sun was just now touching the tops of the young lime trees, making the whole avenue glow green. So this was what Sandys had served at court for, and had hoped to return to. . . . Yes, it was peaceful, and a good place for a man.

  There were hoofbeats. Someone was riding along that avenue, riding fast. It was no local person intent on informing the squire that he was to attend guildhall; it was someone who searched for the King, and had found him, by his standard planted outside The Vynes.

  I pulled on my furred robe; I knew it would be needed. Slipping out of the chamber without disturbing Kate, I made my way down to the entrance porch. The messenger had to make his way past the household guardsman, but his flushed, travel-stained face showed that his business was urgent.

  “Your Majesty.” He saw past the guard to where I was standing on the stair landing. “I was to deliver this directly into your hands.” He clutched a piece of parchment, a field dispatch. The French had landed in Kent. I knew it.

  “Our thanks.” I took the paper from him. How many enemy, and had they taken a beachhead?

  It grieves me to inform you that yester-even, the Duke of Suffolk, having fallen ill to an ague, died at eleven of the clock. We await your instructions as to the burial of the Duke, for we know he was accounted precious to you.

  It was signed by Nicholas St. John, physician of the Kentish army.

  I stared at it. The words seemed to shimmer. Brandon, dead?

  “He must be royally buried,” I said slowly. “Tell them, in Kent, to prepare him for this. If there are no funds, charge them to the Royal Privy Purse. I will—I will”—God, I had not thought of this, had never considered it—“have him interred at Windsor, near my Queen Jane, unless he has family vaults elsewhere that he prefers.”

  “No, Your Majesty. He expressed nothing of the sort. Death took him unawares.”

  Does anyone actually meet death with a candle and a book of verses?

  “And Kent?” I had to ask. “Have you been attacked?”

  “Nay. All is quiet. We sighted your signal fire this morning.”

  “There has been a naval attack and a landing at the Isle of Wight. They wished to take Portsmouth, but were unable. Where they are now, I know not.” All the while I spoke, a great presence was growing in my breast, a black nothingness.

  “Be gone!” I said. “Those are my instructions. Carry them well.”

  I stood in the empty entranceway. I was half-awake, half-asleep. This seemed, still, something of the night and the dawn. A waking dream.

  I heard noises in the west wing—the rightmost portion of the H. Cooks were up and about, lighting the fuel for the kitchen. I would fain be alone. But where? Kate slept in the bedchamber, and servants were already stirring.

  The chapel. Yesterday the squire had mentioned the chapel. I did not desire it then, but now it would serve as my only refuge.

  It was simple to find, as it lay on the opposite side of the H, and I had seen its stained-glass windows from outside. Finding my way into the cool and poorly lit interior, I knew I was safe. No one would disturb the King at prayer. I knelt down and assumed the attitude of prayer.

  But I could not pray. All I could think of was Brandon dead, Brandon lifeless, and it was so unthinkable I could not grasp it. We were together, we were almost of an age, he could not die before I. . . .

  The rising sun confronted the east windows of the chapel, warming and illuminating them. I looked at them idly, in my confusion. They were fiery and red. I could not make out the pictures in them, or decipher what story they were trying to tell. Brandon was dead. What cared I for the story of Esther?

  I knelt there, trying to feel something. But all I felt was emptiness. There should be searing pain. Why was there no pain?

  I told Kate, as she wakened in the bed. Immediately she sat upright. “God grant him peace,” she said. “And you? I know you grieve.”

  “Not yet,” I admitted. “Not quite yet. Now I feel nothing. As though a block of winter were in my heart, imprisoning it.”

  “You will,” she assured me. “You will feel all of it, but only later. I do not understand it, but that is how it happens.” She was out of bed now, fastening on her garments. “Feeling returns only after the person is buried.”

  “But I should feel something besides this ice-locked nothingness!”

  “You feel what God allows you to feel. If nothing, now, it is for a purpose. God wishes you to feel other things.”

  God, God, God. I was weary of Him and His capricious ways.

  “Am I supposed, then, to care only for the French war at this time? Because England is in danger?”

  “Evidently,” she said, and smiled. “One task at a time. God decides which.”

  Her faith was so simple and sweet. But “simple” so easily slides over into “simplistic.”

  CXXVIII

  At Whitehall, where all messengers had gathered, awaiting me, it seemed that nothing was happening elsewhere in the realm.

  Except that Brandon lay dead.

  The English fleet yet lay anchored in the Solent and waiting for orders, with the French poised just out of sight. There had been no landings at any place along the southern coast. Nor had there been in Scotland. Francis had failed his promise there, as he failed all his promises. Now perhaps the Scots would understand the nature of their ally.

  Across the Channel, Boulogne was quiet. The French interest lay elsewhere, for the moment. Yet Henry Howard was having problems maintaining discipline and morale amongst his men. They broke out in quarrels and rancour continuously. His fault or theirs?

  I issued orders: the fleet was to pursue the French, corner them, and do battle with them. In spite of the loss of Mary Rose, I believed we could cripple the French fleet and send it limping back to Francis, like a sick child. The Earl of Surrey was to return to England, to attend the state funeral of the Duke of Suffolk. The armies at all points were to continue to maintain their posts.

  As I must maintain mine. My health, seemingly so improved by the earlier campaign on the Continent, had deteriorated. (I can safely write it here.) Fluid had accumulated in my leg, so that sometimes I had no sensation in it, and it was swollen and ugly. There was no resurgence of the open ulcer, Jesu be thanked. But I feared that any hour it might be reactivated.

  Also (I hesitate to write it even here) . . . there were nights when I thought I heard the monks again. The ones who had been in my chamber when . . . during that time after Catherine’s execution. They stood in the corners and mouthed the selfsame words. But now I knew them to be false, so I heeded them not. Why did they continue to haunt me? I had done nothing to encourage them. Was it that they scented a weakened man?

  Weakness. It drew forth all the jackals, to snap and snarl and quarrel over their victim. But I was more clever than they, the jackals roaming about my kingdom and Privy Council. They had only their noses, to scent a sick man; I still had brains and power. I would divide the jackals, outsmart them; and in the
end, make them serve me. Yes, that was the way. . . .

  All would be well.

  Except that Brandon lay dead.

  A state funeral is a formidable thing. I had never attended one, not as an adult. I hated them. All the protocol, all the rank and privileges which must be observed, with the focus of it all an insensate body.

  The body, the earthly remains of Charles Brandon, had been disembowelled and soaked in spices for ten days. Then it had been put in a cerecloth, and that wrapped in lead, and that laid in a coffin, and that simple coffin enclosed in another. Around that were arranged garlands and ribbons. I never saw Brandon himself, only the formal outer festoonings of what had once been a man.

  Would I have wished to see him, to see his flesh white, his lips set, his great chest sunken?

  He had been, after Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, the highest-ranking noble in the realm. I had made him so; taken the mud-spattered orphan and raised him up. I had done well to do so, as he was worthy of his rank.

  My sister Mary had loved him.

  Now he had another wife who would mourn him. But would she, truly? The truth is, I had loved him more.

  Brandon lay dead.

  The insistent chorus was coming more often to me now. Feeling had crept back, and was only waiting behind a barricade to burst out.

  The Order of the Garter customarily held ceremonies in the Chapel of St. George in Windsor. Brandon was to be buried in the choir of the chapel, only a few yards from Queen Jane. All twenty-five Knights of the Garter were called upon to be present, even though they represented the foremost defence of the realm. For this one day we must be undefended, and pray that God would stand watch whilst we did honour to Brandon.

  I had moved to Windsor—even though I disliked the quarters there, as too closely associated with my grief after Jane’s death—to oversee this funeral. I wished to make some sort of personal memorial there, to say something. I attempted to write an elegy, but my verse did not come. I tried to compose a prayer, but it sounded pompous. There were words I wished to say. I knew I had almost heard them before, but they slipped from me. The fruitful ground, the quiet mind . . .