by Henry VIII
First I would sully Arthur’s memory, thus wounding her, making her feel vulnerable and emotionally needy and as such opening the door to her affections. (Are you taking this down?)
I located a copy of Arthur’s personal Bible and on an inside page I sketched a hideous naked lady with powerful pointy tits and wrote “Catherine of A.” and drew an arrow to her head and then scrawled the word “Bagina” and drew an arrow to her furry naughty business. I then solemnly approached Catherine and gave the holy book as a gift that I knew she would want to have. A tear hung in my eye.
She kissed the air near enough to my cheek that I felt the dizzying heat of her white, lightly freckled skin. I watched as she clutched the scriptures to her bosom and walked to a window where she began to leaf through it and saw her redden, her mouth tighten, and she choked a little bit.
Boom-shocka-locka.
Next I began a Cute Pet Names Campaign – quite useful. First I shortened Catalina to Cat. Then to:
Kitttens
Kit
Kit Cat
Kit Cat Shitbat
Kit Cat Gonna Hit Me Summa Dat
Feline
Fee
Fee-Fee Pee-Pee
Fee-Fi-Fo Who My Little Ho
Spanish Inquisition
Etc.
And I promise you, out of sheer frolic, I once called her That Bit Of Tail I’m Going To So Throw Over If She Doesn’t Pump Out A Boy Child. I was completely joking. I mean, who knew?
With time, I did feel Catherine begin to succumb to the inevitable. Besides my obvious physical charms, my horsemanship, my falconry, my incredible singing voice, my extremely fine calf, etc., she at last became mine when my father began to entertain thoughts of marrying her himself, smiling at her with bits of pork in his crooked teeth at supper. Quite a show for a monarch who normally did a stunning impression of a winter vegetable just pulled from a summer drain. The idea of Dad marrying Catherine himself was horrifying, a real wake-up call to her and, really, to all of Christendom. Arrangement or no at some point she’d have to see him naked – all white and veiny and slack – and then work up the nerve to play horsey-and-rider.
Eventually good taste began to have its effect and after ceaseless negotiations it began to look as though Catherine and I might marry. But the bargain was not yet done.
What We Have Learnt in Chapter 12:
- If you want your dead brother’s wife, have a plan
- Boob portraits
- Cute names
- Your dad’s repellent display of old-man horn-doggery will drive her to you (USE THAT!)
Tudor Love Tips – Exercise
Gentlemen’s List
Like the list of demands my dad gave me (mostly about making male heirs), you need a list as it gives structure and strategy to your relationships – mostly an illusion, but like so many illusions, useful and user-friendly.
Men’s List
Gentleman reader, your list will be different than mine as God didn’t choose you be to a superior person. But, given your status as a human with a scrotum, the general outline should include:
- Male heirs (obvs)
- Invade Scotland and/or adjacent dodgy nation
- Develop an iconic fashion look, like, really wide shoulders and hosiery of hotness
- Face minted on a coin
- Build ships
- Plunder properties owned by The Pope
- Showtime series about your life, which includes Natalie Dormer and loads of almost-real-looking bumpy-humpy.
Lady’s List
Obviously as a lady person a list such as this must be made for you by your father or husband. Failing that it should be produced on your behalf by a brother, uncle, or nearest male relative, although if pressed it could be a banker, local tradesman, shepherd on a nearby hill, could even be a child who can write, or a skanky troll who lives under a bridge and frightens storybook goats. The point is a man needs to create this list for you.
Here’s what it should include:
- the production of male heirs
- a lifetime of needlework
- the wearing of hats
- looking nice in a portrait
- being cool about mistresses
- not shagging the servants
- loads of recreational bonkity-wonkity
Expand Your Relationship Vocabulary, Enlarge Your World
Kingle:
When you always seem to be a bit married and yet always a bit single, and you are king
Chapter 13
What Women Want
Tudor Love Tip: The First Step To Understanding Ladies Is Being Clear that What They Truly, Really, Completely Want is Something You Will Never Be Able to Give Them
Even less than halfway through this book it should be self-evident what women desire most. But for those of you who have not yet connected the dots, let us now enumerate the four things that women want (that’s right precisely four):
They want me.
They want to be my queen.
They want to give glorious birth to my manly and aggressively masculine male offspring.
They want to luxuriate and flounce about at Hampton Court Palace, Greenwich, Whitehall, Nonsuch, etc. – to wear floaty dresses with Ladies-in-Waiting attending to their various feminine needs and whims and hygiene issues, musicians performing sweet and vaguely erotic songs for them, poets composing sonnets to their beauty, and foreign ambassadors uttering shite like “My Lady” and “Madam” in those contemptible accents.
Here’s what ladies energetically do not want:
Men who are not me
Let’s keep it real. Expecting a woman to sleep with you whilst not being me is a pretty big ask. But here’s the good news: I cannot be in all places in all times. And I don’t think it’s too personal to mention that I have but one codpiece, and one notorious MHDS housed within said codpiece – though talented and astonishing – to go around. So your advantage, modern male, is also that you’re not me.
Ironic.
No matter how much the women of your era desire me, they cannot have me, except when they close their eyes, though I wish to Sweet Hippie Jesus this were not so. I am pinned down in time, unable to share the colossal gifts God hath given unto me and to me alone. This is the biggest, ugliest, most messed-up misfortune in the history of the universe.
Wait.
Wait …
Do you ever have that moment when you’ve written something so heartbreaking, so bleak, so massive that you put down your quill and suddenly feel as though your very soul has just been shattered …
That feeling of being the only one of your kind …
Imagine you were the only manticore (a mythological lion/dragon/scorpion/bat creature), who has a 52-inch waist, gout, diabetes and personality disorders … and then you got a Twitter account …
Wow. My eyes are watering.
Okay, moving on.
Trying to move on. The pain, ouch.
Okay. Deep breaths.
I have taken what some readers might see as a circuitous route to my point in this chapter. To which I would say LEARN YOUR PLACE WORM! Wait – that just comes out automatically. What I meant to say is that the pathway to truth is not straight. I often find, for example, that the pathway to truth runs through the kitchen and then into the wine cellar, stopping off at the bath, and the bedchamber of one or two ladies of the court. But that’s me.
Here’s where this chapter has been headed this whole time. Take heed.
Whilst you cannot be me, modern man who wishes to attract a lady, you can be like me, which is as near as you can get. And you’ll be doing her the enormous favour of almost making her dreams come true.
Read on and embrace the stars.
What We Have Learnt in Chapter 13:
- There are FOUR things women want and all of them have to do with being by my side. Or on top of me. Or under me. Depending on mood.
- The one thing women don’t particularly care for is a man who is not
me. You can be sad now.
- The simple way to remember all this is that ladies want what is out of reach and have no interest in that which is easily accessible
- Fat manticore
Chapter 14
The Art of the Marriage Deal
Tudor Love Tip: The cause of the downfall of your relationship is always sitting out in plain view ready to be recognised instantly in hindsight.
And so the deal remained infuriatingly undone – the marriage contract, which would have been arranged between Catherine and my delicious self. Our Dad’s names were signed to various draft contracts. Impressive royal wax seals were affixed time and again. Documents flew back and forth from England to Spain in mere weeks. (The speed of 16th-century communication is pretty exciting!) Old people can take an excruciatingly long time to make up their minds.
I was pretty certain Catherine was into the whole idea too. She didn’t say so outright but I know things. Lady things.
I was sure that as far as the ruling classes in the two countries were concerned it would be a win that went both ways. The Tudors would officially and completely bonk their way into the European royalty club and Dad would get a lovely sum of money. Eventually. Probably. And Aragon got an ally in the never-ending struggle to make France explode.
What was less known (or given a toss about) was that a marriage to Catherine would be a win for me too. I desired her, which, of course, means I loved her, and that mattered to me, though that sort of thing was not supposed to rank terribly high.
The list of things a royal son was asked to care about in his wife-to-be began with:
1. Capable of producing male heirs
2. Brings shit-ton of money into treasury/family coffers via dowry
3. Creates alliance with her Dad, who is now less likely to invade, burn, pillage, stab, break things, etc.
4. Perpetuates a class system (created by God) which works out nicely for our fam
Somewhere in the 40s or 50s on such a list – down past “Not a Witch” and “Has Correct Number of Nipples” – would be “in love with her” and “Sweet Jehovah she looks good”.
I adored Catherine’s voice, her inviting eyes, the curve of her hand on a bannister, which I could imagine would be the same angle as when she held my hand one day. I could not wait to undress her, following the lines of stays and buttons and ties in her gowns and under-gowns and under-under-gowns like little feet printed on a treasure map all the way to splendor.
There was this one tiny spot of bother. A faint voice of warning in the back of my head saying, “But she was once rammed and boarded by your brother …”
But then there was another booming voice that said, “Arthur was such a nimrod he probably never really worked himself up to plundering Spain. At least not much. LOL.”
OK statistically speaking it was possible that Arthur had managed a jump-and-thump with Catherine, in the same way that it’s theoretically possible for an albatross to build an aqueduct.
And really what could it possibly matter?
Yes, there is that verse in that Holy Bible, Leviticus 20:21, that says, “And if a man shall take his brother's wife, it is an unclean thing: he hath uncovered his brother's nakedness; they shall be childless.”
Haha. Did that really apply in this situation? It was probably just meant for peasants or Jews, right? I put the question to several theologians and biblical scholars, who said that yes in fact it did apply, which I found extremely rude and traitorous, since it was not the answer I was looking for.
Dad sent the Pope some nice sparkly gifts and the Pope then said we were cool. Everything would be fine on the Jehovah front. My beautiful marriage would not be cursed by God or anything. What could go wrong? And yet forces in England and Spain conspired against us.
What We Have Learnt in Chapter 14
- In the search for answers keep looking until you get the one you want
- Love is all you need once you’ve got everything else
- Go with the booming voice; it’s the fun one
- Bribes
Expand Your Relationship Vocabulary, Enlarge Your World
Sister-in-RAWR!!:
When your brother’s wife is smoking hot and you dream of the day the two of you shall make sweet and frequent rumpity-pumpity
Chapter 15
Removing Elderly Obstacles on Your Path to Glory
Tudor Leadership Tip: Your True Leadership Potential Will Never Soar Like Eagles With an Old Lady All Up In Your Grill
With my brother Arthur dead and Dad not looking terribly healthy, there was only one other person standing between me and ultimate power in the land. That was my grandmother.
Margaret Beaufort was as tiny as one of your canisters of pepper spray and just as alarming. She’d been married, on the order of Henry VI, to the dashing and handsome 24-year-old Edmund Tudor in 1444-ish. She was 12 when they wed. I’m sure she made a lovely bride. She celebrated becoming a teenager the following year by giving birth to my dad. I know what you’re thinking, modern person, and I command you to stop. There shall be no retching noises whilst the covers of this book are open! Obviously God wished things to go this way so it’s all entirely normal and non-creepy. If God didn’t want child brides they wouldn’t exists – JUST LIKE ZEBRAS!
My Gran lived through a lot of scary and horrible things – she was married four times, for example. Oh and she survived, if not thrived during the Wars of the Roses. And as the saying goes, what doesn’t kill you makes you pushy and unlikeable. When Dad became king he was always a little afraid of Gran and to placate her (an impossible task) gave her a fancy title, the authority to dole out justice in the north (to get her as far away as possible), and the ability to own land as though she were a man. Once at dinner when her tiny person was hurling rather a lot of abuse and invective at him I heard him mutter the name Margaret Blow Forth. So yes Dad had the throne but she had Dad, so to speak.
In royal families death is the thing everyone waits about for. Dad was, I’m sure, waiting for Gran to snuff it and let him enjoy his kingship unencumbered. I was waiting for Dad to croak so I could take the throne. The trick involved in waiting for a parent to die is to not look too yearning about it. Dad knew I was waiting for it. I knew he knew I was waiting for it. But we were both waiting for Gran to go tits up so it brought us together.
Surely it couldn’t take much longer as she was about 8,000 years old; I felt all the pieces of the puzzle locking into place.
On the morning of 21 April 1509 I heard shouts from down the gallery about someone being dead and I raised my voice to God and I said, “Thank you dear Sweet Saviour for taking one for the team and allowing Gran to join you in heavenly splendour.”
And that’s when the old bat herself appeared in my door.
I lurched from her ghastly, wraith-like though fully non-dead figure.
She grinned horribly and said, “The king is dead. Long live the king!”
Dad was gone. Now I had the throne but alas with my grandmother still alive, so really as far as she was concerned, it was “throne” in air quotes and with quite a lot of sarcasm.
Shit.
“Praise be to God,” we both said at the same time.
“I said it first,” I muttered.
She was undeterred. “Henry, as your first act as king you must –“
“Execute Edmund Dudley and Sir Richard Empson!” we both shouted simultaneously.
“Bloody hell, I said it first, Gran. It was my bloody idea!”
“Through their machinations and cruelty Dudley and Empson have extracted vast sums of money from the nobility, merchant, and peasant classes and have made the crown extremely wealthy. However, they are hated by all the people. Only their blood will quell the restless populace and vaunt you to glory,” she said providing the exposition that this chapter rather badly needed.
“I know what to do,” I said. “I’m 17 years old!”
(In an era during which most people were dead by the age of
40 this sounded more impressive.)
She looked at me through her all-knowing eyes, which I’m pretty certain made her George Lucas’s model for the Emperor in those Star Wars movies.
“Please go,” I said, “I’ve got my coronation to plan.”
“I’ve already done it,” she said, unfurling a document.
“No you haven’t!”
“Yes I have,” she said as calm as a foundation stone. “Beyond that, you must of course marry – “
“Catherine of Aragon!” I growled. “I’ve already made up my mind to do so!”
“Then you’re following my plan for you to the letter.”
“It’s not your plan, it’s mine! It’s been mine all along!”
“Whatever.”
I glared at her. She give a detestable smirk of superiority.
“Be gone, old woman, I’ve got my wedding to plan!”
“I’ve done that too.”
“No! You! Have! Sodding! Not! You have not planned my wedding!”
“Yes I have,” she said.
“YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!” I shouted in all-caps.
But her crinkly, ancient eyes told a rather different story.
Gran was always something of a planner. The worse things got the more she schemed.
A bit of background. There is a period of English history known in your era as The Wars of The Roses, but which I grew up thinking of as that 50-year stretch during which my grandparents and great-grandparents all stabbed each other a lot.
It became a bit like Romeo and Juliet, really. Two great houses with loads of brothers and cousins and manservants all eager to do each other in. In this case rather than the Capulets and the Montagues it was the Lancastrians (our side) and the Yorkists (think Richard III and then try not to vom). There were countless battles, schemes, plots, murders, runnings about and this and that king being set up and then deposed and then being chased about the countryside. My mother’s family, the Plantagenets, were Yorkists, and Dad’s family, the Tudors, were all Lancastrians.