The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers (84 page)
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Authors: Margaret George
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“You will be in a position to name your terms.” His voice was crisp and unemotional. “You are not rebellious in doctrine, only in title. A reconciliation between you and the Holy Father would be worth a great deal to him. He needs allies.”
“He has Francis, and Charles.” I deflected the thrust of this offer for offer it was.
And, oh! I was tempted by it. To be recognized by Rome, to wear my hard-won titles by consent....
“Inconstant, fluctuating fools,” he sneered. “They are not the men you were, to stand firm amidst temptations from all sides. No, they are men of the hour, of the day....”
“Not men of the Light? I fear none of us can claim that title. Nay, nay ... if Rome and I embrace again, your master and I must agree on several things, none of which has been solved by need or the moment. I will not tolerate meddling, and your master will not tolerate insubordination, and therein we disagree, and disagree mightily. Tell him I’ll serve him, if he recognizes my sovereignty over all aspects of England.”
That he would never allow. Less I would never agree to. There it lay. The envoy bowed and took his leave.
Was it true that the two countries would never be united? I had always assumed that someday they would be. It seemed natural. In the back of my mind I had already married one of my children to one of James’s. But my father had followed the same scheme, and it had come to naught.
What constituted a country, then? That its inhabitants were of like natures? But the Normans and the Saxons were not of like natures. By that criterion they should have never melded to form England. The Celts—were they as unabsorbable as their spokesman made out? Would Wales never become truly a part of England? And what of the Irish? I meant eventually to absorb that island as well.
If ever I felt decent ... if this cursed leg would ever heal....
But did one wait to do things until one felt “decent”? Did one order one’s life upon a leg? Or did one go ahead anyway, regardless of his personal feelings?
My head-throbbing had returned, and along with it, confusion....
I hated the confusion, hated it worse than any pain I might endure. The confusion was my enemy, the real enemy. It unhorsed me like a challenger in a tournament....
But I would fight it. Or, at the very least, disguise it. None must know.
Now I would take myself to bed. I would call no groom, no servitor. They might sniff out my weakness, hear me call for a candle when I meant for a fur.
CXV
T
hroughout the spring my remorse decreased and my confusion increased. The ghosts died away. No more did I hear the shrieking outside my chamber; no more food ran red blood and clots. Mercifully, my memory of Catherine, her true physical being, began to recede and fade. I was thankful that I had never commissioned the portrait to be made that I had longed for. Holbein—whom I had forgiven for his Cleves portrait when he explained it was customary to omit pockmarks—had been occupied at the time in executing sketches for a mural for my Privy Chamber, a dynastic one that included my father, myself, and my children. Now there was nothing remaining to recall Catherine’s exact features to me.
hroughout the spring my remorse decreased and my confusion increased. The ghosts died away. No more did I hear the shrieking outside my chamber; no more food ran red blood and clots. Mercifully, my memory of Catherine, her true physical being, began to recede and fade. I was thankful that I had never commissioned the portrait to be made that I had longed for. Holbein—whom I had forgiven for his Cleves portrait when he explained it was customary to omit pockmarks—had been occupied at the time in executing sketches for a mural for my Privy Chamber, a dynastic one that included my father, myself, and my children. Now there was nothing remaining to recall Catherine’s exact features to me.
But I thought of her often. In some way I longed for her—for what she was, had been, to me. And hated myself for it.
All that was human, controllable. But the confusion, the transposing of events and order—I knew now it was not madness. Madness meant not knowing the real from the unreal. Was Wolsey dead, or was he not? No, that was not my affliction. Rather it lay in remembering whether I had put my hand on his shoulder at Grafton, the last time we had met? I hoped I had. But hoping was not the same as knowing.
It continued thus, all the months following the executions. I remember it as a time of continually fighting the adversary, my confusion. Boredom, loneliness, remorse—all these took second place to the urgent need to reestablish some control over my mind, although (pray God!) it was not readily apparent.
WILL:
I received word from Audley that the beast, in its cage, strapped to my best transport wagon, was due to arrive at the Tower on Thursday next. Along with the beast was a special sealed cylinder, from the Turk himself, for which he wished “all dignitaries” to be present for the opening and reading. The crocodile business was to be state business, then.
In the meantime, Master Quigley had been alerted. Consequently I received a request from him to have access to certain monastic manuscripts which the Crown had retained, so that he might peruse them to ascertain the crocodile’s feeding habits. I granted it, very impressed with him ... and pleased that I had retained as many monastic manuscripts as I had done. They would prove of great benefit to future Quigleys.
The beast awaited us. There, in its monstrous crate in the shadow of the Tower’s outer walls, it stood. I myself, and the Privy Council, were curious and eager to behold it, altnough they pretended to be merely performing their duty. I had invited Elizabeth and Edward along to see the spectacle; Mary proclaimed herself above “trips to the zoo.”
This was foolish of her. In faith, a trip to the zoo was a coveted experience, and one I rarely granted, upon Master Quigley’s advice that human visitors were unhealthful to the beasts.
As I have said, Father had had a zoo, a menagerie. He was attracted to beasts of all sorts, but only in a symbolic sense. A beast was not a creature in its own right, but only insofar as it stood for an abstract trait—honour, kingliness, or some such. He received presents from noblemen and rulers conforming to this fancy. When he died, the poor beasts almost all died with him, having outlived their dynastic symbolism.
Over the years, newcomers had joined the Royal Menagerie, out of happenstance and ill luck: a wounded wolf, a three-legged turtle, a blind snake. Thus the Royal Menagerie had gradually turned into an Animal Hospital, run by Rufus Quigley, where sick creatures recovered and became friends of man. Suleiman’s crocodile was the only ferocious, whole beast we had received in years.
Gathered round the ornate crate, we looked respectfully at Master Quigley. He had several muscular men grouped about him, all clad in leather suits (to withstand the crocodile’s teeth, so it was thought), holding nets and great prodding spears. From the crate there was only silence.
Standing close by me were those most eager to hear the words of Suleiman—my Privy Councillors, and others concerned with matters abroad. To put it neatly and quickly: there were those who thought action abroad was necessary sport, good for the character and morale; others believed that England should avoid all foreign entanglements and devote herself to home matters, specifically the religious dissension which was growing daily. I held the reins of both factions, keeping them both under control, but they snapped and snarled at each other with increasing fractiousness. As long as I was here to restrain them, all would go merrily. But Edward? What would he do, how could he manage these contentious men?
She turned away, embarrassed; and in truth, I sounded like a suitor. The only persons I wished to woo now were my children. No more women. I was done with them.
Others were listening. “If you wish to attend to the beast,” I finally said, “it could have no wiser or kinder nurse. Only I pray you, be careful—as once its strength returns, it will grow vicious. Never approach it alone, without Master Quigley.”
I turned to the gathered company. “Well, we have seen it now. Truly it is a formidable beast, but in need of nursing. Let us leave it.” I shielded my eyes against the ever-hotter sun. “ ’Tis no time to be out of doors in direct sun. Come—join me in the banqueting house at Hampton. We shall pass the summer afternoon as summer afternoons are meant to be passed.”
This impromptu gathering would be the first heartfelt social gesture I had made since Catherine’s ... since the winter. Hitherto I had gone through the motions, in hopes of feeling
something;
today I longed to luxuriate in the intensity of high summer. A long afternoon in the banqueting house—the banqueting house which had not been used for several summers—appealed to me, appealed with no thought of whether it was right, whether it would help me, or whether my physicians would recommend it. It appealed on its own terms.
something;
today I longed to luxuriate in the intensity of high summer. A long afternoon in the banqueting house—the banqueting house which had not been used for several summers—appealed to me, appealed with no thought of whether it was right, whether it would help me, or whether my physicians would recommend it. It appealed on its own terms.
The banqueting house in question crowned the manmade “mount” at the far end of the Hampton gardens. Anne had laid out all the plans the year Elizabeth was born, but as they were elaborate and called for a great deal of labour, the construction had required another year or so, and the growth of the plants even longer. Only now was it all as we had envisioned it, that summer so long ago, when I had thought Anne Boleyn would always be beside me, and the banqueting house would hear her ringing laughter....
Ghosts, ghosts. I wafted my hand before my face as if to clear the way of cobwebs. They blocked everything, everything, entangling me, dimming my vision of what lay ahead.
The mount, then: it was raised on a brick foundation, and then, atop that, the great sixty-foot mound of earth heaped there by workmen to make an artificial hill. It was now covered with a carpet of thick, fine grass, planted all over with fruit trees—cherry, apple, pear—and with myrtle, box, bay, and laurel cunningly clipped in topiary fashion to resemble beasts and other fancies. Scattered amongst these was a collection of rare sundials I had acquired from the monasteries, as well as gaily painted wooden beasts—dragons, lions, unicorns, greyhounds, griffms—holding shields and vanes for royal arms. The pathway up to the top wound gently round the mount and was planted with daisies, marigold, snapdragon, rosemary, camomile, and lavender. The gravelled path was only wide enough for three or four abreast, and so, as we climbed it, the party stretched out far behind me, like children trooping through the woods.
On top stood the summer banqueting house. It was built on a stone foundation, with wooden trelliswork sides; already, climbing vines and flowers entwined themselves on the inviting ladders, so that inside the house it was all greenish light, and the faint stirring of leaves, which served as a cool filter for the glaring sunlight. Here we would pass the afternoon, supping on strawberries and drinking Verney, a sweet white wine.
I had sent word back to court that some ladies should join us. The only ladies left at court were the wives of my councillors, and some who had official functions, and a few of Catherine’s leftover attendants.
They sent for the wise men
From out of the East,
Who said it had horns,
But was not a
beast.”
The King ... the
Queen ... horns ... horned beast ...
oh, how could he mock me so? Did no one respect or fear their King?
Queen ... horns ... horned beast ...
oh, how could he mock me so? Did no one respect or fear their King?
“I marvel at your scurvy wit!” I snapped. “And we shall have no more riddles!”
“ ’Twas an oak tree!” he blurted out, trying to absolve himself.
Oaks.
They are my favourite trees.
Oh, foul, foul! That day in the little chamber ... oaks would forever be ugly for me, soiled by the Howard whore.
They are my favourite trees.
Oh, foul, foul! That day in the little chamber ... oaks would forever be ugly for me, soiled by the Howard whore.
“I think we all tire of riddles,” said Thomas Wyatt. “Let us turn to poetry instead. Shall we try a rhyming round? I will begin with a verse, then someone else shall add to it, until we have a complete story in verse.” He looked round, a great poet himself, but an equally great diplomat. I had sent him on many missions abroad.
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