The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers (11 page)

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Authors: Margaret George

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“No ...” I wanted to tell him it was not so much because Arthur was my brother as that he was—had been—
a man.
I would have
felt
the same no matter who i
She looked horrified. I could make out a pale face and the great, open O of her mouth. “Henry!” she whispered. “It is a sacrilege—”
“I meant no disrespect for the Sacrament. But oh, Katherine, I
had
to see you!” I reached my hand out and grasped hers. “Three years! Three years they haven’t let me see you, or speak to you, or—”
“I ... know.” Her voice was soft and her accent heavy. Possibly she had understood very few of my words.
“And you are my betrothed! I am—I am
responsible
for you.” Where I had gotten that notion I cannot say—certainly not from Father. It must have been from the knightly tales I still doted on. “It distresses me that you are alone, and have so little.”
She flared. “And who told you that?” Spanish pride—my first glimpse of it.
“It is well known. Everybody says—”
“I have no need for pity!”
“Of course not. But for love, my dearest Katherine—” My other hand sought hers. “I love you!”
She looked discomfited, as well she might. “We must go back,” was all she finally said.
“No one will find us here. Not for another hour,” I insisted. “Oh, stay a little! Talk with me. Tell me—tell me what you do, how you spend your hours.”
She leaned forward. Our faces were only a few inches away in the close, warm darkness. “I—I pray. And read. And do needlework. And write the King my father. And”—this so low I had to strain to hear it—“I think of you, my Lord.”
I was so excited I could hardly refrain from embracing her. “Is that true? And I think of you, my Lady.” If only I had had my lute and been some other place, I could have sung to her, sung of my love. I had already composed several ballads to that effect, and practised them well. “I will wed you, Kate,” I promised, with absolutely no authority to do so. “I swear it! As soon as possible.”
“You promised to wed me on your fourteenth birthday. That was a year ago,” she said slowly.
“I—” I could not tell her of the hideous “denial” I had made—been
forced
to make. “I know,” I said. “But I mean to, and soon. The King—”
“The King does not mean you to wed me. That is clear. I am twenty years old, and
no child
—as others may be.”
That seemed unnecessarily cruel to say to her only champion and protector. “I cannot help my age, my Lady. I was not free to choose the day of my birth. But I am not so young as you and others may think.” With those cryptic words (I had no idea then, and have none today, precisely what I meant by them), I squeezed her hand once more. “You shall see!” Then I whispered, “We had best leave. Priests will about be soon.”
She rose hastily and gathered her skirts. A light lemon scent came to me, floating over the stale incense. Then she was gone.
A moment later I stepped out of the confessional alcove, well pleased with my successful intrigue. I knetisfied that the scurrilous rumors about Fra Diego were lies. She had been too distressed by the thought of
my
desecrating the confessional by my innocent rendezvous. She was clearly a deeply religious, pious woman.
WILL:
 
And better would it have been for Harry had she not been so “religious” and “pious.” If only she
had
cavorted with that disgusting friar (who, incidentally, was later deported for gross immorality in London—imagine that!—in
London!),
it would have been worth an earldom to him during Harry’s divorce campaign. But no, Katherine was pure. How Harry ever got
any
children on her is one of the mysteries of matrimony. Perhaps the Catholics are right in declaring marriage a sacrament. Sacraments bestow “grace to do that which is necessary,” do they not?
It is interesting to note that even at this tender age, Harry used the Church for his own purposes. I have no doubt that, had she consented, he would have cheerfully copulated with her in the shadow of the altar itself.
X
HENRY VIII:
 
I now had a Mission: to rescue the Princess from her tower of imprisonment, as a proper knight should do. And being in love (as evidenced by the rush of excitement I felt whenever I pictured her) made it all the more imperative.
Father was preparing to go on one of his summer “progresses,” which promised me freedom for the few weeks he was away. Once I had longed to accompany him and been hurt when he excluded me; now I just wished him gone.
Considering that Father disliked go/div>
 
On August first, the customary Lammas Mass was held in the Chapel Royal, in which a loaf of bread made from the first harvested grain of the season was brought up to the altar. That afternoon the King departed for his progress. He would not return until near Michaelmas at the end of September, when the year had begun to turn and slip toward winter. There was always goose on Michaelmas, a hearty autumnal dish.
I sat in an upper window, watching the royal party gather in the courtyard below. It was hot and sultry, and autumn and Michaelmas seemed a long way off. I felt dizzy with freedom. Everyone was going on the progress. I could see Fox and Ruthal and Thomas Howard and Thomas Lovell, as well as Father’s two finance ministers, Empson and Dudley. The King must think of finances, if not in the country sunlight, then late at night.
Only Archbishop Warham had stayed behind, and my grandmother Beaufort. The nobles and court dignitaries not accompanying the King would return to their own estates, as no business would be transacted at court during the King’s absence. Business followed him, and court was wherever he happened to be.
But there would be little business, because the whole world, it seemed, was lying idle during those golden weeks of August.
 
They were golden to me. I spent them in almost continual sport, participating in forbidden jousts and foot combats at the barrier with my companions, risking my person time and again. Why? I cannot tell, even now. Yet I sought danger as a man on the desert seeks water. Perhaps because it had been denied me for so long. Perhaps because I wished to test myself, to see at what point my bravery would break, to be replaced by fear. Or perhaps it is simpler than that. “Youth will needs have dalliance,” I myself wrote, and this was one form of dalliance, a knightly, death-defying one....
When I remember those contests, I cannot help but believe that Providence spared me, held me back from a severe punishment. It was that summer of 1506 cost Bryan his eye; and one of my comrades died from a blow in the head while jousting. The curious thing is that immediately after his accident, he seemed well enough. But that night he suddenly died. One of Linacre’s assistants (for Linacre had gone with the King) told me it is often so in head injuries. The bleeding takes place inside the skull, where it cannot be felt or stopped.
We were shaken, frightened—and young, so that in just a few days’ time we were back riding toward one another on horseback. Thus quickly and naturally do we kill one another in memory as well as in deed.
At night we would sup together, and then play our lutes and talk of our future conquests in France, where we would be brothers-in-arms. It was a good time for us, a little pause between what had come before and what must come after.
ote,
Late at night, alone in my chamber, I found myself loth to sleep. Now that I was no longer confined, I relished my solitude after a day of boisterous companionship.
At Greenwich I had two windows in my chamber. One faced east, the other, south. The eastern one had a window seat, and there I found myself often, near midnight. It was always darkest in the eastern part of the sky. By mid-August the slow, lingering twilights had gone, and night came earlier. The stars were exceptionally clear now. I tried to pick them out, as I had been studying astronomy. I knew a great number of the constellations already. The heavens and the stars intrigued me. I was impressed that eclipses and other phenomena could be predicted by mathematicians. I wanted to learn how it was done. Already they knew that the third full moon from now would be partly shadowed. How?
I wanted to learn all things; to experience all things; to stretch and stretch until I reached the end of myself, and found ... I knew not what.
The small casement window was open where I sat. A hot gush of wind came in, and there was a distant rumble. Far away I could see bright flashes. There would be a storm. The candles and torches in my chamber were dancing.
The wind was from the west. Without thinking, I felt myself at one with that wind, that hot, questing wind. I took my lute, and immediately the tune and the words came, as if they had always been there:
O Western wind
When wilt thou blow
The small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again.
Summer ended, and the King returned. Within a few hours of his arrival, he summoned me to his chamber. Someone had told him about the tournaments. If I had not expected it, I should have. There are no secrets at court.
I fortified myself for the interview by drinking three cups of claret in rapid succession. (One of the changes I had instigated in Father’s absence was an abundant supply of unwatered wine in my chamber.)
Father was in his favourite place: his work closet. (It was popularly referred to as his “counting house” since he did most of his finances there.) He was wrestling with a great mass of chewed papers when I arrived, his head bent over a veritable ball of them. I noticed, for the first time, how grey his hair was. He was without his customary hat, and the torchlight turned the top of his head to silver. Perhaps that was why he never appeared in public without a head-covering of some sort.
“Curse this monkey!” He gestured toward the little creature, now impertinently crouching near the Royal Seal. “He has destroyed my diary!” His voice was anguished. “It is gone!”
Evidently the monkey had decided to turn the King’s private papers into a nest, first by shredding the paper and then by trampling it.
“Perhaps you should put him in the royal menagerie, Sire,” I said.
Six months ago.
I had always hated the creature, who refused to be trained like a dog for his natural functions, yet could not imitate humans in the matter either.

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