The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers (16 page)

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Authors: Margaret George

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In spite of my preoccupation with these matters, I did not wish to neglect Katherine. I arranged entertainments for her, so that she might pass her days serenely. In particular, I went out of my way to obtain good musicians for a season at court.
After a lengthy exchange of letters, I had finally acquired a musical
coup:
Friar Denis Memmo, the organist from St. Mark’s in Venice. It required a great deal of gold (everything did, I was learning) as well as a discreet defrocking and reinstatement as a royal priest in my employ. But it was done, and he had come to England, bringing with him from Venice a magnificent organ. I was anxious to examine it, as I was interested in the art and science of organ construction and how this affected its tone. Now the splendid organ was installed in Greenwich Palace, and Memmo was to perform for the entire court.
Wolsey (now in charge of such minute details as well as weightier ones) had assembled all the chairs from all the privy chambers in the palace, so that everyone could be comfortably seated. He had ordered a table of light refreshments to be laid along one wall, and placed fresh candles all about—large, fine ones which would certainly last the entire recital and not make foul smoke to damage Memmo’s instrument.
Katherine and I entered the room first and sat in the large royal chairs in front. It was November now, and Katherine’s gowns had had to be let out. Her movements were altered, and that made me proud. My heir lay beneath those green silken folds, growing toward his birth.
Memmo’s performance was dazzling. He played for almost three hours, and there was no stirring in the court audience. They were enthralled.
Afterwards, although it was not far from midnight, we gathered round the long tables, laid out with prawn jellies and custard and fritters with manchet. The dishes were still moist and fresh: Wolsey’s choices. Everyone was talking at once, and Memmo was surrounded by admirers. That pleased me. The well-prepared repast pleased me as well. I must commend Wolsey.
Just then Wolsey appeared from a small side door, as if I had called him up. He stood inconspicuously in the corner, observing his arrangements. Another man saw him and went over to him, and they conferred for a lengthy space.
Curious as to who it was, I made my way to them. Wolsey was listening raptthed deeply. It was cold and clear, a pristine autumn night. An ideal time for star-viewing; perhaps the best in the year.
Shortly before one, More appeared. He looked around, surprised at the extent to which my roof had been transformed into a facility for the study of astronomy.
“Thank you for coming, Thomas,” I said. I gestured proudly at my equipment. “It does not rival Bologna or Padua, I know, but in time—”
“Your Grace has done marvellously well in assembling this.” He strode over to my table with the charts and astrolabe and quickly examined them. “Excellent,” he pronounced.
“I have been trying to measure Auriga,” I said.
“You must sight Capella first. Then five degrees off that—”
The time passed quickly as More showed me things in the sky I had not seen before, revealed mathematical formulae for deducing the exact time from the height of a star. We talked excitedly and never noticed how light it was growing in the eastern part of the sky. He spent a great length of time figuring precisely where Aldebaran should be, then adjusting the torquetum accordingly to find it. When indeed it was there, we both laughed and cried out in joy.
“A superlative set of brass servants,” More pronounced.
“You handle them well,” I said. “What sort do you have yourself?”
He smiled and raised his finger slowly to his eyes.
“You shall have one of these! I shall order one to be made straightway, and by spring—”
“No, Your Grace.”
That brought me up sharp. “Why not?”
“I prefer to take no gifts.”
“But this would help—”
“I prefer not.” His voice was quiet, and something in the tone reminded me ... called forth a painful remembrance.... “My good Lord Henry—”
Adieu, Lord Henry ...
yes, that was it. “You recited the elegy to my mother,” I said slowly, interrupting him.
“Yes, Your Grace.” The voice was the same. Why had I not recognized it earlier? Yet it was a span of nearly seven years since I had heard it....
“And wrote it as well.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“It was—moving.” I waited for him to reply, but he merely nodded solemnly. The growing light showed his features now, but I could read nothing on them. “It meant a great deal to me.” Again he inclined his head. “Thomas —come to court! Serve me! I have need of men such as you. I wish my court to be filled with Thomas Mores.”
“Then the presence of one more or less can hardly matter.”
I had said it wrong in my excitement. “I did not mean—I meant that your presence would be precious to me.”
“I cannot, Your Grace.”
“Why not?” I burst out. All the others had come, even from the Continennd o more important things, such as finding a servant like Wolsey ready at hand, and finally to my wife, Katherine, who was pleasing to me in every way and now pleasingly great with child. I remember leaning against the window in my work closet (through which I could feel the north wind; the sash was poorly fitted) and thanking God for all my blessings.
Warham celebrated High Mass in the Chapel Royal on Christmas Day, and the entire court attended: the Royal Family and the attendants on the upper level, the rest of the household on the lower level.
Then the secular festivities began. There were masques and miming, and three fools scampered about. A great banquet with some eighty dishes (one of them being baked lampreys, my favourite). Still later, a dance in the Great Hall.
Disguised, as custom decreed, I danced with many ladies to the lively string-melodies of the rebec and the thump of the wooden xylophone. Only one woman made bold to guess my identity: Lady Boleyn, wife of Thomas Boleyn, one of my Esquires of the Body. She was a vain, tiresome woman, much given to flirtation and, as she thought, charm. She began by announcing straightway that she danced with the King; she recognized him by his strength, his manliness, his renowned dancing skill. (A clever move. Should I
not
be King—as her chances were only so-so that I was—then the hearer would be flattered, as she imagined; and if she were, by accident, correct, then the King himself would marvel at her astuteness.) I did not enlighten her, but let her go on about her stepchildren, who were all deserving of accolades and (now it came) positions at court. Mary, George, and Anne. (Cursed names, all! Would that I had never heard them!) I extricated myself as soon as possible.
WILL:
I am sure he did not mean to include Mary in this wish; and certainly he would not undo the children that resulted from his inability to extricate himself truly from the Boleyns. If only the daughters had been as unappealing as the mother! Incidentally, this should lay to rest the old rumour that he dallied with Lady Boleyn as well. Where this got started I cannot imagine; ill-wishers are determined to give the King as large and indiscriminate a lust as Jupiter himself.
HENRY VIII:
 
It was time for the musical interlude. To everyone’s surprise, I myself took my lute and went to the middle of the floor.
“I have composed a song for the season,” I announced. It was not strictly true; I had composed it merely for myself, when trying to settle in my own mind exactly what I wished from life. Everyone stared back at me, yet I struck the chord and was not in the least afraid. I sang, boldly:
Pastime with good company
I love and shall until I die
Grudge who will, but none deny,
So God be pleased this life will I
For my pastance,
Hunt, sing, and dance,
My heart is set,
All goodly sport
To my comfort
Who shall me lep in them. Just when it should have been finished, the doors opened and two Frenchmen appeared (one could identify them as such by the excesses in their costume, so much slashing that their topcoats were virtually nonexistent), carrying something the size of a large trunk by handles on either side.
Every eye in the Great Hall turned toward them as they descended the steps, slowly, carrying their burden solicitously. Their abnormally high heels clicked on the stones.
They came toward me slowly, making their way to within five feet of me. Then they laid their coffin-like weight down and pulled back the covering. It was a pie, the immense size of which no one present had ever seen.
“His Most Christian Majesty Louis, King of France, presents you with this meat pie as a New Year’s gift. It is made from a gigantic boar which His Majesty himself took.” They bowed.
I stood overlooking the vast pie, as large across as a desk. The pastry was intricate and teased into various shapes, baked a pleasing golden brown.
“A sword,” I said, and one was placed in my hands. I slashed open the top of that pretty thing and was greeted with a foul odour: all was rotten within. The boar-meat was decomposing, the filling a green slime.
I backed away. “ ’Tis foul,” I said.
“As French manners,” finished Wolsey, his voice loud in the hush.
We turned toward the grinning Frenchmen. “Give your master our thanks,” I said. “But my taste does not run to rancid meat. I have a livelier appetite for
fresh
French things. Such as my title and inheritance. Convey this putrefying mass back to Louis, with our compliments.”
They looked sickened, as well they might.
“Yes, it belongs on French soil,” I said. “See that it returns to its true source.”
 
I hated Louis. Such a calculated insult must have reply! Yet I would not, must not, upset Katherine. I must laugh at it, belittle the insult. For the time being.
XVII
T
hat night was the appointed time for the “impromptu” invasion of the Queen’s quarters by myself and my attendants. (Perhaps you are not aware of this today, but the Queen had her own set of chambers, quite apart from mine. This was, I am told, traditional only in England and had, through the centuries, facilitated adultery on both sides. I record the custom here simply because I foresee its passing into disuse soon. If only Anne Boleyn had not been apart from me ... or Catherine Howard....)

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