The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers (18 page)

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Authors: Margaret George

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“On myself, too,” she said.
Then I wanted to raise her up, to pull her from the bed, to dance around the room with her.
“He must be named Henry,” she declared. “He is big and strong, like you.”
I had not planned to name him Henry, but Edward, after my mother’s little King-brother.
“Henry,” she repeated stubbornly. “It must be Henry.”
“If it means so much to you, then, so it shall be.” So long as it was not Alfonso or Felipe or some such foreign-sounding name from Spain. “As soon as you are able, we will invite the realm to celebrate with us. There will be tournaments, feasts, wine from public fountains ... and commoners can come, too. Into the palace ground,” I said on sudden impulse. “He is their Prince, too!”
The Queen’s physicians and attendants looked bewildered, and even Katherine shook her head.
“This is not Spain, my love! Here in England the King must go out amongst his people, and let them come to him,” I insisted.
“You enjoy playing with them,” she said, half-serious, half-smiling. Even then I wondered in which sense she meant “playing.” But I did not pursue it.
“In six weeks’ time,” I promised her. “After the christening.”
In six weeks’ time Prince Henry had grown amazingly, and was unable to fit into the christening gown Katherine had diligently embroidered. It was meant for an average-sized child, not for this chubby giant. Hastily, extra panels were added to both sides and sleeves.
 
The baptism, performed by Archbishop Warham, was glittering and splendid. Katherine, giving her Spanish love of lavish celebration free rein, insisted on the excessive number of candles, the double-length cloth-of-gold cape I would wear, and the coloured bonfires afterwards. The infant Prince Henry, wearing his two-yards-long white gown, became a member of the Body of Christ before a hundred witnesses. He cried when the water was poured over his head—a good sign, as it meant the Devil was being chased out of him. A murmur of approval passed around the nave of the church.
That
for Old Scratch.
Ioth eautiful, beautiful son—no puny Arthur, but destined to be the tallest, strongest King that England had ever had. They said that Edward III was a giant, and my grandfather’s height of six feet four was verified by men who yet lived. But Henry IX would be a Sun-God, a Helios for England.
Trumpets sounded their silver notes, and the procession made its long, slow way down the nave and out of the church, like a jewelled and languid snake. Outside, in the courtyard, it coiled round itself and waited—waited to pass into the Great Hall of Westminster Palace, where the christening feast was spread.
Did I imply earlier that Westminster was an outmoded palace? So it is, but its Great Hall is a treasure I must be careful not to let Time loot from me. Its dimensions are enormous, so that mounted knights can joust inside, should they so desire. Most arresting of all, the roof is a single span: the ceiling soars overhead in a graceful dance of supporting hammerbeams, scorning any supporting pillars. It was put up in 1395, just in time for the wedding feast of Richard II and Isabella of France. It was the king of its kind; none has surpassed it in size even to this day. Now this marvel welcomed us, with places set for a hundred. Upon the fair white linen the rows of golden platters looked like bright coins in a field of snow.
The dais would include not only the Queen and myself, but my blood relatives. Even those not at court had come to attend the christening of their royal cousin.
There are
those
—and I know who they are—who have claimed that I “killed off” anyone with any touch of royal blood, because I was so fearful of rival claimants to the throne. I can expose this nonsense for what it is by the very list of those I invited to sit at the royal table with me on this occasion. There was Henry Courtenay, my first cousin, the son of Catherine Plantagenet, my aunt on my mother’s side. There was Margaret Plantagenet Pole, a cousin of my mother’s, and her sons Reginald, Henry, and Geoffrey, my second cousins. There were my St. Leger second cousins, and the Stafford cousins and Henry Bourchier, Earl of Essex, more distant yet. I was happy and wanted to share my joy with all my family, like any normal man.
The prelates had a table of their own, the one farthest to the right. The Archbishop of Canterbury sat at its head, with the other ranking bishops, like Ruthal of Durham and Fox of Winchester, next to him. The rest of the length of table comprised almost the entire membership of Convocation, the “Parliament” of the Church. Wolsey was not at the table. His rank was too low, for at this time he was only an almoner and a lowly canon of Windsor.
The long middle table held the peers of the realm and their ladies. There was only one duke in England left now (except the imprisoned Duke of Suffolk): the Duke of Buckingham, Edward Stafford. There had been other dukes, of course, but they had lost their titles, or their lives, or both, fighting for or against Richard III. Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, had fought my father at the battle of Bosworth Field, and lost. He was then demoted to an earl. His partisans put out a tale that after the battle he went to my father and said, “Richard was King, and as such I fought for him. If Parliament would make a post King I would fight for it, too, as would be my duty.” This is absurd, for Parliament does not make kings. And besides that, it is insulting to compare a king to a deaf-and-dumb post, and Howard was more clever than that. Now I was keeping him in the kenna-journey. An impossible wish. “In the meantime you are the Lady Willoughby, and an ornament to your husband,” I said pompously. I sensed even then how pompous I sounded.
A change in tempo: time to break, again. This time I chose a young maiden, blond and soft. She did
not
dance well.
“Are you new to court?” I asked. There were many come for the festivities, cousins and relatives of those already in residence.
“Yes, Your Grace. I have come at the invitation of my uncle, Lord Mountjoy.” She nodded toward the man Katherine was now dancing with. He was the chamberlain of her household.
“Ah, yes. A Yorkshire man,” I said.
“Lincolnshire, Your Grace.” She stumbled against me. Her body felt tender.
“You do not dance in Lincolnshire?”
My teasing fell flat. She tried to pull away, thinking I scolded her. I pulled her back. “I will teach you,” I said. “Here at court we all dance. You will need to learn, if you stay, Mistress—what is your name?”
“Bessie Blount,” she mumbled. Still she tried to pull away, and then stumbled over her feet again. In embarrassment, she stopped dancing entirely. I held her and danced the steps for her, the way a child does its doll. She was as limp and unmoving as any doll. “I shall not stay,” she whispered.
“Nonsense,” I said. “Do not spend your beauty in Yorkshire. We need you here.”
“Lincolnshire, Your Grace.”
The beat changed; the drum thumped. She quickly slid away, and not to another partner, but to shadows.
When all the company (excepting only the old and infirm) were at last part of the dance, we went on to other steps and other rhythms. The French ambassador was easily persuaded to demonstrate “la Volta,” which he had learned in Louis XII’s court only last summer. Everyone danced there, except Louis himself, who was too aged and fragile to bend his knees.
Whilst the company was engrossed in the dances, I slipped away to oversee the preparations for the masquing to follow. As I moved along the high walkway connecting the Great Hall with the antechamber, I could see the huge crowd gathered outside, waiting to be let in, as they had been promised. Beyond them, on the hills surrounding the city, the bonfires blazed yellow, red, pink, ordering the skies themselves to rejoice with us.
“Your Grace.”
I turned quickly to see Don Luis Caroz, the Spanish ambassador.
“A word with you,
por favor.”
“Indeed.” I smiled, giving permission for him to proceed.
“I have not had the opportunity to wish you, in person, my congratulations. It is a great day for Spain, as well.”
“The daughters of Spain are fair,” I said, “and bring Ferdinand fine grandsons.” Katherine’s older sister Juana had a ten-year-old son, Charles, who was said to be clever, and was likely to become Holy Roman Emperor someday. That is, if he had not int>
“Ummm. Yes. I believe I had promised”—a glance out the window, at the dancing bonfires, the happy crowd—“fifteen hundred archers. With longbow, of course.” There was no limit; I could do anything now, and I would. Something sang within me, something that had never been there before. “But I think three thousand would be more helpful. With”—go on, do it, you want to—“new cannon as well. We can test them in the field.”
“Oh! Your Grace!”
Had I not promised Father on his deathbed to fight the Infidel? Could I do less, now that God had so clearly shown his favour to me? “It is my privilege to fight the enemies of Christ,” I assured him.
Outside the crowd moved, like scales of a snake. Snake. I must see to the masque. I nodded to Caroz and indicated that the exchange was over. Still he stood staring at me, his eyes wide and almost fixed. “Your Grace ...” he said, “your cloak ... it is magnificent. It blinds me!”
It was a full-circled cape of cloth-of-gold, weighing almost ten pounds. I pictured with amusement the little Spaniard decked with it. Common men think only of the glow of gold, never of its weight. “It is yours,” I said, unfastening it, and draping it over his shoulders. He almost buckled, with both the weight and astonishment. O, his face!
Before he could utter a word, I was past him and opening the door to the antechamber, which served as a rehearsal room in which the players were already costumed and speaking.
“Continue, continue!” I ordered them. I could hardly wait to see this idea of mine enacted: the story of the baby Hercules strangling the serpents sent by jealous Juno to destroy him in his crib. I had needed a large child to play the part of the mighty infant; Sir John Seymour’s six-year-old son Edward was now wearing an infant’s robe and practising throttling the “snakes”—long tubes of multicoloured velvet that had young ferrets inside, so they would move and writhe on their own.
“I hate the infant!” “Juno” proclaimed, pointing toward the crib. “Jupiter has sinned, and this child is the product of this sin. He must die!”
Of course the infant prevailed over the serpents, and the happy conclusion was announced by “Britannia”: “Thus perish all the enemies of the King’s babe, who seek to harm him. Jealousy, envy, spite cannot stand against the will of the gods, and their protection gives our prince supernatural strength.” The company then gathered round the crib, raised their arms, and began an elaborate set-dance. I, as Jupiter, would appear in their midst, bringing the masque to a happy conclusion.
Then we would all come forward, leaving the stage, and present ourselves to Katherine. For it was she I was honouring; she, as the goddess who had brought forth an heir. And if they said it was unseemly for a king to “present himself” to anyone, no matter who ... well, I would do as I pleased.
The order had been given, and the commoneas past usual consumption time. My father stuck a large piece in his mouth. “Harry would have had himself naked,” he said, his words slurred because of his chewing.
My mother tore off a piece of bread from a stale loaf and soaked it in the rabbit juice. “We could have had a gold letter,” she said wistfully. “Then our lives would have changed.”
“Only for a year,” replied Father. “And then what? Back to foul rabbit stew?” He made a face as he chewed up a semi-rancid piece.
Neither of them questioned the fact that the King lived in such wealth that the loss of the gold letters meant nothing to him. On the contrary, they were proud of having such a wealthy King. They did not connect their poor eating with the elaborate court masques designed by the revels-master.
As well they should not, in spite of the current idea held by some that dividing up the Royal Treasury would enable everyone to dine on dainties for the rest of their lives. A mathematician friend of mine has calculated that if the Queen’s wealth were distributed equally throughout the kingdom, each person would receive exactly enough to purchase five loaves of bread, shoe one horse, and purchase one blanket. Hardly a luxurious life.
But I digress. I speak now as a man, whereas I was then but a child, and as awed by the story of the King’s gold letters as anyone else. I lay in bed that night, imagining myself to be the young Prince. What would my life be like? I would lie beneath soft coverlets (I thought this as I scratched myself against the irritating rough wool), never have to do schoolwork, and have horses and hawks—in short, all the things an ignorant ten-year-old imagines when constructing the perfect life of another child.
Over the next week I thought of the young Prince Henry constantly. When I awakened I immediately thought, “Now
his
nurse is taking him up and dressing him in fine linen.” When I went out to play I thought, “They are readying rooms of toys for
him.
”
In truth, I was not far wrong. Upon birth, the infant Prince had been assigned his own household staff. He had his clerk of the signet, his serjeant of arms, and three chaplains, as well as a carver, a cellarman, and a baker—for his entertaining. He even had a special room set aside at Westminster for his future Council Chamber.

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