The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers (24 page)

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Authors: Margaret George

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Mary was arriving back in England, and there was to be a ceremony at Dover to greet her. I made certain I was not there; for to be there was to confer approval on her actions, and that I would never do. Brandon, the (created by me!) Duke of Suffolk, was her protector now. Let him see to her needs.
All communication between us passed through Wolsey. Brandon could not approach me without Wolsey’s leave; neither could Mary. Mary I wished to see, therefore I made arrangements for us to meet in London on the royal barge. Together we would be rowed up and down upon the Thames, where we could speak one last time before I relinquished her to Brandon forever.
The woman who approached the landing-ramp was taller, more beautiful, than I remembered. She wore a cloak of deepest blue velvet, gathered about the neck and shoulders, that floated outward like the Virgin’s. But she was no virgin. Her very step was changed.
The oarsmen saluted her. “Your Majesty.”
I welcomed her, but said pointedly, “Queen no longer, my men. She is Duchess.”
“I remain a Princess, regardless of my husband’s title,” she said, a smile masking her determination.
“Shall we go below?” I took her hand, leading her belowdecks, where the royal stateroom, with all appointments for our comforts, awaited—not the least of which was that we would be insulated from the ears above.
We settled ourselves on the·silken cushions: strangers.
“So you have followed your heart,” I finally said, for want of anything else to say. “As you threatened to do.”
“I love him!” she cried. “I love him, I love him, I have loved him since I was a child!”
The oars outside the windows made slurping noises as they dipped in and out of the water.
“Can you not see him for what he is? A womanizer, someone who knows all the tricks, all the things to win an unsophisticated heart.”
“Is that so?” Her face took on a transcendent, triumphal look. “And what did he win by marrying me? Banishment from court, and from your favour.”
“He won England’s fairest jewel.”
“And your best playing card. Who is the calculating one, Brother?”
I stood accused. Yes, I was worse than Brandon. He had seen Mary and loved her, risking my wrath and banishment from court. I had seen only the loss of a playing card. When had this happened to me? I hated myself, hated that thing I had become: ugly, base, experimenting with my own body as if it were a thing apart from myself.
But a realist. A king who was not a realist cheated his people. That was the truth of it.
A bright arc of foam, spray: the Thames was rising past us. I saw York Place on our port side. Wolsey’s residence had gaily fluttering banners planted by the water-stairs, inviting dignng and muscular, weak and weedy, fat and soft? Is it as good as mine?
“I did not avail myself of it,” she said.
“But surely you could tell—”
“Jewelled raiment and well-tailored clothes disguise bodily defects,” she said. “That is what they are designed to do.”
They were throwing out the landing ropes. There was not time for an answer, an honest answer.
“Was he a man?” I cried.
She looked puzzled.
The barge bumped against the padded piles. We were there.
“All men are men,” she answered. “More or less.”
XXV
W
ith the departure of the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk came the arrival of Wolsey’s cardinal’s hat. The hat, conferred by Leo X, along with a blessed golden rose for me for my fidelity and orthodoxy, arrived at Dover, encased in a regal box. Wolsey arranged that it be conveyed to London with all proper reverence, there to be welcomed by the Abbot of Westminster Abbey. Afterward it was placed upon the high altar of St. Paul’s, and then, in a drama designed to dazzle the eye, it was placed upon Wolsey’s head, creating a scarlet presence against the ancient grey stones. The chanting of the choristers framed the moment in divine approbation.
“You see what a serpent you have nurtured in your bosom,” muttered Katherine, standing stiffly beside me. “He glistens and gleams like the very creature in the Garden of Eden.”
A splendid metaphor. Wolsey’s satin indeed gleamed by the fluttering candlelight. But he was too plump to pass for a serpent. I said as much, while the chanting covered my low voice.
“A demon, then,” said Katherine. “Although Satan himself is sleek, some of his lesser demons must be gluttonous, just as their counterparts on earth.”
“Ah, Katherine.” She hated Wolsey with such an unreasoning hate, held him responsible for all the changes in me, when in fact he merely facilitated them; they originated within myself.
“How long will you wait before appointing him Lord Chancellor? Will it be a Christmas gift?”
Damn her for her insight! In truth, I had planned a December ceremony, separating the cardinalship from the chancellorship by a decent interval of two months. Archbishop Warham was old and ready to retire. But more to the point, I no longer listened to him on political affairs or considered any of his opinions, so he was useless in his office.
“It is no gift. He has earned it.”
Katherine did not reply, merely gave me a withering look of disdain. I did not care to argue. I was keeping my promise to myself, never to fight or hurt or upset her again. Her new pregnancy must be undisturbed, even if it meant coddling and cossetting the bitter and illogically resentful vessel it rested within.
My new Lord Chancellor and I had much to discuss, in February of 1516. The Christmas festivities were over and done with. Archbishop Warham had gn his spiritual duties, and Wolsey had assumed the mantle of the highest political office in the realm, along with the highest ecclesiastical rank, as England’s only Cardinal.
Did he ever regret the lost Joan Lark and his sons? Or had the sacrifice been well worth it? It had taken only three years to go from the Lark’s Morning Inn to this, once the decision had been made. Tactfully, he never referred to it. He was a man of the present. The Welsh longing for unnamable things was not a part of his makeup. I envied him that.
“King Francis has proved himself,” he said bluntly, that raw February morning as we settled ourselves before his gigantic Italian work desk.
I knew what he meant. He meant that Queen Claude was pregnant. Francis had proved himself alarmingly, then, both as a warrior and as a getter of children. Within only a few months of his accession, he had taken the field, leading his troops into battle at Marignano in Italy, winning a stunning victory against the Papal forces. Francis meant for northern Italy to become French, and he was well on his way to achieving it.
“Perhaps it will die.” I cursed it, then.
“Nothing Francis does seems to die, or not thrive. Truly, he seems to have extraordinary luck on his side.” Wolsey was annoyed by this. One could counter stratagems, not luck.
“And all anyone talks of is his wretched court! His styles, his
ballet de cour,
his plans to build
châteaux.”
“A novelty, Your Majesty.” Wolsey sniffed daintily at the silver pomander he had affected carrying. “He is the newest king in Europe. ‘Twill pass.”
“Ah, but he is
not
the newest King!” I produced the telling letter that had arrived only that morning, and handed it to Wolsey.
His eyes attacked it. “Ferdinand is dead.” He crossed himself, by rote. “Charles of Burgundy is King of Spain.”
“Yes. A sixteen-year-old Habsburg is now the newest—and youngest—King in Europe.”
“And that makes you the old fox among them.” Wolsey smiled. “We’re well rid of Ferdinand. He was useless to us; useless to everyone, in fact. A new king in Spain, a boy-king ... what possibilities this offers!”
“For manipulation?”
“How well we understand one another.”
“That is why you are where you are.” And let him understand that it was I who had put him there, not he himself. Without me, he could do nothing, was nothing. “Not all boy-kings can be manipulated. Age is not necessarily a measure of innocence.”
“I understand this one is unworldly, peculiar.”
“The truth is that he is unknown. As I myself was when first I came to the throne.”
“We will make it our business to know his nature, gather information. I have several connections in the Burgundian court, reliable witnesses ... if paid enough.”
In retrospect I cannot help but laugh at Wolsey’s primitive methods of spying; at the time they gns.
This treaty, of course, would be signed in London, under my auspices, with Wolsey himself acting as Papal legate.
The proposal was eagerly accepted by Pope Leo, and, using the bait of Tournai, we enticed the French into coming to England to sign the treaty. Not only would we unite in peace, but we would plan and execute a mighty Crusade against the Turk.
 
The world stood still while the legates, ambassadors, lords, and prelates of all Christendom—England, France, the Empire, the Papacy, Spain, Denmark, Scotland, Portugal, Hungary, the Italian states, the Swiss Confederation, and the Hanseatic towns—gathered in London and signed the treaty. Before the High Altar of St. Paul’s, a Pontifical Mass was celebrated by Wolsey, and a general peace within Christendom was proclaimed. Cardinal Wolsey, Lord Chancellor of England, Papal legate, was recognized as “the Architect of Universal Peace.” His face shone with triumphant glory.
 
There were a few private matters to be worked out between England and France. One concerned Tournai. My plans to retain it as a part of England had not fared well. It had proved a dreadful expense, and the attempts to convert its inhabitants from their French perverseness had met with utter failure. I agreed to sell Tournai back to France for six hundred thousand crowns—less than it had taken me to capture and garrison it, but I never begrudge money spent on an idea that seems promising at the time.
The other concerned Francis and myself. Evidently the French King had as burning a curiosity to behold me as I had to behold him. It was a curiosity that we agreed to satisfy. We would meet, with our full courts in attendance, at a place called the Valley of Gold, near Calais, the following summer.
As the last of the diplomats took leave and the ships plied their way across the Channel in the strengthening autumn gales, I was faced with a personal dilemma of a most delicate nature.
Bessie was pregnant.
 
She had waited until after the treaties were concluded to tell me. I had not seen her throughout the festivities; I had decorously kept Katherine by my side, as good taste, protocol, and respect demanded. There had been no lying with Katherine, however, as she had just begun another pregnancy.
I had looked forward to enjoying Bessie and her incomparable favours again; had found myself thinking on them during the long and tedious banquet that Wolsey gave at York Place, described by flattering chroniclers as “surpassing anything given by either Cleopatra or Caligula,” when in truth the spirit of those two lusty goats was to be found within my head, not at Wolsey’s table. How Bessie and I used one another, in fantasy, while the Venetian ambassador droned on in my ear about Adriatic trade routes!

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