The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers (39 page)

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Authors: Margaret George

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Then came the expected letter from Katherine. It was another of her sickening “all is sweet” ploys. She was sorry she had not been awakened in time to say good-bye to me. She would be happy to know that I was well.
Never better since I was out of her sight! Hateful bitch! I sat down and immediately dashed off a reply—telling her that she cared little for my peace of mind or my health, since she was bent on destroying both. And, in fact, both were greatly improved when I was away from her. I dispatched it without even rereading it. I had had quite enough of her childish games.
The next week passed peacefully, then came another missive. In this one she took me to task, saying that I owed her a face-to-face good-bye.
Why? So she could berate me? I waited until I had left Deerfield and come closer to London, then called a Council meeting. This was no longer a private matter, as far as I was concerned, but a state one. I wanted everyone to know what I was doing, and why. Together the Council and I drafted a formal letter to the Princess Dowager stating that her disobedience had so displeased me that I did not wish to see her again.
When my progress was completed a month later, the Council sent her another letter, telling her that I was returning to Windsor and wished her to move to Wolsey’s old house, The More, before then. While she was there she was then to select a permanent place of residence and thereafter to retire there.
It was done. It was done. I could hardly believe it of myself. Why, then, did I feel such a mixture of euphoria and despair?
The news of my separation from Katherine spread quickly and was not always well received. Unfortunately, it coincided with the beginning of the Parliamentary measures taken to reform the Church. All the old was being dismantled, the people seemed to feel, and there was no secure haven anywhere.
On May fifteenth, 1532, Convocation acknowledged me as Supreme Head of the Church in England. On May sixteenth, More resigned as Chancellor.
He came to me, carrying his Seals of Office, the very ones that Wolsey had been so loth to suont>
I sent a deputation of thirty councillors to give her the following orders: Remove yourself to Ampthill within a fortnight; reduce your household servers by two-thirds; cease to style yourself Queen; acknowledge me as Supreme Head of the Church in England.
As I expected, she refused the last two orders. She said she would gladly release anyone from her service who would not recognize her as Queen, and that her conscience would never permit her to acknowledge her “husband” as Supreme Head of the Church.
Oh! That woman, that stubborn, hateful woman! To cling to something that did not exist—how revoltingly pathetic!
And Mary ... she proved to be entirely her mother’s daughter and none of mine, in her behaviour toward me. She was contemptuous and rude, continually speaking of her mother and the wrongs I had done her, and of the Church and the wrongs I had done
her.
In truth, I knew not what to do with my daughter, as I loved her, but knew her now to be totally against me. In sorrow I sent the sixteen-year-old girl to the manor of Beaulieu in Essex, with a household of her own.
I must put a stop to the incipient questioners and sceptics in the realm. What would silence them better than having Warham, the Archbishop of Canterbury, celebrate my wedding to Anne? As highest prelate in the land, he stood as quasi-Pope to the people. In addition, he had “married” me to Katherine. For him now to officiate at my wedding to Anne would say plainer than anything else that the first marriage was indeed void. I would insist that he do so.
But, astoundingly, he refused. More than that, he denounced me and my “concupiscent desires” and took a grave moralistic stand on the issue of separating from the Pope. I stamped out of his presence.
Alone in my chambers, I paced. Things seemed as hopeless as ever. More had left me. The highest ecclesiastical authority in the land did not see fit to marry me to Anne. The Pope continued to fulminate against me. Only Anne and Parliament stood on my side.
But just when it seemed everything must stay as it was forever, everything changed, as suddenly as a summer squall.
God intervened, and Warham died. True, he was an old man, in his eighties, but I had despaired of ever being rid of him. He had been there since my earliest boyhood, and seemed to be less a man than the office itself, God-given and eternal.
It was August of 1532 when Warham died. I could now find a new Archbishop—one more pliant to my wishes. And whom should I select for the honour? I knew the answer already: Thomas Cranmer.
 
Cranmer was amazed when I informed him of my decision. He was but a simple priest, he protested. Surely a bishop—
I reminded him that Thomas à Becket had been less; had been only a deacon.
“But, Your Grace,” he stammered, “he was truly a holy man, whereas I—I—”
“You also are a holy man. Of that I have no doubt, Thomas. Look! Both your first names are Thomas! Is that not an omen?”
He still stood with a hangdog look. Never had a nominee for Archbishop of Canterbury received the news of his elevation with less enthusiasm.
“I will expedite "3">But well acquainted with your duties as Primate of all England!”
Once again he turned his woebegone eyes upon me. I was elated with the decision, and he was downcast!
“Yes, Your Grace,” he finally said. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
 
Now I knew in what direction my path lay, and it lay clear. With Cranmer as my Archbishop, duly approved by the hectored (and soon to be discarded) Pope, my Church in England would indeed be legitimate. Free from the Pope, yet sanctioned by him, Cranmer, legitimate Archbishop, would marry me to Anne, and also pronounce on my so-called marriage to Katherine.
Anne was jubilant. At long last, after more than five years of waiting, the end seemed in sight. The bulls should not be long in coming. In the meantime, I had another treat for her: Francis and I were going to meet in Calais, and she must accompany me, just as if she were already my Queen. Francis had shown himself of late to be sympathetic to me and my cause—I suspect because it was against the Emperor’s—and was eager to meet and discuss many things.
This would be the first time I had crossed the Channel or beheld Francis since 1520—twelve long years. Since then we had both lost our erstwhile Queens and acquired new ones. We had lost much else, I supposed, and cared not to speculate on it.
Anne was to be my wife and Queen, and it was only fitting that she begin to wear the royal jewels, which were still in Katherine’s possession.
I sent a messenger instructing her to surrender them, and Katherine gave me the reply I should have expected. She demanded a written message in my own hand to that effect, since “nothing less would convince her that her husband had so far taken leave of his sense of what was fitting as to demand them of her.” She would not give up her jewels “for such a wicked purpose as that of ornamenting a person who is the scandal of Christendom, and is bringing vituperation and infamy upon the King.”
Why did she persist in this harassment? Her actions merely annoyed and irritated (but never succeeded in threatening) me. She was petty and pathetic.
There were those who speculated that Anne and I would marry in France. But no. Any marriage must take place on English soil and be conducted by an English priest, thereby making it incontestable.
 
When I first glimpsed Francis, I thought how he had aged. Then I realized he doubtless thought the same about me. We both stood and stared at one another. This time there was no Field of Cloth of Gold, just a simple royal manor house beyond the Pale of Calais.
Francis was heavier now, and even more gaudily costumed. His youthful gaiety had hardened into a restless sort of cynicism. His stay in the Spanish prison after his defeat by Charles had done little beyond making him more determined to spend himself in hunting and pastimes. Already thirty-eight, he had not yet become a statesman and seemed oblivious to such concerns. I felt a full fifty years older than he. The last five years had seen to that. I had entered them a youth, still under Wolsey’s tutelage, and emerged entirely my own creature, much to my own amazement. In a way, I still stood blinking on the rim of the new world I surveyed, not yet used to it.
Francis had finally offered, lamely, the Duchess of Vendôme, a lady with —how shall I say it?—a rather tarnished reputation. This insulted Anne more than all the other rebuffs. In the end, Anne met with no one, but remained alone in Calais, bedecked with Katherine’s jewels, while I met privately with Francis outside Calais.
We had much to discuss. Mainly it concerned the Pope and Charles: terrors and scourges of us both. Francis suggested that a Papal council concerning my marriage be held in France. He promised to tell His Holiness that I would abide by any decision this council came to. I myself was sceptical of this, but I could not guarantee, even to myself, how I would feel should the Pope grant me my declaration of nullity at this late date.
We retired to Calais, where I found Anne quiet and dispirited. Being almost in France, where she had passed her early girlhood, and yet unable to pass into the land itself, had told on her. Her sister had gone to the French King’s bed and been warmly received. Anne herself had refused both Francis and me, and her reward was to be labelled the “goggle-eyed whore” and to be met in France by a whore—presumably her social equal?
 
When I entered the royal apartments in Calais, I found a strange sight. Anne was asleep in a padded chair. Her head was tilted back and her mouth open, a position suggesting great ardour—except that she was obviously unconscious. On her neck were Katherine’s jewels. Coming closer, I saw that she was wearing them all: the earrings, the bracelets, the necklaces. It was as if she had decided to put all on in an attempt to flout the ostracism—to say, in effect, I shall wear the jewels regardless. Even if I must wear them alone.
I stood looking at her. Poor Anne. Asleep, she looked so young, like the girl I had first fallen in love with. She had given up her youth for me; had endured public calumny; had grown into a woman, waiting for me to make a move. Now this humiliating venture into France—meant for her triumph—had ended, once again, as her disgrace. How stubborn, how childlike, to put on the erstwhile Queen’s jewels and then fall asleep.
I approached her, supremely beautiful there in the half-light of the large candle standing on the nearby table. The dancing candlelight flickered off the cut surfaces of the gems round her neck.

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