The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers (4 page)

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Authors: Margaret George

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I put a stop to all that. No one is put to death surreptitiously in England now. There are no more pillow-murders or poisonings or midnight stabbings. I count as one of the great achievements of my reign that this barbarism has passed forever.
But I was speaking of Father’s marriage. Elizabeth, Edward’s daughter, was brought out of sanctuary (where she and her mother had hidden from the ravages of Richard III) and given to him as part of the spoils of war.
Thus Elizabeth of York married Henry Tudor. Royal artists created an especial emblem for them: the so-called Tudor rose, combining the red of Lancaster with the white of York. Less than a year later they had their sought-for heir: Arthur. They named him thus to avoid all “claimed” names (Henry was Lancastrian, Edward and Richard Yorkist), and to hark back to the legendary King Arthur. That would offend no one while promising fine things.
Then followed other children. After Arthur, Margaret (named for the King’s mother). Then me. (It was safe to give the third child a partisan name like Henry.) After me, Elizabeth. Then Mary. Then Edmund. Then ... I cannot recall her name, if indeed she had one. She lived but two days.
Father was twenty-nine when he married. By the time he was forty there remained to him four living children—two princes and two princesses—and the survival of his new dynasty seemed assured.
I am told my father was handsome and popular when he first came to the throne. People saw him as an adventurer, and the English always like rogues and heroes. They cheered him. But over the years the cheering faded as he did not respond to it. He was not what they had expected after all. He was not bluff like Edward nor rough and plain as a soldier-king should be. In fact, he was hardly English at all in his thinking, as he had spent most of his life outside the country, or in Wales, which was just as bad. He was suspicious of people, and they sensed it and finally withdrew their affections.
Here I am describing Father as an historian would, trying to note how he looked and how he ruled. Of course, as a child I saw and understood none of this. Father was a tall, thin man whom I saw but rarely, and never alone. Sometimes he would come to where we—the four children—lived, and pay one of his unannounced visitroops, calling on us for Latin or sums. Usually his mother, Margaret Beaufort, was with him, and she was a tiny woman who always wore black and had a sharp face. By the time I was eight years old, I had reached her height and could look her directly in the eye, although I disliked her eyes. They were bright and black.
She
always asked the sharpest questions and was most dissatisfied with the answers, because she fancied herself a scholar and had even left her husband for a time to go and live in a convent so that she could read all day.
It was she who selected our tutors and guided our education. Of course, the best tutors went to Arthur and the second-rank ones served the rest of us. Occasionally I shared some tutors with Arthur. Bernard André taught us both history, and Giles D’Ewes taught us French. And John Skelton, the poet laureate, began by teaching Arthur but later became my own tutor.
Skelton was a profligate priest, and we liked each other immediately. He wrote coarse satires and had a mistress; I thought him marvellous. Until then I had assumed that to be scholarly, one must be like my grandmother Beaufort. The black, the convent, the books were all linked in my mind. Skelton broke those links. Later, in my own reign, scholarship was freed completely from the convents and monasteries. (And not simply because I closed the monasteries!)
We studied Latin, of course; French, Italian, mathematics, history, poetry. I received an extra heavy dose of Scriptures, theology, and churchmen, as I was earmarked for the Church. Well, no learning is ever wasted. I made extensive use of the knowledge later, though in a way that would have horrified my pious grandmother and her chosen tutors.
How we lived: forever moving. Father had—or, rather, the Crown had—eight palaces, and with every change in season, the royal household would move. But we, the King’s children, seldom lived in the same palace as the King and Queen. They preferred us to live in the country, or as near to open fields and clean air as possible. Eltham Palace was an ideal site. It was small and set in green fields, but only three miles from Greenwich and the Thames. It had been built for Edward IV, my pretty grandfather, and was all of stone, with a quiet moat and well-kept gardens. It was too small to house a full court, but was perfect for royal children and our reduced household of cooks and nurses and guards.
And we were guarded. In our pretty little walled garden we might as well have been in farthest Scotland rather than ten miles from the center of London. No one was allowed to come and see us without Father’s permission; he remembered the fate of the Yorkist princes too well. We did not, and found all the restrictions irksome.
I was sure I could defend myself against any assassin. I practised with sword and bow and soon became aware of how strong and dexterous I was for my age. I almost longed for an evil agent to make an attempt on me, so that I could prove myself to Father and win his admiration. But no obedient murderer appeared to grant my childish wish.
We were to take exercise outdoors. As I said, I early discovered my facility in physical things. I rode easily and well, from the beginning. I am not boasting; if I am to record everything, I must be as honest about my talents as I am about my weaknesses. It is this: I was gifted in things of the body. I had more than strength, I had innate skill as well. Everything came easily to me, on the field or in the saddle. By the time I was seventeen I was one of the ablest men in England—with the longbow, the sword, the lance; ing e made a gesture, and the crowd turned obediently toward the main gate.
Margaret and Brandon and I stood where we were. As the crowd thinned, we saw what was lying on the ground beneath the dogs: the body of a lion. It was maimed and bloody.
“What is it?” cried Margaret. “Why is the lion dead? Why are the dogs hanged?” She seemed merely curious, not sickened. I myself felt a great revulsion.
“The King set the dogs upon the lion. He meant it as a demonstration of how the King of Beasts can destroy all enemies. Well, the dogs had the best of it. They killed the lion instead. So the King had to punish the dogs as traitors. It was the only way to salvage his lesson.” Brandon chose his words carefully, but the tone of his voice told me he did not like the King. Immediately I liked Brandon better.
“But the King—” I began cautiously.
“Is very concerned about his throne,” replied Brandon, incautiously. “He has just gotten word of another uprising. The Cornish this time.” He looked around to be sure we were not overheard. “This is the third time....” His voice trailed off. Or perhaps he sensed a coming welter of questions from Margaret.
But her head was turned toward the crowd and the noise that met Arthur’s arrival into the manor grounds. The gates swung open, and Arthur rode in, clutching his saddle. He winced when he saw the eager faces and large numbers of people. A great shout arose on cue. The King stepped forward and embraced Arthur, almost dragging him from his horse. For a moment they clung together, then the King turned to the people.
“Now my holidays will begin indeed!” he proclaimed. “Now that my son is here! My
heir
,” he said pointedly.
He never noticed that Margaret and I were there; and a few minutes later we were able to slip easily in with our own party and endure nothing worse than a tongue-clucking from our nurse, Anne Luke.
As we passed through the courtyard, I saw the body of the lion being dragged away.
 
We were shown to our quarters, and our household servants began unpacking and assembling the furniture we had carted with us. Soon silver ewers of heated water were brought for us to wash ourselves with. The festivities were to begin that evening with a banquet in the Great Hall.
Then Nurse Luke informed me that Mary and I were not to go.
I could understand why Mary must remain in the nursery—she was but two! But I was seven and surely should be allowed to go. All year I had assumed that when this season’s Christmas revels began I would be part of them. Had I not reached the age of reason with my birthday that past summer?
The disappointment was so crushing that I began to howl and throw my clothes upon the floor. It was the first time I had ever shown an open display of temper, and everyone stopped and stared at me. Well, good! Now they would see I was someone to take notice of!
Anne Luke came rushing over to me. “Lord Henry! Stop this! This display”—she had to duck as I flung a shoe at no one in particular—“is most unlike you!” She tried to restrain my arms, but I flailed out at her. “It is unworthy of a Prince!”
“A Prince old enough to attend formal banquets does not throw his clothes on the floor and scream like a monkey.” Satisfied that I was under control, she lumbered up from her knees.
Now I knew what I had to do. “Nurse Luke, please,” I said sweetly, “I want so badly to go. I have waited for it all year. Last year he promised”—this was pure invention, but it might serve—“and now he makes me wait in the nursery again.”
“Perhaps His Majesty has heard about what you and Margaret did this afternoon,” she said darkly. “Running ahead of the party.”
“But Margaret is going to the banquet,” I pointed out, logically.
She sighed. “Ah, Henry. You are a one.” She looked at me and smiled, and I knew I should have my way. “I will speak to the Lord Chamberlain and ask if His Majesty would reconsider.”
Happily I began picking up the strewn clothes, already planning what I should wear. So that was the way it was done: first a show of temper, then smiles and favour. It was an easy lesson to learn, and I had never been slow at my lessons.
 
At seven that evening, Arthur and Margaret and I were escorted into the Great Hall for the banquet. In the passageway outside I saw a band of musicians practicing. They hit many sour notes and looked apologetic as we passed by.
As part of our education, all Father’s children were tutored in music. We were expected to be able to play one instrument. This was a source of much struggle to Arthur and Margaret. I, on the other hand, had taken as readily to the lute as to horses, and loved my hours of instruction. I wanted to learn the virginals, the flute, the organ—but my tutor told me I was to wait and learn one instrument at a time. So I waited, impatiently.
I had expected the King’s musicians to be well trained, and now disappointment flooded me. They were little better than I.

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