The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers (48 page)

Read The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers Online

Authors: Margaret George

BOOK: The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers
6.21Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
I took another deep, full draught of Irish-water. “The way ueven ground with its treacherous snow cover. We were forced to pick our way along, shaking with exhaustion atop our weakened horses. Beaulieu might as well have been in Scotland, for all the good it would do us. There was no sign of it on the horizon; there was nothing save empty space and a small road, visible only because it was bordered by a stone fence.
The men were silent, each clinging to his saddle and praying to his God. Chapuys’s silver-festooned saddle seemed the epitome of false security, betraying us no less than him, useless in this white wilderness to do anything but wink mockingly.
A blast of wind hit me full in the face. My eyes smarted and watered in protest, and the horizon before me shimmered, swam, then cleared. In the blur, though, I had seen something, or thought I had. I blinked and strained to catch it again. Yes, there
was
something . . . and was that a smudge of smoke above it?
“There. Ahead,” I grunted. My lips were cracked and bleeding in spite of the grease I had smeared on them.
Cromwell started, stifled a smile. He knows, I thought. He knows what it is, and is pleased that I have discovered it for myself.
“What is that before us?” I asked.
“St. Osweth’s,” he said, the answer ready.
A small monastery—one that Cromwell’s agents had already visited and pronounced especially corrupt. The papers condemning it to dissolution lay on my inlaid work chamber desk amongst others awaiting my royal stamp.
“How providential,” I said, wheeling my horse around. “A religious house ahead!” I called to the men. “We will go there.”
“The good brothers will doubtless be astonished to welcome a royal party,” said Cromwell.
“Doubtless.” Thanking God for their location if not for their morals, I turned toward the monastery. The dull spot in the sky that betokened the sun was already halfway to its setting-slot.
The house was rough and tumble-down. Around it were not the neatly trimmed fences and ordered fields of my imagination, but the neglect of a slattern’s yard.
Cromwell knocked on the door like a wrathful archangel at the Last Judgment. It creaked open, and a face like a vulture’s peered out.
“The King is here,” announced Cromwell.
To his credit, the vulture proudly flung open the door and gestured welcome, as if he had expected us. His thick cowl and gleaming pink point of a head above his tonsure made his resemblance to that bird truly striking.
The odour of decay was so strong upon first stepping into the priory antechamber that I wondered what they fed upon.
“I will fetch the prior,” the vulture-monk said, bowing low.
Gagging, I willed myself to endure the putrid odour. It was warm in here. That was all that mattered.
The vulture returned, bringing one of the fattest men I had ever seen. He swung each leg in a half-circle, propelling himself forward in a series of curious half-turns, rather than walking as ordinary men do. Th8221;isguised pain to God.
I know not how long I remained thus, but it seemed a different sort of time than worldly time. Stumbling to my feet, I felt a fleeting sweetness that promised all would yet be well.
Or did I but deceive myself?
 
That night in the comical Sultan’s den, my men commented several times that I seemed subdued, softened.
“He grows fond and familiar in his old age,” said Neville.
“ ’Tis we who grow old,” said Carew. His heart trouble had frightened him. “The King merely grows more regal.”
But Cromwell studied me with narrowed eyes. He was trying to detect something—he who lived by being able to read the secret thoughts of other men.
As early as possible the next morning, we left St. Osweth’s behind, as a man will leave a sickbed. It would be closed as soon as I could sign the orders. In the meantime there was no point in punishing the prior. Let him enjoy his snake-lair a little longer before he was turned out to earn an honest living. Prudently, we had deprived him of the jewels and treasury. My saddle-pouches now bulged with gemstones.
The storm had passed out over the Channel and was now harassing France. I hoped it would ruin Francis’s hunting. Of late it was reported that he spent inordinate amounts of time hunting, restlessly moving from one lodge to another, feverishly chasing game. Feverish ... yes, the rumours said he was suffering from the dread French Disease, and this caused his glittering eyes and unpredictable behaviour.
Rumours. I wondered if any had reached Francis or Charles about my infirmity?
LVII
I
n the morning light, St. Osweth’s, now behind us, seemed as dreamlike as the days that had just passed. They were set apart, outside anything in our regular lives. Therefore it was jarring when Cromwell rode alongside me, murmuring about the monasteries, saying that it was necessary to act now about them, that St. Osweth’s was but a mild example and mirror of what I might find in over eight hundred other such establishments throughout England. He pressed for permission to seize and close them all.
His thirst for their ruin seemed primary, his concern for their morals secondary. His emphasis distressed me.
“Not
now,
Crum!” I barked, and the cold, clear air seemed to encapsulate my words, to surround each of them with a box. Did the fool not understand that I was about to meet my daughter, whom I had not seen in almost two years? My daughter, whom I loved and with whom I was yet at enmity. Human emotions: these did not reckon in Crum’s scales. Except as something to be used to undo a man.
And I was so nervous, so anxious, my heart was pounding louder than my empty stomach was growling. I felt it not, so filled with joy and dread was I to be approaching Beaulieu. I would see Mary; we would talk; all things would be resolved, for love could overcome any barrier.
Beaulieu: a beautiful red brick royal residence, almost a miniature Hampton C">
I longed to lean down, embrace her, tell her I loved her. But if she could be hard, she would learn that I could be harder still. Ruby must crack against diamond.
“Indeed,” I said. “I acknowledge your fealty. Know, then, that you must go straightway to Hatfield House and begin to serve in the Princess’s household.”
“Be it unto me according to thy wish,” she said.
“Stop echoing Scripture! You shame it, and yourself! You are no Virgin Mary, lass, so do not style yourself thus!” Had she inherited Katherine’s tendency to religious excess?
On the way back to London, my men, well fed now, were eager to know the cause for my stormy and hasty departure. I had stamped into the dining hall, bade them tuck the food straight into their bellies, and leave. I did not seat myself, but grabbed several pieces of meat pie and white manchet bread, and ate them ravenously, all the while standing and directing my party to get their cloaks.
Now the dry-eaten food seemed lodged in a series of little lumps from my mouth to my stomach. That, and my choler, choked me. I longed for Will to ride beside me, but he had departed from Beaulieu to his sister’s house. None of the others would do, not at this moment when I realized that I had lost my daughter; that my Great Matter was not resolved upon my clever juggling of Papal bulls and decretals and consecrations and Parliamentary acts; that treason lurks in hearts and goes unconverted and undetected in most cases. The line must be, would have to be, drawn across families and old loyalties. Even my own.
But to have lost my daughter—no, it was too hard. I could not bear it, I would soften it somehow. Then I was minded that I had tried to soften it, and it was Mary who would not have it so.
So be it.
I motioned for George Boleyn to come forward and ride with me. That he did, looking gratified and puzzled.
“George, I love you well,” I began, for the pleasure of confusing him further, “and therefore I will make a present to you. From henceforth Beaulieu is yours.
»
Yes, Mary must surrender it to Queen Anne’s brother.
He looked dumbfounded, as all are at receiving utterly undeserved gifts.
“As soon as the
Lady
Mary has removed herself, and her household has gone, you may take possession of it.”
I waved away his stammering, inadequate thanks.
 
Another few miles farther on the ride, I beckoned Chapuys to take his place beside me. I was holding audience on the road, as surely as if I had a secretary to direct my appointments.
Chapuys rode forward, his entire being as eager as ever for some sparring. I would not disappoint him.
“Ambassador,” I said, “You must be made privy to the conversation betwixt the Lady Mary and myself. I have forbidden her to continue to style herself ‘Princess,’ and her household has been disbanded. I just her a traitor.”
“Of what does this Oath consist?”
How many times was this question to be asked—this cursed, hateful question?
“That the subscriber recognizes the Princess Elizabeth as the rightful and sole heir to the throne. That is all.”
“And, by implication, that Mary is illegitimate, because your marriage to her mother was no marriage, because it was founded on a dispensation that was false, because the party granting it had not the power to do so, because he had no power at all?”
“The implications—they are not worded! One swears only to the words as stated, not implied!”
“A lawyer’s answer. Well, then, your former Chancellor More should be able to take it readily.”
“More will take it. He is a sensible man, he will not quibble over ‘implications.’ But your ... concerned parties . . . will not be able to, as what is
stated
in the Oath is what is odious to them, not what is implied.”
“God will have to sustain them.” He smiled smugly. “And God’s agents,” he added.
“So you threaten me? Of course. I thank you for your honesty.” I dismissed him as easily as in a palace audience. He understood the rules.
I rode by myself in silence. All around me the February afternoon was piercingly bright and seemingly benign. The same winter that had sought to kill me two days ago now wooed me with all her skill. She displayed the pure blue sky that was her trademark, and all the play of light peculiar to herself: the shadows that were blue, not black; the yellow-red syrup of sun lying in little pools and cups of snow-formed landscape; the dazzling glow of a mound of snow, seemingly pulsating from within. Then London appeared on the horizon.

Other books

Immortal Healer by Elizabeth Finn
Carolina Rain by Rick Murcer
Bestias de Gor by John Norman
La virgen de los sicarios by Fernando Vallejo
Lovetorn by Kavita Daswani
Dare to Rock by Carly Phillips
Lust for Life by Irving Stone