The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers (74 page)

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“She doubtless sold the gold and spices to pay for the trip to Egypt.” It was Elizabeth who spoke, in her practical way. But why was Elizabeth amongst these intellectual matrons? What would attract a child here? Did she long for a mother that much? “After all, the gold would have been heavy to transport, and the exotic spices would have attracted too much attention. However, selling them in Bethlehem might have alerted Herod. Probably they waited until they were in Egypt. The Egyptians would have been more blase about those items.”
The women looked at her, then nodded. “The child speaks true,” said Lady Herbert.
Elizabeth laughed. “The Holy Family were people, with all the considerations of any other people.” She turned a guileless, smiling face to the widow. “Would you sometime be so kind as to check my translation of Proverbs? I am attempting to translate it into Greek.”
The flattered widow nodded.
Charles’s wife, the Duchess, produced a small book of devotions. “This I have found so helpful.” The others all bent their heads over it, like chickens in a henyard when fresh grain has been heaped on the ground. I cursed my leg, to have confined me in this clucking flock of secular nuns.
“Ach! Zere you are, my child!” A fluster and rustle of material, along with a fine spray of saliva, announced the arrival of Anne, Princess of Cleves. “Und
Henry!”
Her voice rose with genuine gladness. Standing before our group was the great dray-horse herself, all shimmering in yellow satin, spreading her particular brand of good cheer. And I was delighted to see her. Rising slowly (in deference to Sir Leg), I greeted her.
“Sister!”
We embraced warmly. Her sturdy arms almost swayed me off my balance. I was astonished at how glad I was to see her. “Pray join uth a fine legedly abjured them.
 
In my inner chamber, I had my leg surreptitiously checked and re-bandaged by Dr. Butts. He wrapped it in fine silk, so although it was tightly bound it would not be bulky.
“For tonight only,” he cautioned. “Silk is not an agreeable bandage. It does not absorb. So, should the sore weep, it will leak and be visible. But it looks dry for now. It should keep for a few hours, at least.” He nodded. “Take a good dose of the soothing-syrup.”
“Nay. It dulls the. pain but it also befuddles me, and I must needs remember all the dancing-steps.”
I turned to look at myself in the mirror. I was unrecognizable, a vision from the East.
 
The Great Hall, too, was unrecognizable, utterly transformed from our eating-place of only an hour earlier. A throng of strangers milled about on the floor. A harem-girl. Merlin the magician. Several nuns. There was Pope Adrian, the only English Pope, looking remarkably like myself. (Who had done this?) There was a headsman with a hood and bloody axe, Friar Tuck, painted savages from the New World, werewolves, crusaders. At the far end of the hall, Jezebel. She was wearing a scanty costume that revealed three-quarters of her body, and next to her was a man dressed as Elijah, ranting and raving. As she moved, I knew her—Catherine!
I was appalled. The Queen of England! How dare she appear almost naked in public, dressed as a harlot and an evil queen? Jezebel was wicked, a symbol of wickedness, and an enemy of the Lord. I watched carefully as Elijah harangued her, pointing his fingers sanctimoniously at a mock Torah. Behind them came a pudgy, greasy-haired King Ahab, licking his fingers and giggling. Who were her accomplices? The onlookers laughed and cheered them on, clearly delighting in the sacrilegious display.
No one took notice of
my
elaborate costume, even with the camel trailing behind. No, they were too enthralled with Jezebel.
A Cleopatra entered the hall, with snakes coiling around her belly. They cosied up to her and slithered into the private reaches of her costume. A drunken Mark Antony followed, and then Julius Caesar, falling down regularly in fits. Foam spouted out of his mouth (replenished from a container of whipped egg whites he carried). The crowd cried, “Fall, mighty Caesar!” Every ten feet he obliged.
Troilus and Cressida made the next entrance. They hung upon each other, these lovers of ancient Troy, kissing and caressing. Then a large company of oiled athletes grabbed hold of Cressida and, before Troilus’s weeping eyes, pulled up her skirt and made sport of her, fingering her private parts, whilst she swooned in ecstasy and jerked spasmodically in mock fulfilment.
What had become of the gentle, knightly disguises of my past? Was this what Twelfth Night had turned into? I looked round. A few old-timers were decked out in the beautiful, intricate costumes I had expected, whilst all around them rioted obscene youth.
The Abbot of Misrule appeared on the dais, to a great gasp. He was a human-sized private part, complete even to a ring of circumcision. Around his feet sprouted black wires, to mimic pubic hairs, which shook and swayed. The organ itself stood upright, turgid and blushing. The Abbot wiggled back and forth to command attention.
“D to ughter. “I stand before you, at your service.” Screams of laughter. “Some of you have seen me often. To others I am as yet unknown.” He bowed toward the “nuns.” “Or perhaps not so?” More laughter. “Now you are all agreed to do exactly as I command you. I desire, therefore, that everyone with a bodypart like my own gather at the far end of the Hall. Those who are cloven between the legs, stay here.”
Eager to see what he had in mind, the entire company rushed to obey. I was pushed along in the company of men, so that I lost my camel. But what matter? My costume, my entire idea, was
passé.
No one cared about the Wise Men, or their camels.
Game after game followed, under the direction of the Abbot. Obscene, silly games. When the youngsters tired of them (for obscenity runs its course, like any other novelty), they were ready to dance.
The dancing would begin with the basse dance, a stately, slow entrance step designed to show off elaborate costumes and set a tone of solemnity. Set in the midst of this rowdy, bawdy evening, it seemed out of place. But perhaps it would help turn the mood, let me recapture the ambiance wherein I felt most at home. I looked round at the glittering company, all animal-masked and yet half naked. Somehow it made me shiver.
“And so we dance, to bring the days of Christmas to a close. Each man choose a partner, for reasons of his heart,” said the Abbot. He sounded weary.
Until now I had refused to speak to Catherine, because I was so offended by her costume. Now I said, “I, the wise astrologer, the magus, would fain dance with ... Jezebel.”
From the midst of the company, Jezebel came slowly and insolently forward and took her place by my side.
As the rest of the men took partners, I allowed myself to gaze at Catherine, in all her wanton disguise. I drowned in the sight of her: her waves of thick auburn hair, her ivory-skinned body, her voluptuous belly, indented like an hourglass.
“We are citizens of the East,” I bowed. “It is fitting that we should keep company.” Silent, she inclined her head. I took her jewelled fingers. It was the first time in days I had touched her, and it sent pulsations through me.
Behind the Abbot of Misrule the partners lined up, like a great snake. At last everyone was paired off, and the creature began to move, undulating slowly forward to the coaxing notes of flute and shawm. I felt the hairs prickling on my neck at the ancient, commanding music, and at the sexual nearness of this creature by my side. This creature, who was also my wife. But never truly mine, never mine, I always sensed ... and so it heightened the leaping desire in me.
“Jezebel was evil,” I whispered. But it was only words; I did not care that she was evil. She beguiled me. (Or was it merely desire for the moist ecstasy that lay beneath her gauzy skirt? To this day I do not know.)
“She had a fool for a husband,” whispered the creature. She made it all sound excusable. “Ahab was so intimidated by the prophets. As More and the Pope tried to intimidate you. Thanks be to God I have not such a womanish husband.” She squirmed toward me for a kiss, and as she turned, a gap appeared in her costume’s belly-band, and I could see the red hairs guarding her secret places. 0 God! It triggered my blood, and I felt myself stirring. Had she twisted that way before? Had others seen? Seen what only I was privileged to pofont size="3">The tempo livened.
A double bransle. Good. Now I would show myself. About a third of the company left the dancing, knowing they could not compete.
“Play on,” whined the Phallus-Abbot. He tilted somewhat. Was he wilting ? As if he could read our thoughts, he bent over. “The end draws nigh,” he rasped. Then he sought a chair and slumped into it.
The double bransle was a middling sort of dance. It required a knowledge of steps, but did not demand a great deal of rigour. Catherine and I executed it neatly. But she did not speak during all the dances, keeping a mysterious silence. At length there were only the exhibition dances left, at which I intended to perform. Always in the past, this had been the grand culmination of the evening, the performance the entire company yearned for. But now I sensed that it was an indulgence, not a desired offering. It was something the people allowed the monarch to perform, humouring him, not something they truly relished.
I danced perfectly, keeping pace with the music, the increasing intricacy. One by one the others faded back, leaving only me. I commanded the stage as I had done before, as I always had done, or believed I had done. My timing was perfect; there was no fault in my performance. I landed precisely as I should, and stood rigid, my arms outstretched. Applause, as manners dictated, filled my ears. As I stood, slippers clinging to my perfectly positioned feet (and no wetness within), I heard the clock tolling midnight.
“Christmas—Christmas departs,” mourned the Phallus. “Our costumes we must lay by, our everyday lives take up.” He bowed, shuddered, swayed. “We must unmask.” He ripped off his head-covering, that impudent, rounded protuberance. It was Tom Seymour. The company gasped.
The pox-infested Francis I removed his mask. Bishop Gardiner!
When my turn came, I peeled off my own silver visor carefully. “I, Balthazar, King of the East, happily existed for one evening amongst you. Now I am consigned to darkness again, to await another resurrection.” People clapped and pretended to be surprised. “There is yet another gift and surprise to be revealed,” I announced. “It is this.” I held aloft a velvet-lined box, wherein nestled a golden coin, minted but a fortnight past. “A gold sovereign, in honour of my beloved Queen, Catherine. On this side is her likeness. On the other, the seal of England, with her own motto, the motto I have bestowed upon her:
Rutilans Rosa Sine Spina.
The Rose Without a Thorn.”
Now true silence fell upon the company. To mint a special issue of coin, in honour of one’s bride ... such a token of love robbed them of speech. As it robbed Catherine.
“0 Your Majesty—” she began, then her words died.
I encircled her waist. “Unmask,” I commanded.
Stiffly, she obeyed. She peeled the mask from her eyes, said softly, “I disguise myself as what I am not—a Jezebel.” She stretched out trembling fingers to grasp the coin of honour. “Thank you,” she whispered.
It took over two hours for all to unmask, and after the first few moments it grew tedious. But it was an integral part of the ceremony, and I would not cheat anyone of it. I stood, as if I thirsted to know every identity, and laughed as lou#8212;God, how they wandered. Cromwell ...
“The Lutheran revolt goes on,” he said. “All the Low Countries and half of Germany have been seduced. The other half of the Empire fights back, like a man taken with plague. The heretical outbreaks are the black pustules which weaken and drain the entire system. Spain is the patient’s mouth, wherein the medicine—orthodox Catholicism—is poured in full-strength to combat it. Alas, all it does is burn the mouth—as the Inquisition is blistering Spain—without ever touching the buboes themselves.”
“My, my. Such poetic analogies. I now understand where your son gets his wild conceits and fantastical metaphors. And to think I thought you merely a tough and literal-minded soldier. But what of the Scots? You have fought them; you know them best of anyone. What news from our spies there?”
“The North mocks you,” he said plainly. “They are a nest of traitors you must needs clean out again and again.” His eyes danced. He loved killing Scots, riding over the River Tweed and burning their simple homes and terrorizing them. “But they have no truck with the Emperor,” he had to admit. “They are not at the moment in league with any of Your Majesty’s enemies.”
“May I speak?” young Lord Clinton, all bursting with power and prowess, asked politely. I gave him leave. He stood slowly, and as he rose, his physical presence dominated the table—except where it met my own presence. There it stuck.
“I am Lincolnshire born and bred,” he said. “A Northman of the realm. You know not, any of you, what it is to be a Northman. We live and take our selfhood from the moors, the wild mountains, far from London and courtish ways. We are conservative, it is said. Those on the frontiers are always conservative. They believe in werewolves and saints. There are no half-measures about them. Percy of the North—Northumberland, to be correct—was called Hotspur. We are either hot or cold, and our loyalties outlast our lives. We believe—”

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