The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers (23 page)

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Authors: Margaret George

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That left me free to dance with whomsoever I pleased, and there were many pleasing women. Katherine’s attendants, particularly her maids of honour, were young and unmarried. Yes, it was time I found a mistress. I had been too laggard in availing myself of a sovereign’s prerogative. Sovereign’s? I looked over at Brandon, smiling at his partner, looking like Bacchus. It was a
man’s
prerogative. One did not need to justify it on the grounds of rank.

There was winsome little Kate, from Kent, a niece of Edward Baynton’s. She was light as gauze, bright as a butterfly, and as insubstantial. There was Margery, a raven-haired Howard girl, some relation to the Duke of Norfolk, with a big bosom and pudgy fingers. There was Jocelyn, a distant cousin of mine, through my Bourchier relations in Essex. But she was a thin, intense sort, and it was not good to meddle with one’s relatives, besides.

There was a Persephone, standing near Lord Mountjoy.

My heart felt a hush as I beheld her. I swear my first thought was of Persephone>manhick hair, tore out its bindings so that it fell free over her shoulders and even covered her face, all but her parted lips, which I devoured. In a fever-fit of excitement, I undressed her, perplexed by the fastenings of her clothes (for I had never undressed Katherine; her maids of honour did that), trying not to harm them. She had to show me, else I would have ripped them.

When we lay side by side on the musicians’ daybed, she turned toward the torch so that the amber-coloured light bathed her body and sweet face. “Bessie—Bessie—” I wanted to master my need, at least draw it out a little, but it mastered me, and I pulled her under me in the ancient act of submission, crushed her beneath me, plunged into her body—O God, she was a virgin!—and in a frenzy, sweat exploding from my whole body, I drove myself into her again and again (hearing dimly her cries in my ear) until I burst open inside her.

I spiralled down into a great darkness, turning, turning, landing softly.

She was crying, fighting for breath, clawing at my shoulders.

“Jesu, Bessie ...” I released her, pulled her up, embraced her. She gasped for air, crying all the while. “I am sorry, forgive me, forgive me—” The mad beast had gone, leaving a conscience-stricken man to repair the damage. I comforted her, hating myself. Eventually she stopped crying and became calm. I began my apologies again. She put up a shaking finger against my lips.

“It is done,” she said slowly. “And I am glad of it.”

Now I truly comprehended how ignorant I was of women. “I behaved as a beast, and injured your ... your honour.” I had not even thought of the virginity beforehand.

“If it was this difficult with someone whose body I craved, think how much more difficult it would have been with someone to whom I was indifferent.”

“But you would not have found yourself ... thus ... with someone you ... didn’t want.”

She shook her head. “What do you think marriage is, for a woman?”

Mary. Mary and Louis. God, how could the Mirror of Naples compensate for that?

“But now ... when you come to your marriage-bed ... I’ve robbed you.”

“I’ll pretend.”

“But you can’t
pretend
—if it is not so!”

“I have heard ... that it is easy to pretend, and men are content with that.”

I was covered with sweat, the daybed was made rank with her deflowering, I was thoroughly shamed—and yet (O, most shameful of all!) with her words, and the thought of her later in another man’s bed, my lust began to flame once more.

Just then she reached over and touched my cheek. “We must go. But oh—let us spend another few moments....” She did not wish to flee? She did not despise me? Truly, I knew nothing of women—or of my own nature, either.

It was dawn when we finally left the musicians’ chamber, creeping down the stone stairs and stealing across the silent Banquet Hall, where the flowers still lay scatterit icurb my tendency to escalate the stakes. None of the ordinary things seemed to matter.

Mary had embarked for France with a full court of her own, gloriously dowered and attended. Even children were appointed as pages and maids of honour. The two Seymour lads, aged nine and six, and Thomas Boleyn’s two daughters, aged ten and seven, were on board one of the fourteen “great ships” of Mary’s flotilla.

It was late one evening in Wolsey’s quarters where I first read the name. That name. I had been checking the list in a cursory fashion.

Nan
de Boleine.

“Who’s this?” I mumbled. I was exhausted from Bessie that afternoon, and needed sleep.

“The Boleyn girl,” Wolsey said.

“Why the devil do they affect this spelling? I’d not recognized the name.

“It’s ‘Boleyn’ that’s the affected spelling,” said Wolsey. “The family name is originally ‘Bullen. ’But ’‘Boleyn’ or ‘Boleine’ looks more prestigious.”

“Like Wolsey for ‘Wulcy’?” I grunted. “All this name-changing is frivolous. I like it not. So both of Boleyn’s daughters have gone? And both of Seymour’s sons? There’ll not be any young ones left to grow up and attend at our court.”

“The parents were anxious for their children to acquire French manners.”

By God, that rankled! For how long would the world look to France for its standard of elegance and style? I was determined that my court would usurp it. “The court of King Louis is as lively as a grasshopper in November,” I snorted. “They’ll learn little there.”

“They’ll learn from the shadow court, the one headed by Francis Valois, Duc d’Angoulême. Unless Mary gives Louis an heir, Francis will be the next King of France. Already he holds court and practises. The little Boleyns and Seymours will learn from him, not from Louis.”

“Francis’s wife, Louis’s daughter Claude, is as holy as Katherine, so they say.” My tongue was becoming unguarded with fatigue. “It can hardly be stylish there.”

“Madame Claude is ignored. Francis’s mistress sets the tone.”

Openly? His mistress presided openly? “What sort of fellow is this Francis, of the house of Valois?”

“Much like yourself, Your Majesty.” Of late Wolsey had introduced this title for me, saying that “Your Grace” was shared alike with Dukes and Archbishops and bishops, and that a monarch needed his own title. I liked it. “Athletic, well educated, a man of culture.” He paused. “It is also said he enjoys a blemished reputation as an insatiable lecher.”

“Already? How old is he?”

“Twenty, Your Majesty.”

“Are his ... attentions always welcome?”

“Not universally, Your Majesty. He is most persistent, so it is said, and will not desist once he has his sights set on a prey. When the mayor and prayed just as intently. My prayers began in proper, stiff sentences.
O Lord, Mighty God, grant, I beseech you, a son, for my realm.
But as hours wore on, and Linacre appeared, shaking his head, they became frantic, silent cries.
Help her, help me, give us a child, I beg you, please, I
will do anything, perform any feat, I will go on a crusade, I will dedicate this child to you, like Samuel, here am
I,
Lord, send me ...

“It is over.” Linacre flung the door wide. I leapt to my feet.

“A son,” he said. “Living.” He beckoned for me to follow him.

Katherine lay back, like a corpse upon a pallet. She did not stir. Was she—had she—?

De la Sa was massaging her abdomen, which was still distended and puffy. Great spurts of blackish blood shot out from between her legs each time he pushed, where it was caught in a silver basin. The blood was lumpy with clots. Katherine moaned and stirred.

“The child,” Linacre indicated, turning my eyes from the grotesque horror on the bed that was my pain-wracked and damaged wife. Maria de Salinas Willoughby was bathing the babe, washing blood and mucus off him.

He
was so
tiny
. Tiny as a kitten. Too small to live, I knew it on the instant.

“We thought it best that he be baptized immediately,” said Linacre. “So we sent for a priest.”

I nodded, aware of what he was admitting. Baptize him quickly, before he dies. No ceremony. Any priest will do.

A young priest appeared from the outer chamber, having been hurried from the Chapel Royal, where he served with minor duties. He was still adjusting his vestments and carried a container of holy water.

“Proceed,” I ordered him. Maria had the babe dried and wrapped in a blanket by now.

“His ... robe,” protested Katherine weakly.

“She means the christening robe she fashioned for him,” explained Maria.

“We haven’t time.” I said the words, feeling nothing. Numb as a hand held against cold metal.

“The robe ...”

“It is right here, Your Grace, I’ll see to it,” Maria reassured Katherine tenderly. She pulled the dainty thing over his head, not even straightening it, just so she could comply.

“Godparents?” asked the priest.

“You, Maria, and you, Brandon.” What difference? Anyone would do. There would be no duties as the child grew.

“Name?”

“William,” I said. A good English name.

“I baptize thee, William, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” A trickle of water on his soft forehead.

Quick, now: wrap him warmly, hold him near the brazier, give him heated milk. A miracle if he lives. Lord Jesu, I ask you for a miracle.

Prince William died seven hours later. By the time Katherine’s milk came in, the babe had been buried for two days, wearing his little christening robe as a shroud.

As Brandon made his way to Dover, preparing to take ship and cross the wintry Channel, a messenger arrived carrying a letter smuggled out of the convent. Mary was being assaulted and harassed by Francis, who visited her daily on the pretext of consoling her, but propositioned her, grabbed her, and attempted to woo her. He ordered the nuns to leave them alone and lock the doors, then he tried to seduce her, and failing that, to force her to lie with him.

I shook with rage at the picture of this libertine putting his hands on my sister—his
stepmother!
The very heavens themselves condemned this ancient abomination. The First Gentleman of France, as he called himself, was a perverted beast. Let Mary be found with child, so that France would be delivered from his evil reign! And let Brandon act as her champion to free her from the prison that Francis had put her in.

“Pray God, Katherine,” I said, when I recounted Mary’s plight to her. “I know he hears your prayers.”

“Not always,” she said. “But I will pray nonetheless.”

God answered her prayers, but in a disastrous way. For Brandon rescued Mary by marrying her himself, with Francis’s connivance.

“Traitor!” I screamed, when I read his letter. “Traitor!”

For the tenth time I reread the words:

My Lord, so it is that when I came to Paris I heard many things which put me in great fear, and so did the Queen both; and the Queen would never let me be in rest till I had granted her to be married. And so to be plain with you, I have married her heartily and have lain with her, insomuch that I fear me lest she be with child.

Now I knew them all by heart. No need to keep this foul document. I flung it into the fire, where it quickly writhed, blackened, and withered.

“He’s robbed me of a sister!”

“I think it was rather ... noble of him to do what he did,” said Katherine timidly, for she had learned not to contradict me in my rages.

“In Spain such things may pass for noble. In England they are regarded as foolhardy and dangerous.”

“He rescued a princess in distress, whose honour was being threatened.”

“He robbed me of a valuable property to be used in marriage negotiations ! Now I have no one to use as bait for treaties, no one, as we are childless, and—”

“Can you not rejoice for them, and their happiness? Henry, once you would have. Oh, remember the boy who wrote,