The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers (31 page)

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Authors: Margaret George

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“Yes, yes, of course.” He scurried away to do my bidding.
Now the hall was cleared and the guests began to mill about and talk—not the least about the King’s strange behaviour, first in elevating his bastard son, and then in cutting short the celebratory banquet.
There was no sign of her. No sign of a bright yellow dress among all those revellers, and I searched for yellow; I could see a yellow purse or sash or neckband from a hundred feet away. Yellow danced before my eyes like a mocking field of butterflies. But no one with long black hair in a yellow gown.
I was angry; I was bored; I wanted to be gone. I also felt stifled in the Great Hall. It was too low-ceilinged, and thereby oppressive. The windows did not admit enough light. This was not a confessional, it was a place for gaiety!
I must have light and air! What possessed Wolsey to build such a box? Was it to remind him of his priestly past? I shoved my way over to the side doors and pushed them open. Heat, like a living thing, poured in. It was hot as the Holy Land outside. Even the air was heavy, worse than that inside the Great Hall.
Then I saw them in the garden. I saw a yellow dress, and a slim young girl inside it; I saw her holding hands with a tall, gawky youth, and I saw her—
her!
—lean forward to kiss him. They were standing before the flower garden, and all about them were yellow flowers. Yellow dress, yellow flowers, hot yellow sun, even yellow dandelions at my feet. I slammed the door.
Wolsey came toward me, clutching a yellowed letter. “I thought you might like to read—”
I dashed it from his hands. “No!”
He was stricken. “But it is the history of the land of Hampton Court, when it was still called the Hospitallers’ Preceptory, and owned by the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem—”
Poor Wolsey! He had made a grand offering, and I had trampled on it. I retrieved the letter. “Later, perhaps.” I swung open the door again; once again the sultry air of a foreign land swam in. The flower garden, some fifty feet away, shimmered in the light and heat. The yellow-clad figure was still there, and the tall boy was no longer letting her kiss him; he was embracing her. They stood very still; only the air danced around them.
“Who is that?” I said, as if I had seen them for the first time.
“Anne Boleyn, Your Majesty,” he said. “And Henry Percy. Young Percy is heir to the Earl of Northumberland. A fine lad; he’s in my service. His father sent him to learn under me. He and Boleyn‘s—pardon me, Sire, Viscount Rochford’s—daughter are betrothed. Or rather, the betrothal will be announced once Percy’s father comes south. You know how difficult it is for those on the border to travel—”
“I forbid it!” I heard myself saying.
Wolsey stared.
“I said I forbid the marriage! It cannot take place!”
“But, Your Majesty, they have already—”
“I do not carnd B1; Ah, but years later how I was to wish I had allowed him to complete that particular sentence! “I said I will not permit this marriage! It is ... unsuitable.”
“But, Your Majesty ... what shall I tell Percy?”
They were still in the garden, hugging. Now he was toying with her hair. A grin spread over his silly face. Or was it a grin? The rising heat made it difficult to see.
“You, who have no trouble telling kings and emperors and popes what to do?” I began to laugh again, too loudly. “You cannot speak to a—a”—I thought hard for the image the hateful Percy boy evoked in me—“a silly, long-legged bird—a stork?”
I slammed the door and shut out the vision and the heat. Wolsey was discomfited.
“A boy? You fear to face a boy?” I taunted him. “And yet you would have been Pope?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I’ll tell him.”
Now I was surrounded by the press of people. Uncomfortable inside, tormented outside. Clearly, I must leave. The banqueting hall was a vise, pressing down upon me. Without thinking, I said, “I’ll have it all pulled down, and put up a new Great Hall.” Wolsey looked even more unhappy. Obviously something had gone wrong in his plans to impress me.
Agitated and not myself at all, I pulled out the deed to Hampton Court. “I thank you for your gift,” I said. “But you may stay here as long as you live. It is still yours.”
He looked like a stricken calf spared just as he approaches the slaughterhouse. (Why could I think only of animal images that day?) He had made his gesture and it had been duly registered, yet he did not have to pay the price.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” He bowed low.
“Break the betrothal,” I said, pushing past him.
As I rode toward the river, where the royal barge waited, I became uncomfortably aware of the yellow marigolds bordering the courtyard. And once I was on board, bankside yellow buttercups mocked me all the way back to London, as they lay bright and open under the new summer sun.
A month passed. I heard nothing of the matter from Wolsey, did not see the new Viscount Rochford or his daughter. It was high summer, my usual time for sport and athletic practise, yet I found myself unable to lose myself in either. Instead I was sunk in self-evaluation and gloom.
I thought: I am now thirty-five years old. At my age my father had fought for, and won, a crown. He had ended the wars. He had produced a son and a daughter. He had put down rebellions, trounced pretenders. What have I done? Nothing that posterity would note. When latter-day historians wrote my history, they would say nothing beyond “he succeeded his father, Henry VII....”
I was a man imprisoned, feeling helpless, borne along against my will. True, I could command banquets and even armies, and order men to transfer from this post to that—it yet remained a fact that I was a prisoner in the truest sense. In my marriage, in my childlessness, in what I could and could not do. Would Father have been ashamed of me? What would
he
have done under my circumstances? Incredibly, I longed to talk with him, consult him.
Alternating with theary moods were acute longings to see Mistress Boleyn. Over and over I pictured her as she stood on the platform (I did not care to think of her in the garden with Percy), until the actual picture in my mind began to fade like a garment left too long to dry in the sun. I had thought of her so much I could no longer see her in my mind.
Clearly, I must see her again. To what end? That I did not ask myself. For yet another fading picture? No. That I knew. If I saw her again, it would not be for a brief glimpse, but for—what?
 
I sent for Wolsey. His discreet diplomatic summaries had arrived at my work room in a never-ending stream, but there was no mention of the personal commission I had given him. Had he failed to execute it?
Wolsey arrived promptly on the hour. He was, as usual, perfectly groomed and garbed and perfumed. By the time he reached me in my inner room, he was alone and free of his ever-present attendants, of which he had as many as I.
“Your Majesty,” he said, bending low, as always. He straightened and awaited my questions on Francis, Charles, the Pope.
“Henry Percy—” I began, then found myself suddenly embarrassed. I did not want Wolsey to know how important this was to me. “The unfortunate affair between the Earl of Northumberland’s son and Viscount Rochford’s daughter—I trust it has been terminated. I told you to attend to it.”
He moved toward me—surprisingly swift for someone so bulky—and made motions for me to come closer.
“Yes. It is over,” he said confidentially. “Although it was quite a stormy end. I called young Percy to me and told him how unseemly it was for him to have entangled himself with a foolish girl like Mistress Boleyn—”
By this time he was at my side, breathing heavily. Did I wince when he referred to Anne as a “foolish girl”? I noted his eye upon me.
“—without permission from his father. In fact, I said”—here he drew himself up to full height, and puffed up like a pig’s bladder—“‘ I myself know that your father will be mightily displeased, as he has arranged another and much more suitable betrothal for you.’ Then the lad turned pale and looked as awkward as a child.... Your Majesty, are you unwell?” Wolsey solicitously rushed to me as I took a seat in the nearest chair, albeit shakily.
“No,” I said curtly. “Pray continue.”
“Ah, then. I had to shame him ere he consented. To threaten him, even. He claimed he and the Lady Boleyn had—what were his words?—‘in this matter gone so far before so many worthy witnesses I know not how to withdraw myself nor to relieve my conscience.’ So I said—”
Had he possessed her? Is that what he meant? I gripped the carved chair-arms until one sharp piece seemed to cut into my fingers.
“—‘Surely you know the King and I can deal with a matter as inconsequential as this. We who have dealt with the Emperor, and drawn up the treaty of—’ ”
“Yes, Wolsey. Then what happened?”
He looked frustrated to be denied yet another chance to recite his diplomatic triumphs. But I could comr of God, would the hour of arising never come? I dared not get up, for fear of disturbing Henry Norris, the attendant who slept on a pallet at the foot of my bed. I was a prisoner in my own bed.
At last there was a stirring. The grooms of the chamber arrived to lay the fire, as they always did at six o’clock. Then came the Esquires of the Robe with my clothes for the day, duly warmed. Norris stirred on his pallet and stumbled sleepily to the door. The day had begun.
By eight I had breakfasted and was in the saddle, attended by Compton and two grooms. Even so, it would be mid-afternoon before we reached Hever. And en route I must stop and pretend to hunt, which would slow us even more.
It was July, but the day promised to be relatively cool and clear. The sky showed not a single cloud, and faint breezes rippled the long grass and made the leaves in the great oaks tremble.
How green it was! The abundant rainfall of the past two weeks had freshened and quickened every growing thing, giving us a second spring. All round me was green—underfoot in the thick grass, overhead in the great trees, turning the very sunlight green as it fought its way through layers of leaves. I was submerged in a sea of green murkiness, alternating with cool, clear openness whenever I emerged from the forest.
At length I stood on the hill above Hever Castle and looked down upon it. It was called a castle, but it was not, being but a fortified manor house, and a small one at that. A ten-foot-wide moat surrounded it, fed by a running stream which sparkled in the sunlight. I could see no one about the grounds. Were they away, then? I prayed that would not be so. But as I approached the manor house I felt more and more dispirited. It looked deserted. I had come all this way for nothing. Yet a prior announcement of my intended visit would have evoked entertainment, a banquet, and every formality I wished to avoid.
The drawbridge was down. We rode across it into the empty, cobble-stoned courtyard.
I scanned the windows on all three sides of the courtyard. There was no sign of movement behind any of them.
A large grey-and-amber mottled cat appeared from an open side door and sauntered across the courtyard. We stood awkwardly, our horses stamping and moving restlessly back and forth, their hooves making loud noises on the stones. Still no one appeared.
“Compton,” I finally said, “see if Viscount Rochford is at home.” I knew, however, that had he been there, he would long since have appeared in the courtyard, making effusive gestures of welcome. William dismounted and knocked upon the scarred center door. The knocker made a mournful sound, and no one opened the door. He made a gesture of helplessness to me and had started to return to his horse when at length the door creaked open. An old woman looked out. Compton spun around.
“His Majesty the King has come to see Viscount Rochford,” he said, grandly.
The woman looked confused. “But—he did not know—”
I urged my horse forward. “Of course not,” I said. “ ’Twas but an impulse. I was hunting nearby and took a fancy to see the Viscount. Is your master in?”
“No. He—he—went to Groombridge to inspect his tenant cottalcotold him so, and meant it. He showed me his instrument, which he said had been made in Italy, and I duly inspected it.
Lady Boleyn then appeared, and other members of the household. They bustled about and laid a fire, as it would soon be growing dark, and nights in old stone manor houses are damp and cold even in July. But where was Anne? Somehow I could not bring myself to ask.

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