The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers (41 page)

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Authors: Margaret George

BOOK: The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers
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I
t was late January, the time when cold creeps into the very walls of all dwellings, and Bridewell Palace was no exception. The sun did not even rise until well after eight o’clock, and at five in the morning it was still dark night. A raft of candles fluttered in the draught of a lonely, unfurnished room in the upper regions of the palace. The window was yet a darkened pane against which sleet drove itself. Chaplain Edward Lee stood there, looking bewildered, sleepy, and uncomfortable. The other witnesses were there, looking much the same.
I was dressed in an embroidered moss-green doublet and new fox-furred cape. The rest were in the things nearest to hand when they had received the summons to come to this attic room. No one had been notified ahead of time, for fear of the secret getting out and someone trying to stop the ceremony.
Suddenly Anne appeared. Although undoubtedly as sleepy as the rest, she appeared radiant and was wearing a light blue gown with a furred mantle over it. I reached out my hand and took hers, bringing her gently to my side.
“You may proceed with the Nuptial Mass,” I told Chaplain Lee.
“But, Your Grace, I have no permission nor instructions from His Holiness—”
“They have been received,” I lied. “You may rest assured His Holiness approves.”
Looking discomfited, he began the ancient ceremony. I clasped Anne’s hand. My head was spinning—Anne, my wife at last! No trumpets, no costumes, no eminent churchmen to conduct it. No feast or tournaments afterward. Instead, a great grey secret, with the winter wind singing outside, and the sleet flying, and Anne in no wedding gown. The candles kept flickering in the wind that found its way through the tiny gaps in the mortar. It was deathly cold; by the time we exchanged rings, my hands were numb.
Then, afterward, no fanfare. The onlookers filed silently from the room, like shades, and vanished in the early morning grey.
Anne and I were left alone. We faced one another.
“Well, wife,” I finally said. I meant to be light, jocular, but all of that faded as I looked at her: her youth, beauty, life—all mine. “Oh, Anne.” I clasped her. I was alive at last. It had been a long wait, but all was right, all destined, in that one clasp of flesh against flesh as I held my true wife to my side.
 
The next few days passed as in a phantasm. I was on earth, yet I was not. By day I signed papers and dressed as a King and behaved as a King. By night I was Anne’s husband, her secret husband.
January ended, February began. Still the Pope delayed. Nothing was forthcoming from Rome. To press further now might betray me. So I must wait—the thing I did least well.
 
Mid-February. The icicles hung long on eaves, the snow rose over boot-tops. Yet the sunset was coming later now, and I could see by the way the shadows fell that spring was not so far away. Ash Wednesday was almost upon us. And once Lent began ...
 
I gave a small dinner the Sunday before Lent. I would serve venison and wine and all those things forbidden for the next forty days. I invited only those I truly wished to see: Brandon, Carew, Ned Norris knew the contents of the “private” Papal letter.
“Does the Papal messenger know that I know he is here?”
“Of course not!” Cromwell was indignant. “That is the point. With your cooperation, we can make sure he never hands you the directive himself. Then neither he nor you need concern yourselves with its whereabouts thereafter. Clement will be relieved—to have spoken clearly without being heard by anyone.”
“Very neat.”
Cromwell permitted himself a slight smile.
 
I sent for Anne. I needed her to be my mirror.
Anne came straightway. She was as sweet as honey, yes, as soothing and easy as the melted honey-and-camphor concoctions my childhood nurse had dripped slowly down my throat when it was pained. “How goes the day for my love?” she asked.
“Not well,” I grunted, and told of the happenings thus far. She laughed at Katherine’s letter, especially at the news that she had ordered costumes with our initials entwined with love-knots. Then her laughter abruptly ceased, and pain crossed her face.
“Poor forsaken woman,” she said slowly. “ ’Tis hard past bearing to continue to love someone who will have none of you.” I looked at her sharply, but she seemed to be talking to herself. “The Irish have a triad.
Three things that are worse than sorrow: to wait to die, and to die not; to try to please, and to please not; to wait for someone who comes not.”
“You are the cause of my not coming to her. Can you now pity her?” I wondered.
“Yes, and no. No, in that I would not undo it. Yes, in that I may someday be in her place.”
The idea was absurd. Anne, fat and fifty and spending her days in prayer and calling after a man who ignored her? Never. Anne would rather be dead.
“Enough of this talk,” I said. And I told her about the Papal order.
“So now we play hide-and-seek with him?” she asked gleefully.
“A game at which you excel. Now you shall teach me your tricks, my love.”
I looked forward to seeing her put someone else in the position where she had held me for so many years a prisoner—where I could admire and benefit from her prowess rather than being tortured by it.
Dusk was falling. Soon Norris brought in our supper and fresh wood for the fire. It was cosy and close. Anne smiled at Norris as he discreetly performed his duties. His presence did not intrude, yet he managed to make us aware that he was there, lest we say private things in front of him.
The fire crackled; the heat seeped through my veins. I was warmed inside and out, and discreet and functionary as he doubtlessly was, I was glad when Norris cleared away our dishes, added one or two fragrant logs to the fire, and pointedly retired for the night.
I took Anne to my bed, where yet another thoughtful servant had smoothed the fresh linen for us.
“Ah, wife,” I said, lying back in her ed ins soft as a maid’s breasts? It made no sense. My loins were throbbing, but flaccid.
I wrenched myself away, covering myself in an agony of embarrassment. But Anne knew; of course she did. If she spoke a word, it would hang between us forever.
“Go!” I said. “Go quickly.”
 
Alone in my chamber, I sat staring at the fire. Its jumping, fragrant flames mocked me.
My glance fell on the letter from Katherine, still lying on the chest-top. I picked it up and tossed it on the fire. As I did so, I could not suppress a bitter laugh. We do not always know for what we long.
The next morning, in bright sunlight, it seemed a singular event, nothing permanent or significant. I whistled as Norris dressed me, and even complimented him on the sweet-smelling fire he had built for us.
“I hope it added to your pleasure,” he said modestly.
I managed a great smile that felt real to me. “Indeed!”
He looked pleased.
“I trust the Papal messenger spent an unproductive night?” I was relieved to have this topic to turn to.
“ Aye. ”
“Where is he now?”
“Breaking his fast with the Duke of Suffolk.”
Ha! I chortled at that. Charles Brandon hated the Pope almost as much as I, though he had far less cause. Rome had most obligingly granted him annulments of two previous marriages, setting an encouraging example for me at the start of my own negotiations.
“I believe Brandon believes—or so he will tell Clement’s envoy-that I am hunting in New Forest, some two or three days hence. He must seek to find me there.”
“I shall so remind him,” Norris said, his face showing no surprise at these instructions. Even then I wondered how he had taught himself such a trick. He bowed and left to carry my message to Suffolk’s house.
I hoped the Papal pet would enjoy his fruitless hunting trip. Perhaps a wild boar would cooperate and yield him some meat, though not the meat he was seeking.
That meat must now attire itself for another day, I thought, heaving myself up; it must apply the sauces and garnishes to make itself palatable to its onlookers.
Before I had finished this overlong task, Cromwell begged leave to see me. Gladly I sent the barber and perfumier away, particularly the latter. He had been offering several new scents for my pleasure, “to stir the sluggish winter blood.” But they served only to remind me of what had
not
stirred the night before. Now the offending odours hung in the air, heavy, accusing. Muttering, I turned to greet Cromwell.
“Your Grace!” He had a grin on his face, and it sat so strangely on him that I felt it boded ill.
“What is it?” I tried to keep the alarm out of my voice.
“Your Grace, I have here-our deliverance.” He flung out his arms, and two ancet receive them! Say you were not allowed admittance to my chamber. You
fool!
”
He shook his head, laughing, and came toward me, striding through the repulsive “winter blood” perfume-cloud like Moses through the Red Sea. “Nay, Your Majesty—all your prayers are answered.” His voice was soft.
“The bulls,” I whispered. “The bulls!”
“Yes.” He handed them to me reverently. “They just arrived at Dover on a midnight ship. The messenger rode straight here.”
I unrolled them quickly and spread them out. It was true. Pope Clement had approved Thomas Cranmer as Archbishop of Canterbury and accepted his ordination.
“Crum!” The nickname was born in that moment of exhilaration and complicity.
“Congratulations, Your Majesty.” Again the eerie grin. “This means you have won.”
I stared down at the parchment, at the Latin, at the heavy signature.
I had won.
It had taken six years since the first “enquiry” into my matrimonial case. The coveted parchment now felt so light, so attainable. Six years. Lesser men would have turned back, been intimidated, counted the costs. Lesser men would not now, in March of 1533, be holding the parchment that Henry VIII of England now held.
It would be the last time I ever required approval or permission from another person to do or not to do anything.
“Yes. I have won.”
“And how does it feel?”
“It feels right.”

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