The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers (82 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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Brandon frowned. “Were there any other witnesses?”
“None.”
“Set a watch, then. Else you
will
go mad, and she’ll have done what she set out to do.”
I nodded.
“She hates you,” Brandon said. “She wishes you to come to ruin. Remember that. Thwart her.”
“But why
Catherine?”
I burst out. “Why not anyone else? I swear, no one else has risen to walk!” I dared not name them, lest that call them forth. Buckingham. Anne. George Boleyn. More. Fisher. Aske. Smeaton. Weston. Norris. Brereton. Dudley. Empson. Neville. Carew. Cromwell. De la Pole. Margaret Pole.
“They were not possessed of the Evil One,” he said smoothly. “Only the Evil One gives power beyond the grave.”
“Anne—”
He could not answer. “Perhaps her soul reincarnated in her cousin Catherine. ”
I shook so profoundly I could not stop. Brandon encircled me with his great, heavy arm. “Your list of regrets is no longer than that of any other man,” he said slowly. “We live with them. We do not go mad, or sink into melancholy.” Still my shaking went on, gathering force. “Regrets. No one sets out to have a list of regrets. It is a mortal condition.”
Father, amongst his bloodied handkerchiefs-how I had despised him.
“What now?” I shook my head wildly. “So I now find myself where ordinary men do. But what does a king do?”
“A king spits on the regrets,” laughed Brandon.
Then I, too, began to laugh, and the trembling stopped.
I set six unimaginative Kentish soldiers to stand guard in the Long Gallery. I especially noted how dull of wit and irreligious they were, and posted them with the simple instructions that they were to keep watch all night, relieving one another at two-hour intervals. On no account were they to sleep, and they were to report to me any noises or stirrings they even suspected.
“For it has been said that this cold winter has forced an unusual number of ra>
“Any unusual stirring,” I repeated.
They nodded. Did they truly understand?
I thought my story quite clever. No madman could be so clever. It sounded quite logical and would net me the information I sought.
 
On the second night I heard the ghost. Its shriekings were quite clear. I cracked open the great doors and looked ... and saw the apparition,
like
Catherine but
not
Catherine. It merely used her externals. The guardsmen were flailing at it; one stabbed at the air as if to pierce her breast. The other just leapt about like a dazed frog.
I closed the doors. Others had seen it walk. I was not alone. I was not mad.
The next morning the guards claimed they had seen nothing, heard nothing, and had passed a tranquil night.
Liars. Liars. I was surrounded by liars, cowards, enemies who painted every aspect of life false. To what end?
I thanked them and bade them remain on duty for yet another week, just to be sure.
“For if there be rats, we must exterminate them.”
They agreed. “One quiet night does not guarantee that they are not present.” I looked into their eyes. There was no reluctance there to pass another night on the gallery. Where had this generation got such hardened hearts?
 
Every night I heard the ghost. Every morning the guards reported an uneventful night. At the end of the eighth day I paid them, thanked them for their honesty and perseverance, and let them go.
“No poisons, then,” I said merrily.
“Nothing to poison,” they agreed.
No. One cannot poison a ghost. One can only poison others’ opinions, and my behaviour at the Valentine’s banquet had done that. Well, no matter. I would set about sweetening them. People’s minds were like wells. First they run clear, then become polluted—but one can always counteract the pollution. Just thrchoose from.” Before the meal even appeared, I was issuing disclaimers for it.
“Five loaves and two fishes?” she laughed.
“About that,” I admitted.
The bread, made from late-winter rye, was thick and heavy. The drink, made from the same, was nourishing. And yes, there was carp: universal late-winter dish.
“Who minds the carp pools now that the monasteries are abandoned?” she asked, matter-of-factly. It was the monks who had developed elaborate fish hatcheries, and made carp a standard part of the winter diet.
“Villagers. But we are not so dependent on carp any longer, now that there is less fasting.”
“A foolish Popish custom,” she said briskly. “I am happy that you abolished much of that, my Lord.”
“But I have not abolished enough?” I chose my words carefully.
She chose hers with equal prudence. “Things are progressing. True things must build on a foundation.”
“What were you reading?” I asked abruptly. “Or, rather, attempting to read?” I indicated her book.
“Private devotions,” she said, handing me the book. “Some of the meditations were—I composed some of them myself.”
I glanced at it. Key words—“faith,” “Scripture,” “blood,” “justification” —branded it Protestant. “Have a care, Kate,” I warned gently, handing it back to her.
She winced at the name. “No one has ever called me Kate,” she said stiffly.
“No? But it is a happy name, as you are happy. A young name, as you are young.” Was I the only one to have ever seen that side of her? “But if you prefer, I shall return to ‘Lady Parr.’ ”
She did not contradict me. “You invited me, Your Majesty, because you had something for me?”
The Valentine’s present: a section of Ovid, and his treatise on love. I had thought she would enjoy translating it. I saw now how utterly inappropriate it would be, how boorish.
“You are my Valentine,” I said, thinking as quickly as I could. “We should exchange tokens, and I was remiss in withholding mine.”
“You were ill, my Lord,” she quickly reminded me.
“Yes, yes. Well, I have here”—sweet Jesu, what
did
I have?—“a jewel. A ruby ring.” Red. Valentine’s. Yes, it would do.
“I am in mourning,” she said.
“We had agreed, as Christians, you were not.” I delved into the leather pouch I kept in my private chest, my fingers searching for the ruby. “Here.”
Reluctantly she took it. “This is not from a shrine?”
“It is not Becket’s ruby, if that is what you fear! A ruby cannot be divided and retain its roundness. Surely you knew that? No, if you must know its origins—this is the girlhood ring of my dear sister Mary. Take it, and wear it in innocenceld be,ont>
“Yes. At last.”
“The sun will warm you, will heal you. I know it. You have waited a long time.”
“I have forgotten the sun. In truth, England feels like home to me. I came here briefly, so I thought. I would serve my time and then go back to the sun, the flowers, the black-and-white of Spanish noon. But I made the mistake of coming to love the Princess of Aragon. I could see her as that young girl, setting out for England—and I wanted to serve her.”
“That you did.” I released him, old bony man. “You saw her as that Princess when to everyone else she was a dowager. Well ...” I closed my eyes, bade the images go. “We all need our champions.” I had none, but no one need know that. “Your master, the Emperor ... think you he will implement the Papal bull against me? Heed the call to holy war?”
“You and I both know that if he did not rise on behalf of his aunt, he will scarce stir now. Although he has become more pious and religious of late, that is offset by the turmoil in Germany and the Low Countries. Protestantism there ... it is
that
which he will battle, not England’s. You are quite safe from the Emperor,” he conceded. “Only pray do not tell him I said so.”
I embraced him again. “Naturally not.”
“One thing more, Your Majesty.” Chapuys pulled back. “The Princess Mary. Is she to be married soon?”
“I cannot see how that may be. Until the French and the Emperor recognize the importance of an alliance—”
“She is distraught. She
needs
a husband. I speak as a friend, not as an ambassador or as her conspirator. She is twenty-six years old, Your Grace, no longer a child, and soon will pass her childbearing years. Oh, have mercy on her!”
I was astonished at this outburst. “But to whom shall I marry her? A prince of—”
“A duke, a count, anyone! His orthodoxy does not matter! Only see her as a woman, a woman in desperate need of a husband and children. My master, the Emperor, would be irate if he heard me speak thus. But if you loved her as a child ... Your Grace, her needs are no less now! Only you can free her. She needs to love someone, something. Else her natural goodness will grow all crooked.”
Mary. For so many years, an enchanting child. Then a pawn in the war between Katherine and myself. Then—a nothing. I had not thought of her needs, I had been so assiduous in meeting my own. I had thought she would keep, keep until I was at peace.
Nothing keeps. It grows grotesque, or it withers.
“You speak true,” I said. “She is terribly alone.” Strange I had not realized it. I had ascribed strength and happiness all about me where it did not exist.
Mary. I had loved her so, but when she took Katherine’s side I had thrust her aside. What was missing in me, to change allegiances so swiftly? Perhaps the madness reached far back, in an absence of normal feeling.
Madness. No, I was not mad. But these pounding headaches! Where was my head-medicine, the syrup that quieted these ragings? I would have a draught now. The servitor brought it. The pretty emerald syrup. It would course through my veins in time for the next audience.
 
“Monsieur le Ambassador, Marillac, awaits his audience.”
So he was here already? Very well, then. “We are ready,” I said.
Monsieur Marillac came into the Audience Chamber. He was virtually a stranger to me, having come to England only a few months previous. Francis did not allow any envoy to remain long enough to form a personal bond with me. Was it because he feared my charm, my influence?
“Your Majesty.” He dropped to one knee, then raised his face toward mine, smiling. Such a pretty smile he had.
Wolsey had had a pretty smile. Oh, and such a servile manner, all flattering and obsequious at once.
Wolsey ... there was no more Wolsey.
“We welcome you, Monsieur Marillac. ’Tis pity we have become so slightly acquainted with you, in all these weeks you have been on our soil. Come closer, Monsieur, and let me see you.” I examined his face, his costume. He was stout and placid, that much could I determine. The sort of man with whom I could make no headway. Rather like assaulting one of my new fortifications near the Isle of Wight—I had designed them massive, round, impregnable, and entirely modern, that is, given over to gun-defence and cannon-strategy. No romance or chivalry about them. So, too, this Frenchman.
“How does my brother Francis?” I asked quickly.
“Not well, I fear,” he said. “He is stricken with the sorrow that has afflicted Your Majesty.”

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