by G Lawrence
1509
London
We reached London by the afternoon and were to stay in rented lodgings that our father had provided. There would be great celebrations and the eve of coronation procession would pass right by our rooms. We were to watch the King and Queen passing by us on their way to the Chapel of St Stephen, where they would undertake the customary vigil before their coronations the next day in Westminster Abbey. Mary, George and I were so excited by the prospect of seeing the King and Queen that we found it difficult to compose ourselves and behave in the manner expected of us, but a few cold, harsh glances from our father on our arrival helped us in that respect. There was a long balcony that stuck out into the town from the second story of our rented town house. It was from here we could watch the celebrations and the procession.
How can I describe London on that day to you? It was the day before this young gallant of such promise was to truly become our King, in the eyes of God. There was such excitement in the air; it seemed to crackle like thunder in the skies in summer before a storm breaks. I had never seen the city of London before, none of us children had. The great, imposing buildings were so vast and so numerous that I felt I should be swallowed whole by the city, if it were not for the skies still stretching above me. I have seen other cities since that day, but then, I had seen nothing so vast, so unwieldy, so glorious. My eyes were overwhelmed with the sights and sounds of London.
There were so many people about us, and so many smells; many of them awful, many wonderful. There was the scent of horse sweat, stale ale, and earthy mud; the rotten smell of waste, pig’s blood and urine, which ran down the streets into the fetid gutters. Those smells mixed with the fresh, mouth-watering scents of herbs, fresh laundered clothing, baking bread, crisp rich wine, spices frying, meats roasting, and pies crisping from the many kitchens, all preparing feasts to celebrate the coronation. Everywhere there were people on their way to somewhere else. Everywhere there was noise and smells and talk. I felt so overpowered that I knew not what to think. All I could do was to stare, my young eyes wide and goggling at every sight and sound. The city was busy with life, and life owned that city. Life ran through its veins and filled even its shadows with sparkling wonder. People were busy everywhere; servants running across the crowded streets, people standing, talking and gesticulating on the street corners and everywhere, everywhere there was the loud babble of conversation and of laughter.
London was ready to embrace the season of frivolity that had descended upon it as the young King Henry emerged to take his throne.
George, Mary, and I watched from that balcony and we watched with round eyes all the comings and goings on the streets. There were wonders to behold at every glance. Wine flowed from fountains in the street where there should have been water; some was red as blood, red-rich liquid flowing into waiting wooden cups, and some was white like fine diamonds, shimmering clear in the bright, cool sunlight. There were sweetmeats, fine blocks of hard marmalade and sugared almonds for us to nibble on as we viewed the crowds from our vantage point. We sipped small ale and watered wine as we watched lords in bright clothing and ladies in fines dresses. Litters flanked by running servants ran the course of the muddy streets, lords talked and jested together, their servants always close-by awaiting orders for more wine or food to fill their master’s stomachs. Men pissed against walls, women sang in the street, merchants stalls creaked, weighted down with fine cloth, meats or spices, and doxies plied their wares from the shadows at the side of the streets. Merchant’s children played with balls and bats, peasants begged for food or coin, young scholars walked side by side in dark clothing, great horses trotted along the damp cobbles with brightly-dressed lords upon their backs and everywhere was noise; honking, snorting, baying, shouting, jesting, talking and laughing… all mingled together like the strangest choir ever heard on earth!
The streets were hung with cloths of red and white and green, the colours of the royal house of Tudor. The houses of the streets of London looked as though each layer had been stacked upon each other with little planning, and every house, no matter how mean, had some form of decoration dangling from its windows or doors. There was cloth of gold and of silver, and even whole tapestries hung from the richest houses in honour of the coronation. The streets were decorated all along the route to Westminster Abbey and up to Westminster Palace where the new King would take up his seat as crowned and anointed sovereign of England on the morrow. We were too young and too unimportant to join the service at the Abbey, but we should see the royal couple today. Our father had already left us to ride to the court; he was to be made a Knight of the Bath this night, a great honour for our family, and for him. The Knights of the Bath was an ancient and prestigious order; the new knights would enter a ceremony of cleansing, then rise from their baths before the new King, who would anoint them in their new titles as they stood naked before him. It was a great honour to be chosen, and a mark of our father’s rising position within the court. We watched him leave us to take his place beside the King in the procession with eyes wide with awe. Our father was a grand noble indeed, we thought, on that auspicious day.
The procession of the eve of the coronation started out later than expected, most likely due to organising the huge numbers of people assembling for it. It was a fine, bright, evening and was quite warm, but we children were having some trouble containing our excitement. We stood with bated breath waiting for the first signs that the royal couple were to come. When we first heard the procession coming, we thought that it would be with us in moments, but it was a good hour or two before the first of the grand convoy rode slowly into the streets near us. There were many entertainments, small plays, choirs and masques for the King and Queen to admire along the way to the Chapel, and they stopped to hear and see them all. They knew that their people had gone to great efforts to honour them, and they wanted to reward them with their attention.
George and Mary and I itched with anticipation and excitement, struggling to obey our mother’s commands to remain still and be patient.
As the first column of the King’s procession approached us, I gasped, and I was not alone. It was as though a wall of gold and silver were coming towards us. The great clothes, ornaments and canopies that were worn and held aloft by the King’s vast procession were overwhelmingly bright and stunning. For a moment I thought that the sun had fallen from the skies and had landed in the streets of London. Faced with such magnificence, at first, the crowd was silent in wonder, but then there was a great cry, as joy and admiration burst forth from the mouths of those around us in a tumult of deafening cheers. It was as though a mighty dragon had lifted its head and roared. We three children added our voices to the thunderous cries, as did our mother and the servants standing behind us. Our hands lifted above our heads, waving in excitement, our voices deafening even the storm gods of old.
We claimed the King for ourselves in that moment. He was ours, even as we were his.
And there in the middle of this vast retinue of richness, was the one person we wished to see above all others. I shouted in excitement as I spied the golden head of the new King himself. Mary and I grabbled at each other, bouncing up and down in excitement, caught in the thrill of exhilaration. George continued to roar, trying to emulate the knights and lords in the crowds; too much of a man to scream and squeal like his sisters. Our mother put a hand on our shoulders to quiet us, but she was smiling at us, even as she reminded us to act as ladies should.
I could see him now, I could see the King; this great man of whom we had been told; a new king for a new England, where goodness and chivalry would overcome poverty and evil. He had been made a knight when he was but a babe, had been a prince since he came forth of his mother’s womb, and now he was eighteen years old, and the King. And what a king he was! It was almost too dazzling to the eyes to look on him!
He wore his crimson velvet robes of Parliament, lined at the collar with ermine over a coat made of dazzling cloth of gold. He was tall an
d proud, but friendly and affable, for he lifted his hand often to acknowledge the roar of the crowds. His rings of gold and precious gems caught the light of the afternoon sun as he waved. There was a great collar about his neck that shone like red fire, made of great ballas rubies and gold. His beautiful horse, covered in cloth of gold like its master, and walking under a canopy of yet more cloth of gold, moved with him seamlessly, unperturbed by the cries of the hundreds of people around him. The horse was as calm as if it were simply taking a walk in the open country. It trusted its master well. The King and his horse moved as though their minds were one. Henry was, all his life, a great and gifted horseman.
Ahead of the King, marking his path, rode the Duke of Buckingham, wearing both rich clothing and a sour expression that I did not understand at the time; but many did, and noted it. For in Buckingham flowed the blood of royalty too, he was descended from kings who had ruled England before the Tudors. In Henry too, through his mother Elizabeth of York, this blood flowed, but yet some would always say that in Buckingham the blood was purer… and none believed that more than Buckingham himself. An accident of history and of birth had seen this man of royal blood born to the ducal position he held now, rather than that which some said he longed for instead… to be the King himself. And so, that tart expression, which Buckingham seemed unable to hide, perhaps graced his face for the simple reason that he believed he should sit where Henry VIII did now. These were dangerous things to think on… they could be the last thoughts any man dared to consider.
But such thoughts of treason and usurpation were far from most minds that day; we were suffused with the glory of the procession.
The men who were to become Knights of the Bath rode behind the Duke, our father amongst them. Their robes were blue as the skies in summer, with white laces on their shoulders. Our mother told us that they must have these robes taken from them by a lady once they had completed a feat of arms to prove their honour, and at that point, open-mouthed and full of wonder, all three of us children felt our father was not only a knight, but a hero. For to complete a quest, for his own honour and the honour of a lady of the court, made him as one of Arthur’s knights in our eyes. But all these other men, even our own father, were truly but distractions; for it was the King we leaned and strained over the balcony to see. Although we could not see him well from where we were, we were told of his handsome face; we were told of his magnificence and his easy, friendly ways with noble and commoner alike. We could see the adoration of the crowds. We could feel the pleasure he gave.
Henry VIII, Henry Octavus shone like the sun. He warmed the hearts of his people with his presence. He was followed by banners showing the arms of royal saints; St Edward, St Edmund, and St George. At their back came the arms of the royal houses of both England and France. If anyone had required an indication of the intentions of this bold young king, there it was, fluttering in the light breeze at his back as he rode to take his crown. The titles of the King of France had long since, the English believed at least, been theirs by right and this young king rode to his coronation displaying the arms of France as his own. In time we would come to see that this daring young man would indeed seek to reclaim his hereditary titles as King of France, but sadly for Henry, the days of English military glory on the shores of France, were all but gone. We did not know it then, nor did he… but he would never become the lord of war he so desired to be… unlike his father.
Knights and lords, stars of the court and of the jousting fields followed in the wake of the King. He was surrounded by the love of his people. He was ours, our King; our future. I had never seen anyone or anything as magnificent as he.
As his procession tailed out of sight, and we stretched and craned our necks to see the last glimpses of his golden head, and golden cavalcade, I felt a sadness so acute that it wrung my young heart quite inside out. This great man was gone, and I longed to see him again. When I could see no more of the King’s procession, I sat back on my heels and felt my heart drop within me. Although I longed to continue to cheer him as others did, I felt so sad not to have him within my sights any more that I thought I might never know what it was to be happy again. Such are the emotions of the very young; we bleed so easily, and yet recover with equal speed from our sorrows.
The Queen’s procession came after that of the King. After Henry’s entry, the Queen’s arrival was never going to be as brilliant or thrilling; nothing could be, after all… but it was beautiful too, if more sedate. Besides, we too wished to see this princess who had been saved by our new hero-king from her life of loneliness and misery and made a queen. She was a romantic figure to us all, I think.
Queen Katherine rode in a horse-drawn litter, dressed in purple, cloth-of-gold and rich furs. She was young, pretty and flushed with happiness, her auburn hair loose about her shoulders and a simple circlet of silk, gold and pearls about her head. The crowds adored her. Of course the crowds loved her! They loved her for the same reason we wished to see her. She was the tragic, romantic figure who had languished in relative poverty and obscurity for years. Until, that is, our new handsome King swept in and married her. It was a role that we all found Henry rather enjoyed, playing the hero knight, wanting to be seen to rescue princesses and maids at all turns. The reality would turn out rather differently to these child-like imaginings. But now, our new queen was a pretty young woman, recently married to the most handsome and gifted king in Christendom. She was the Queen of a great land, taken from her neglected palace and raised high.
Katherine was so happy then. She had a world of possibilities before her. And all who ever knew Henry’s love, basked in its warmth… while it lasted.
It was as Queen Katherine’s procession passed below us that a sudden darkness gathered in the skies above. There was a great cracking sound above us and, as if from nowhere, the heavens opened and a fierce shower of giant raindrops burst down upon the street.
The Queen’s retinue was suddenly soaked. Her weighty canopy, dressed in thick threads of gold and silver and decorated with jewels suddenly threatened to smother her as it grew heavy with water, flopping on her and about her like a great sea monster intent on swallowing its prey whole. We were hauled back into the house away from the downpour, under deep protest, as our new pretty queen had to take shelter under a humble draper’s stall.
We wondered if it were an omen; such a sudden storm on an otherwise perfect day… a tempest of rain falling on the procession of the new King and Queen. It could be a herald of some doom to come, or so the servants whispered. But the shower passed as quickly as it came and soon the procession continued. The talk of omens turned to the sudden, quick shower of rain as a happy omen; perhaps it meant that any troubles would be ended as swiftly as the rains had, for this lovely young couple. The happiness of the crowds was infectious and no one wanted to see anything wrong with this day. Gaiety was resumed and there were cheers again as the water ceased to fall. The Queen resumed her position under her rather wet canopy and waved, smiling bravely to the crowds once again. She shouted something out to those nearest to her, and my mother smiled and laughed, clapping her hands together in approval. I asked her what the Queen had shouted to her servants. My mother smiled and said that the Queen was wise, for her words, as she laughingly went back to her triumphant procession had been: “In the skies of life, some rain is bound to fall!”
The procession continued and again the crowds roared in support. Katherine was glorious; bright and attentive to the crowds. She waved happily as she passed and even offered a wave up to us, three wide-eyed children leaning precariously over the balcony, waving back to her with all their might.
She did not know then how much sadness those three children were to bring to her life. She did not know that one, the small dark-haired girl, waving to her with lively hands, was to become the author of her destruction.
But these things were of the future; we did not know what was to become of us then.
We were so excited to have glimpsed even this
fleeting image of the King that we were to talk of nothing more than that for a long time afterwards. Later that night, we were allowed to honour the new King and Queen, cheering their names and calling blessings on them, as we drank wine at our table within the rented house. From outside, we could hear the joy of the people. Great bonfires burned in the streets of London and lit the skies. All through the streets there was shouting, drinking, the squeals of wanton women, singing and bawdy laughter. For tonight was not only the eve of the coronation, it was Midsummer’s Eve, a night when many had been known to undertake a risky adventure in the name of love.
George and Mary and I were awake much later than normal and for a while it seemed almost that we may be allowed to be up all night, as long as we did not alert our mother to that fact. Our father was keeping his knightly vigil near the King in St Stephen’s Chapel and our mother was merry and lively with her servants. We feasted and sang and danced in the chambers of that joyous house in London. No one spoke of sending us to our beds, and we did not seek to remind any of the lateness of the hour. But soon enough, the excitement of the day overtook us children with weariness, and the lids of our eyes grew heavy as our mother told us stories by the fireside. I fell asleep in my chair and knocked my fine cup across the floor, which awoke me with a start. George, who had also been secretly half-slumbering, fell from his stool swearing oaths for which he was reprimanded. That was my mother’s sign to put us to bed. We clambered in between the fine, cool sheets of linen, with warm woollen blankets over the top and lay back in pallet beds on two layers of mattress, one stuffed with hay and sweet-smelling lady’s bedstraw, and then one of soft feather-down on top. In such warm and comfortable beds, even with the excitement of the day still wending through our blood, we began to dream; to dream of this new era, this new time. A great time was here, and we would be able to see it all. We thought ourselves the most fortunate of all the peoples of the earth, to have such a glorious king ascend to the throne of England.
