The Autobiography of Henry 8

by Margaret George

  I was not thinking at all; my mind had died and in itaited for her for over half a decade; I knew she was here tonight, and yielding to me. Beyond that I had no thoughts.

  She was passive, yet not passive—a yielding sort of presence. She too knew what was coming, and yet could not resist it. She embraced it as she embraced me.

  The coming together on the cushions before the fire was like a flame, a shaking of the soul. Even as it happened, in some far-off corner of myself I heard an inner voice saying, You will never be the same. It is all gone. Yet at that moment it felt as though all had just arrived. I burst upward into light, freedom, euphoria.

  Afterwards ... there is always an afterwards. Yet this one was surprisingly gentle. I came back to earth to feel Anne next to me, Anne looking into my eyes. Her eyes seemed different from those of only a few minutes past. She stroked my face. Her naked body was half covered with the furs lying near the fireplace. Only her face was as before, with her long hair framing each side of her face and providing a modest cover for her breasts.

  “Anne—I did—”

  “Shhh.” Gently she laid her fingertips to my lips to silence me, then leaned over to kiss me. “Say naught.”

  What a gift, to be allowed to say naught! To keep one’s feelings to oneself.

  Together we lay for a long time, wordlessly, until it began to grow chill and the fire was almost down. I roused myself to get another log. She reached out a butterfly-like hand and stopped me.

  “No,” she said. “Let it die. It is late.”

  Wordlessly I dressed and left. I could not speak, nor were there any words I wished to say, even to myself,

  XLVI

  The next few days in France were taken up with petty business. I attended to it all, yet I was hardly there. I could not let myself forget the three hours in Anne’s apartment, yet I circled around them in my mind as something too terrifying and sacred to touch upon. Anne herself I saw not at all. Even on our voyage back to Calais she kept to her chambers below decks and sent me no message.

  I did not see Anne for several days after our arrival back in England. She repaired to her quarters in the palace and seemed nunlike in her avoidance of company. I assumed she was ashamed and sensitive about her behaviour during our time in France, so I sought her out to reassure her that she had nothing to fear.

  She looked more beautiful than ever when she opened the door and stared at me. I had almost forgotten her face, so jumbled up was it with my fantasies. In some demented way I wished I might never see her again. Yet at the same time I longed for her.

  She stared at me, as at a stranger. “Yes?” she asked, politely.

  “I wish to speak with you alone.”

  It was early morning. She knew I meant truly to speak and nothing else.

  I walked into her apartments. Here at Richmond they were rather sparsely furnished. She k/font>

  “Like yourself and Katherine?” she laughed. Truly, that afternoon she seemed more like a schoolgirl than anything else. She seemed even younger than the Princess Mary.

  “Yes. Not slender willows and daffodils like you.”

  She threw back her head and laughed. “Then make me one, my love,” she said, first holding my hands and leaning back, so that her fine hair tossed and shone, then pulling me after her into her private chamber.

  She was laughing; I was laughing; I had never been happier, nor loved her more. I believe we made Elizabeth on that drowsy, yet heightened afternoon.

  New Year’s Day, 1533. My feet ached from standing in full state all day, both receiving and distributing the royal gifts in the new Great Hall of Hampton Court. Outside, the sky was a peculiar flat white, while inside all was red and gold and blue—fire and velvet and wine. I gave many spectacular presents—selected by Cromwell, as I no longer had the interest or the time to involve myself—and received many useless and flattering gifts in return.

  Returning to my apartments, I was glad to be done with it. I called for Anne, who came within a moment, or so it seemed.

  “Happy New Year, my love.” I gave her her present—yet another jewel. I expected her to be bored by now with jewels. But she received this one, a sapphire from Jerusalem, with hushed delight.

  “I did not have it made into any ring or brooch,” I explained. “The stone itself was brought to England by a Crusader who fought alongside Richard the Lionheart. It had lain in the same chest for more than three hundred years, in its wrappings from the Holy Land. Somehow those wrappings seemed something I should not disturb.” Would she understand?

  She touched the stiff old cloth gently. “Nothing could become it better than this.” She folded it back along its creases. “It belongs here.” She placed it carefully in its velvet pouch.

  Her eyes shone with a peculiar light I had never seen before. “And now I have a gift for you this New Year’s Day. Your jewel from the Holy Land serves to bless it—and I shall treasure it forever.”

  She stood in front of me, but her hands were empty.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It is ... I am with child.”

  Her voice was low, and the four words, which meant more to me than all the jewels brought back from all the Crusades, hung on the air. I could not speak, for ecstasy. Yes, ecstasy.

  “Anne.”

  “In the late summer.”

  Still I could not speak, beyond saying her name.

  It was all to be: it was all to come true.

  That night I lay in bed, alternating between giddy exultation and dreary practicality, like a man with the smallpox, first sweating, then shivering. The exultation: Anne was with child, with my child, the heir I had been longing for.../font>

  It 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.”

  While the other Papal messenger was slogging his way along muddy March roads toward the New Forest near Winchester, I entertained his more successful compatriot at Greenwich. I toasted Clement with the best wines and enquired soli
citously after his health and praised his bravery during his imprisonment, and so on. Then I packed his messenger straight back to the Continent on the first available ship. Cranmer I prepared for his consecration as Archbishop.

  “And quickly,” I explained. “Before Clement can change his mind. I see now why he sent the order to separate from Anne and take Katherine back. It was meant to go hand-in-hand with the patent for you to become Archbishop. I was not to get the oseparont size="3">“Nonsense! Of course it is of great concern and importance to the Emperor ! I think that you were more involved in your own ‘great matter’ while in Germany. Were you not? Well, you can bid farewell to her. A married Archbishop! Let that be known, and we will be discredited.”

  Still, Cranmer looked back at me unblinkingly. Really, there were times when he annoyed me.

  “Keep her as a mistress. Mistresses are allowed by the True Church; wives are not.”

  “Does that not strike you as hypocritical, Your Grace?” Again, the quiet question.

  Now I lost all patience. “God’s blood! Are you a Reformer? Do you intend to turn on me after you are in office? To become a Protestant Becket? Because if you have such intentions, my dear Thomas, I warn you: you will not succeed. I will not tolerate betrayal. So speak now—declare yourself. Do not practise the hypocrisy of which you are so intolerant in others.”

  A long pause-too long. Then: “I am your man.”

  “Good.” The cloying fragrance was still in the air. I wanted to get away from it. “Come. Let us sit over here, in the morning light.” I led him to a sunny window-seat. “It is complicated,” I began.

  “Do not condescend to me, Your Grace.”

  He was right; that was what I had been doing. I began again. “Our goal is that you replace the Pope as the highest spiritual authority in England. Thus, a decision made by you cannot be appealed over your head to the Pope. To do that, we must sever certain connections with Rome. Parliament is doing just that.”