“St. Osweth’s,” he said, the answer ready.
A small monastery—one that Cromwell’s agents had already visited and pronounced especially corrupt. The papers condemning it to dissolution lay on my inlaid work chamber desk amongst others awaiting my royal stamp.
“How providential,” I said, wheeling my horse around. “A religious house ahead!” I called to the men. “We will go there.”
“The good brothers will doubtless be astonished to welcome a royal party,” said Cromwell.
“Doubtless.” Thanking God for their location if not for their morals, I turned toward the monastery. The dull spot in the sky that betokened the sun was already halfway to its setting-slot.
The house was rough and tumble-down. Around it were not the neatly trimmed fences and ordered fields of my imagination, but the neglect of a slattern’s yard.
Cromwell knocked on the door like a wrathful archangel at the Last Judgment. It creaked open, and a face like a vulture’s peered out.
“The King is here,” announced Cromwell.
To his credit, the vulture proudly flung open the door and gestured welcome, as if he had expected us. His thick cowl and gleaming pink point of a head above his tonsure made his resemblance to that bird truly striking.
The odour of decay was so strong upon first stepping into the priory antechamber that I wondered what they fed upon.
“I will fetch the prior,” the vulture-monk said, bowing low.
Gagging, I willed myself to endure the putrid odour. It was warm in here. That was all that mattered.
The vulture returned, bringing one of the fattest men I had ever seen. He swung each leg in a half-circle, propelling himself forward in a series of curious half-turns, rather than walking as ordinary men do. Th8221;isguised pain to God.
I know not how long I remained thus, but it seemed a different sort of time than worldly time. Stumbling to my feet, I felt a fleeting sweetness that promised all would yet be well.
Or did I but deceive myself?
That night in the comical Sultan’s den, my men commented several times that I seemed subdued, softened.
“He grows fond and familiar in his old age,” said Neville.
“ ’Tis we who grow old,” said Carew. His heart trouble had frightened him. “The King merely grows more regal.”
But Cromwell studied me with narrowed eyes. He was trying to detect something—he who lived by being able to read the secret thoughts of other men.
As early as possible the next morning, we left St. Osweth’s behind, as a man will leave a sickbed. It would be closed as soon as I could sign the orders. In the meantime there was no point in punishing the prior. Let him enjoy his snake-lair a little longer before he was turned out to earn an honest living. Prudently, we had deprived him of the jewels and treasury. My saddle-pouches now bulged with gemstones.
The storm had passed out over the Channel and was now harassing France. I hoped it would ruin Francis’s hunting. Of late it was reported that he spent inordinate amounts of time hunting, restlessly moving from one lodge to another, feverishly chasing game. Feverish ... yes, the rumours said he was suffering from the dread French Disease, and this caused his glittering eyes and unpredictable behaviour.
Rumours. I wondered if any had reached Francis or Charles about my infirmity?
LVII
In the morning light, St. Osweth’s, now behind us, seemed as dreamlike as the days that had just passed. They were set apart, outside anything in our regular lives. Therefore it was jarring when Cromwell rode alongside me, murmuring about the monasteries, saying that it was necessary to act now about them, that St. Osweth’s was but a mild example and mirror of what I might find in over eight hundred other such establishments throughout England. He pressed for permission to seize and close them all.
His thirst for their ruin seemed primary, his concern for their morals secondary. His emphasis distressed me.
“Not now, Crum!” I barked, and the cold, clear air seemed to encapsulate my words, to surround each of them with a box. Did the fool not understand that I was about to meet my daughter, whom I had not seen in almost two years? My daughter, whom I loved and with whom I was yet at enmity. Human emotions: these did not reckon in Crum’s scales. Except as something to be used to undo a man.
And I was so nervous, so anxious, my heart was pounding louder than my empty stomach was growling. I felt it not, so filled with joy and dread was I to be approaching Beaulieu. I would see Mary; we would talk; all things would be resolved, for love could overcome any barrier.
Beaulieu: a beautiful red brick royal residence, almost a miniature Hampton C">
I longed to lean down, embrace her, tell her I loved her. But if she could be hard, she would learn that I could be harder still. Ruby must crack against diamond.
“Indeed,” I said. “I acknowledge your fealty. Know, then, that you must go straightway to Hatfield House and begin to serve in the Princess’s household.”
“Be it unto me according to thy wish,” she said.
“Stop echoing Scripture! You shame it, and yourself! You are no Virgin Mary, lass, so do not style yourself thus!” Had she inherited Katherine’s tendency to religious excess?
On the way back to London, my men, well fed now, were eager to know the cause for my stormy and hasty departure. I had stamped into the dining hall, bade them tuck the food straight into their bellies, and leave. I did not seat myself, but grabbed several pieces of meat pie and white manchet bread, and ate them ravenously, all the while standing and directing my party to get their cloaks.
Now the dry-eaten food seemed lodged in a series of little lumps from my mouth to my stomach. That, and my choler, choked me. I longed for Will to ride beside me, but he had departed from Beaulieu to his sister’s house. None of the others would do, not at this moment when I realized that I had lost my daughter; that my Great Matter was not resolved upon my clever juggling of Papal bulls and decretals and consecrations and Parliamentary acts; that treason lurks in hearts and goes unconverted and undetected in most cases. The line must be, would have to be, drawn across families and old loyalties. Even my own.
But to have lost my daughter—no, it was too hard. I could not bear it, I would soften it somehow. Then I was minded that I had tried to soften it, and it was Mary who would not have it so.
So be it.
I motioned for George Boleyn to come forward and ride with me. That he did, looking gratified and puzzled.
“George, I love you well,” I began, for the pleasure of confusing him further, “and therefore I will make a present to you. From henceforth Beaulieu is yours. »
Yes, Mary must surrender it to Queen Anne’s brother.
He looked dumbfounded, as all are at receiving utterly undeserved gifts.
“As soon as the Lady Mary has removed herself, and her household has gone, you may take possession of it.”
I waved away his stammering, inadequate thanks.
Another few miles farther on the ride, I beckoned Chapuys to take his place beside me. I was holding audience on the road, as surely as if I had a secretary to direct my appointments.
Chapuys rode forward, his entire being as eager as ever for some sparring. I would not disappoint him.
“Ambassador,” I said, “You must be made privy to the conversation betwixt the Lady Mary and myself. I have forbidden her to continue to style herself ‘Princess,’ and her household has been disbanded. I just her a traitor.”
“Of what does this Oath consist?”
How many times was this question to be asked—this cursed, hateful question?
“That the subscriber recognizes the Princess Elizabeth as the rightful and sole heir to the throne. That is all.”
“And, by implication, that Mary is illegitimate, because your marriage to her mother was no marriage, because it was founded on a dispensation that was false, because the party granting it had not the power to do so, because he had no power at all?”
“The i
mplications—they are not worded! One swears only to the words as stated, not implied!”
“A lawyer’s answer. Well, then, your former Chancellor More should be able to take it readily.”
“More will take it. He is a sensible man, he will not quibble over ‘implications.’ But your ... concerned parties . . . will not be able to, as what is stated in the Oath is what is odious to them, not what is implied.”
“God will have to sustain them.” He smiled smugly. “And God’s agents,” he added.
“So you threaten me? Of course. I thank you for your honesty.” I dismissed him as easily as in a palace audience. He understood the rules.
I rode by myself in silence. All around me the February afternoon was piercingly bright and seemingly benign. The same winter that had sought to kill me two days ago now wooed me with all her skill. She displayed the pure blue sky that was her trademark, and all the play of light peculiar to herself: the shadows that were blue, not black; the yellow-red syrup of sun lying in little pools and cups of snow-formed landscape; the dazzling glow of a mound of snow, seemingly pulsating from within. Then London appeared on the horizon.
It was time for yet another audience. I motioned Henry Howard to come to me. He galloped up to my side, his pretty face seeming even more fresh than the snow.
“You are of an age with my son,” I said. Mary was lost to me, but not Henry Fitzroy. I must not neglect one for the heartbreak of the other. “You were born in 1517, am I correct?” I knew I was. I was master of just such minutiae.
“Yes.” He was surprised, then flattered, as we all are when someone remembers a personal fact about us.
“Seventeen. My son, Henry Fitzroy, is two years your junior. I would give him a companion to share tutors and pastimes with. Would you find that to your liking? I would treat you as princes together, at Windsor. What say you?”
“I say—I say yes,” he said. “Oh, yes!”
Two not-quite-princes, but both having princely blood. “Good. My son needs a noble friend. And you, I think, need to be with others of your age and station. Both of you have been too long confined with women and old men.”
His laugh told me I was right. “In the spring you shall come to Windsor,” I said. “Directly after the Order of the Garter ceremony, in which both you and he shall take your places in that noble company.” In one offhanded phrase I had elevated him to the highest order of knighthood in thme tds attention and affection. As does Henry Howard. They are both sorely neglected.”
“Henry the Good Samaritan,” she mocked—or did she? “That is not as others perceive you.”
“If you are to be Queen,” I reminded her, “you must cease to be concerned with how ignorant people perceive you. Only be concerned with how God, who sees all, perceives you.”
We finished our stew—it was delicious, seasoned with herbs I could not identify—in silence. Then I said, “Parliament opens two days from now. They will be enacting the bills concerning our marriage and Elizabeth’s primacy of succession.”
This is the moment, I wanted to say. The moment that makes my love for you a matter of law. And treason. My private passion had become a concern of lawmaking bodies.
“This Oath that will be required . . . it will first be administered in Parliament.”
“And then to everyone.” Her voice was calm.
“All it will require is that . . . that the person swears that Elizabeth is the heir to the throne, excepting any sons we may have.”
“So simple. How many words?”
“Twenty, thirty. But . . . there are meanings behind the words. We know what those meanings are. There will be some, perhaps many”—how many?—“who may find it difficult to take the Oath.”
“Because they are not hearing the words of the Oath, but the imaginary words behind it.”
“Yes.”
The dinner was done. The food, the plates, like all meals finished, were repulsive. I could not leave them soon enough. I stood, and we sought a padded bench on the far side of the chamber. I rang for the leavings to be removed.
“The Oath is my pledge of love to you,” I assured her. “It is the greatest offering I can make you.”
She laid her gentle hand on my shoulder.
Just then the servitor came to clear away the things, so we remained frozen in our words and actions, but not in our thoughts. Those continued to race, change, rearrange themselves. By the time he left, they were of another order entirely.
“You will not flinch?” she said. “Even though perhaps those you care for, consider dear, may refuse the Oath?”
“Flinch?”
“Refuse to punish them? To let them suffer the penalty of treason?”
“I never flinch.”
Who would not sign? Some would; I refused to predict the actions of individuals . . . of those I loved....
Anne was with me, Anne for whom all this had come about. The restorative magic of food was spreading itself all throughout my body, with wine following in its wake. I was floating. . . .
Anne was beautiful, worth all I had had to move to have her. Now I wanted her.
Yes, wanted her! The miracle was here, it had happened after all. My powers were back....
And Adam knew his wife. I knew Anne, or felt I did. Knew her to every sinew and bone, so very like mine....
Or so I believed.
LVIII
At midday, three days after my return, I went to Parliament in state.
The Thames being frozen, I could not be rowed in the royal barge to Westminster, where both houses were meeting for the opening. Instead I had to walk, with a full complement of retainers and advisors, under a canopy of royal estate, carrying the mace of England, along the Strand. I was gratified to see that windows were still opened and people still hung over the sills to glimpse their King, and that their cries were gladsome ones. What would they change to after Parliament had finished making its bills?
Inside the antechamber at Westminster Palace, I fastened on my heavy gold-and-ermine robes and had the crown placed on my head. The King in Parliament was about to take place: my presence, united with Parliament, was the highest law of the land.
Both the Lower House (Commons) and the Upper House (Lords) were gathered together in the Lesser Hall today, a chamber tiled in green and white. In the middle of the room, four ceremonial woolsacks—enormous tasseled bundles saluting England’s foundation of financial greatness, wool—served as seats for judges and record-keeping clerks, as well as for Sir Thomas Audley, the Lord Chancellor, More’s successor.
The House of Lords consisted not only of fifty-seven peers (“Lords temporal”) but of fifty high-ranking clergymen (“Lords spiritual”) as well. Commons were about three hundred strong, elected knights and burgesses from all the shires of the realm.
The Lords sat on benches arranged in a great double rectangle around the room, prelates on my right and peers on my left; the Commons had to stand outside, at the bar, behind their Speaker. I sat upon a throne overlooking them all, under a white embroidered canopy of estate, set up on a dais covered in blue and gold—gold Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. Flanking me on the dais were my advisors and councillors, particularly Cromwell.
This was the fifth time this Parliament had sat. It was to last for seven years, and become known as the Long Parliament. Thus far it had enacted many things, but they had been aimed primarily at abuses that had long rankled good Englishmen: the separate privileges of the clergy, the taxes and tithes to Rome. This time was different. This time I would ask them to define treason—according to my terms.
Standing before them, my crown heavy on my head, I spoke.
“Before you are bills which will define the meaning of treason. We had always thought we knew the meaning of treason. It was instantly recognizable, as we recognize toads, snakes, vermin. Who could mistake a toad for a tabby cat?”
Laughter.
“But in these perilous days, it is not so simple to distinguish. Our ancestors had only to
be alert for snakes and rats. But in our sad days, alas—even Satan can disguise himself as an angel of light.
“That is a quotation from Scripture,” I continued. “That is just an example of how things have changed. For translated Scriptures abound, and any man might chance to read them—aye, read them, and misunderstand them!”
and1em">“Parliament has taken the Oath, and all the heads of London guilds,” I said. “When the weather breaks, then we shall send the commissioners to the rest of the realm.”
“It will be June before Northumberland and the Marches are accessible,” he said. “You will have to rely on the Percys to protect the commissioners and smooth their task. The Percys ... a thorn in Your Grace’s palm. Henry can be trusted, but he’s dying, so they say.”
Anne’s Henry, her girlhood love. Dying? He was so young, Anne’s age.
“He was puny.” Crum—as always—answered my unspoken question. “The North did not agree with his delicate constitution—neither the climate nor the manners. He could thrive only in the softness of a court.”
But you made that impossible. Tactfully, he did not say it.
“The French court, more like.”
“Indeed. Where one could be—what was it ‘twas said about Caesar?—‘every man’s woman and every woman’s man.’ He evidently could not satisfy his wife. She left him and returned to her father’s home. Wretched creature, Percy. A decrepit boy.”
“So by August the Oaths should have been given, and received, in every reach of the realm.” Enough of Percy, of his dyings and inadequacies.
“Yes. The names of the loyal will be in our hands, also of the dissenters.”
“Then we shall have to decide how to deal with them.”
“Death is the penalty prescribed by law.”
Yes, the law was very clear on that. But executions . . . there had been no executions in England except for heinous, active treason, like the Duke of Buckingham’s, for thirteen years. (The Duke had intended to conceal a knife on his person and assassinate me during an audience.) But automatic executions for refusing to sign a paper?
The Autobiography of Henry 8 Page 30
