The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers

by Margaret George

  “No,” I said curtly. “Pray continue.”

  “Ah, then. I had to shame him ere he consented. To threaten him, even. He claimed he and the Lady Boleyn had—what were his words?—‘in this matter gone so far before so many worthy witnesses I know not how to withdraw myself nor to relieve my conscience.’ So I said—”

  Had he possessed her? Is that what he meant? I gripped the carved chair-arms until one sharp piece seemed to cut into my fingers.

  “—‘Surely you know the King and I can deal with a matter as inconsequential as this. We who have dealt with the Emperor, and drawn up the treaty of—’ ”

  “Yes, Wolsey. Then what happened?”

  He looked frustrated to be denied yet another chance to recite his diplomatic triumphs. But I could comr of God, would the hour of arising never come? I dared not get up, for fear of disturbing Henry Norris, the attendant who slept on a pallet at the foot of my bed. I was a prisoner in my own bed.

  At last there was a stirring. The grooms of the chamber arrived to lay the fire, as they always did at six o’clock. Then came the Esquires of the Robe with my clothes for the day, duly warmed. Norris stirred on his pallet and stumbled sleepily to the door. The day had begun.

  By eight I had breakfasted and was in the saddle, attended by Compton and two grooms. Even so, it would be mid-afternoon before we reached Hever. And en route I must stop and pretend to hunt, which would slow us even more.

  It was July, but the day promised to be relatively cool and clear. The sky showed not a single cloud, and faint breezes rippled the long grass and made the leaves in the great oaks tremble.

  How green it was! The abundant rainfall of the past two weeks had freshened and quickened every growing thing, giving us a second spring. All round me was green—underfoot in the thick grass, overhead in the great trees, turning the very sunlight green as it fought its way through layers of leaves. I was submerged in a sea of green murkiness, alternating with cool, clear openness whenever I emerged from the forest.

  At length I stood on the hill above Hever Castle and looked down upon it. It was called a castle, but it was not, being but a fortified manor house, and a small one at that. A ten-foot-wide moat surrounded it, fed by a running stream which sparkled in the sunlight. I could see no one about the grounds. Were they away, then? I prayed that would not be so. But as I approached the manor house I felt more and more dispirited. It looked deserted. I had come all this way for nothing. Yet a prior announcement of my intended visit would have evoked entertainment, a banquet, and every formality I wished to avoid.

  The drawbridge was down. We rode across it into the empty, cobble-stoned courtyard.

  I scanned the windows on all three sides of the courtyard. There was no sign of movement behind any of them.

  A large grey-and-amber mottled cat appeared from an open side door and sauntered across the courtyard. We stood awkwardly, our horses stamping and moving restlessly back and forth, their hooves making loud noises on the stones. Still no one appeared.

  “Compton,” I finally said, “see if Viscount Rochford is at home.” I knew, however, that had he been there, he would long since have appeared in the courtyard, making effusive gestures of welcome. William dismounted and knocked upon the scarred center door. The knocker made a mournful sound, and no one opened the door. He made a gesture of helplessness to me and had started to return to his horse when at length the door creaked open. An old woman looked out. Compton spun around.

  “His Majesty the King has come to see Viscount Rochford,” he said, grandly.

  The woman looked confused. “But—he did not know—”

  I urged my horse forward. “Of course not,” I said. “ ’Twas but an impulse. I was hunting nearby and took a fancy to see the Viscount. Is your master in?”

  “No. He—he—went to Groombridge to inspect his tenant cottalcotold him so, and meant it. He showed me his instrument, which he said had been made in Italy, and I duly inspected it.

  Lady Boleyn then appeared, and other members of the household. They bustled about and laid a fire, as it would soon be growing dark, and nights in old stone manor houses are damp and cold even in July. But where was Anne? Somehow I could not bring myself to ask.

  The sun set, but the light lingered on, as it does in high summer. Boleyn talked to me incessantly, trotting after me like a trained puppy. I did not hear him, and gave noncommittal responses. Still no Anne, and soon we must be gone, or suffer through a long, drawn-out supper laid in our honour.

  I passed the small leaded windows along one side of the hall overlooking the tidy Boleyn garden and grounds. The stream which fed their moat trickled through the garden, lined by weeping willows. The wind had risen, as it often does in early evening, whipping about the branches. They were so green they almost glowed, and so thin and whiplike they seemed to writhe like living things.

  It was then I saw her, standing by a far willow: a thin figure with long hair that tossed and waved like the branches surrounding her. Anne.

  She was wearing green, light green, and her gown billowed in the wind, causing her to sway like the stalk of a flower. She reached out to touch a branch with her hand, and it was the most graceful movement I had ever seen.

  I became aware that I had stopped and was staring. Thomas cleared his throat beside me.

  “My daughter Anne,” he said. “She is back here with us at home, as the Cardinal sent her from court. It was most unfair—”

  “I am sure.” I turned and pushed past him. “I will speak to your daughter myself.” Earlier I had seen the door that opened onto the garden. Now I would avail myself of it.

  “Pray do not accompany me,” I said to the trailing Thomas. “I will go alone.”

  Before he could protest, I was out in the garden, slamming the door behind me. It clanged and made that peculiar noise which tight-fitting doors do when suddenly closed. In another part of my mind I thought that the Viscount must enjoy a draught-free hall in winter.

  But that was in a small part of my mind, and went almost unnoticed. The larger part was straining toward the slim figure in the far end of the garden. Resolutely, I made my way toward her.

  She must have heard me approaching, yet she did not turn. She kept her back to me until I was a scant two yards away. The wind had risen and was lifting her skirts in great swirls. She wore no covering, no shawl. Was she not cold? Still she stood, motionless, save for the tossing of that extraordinary hair.

  “Mistress Boleyn,” I said loudly, and she turned.

  What had I expected? I knew she was not like her sister Mary, yet I was ill prepared for this dark wraith.

  She looked at me with wide eyes, great black eyes, child’s eyes. “Your Majesty,” she gasped, then swooped to the ground like the brushing of a butterfly’s wing. All I could see for a moment was the top of that black head, a gleaming part in the middle. As she rose, the wind caught her hair and for an instant her face disappeared, like a pale spring moon covered by fast-moving clouds.

  Then s"1emn?

  But I knew what he had meant. He feared and revered the Cardinal above his King. How many other people in the realm felt likewise?

  It was already dark as we mounted for our long ride back to London. We would not reach Westminster until well past midnight. As soon as they were out of eyesight of the Viscount, my companions, having assured him that they were not in the least hungry, dug into the linen-wrapped food parcels the royal cooks had prepared in the morning for them. They ate ravenously as we rode along.

  I should have been hungry, but I was not. The moon, in its last quarter, did not rise until we approached the outskirts of London. Even then I was neither hungry nor tired, but strangely filled with energy and purpose. The rising moon illuminated the sleeping city, and from a distance I thought there could be no fairer city, no more fortunate ruler, no more blessed land.

  Anne was coming to court!

  And once there, she would become my mistress—no, my lover, for “mistress” was too
circumscribed, too curtailed. My lover, my confidante, my soul-mate. Yes, my soul-mate. My soul, alone too long, needed this fellow wanderer. Together we would make a whole. And, wandering stars no more, joined, blaze through the sky....

  How can I explain it? There was something in her which drew me, as if lying on her breast I would know everything in life I desired to, and the unopened door would open for me....

  At base it is inexplicable. Something deep within Anne called to something deep within me. And the calling was powerful; nay, undeniable.

  XXXIV

  In a fortnight I must go and make my progress about the home shires. And then, when I returned, Anne would be waiting for me, having by that time settled herself at court. Knowing this made each day of the progress (normally so satisfying for me) something that only served to bring me one day closer to my goal, my desire....

  But when I returned, and made my customary call on Katherine, I was disappointed to find no hint of Anne’s presence among her attendants.

  “I had assigned a new maid of honour to your entourage,” I said when we were at last alone. “Mistress Anne Boleyn.”

  Katherine wheeled around and faced me. “Yes. After the other—”

  “She is nothing like her sister,” I informed her quickly—too quickly.

  Katherine, clad all in black, raised her eyes to heaven. “God be thanked for that.”

  “Mistress Anne is chaste, and very concerned with matters of learning.” “You seem well acquainted with the lady. Is she to be your next mistress?” Katherine cried. Her whole body shook in the noonday light. Part of me wished to take her in my arms and comfort her; another part was repelled by her.

  “I do not wish to cause you discomfort,” I said. “I merely enquired as to whether she had come to—”

  “I will not permit it!” she shrieked, and came at me—slowly, in light of her d width="1em">“Of course not!” I pushed her back with one hand, summoning all the outrage I could find within myself. “Wife, you forget yourself. I have no mistresses, nor have had for some three years past. I have no wish for mistresses —and if I had, it would not be Boleyn’s scrawny younger daughter, fresh from the French court!”

  Katherine drew herself up. “Of course not,” she agreed.

  She is true royalty, I found myself thinking of Katherine in admiration. “Mistress Anne is nothing to excite any man’s imagination,” I sneered.

  Yet she excited mine. Even as I exited from the Queen’s inner chambers, I looked for Anne. A flock of young, pretty attendants clustered about, but she was not among them. Wearing an artificial smile, I made my way to the outer doors, wondering all the while whereher

  WILL:

  That is how I came into King Henry’s employ. It was all happenstance, as the greatest events in our lives are. I can assure you I had no portent that the King himself was hearing my words as I passed the time with some rather dull companions during that audience, nor could I remember my words.

  But I do remember seeing the King that day. He seemed burdened, distracted, not at all the young creature I had seen many years ago on his way to Dover, nor even the godlike one I had glimpsed from afar in Calais. This was an older man, one with many cares and envies. I agreed to enter his service for reasons which eluded me at the time. Certainly I had no desire to wear a costume and entertain thick-headed court people. But the King drew me. And needed me, so I sensed. (Vanity?)

  He would not permit me to return to Calais with my master, insisting that all my possessions could be sent. In truth, they were not many. I was to become part of court from that moment on.

  I quickly perceived that a man could never be free at court. Like a compost heap, this mass of festering humanity was always hot, full of bad humours, and in the midst of colourful decay.

  At the top of it all was the King himself, trying to oversee this seething mass. His “household” was also his government, which must be always near at hand. I was surprised at his memory and almost supernatural recall of details. He did not forget me, even amongst the throng, or amid his ever-pressing duties.

  HENRY VIII:

  Will never learned that expediency, which is why he eventually became my private jester. He and the court were simply not suitable partners, as consequent events proved. Yet his wit and observations were invaluable to me; I liked to keep him about me.

  XXXV

  Wolsey was to have a great banquet and feast for upwards of one hundred guests, to celebrate something or other; I cannot remember what. He surreptitiously circulated the guest list to my chamber. I added several names to it, including Mistress Anne’s, then smuggled it back to him, as I was supposed to be ignorant of the proceedings.

  Would she be there? Would Wolsey issue the correct invitation? If he did, would she accept? I had at last ascertained that she had come to court. But perhaps she might be too retiring ... or wonder why she was included amongst the hated Cardinal’s celebrations. God’s blood! Was there no place on earth where I might see her without being dependent on others to bring it about?

  Etiquette demanded that I don a disguise for the occasion (as I was ostensibly not among the guests), and I decided upon that of a shepherd. But I could not arrive unaccompanied, I must have fellow shepherds. Thus I chose them: dear Brandon, my cousin Courtenay, William Compton, Edward Neville, and Anne’s father, Thomas.

  It was late October, but still mild. A slight row upstream on the Thames would be enjoyable, especially as a fatted moon would soon be rising. My companions and I would row to York Place and wait until the fête was well under way to make our entrance.

  The oars dipping in the moon-coated water made reassuring sounds. Water had a soothing effect upon me. Shepec him. “But now I perceive that there is one greater than I present in the company, one who rightly may claim the chair. I beg you, if you know him, to identify him, so that I may do him honour.”

  What a silly game this was! I was weary of such. I was weary of much, truth be told.

  “Sir,” said Henry Courtenay—ever the eager courtier—“we confess that among us there is such a noble personage; and if you can pick him out, he will be pleased to reveal himself and accept your place.”

  Now the clever eyes of Wolsey flicked back and forth. He could immediately eliminate the shorter men in their shepherd’s costumes. That still left me, Edward Neville, and Charles Brandon. Brandon was broader and thicker than I, so Wolsey could make a distinction there. Neville was bareheaded (although masked), holding his headdress in hand. His thick red-gold hair glinted in the torchlight and drew Wolsey’s eye.

  The portly Cardinal approached Neville. “It seems to me the gentleman with the black cloak should be even he,” he said, offering his chair to Neville.

  Neville hesitated, unsure of what further action to take. I rescued him by laughing and pulling off my visor. The entire company joined suit.

  The Cardinal turned, discomfited. “Your Majesty,” he said quietly. “I see I was deceived in you.”

  Years later he was to claim that moment as an omen.

  But all things are seen in retrospect as omens. I could say Katherine’s initial delay in her sailing to England, my having had the dream of a white-faced woman ... all were omens. Should we think in such fashion, all of life would become one giant omen, and we should fear to stir.

  Regardless, the fête must proceed. After the initial embarrassment, Wolsey was able to cover his awkwardness and signal for the festivities to continue.

  There was to be masked dancing, and the musicians assembled in the gallery. Twelve of us were to lead partners in an intricate round. We were free to choose unknown ladies.

  Where was Mistress Anne? I searched the company and still did not see her. Wolsey had solicitously ordered a number of torches damped. The resulting dim light merely shadowed all faces and turned each person into a trimmed headdress and a gleam of satin. They all stood two and three deep near the walls, and it was impossible to see a single face behind the first row.

 
Mistress Carew was in front, smiling. She danced well; I supposed she would do as well as any other. I made my way toward her and was on the point of asking her to join me when all at once I saw Anne. At first she was but a row of pearls gleaming like a supernatural halo. Then within that circlet I saw her face.

  She was standing well back from the others, as if to forestall being chosen as anyone’s partner. There was no torch near her to show her. Nothing betrayed her presence save the luminous pearls encircling her head.

  I pushed my way over to her, to everyone’s surprise, not the least her own. She stared at me as I approached.

  “Your Majesty.” She lowered her head. I took her hand and together we went to the middle of the dance-floor.

  In the brighter light, I could see that the startling crownmine. Her voice was low—unlike the fashionable high voices of our court ladies. Her gown was also different; it had long, full sleeves which almost completely obscured her hands. She had designed it herself. Then I thought it charming. Now I know why she needed to do so—to hide her witch’s mark! But as I took her hand to dance, I did not discern the small sixth finger, so skilfully did she conceal it beneath the others....

  She danced well—better, in fact, than any of our Englishwomen. When I praised her for it, she shrugged, and once again gave the credit to France.

  “I learned there. Everyone dances well in France. There I was accounted of little accomplishment in the art.”

  “France,” I laughed. “Where all is false, where artificiality is elevated to an art form. Because they are hollow at the core, they must celebrate the exterior.”

  “You are too harsh with France,” she said. “Too quick to dismiss its very real pleasures—among them, the ability to appreciate the pretend.”