The bitter cold was heightened by the time we got back to Greenwich, as the sun was setting—a small, shrunken, bloody thing—and the sixteen-hour night was beginning. I rode straight up to the gatehouse and passed through, across the great courtyard and right up to the royal entranceway. “Summon Cromwell,” I barked to a page as I strode toward the Privy Council chamber. It was dark and dusty, not having been used these past two months while I kept court at Hampton. Attendants hurriedly brought beeswax taperk chill away. In the meantime we kept our travelling cloaks on. I took my place at the head of the table and waited silently.
Cromwell appeared. Upon entering the chamber he looked astonished. “Your Grace—honoured Council members—” he began, playing for time while he figured out what was occurring, the better to be in control.
“I like her not!” I relieved Cromwell of the mystery, and of the need for preliminaries and niceties. There he stood, the man responsible for all this. My enemy.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Flanders Mare! The Lady of Cnd now—the wedding attire. When I ordered it, I had allowed every profligate desire to express itself. Each layer of clothing sought to outdo the one just beneath it. Now they were to be fitted together in one blinding ensemble. Culpepper held out the first undergarment, which was of finest China silk, embroidered with white. It was so light it almost floated as he passed it to me; and the sleek feeling as it slid down next to my skin was like a seductive serpent. But the layers after that became heavier and heavier, encrusted with gold thread and gemstones, Oriental pearls and silver of Damascus, until only a man of my breadth and strength could have worn them all.
I have worn armour and I know how heavy that is; but this was its equal. Yet what are gold and jewels but civilian armour?
My bride awaited me. My fate awaited me. Neither was what I would have chosen, but the ways of God were mysterious, and imperious. In just this frame of mind, I went forth for the public reception of Anne, Princess of the Duchy of Cleves.
The day was fair and clear and cold. Against the hard blue sky the golden tents sparkled, like galleons tossed on a sea. The standards above them snapped smartly like sails. Perhaps someday it would be possible for men to sail on an icy sea ... if a ship’s hull were constructed of very thick wood, several layers. ... Ah, what could I not do that day, what might I not invent, if only in imagination?
I rode surrounded in glory. Such a company of bravely bedecked knights —six thousand in all, counting the King’s Guard, yeomen, pages of honour, spears and pensioners, and all their trappings: the crimson velvet, the antique gold, the knots of gold—shining clearly and sharply in the January morning.
There were thousands more awaiting us on the broad heath—the Germanic merchants of the Steelyard on the east side, glaring across at their rivals, the merchants of Genoa, Florence, Venice, and Spain. In between were our own English merchants—all told, some twelve hundred men.
Down from Shooter’s Hill came Anne of Cleves in a carved, gilded chariot, drawn by horses trapped in black velvet. Like Diana drawn by steeds....
So I told myself, and so the noble chroniclers recorded it. On the parchment of the Kingdom, Diana, chaste and beautiful and athletic, was met by Jupiter, mighty and lust-filled and benevolent. You can read how glorious it all was, how the earth shook at our encounter and all the Kingdom rejoiced. Truly that day we all believed it, I as much as any other—and so history is made, so it becomes fixed like fruits preserved in wine long past their season.
Side by side, the Lady Anne and I rode down the hill and across Blackheath, and all my subjects cheered. The Thames (which had not frozen) was filled with boats with satin sails and banners, shooting off fireworks.
That was the public side. But once we reached Greenwich Palace, once the chariot was put away and the black velvet taken off the horses—then I was but myself again, a rebellious small boy inside the magnificent and ordained structure. I squirmed and fought. Once again I did not want to go through with it. The saintly resolve that had begun my day did not outlast the sunset. I gathered Cromwell and my Privy Councillors about me, balked, whined, complained. “If it were not for my Kingdom and that I have proceeded so far in the matter, I would not do what I must tomorrow for any earthly thing.”
I fell back into bed, ashamed of my weakness. I was no saint, although I had felt like one in the early dawn. Real saints remained saints
How many times had I, in fantasy, made love to a stranger? I imagined it as a circus of voluptuousness, where all impulses might have free reign, because this unknown female would be willing for all, unable to censure or pass judgment. Now I was faced with the reality: a large shadow behind a silken screen, as Anne moved about, undressing. Was it my imagination, or did she deliberately delay? Was she as un-eager, as frightened as I?
The candles burned noticeably lower. I had thought by this time to have it all done with, finished. What was taking her so long? I poured out one cup of wine, then another. I wished to find, and maintain, a state in which I could perform mindlessly. I wanted enough wine in me to dull my trepidations, yet not enough to incapacitate me—a balance not easily achieved.
She emerged, moving slowly out from the screen, walking toward the bed. I approached from the opposite side. The candlelight blurred her features, and I took care only to gaze upon her hair, which was long and golden and shining where she had combed it out over her shoulders.
She climbed clumsily into bed. I followed. Then we sat, side by side upon the slippery sheets, staring ahead, not daring to look at one another.
She is a foreigner, I told myself, far from her homeland, married to a stranger. A virgin in bed with a man, sold into a marriage on the basis of a portrait. How frightened she must be! I at least had had some semblance of choice in the matter; she had had none. My heart went out to her, and in that moment I reached out for her, for the gentle virgin bride....
I kissed her and, shutting my eyes, began to caress her. It was cold in the room, and her natural modesty would cry out to be uncovered only in darkness and under the bed-wraps. I blew out the candles on our nightstand, leaving only the red, jumping flames of the fireplace to light the room. The fire crackled and sighed; Anne sighed, too, relaxing in my arms.
How soft and warm her gown was, how thick and sensuous her hair! Truth to tell, how good it felt to hold a woman, a maiden, in my arms again. I put my hand on her breast, under her gown.
Instead of the firm, high breast of a maiden, I felt the slack dugs of a woman long past her prime. I was so shocked I snatched my hand away with a startled cry. Anne jumped, and I felt her pull away.
It couldn’t be true! I couldn’t believe my own hand, surely I must have touched a pillow instead. I reached out with my other hand, trying to pull her back toward me, and my hand landed on a soft, quivering, wrinkly mass—her abdomen!
“You lied!” I cried. “You are older than you claim, you are withered, dried up! I have been cheated!”
She leapt out of bed, terrified of my ranting in English. The fraud! I vaulted off the bed and snatched the covers she clutched to herself, revealing her body in all its horror. Her breasts were hanging and shrivelled, her abdomen so paunchy and bloated—
“Pfah!” I cried in revulsion.
She looked at me and her eyes narrowed. “Pfah!” she spat in return, pointing at my member, which was hanging exposed outside my nightshirt. “Pfah!” she repeated, then made a diminutive sign and began laughing. A long stream of that repulsive German followed, as she continued to revile me and I reached flection on myself. She looked like a witch as she cackled there in the firelight. I began to imitate her, sticking a pillow under my nightshirt to capture her grotesquely ugly belly, but she only laughed all the louder. I began laughing, too. Suddenly I realized that this strange woman had not embarrassed me, but only amused me, and that I felt freer in her presence than in anyone else’s I had ever met. Our laughter mounted higher and higher, until we were convulsed by it and gasping for ai
r.
Our laughter then slowly died, and we faced one another. In the dull firelight, which was usually so kind to women, she was still frightfully ugly. No, not frightfully, for I was no longer afraid of her, nor she of me. But the situation—0 sweet Jesu, the situation! I was husband to a wife I could be no husband to. And that was no laughing matter.
I sank my head morosely into my hands, and thus I remained tor several moments. I became aware, then, of the most debilitating tiredness. I longed for sleep; my head spun. I looked over at Anne and saw her watching me warily, like a bird eyeing a cat.
She was afraid of me. Between my fingers (where she could not see me looking) I saw the apprehension and animal fright on her face. Then I remembered what Will had told me the people claimed was Christina of Denmark’s answer to my inquiries about her eligibility: “His first Queen he killed with a broken heart; his second was unjustly executed; and his third was killed through lack of care after childbirth.” And then, “However, if I had two heads, one of them should be at the King of England’s disposal.” I had thought it one of Will’s jests, and laughed. Now I wondered if he had been truer than he realized.
WILL:
“Truer than he realized.” Oh, Henry, Henry! It was you who were blind and deaf to what you had become in the eyes of Europe. When you sent your envoys out, seeking another bride, you were no longer the great matrimonial catch you had been before your Great Matter. No respectable Princess wanted to marry you! She felt it would be taking her life in her hands—that, at the very least, you were jinxed, even if you did not deliberately seek to undo your wives. Luckily, the Duchy of Cleves was so shielded, and the Lady Anne so ignorant of English and gossip, that her brother agreed to your suit. No, Henry, I did not jest. In fact, I censored the worst of the current remarks—the quotes I gave you were the only repeatable ones!
HENRY VIII:
But those who made refrains were ignorant! They had no idea of what they spoke. And why did they always take the woman’s side? Katherine did not die “of a broken heart.” She died of Anne’s poison and her own foolish pride. If only she had co-operated with me, she would never have ended her days in the fens! No, she would have lived in luxury and shared Mary with me, grown old in honour. And Nan—thank God the common people did not know the true blackness of her soul, the degradation of that Witch—lest they tremble and shiver in their beds and never know safety again. Even from the grave she cursed me, headless demon! And sweet Jane. God took her from me, and God alone knows how I would have ransomed my kingdom to save her. The people made a b.
I felt as if she were right there. Oh, wrong was I to have conjured up her shade! I fought to free myself from it; I reached over and touched Anne of Cleves’s arm, startling her.
“Let us sleep,” I said in as low and gentle a voice as I could. She could understand the intent, if not the actual words. She smiled slowly, then followed me back to bed, so preposterously appointed for love. Together we slid down into the satin and passed the calmest bridal night of any new-wedded pair since Mark and Isold.
We overslept. They awaited us at early Mass in the Chapel Royal, then went ahead and said Mass without us. They awaited us in the Privy Chamber, fresh garments at the ready, a great silver bowl of spiced wine for our comfort. They awaited me at my Council Chamber, where Cromwell, Cranmer, the Admiral, and others expected to detail the plans for the obligatory post-nuptial jousts, tournaments, and banquets. They awaited us impatiently, eagerly, lecherously, like a pack of schoolboys suddenly privy to the private life of their schoolmaster. And I, the schoolmaster, avoided them and played truant like a student: our roles were reversed.
The wan January sun streamed in the windows, warming nothing. I glanced at Anne, sleeping beside me. Yes, she was as ugly as I had thought. The emasculated sun was still strong and merciless enough to shadow all her pockmarks and show her liver-coloured skin. Her yellowish buck teeth protruded from her lips as she snored on. Yet I was no longer repulsed by her. She seemed like an ally, a strange companion in this misadventure of mine—with Cromwell as my adversary.
Yes, Cromwell. I had thought him my ally, yet who was he really? He had appeared conveniently when Wolsey had left court, ostensibly to act as Wolsey’s agent in the tangled financial affairs he had so uncharacteristically left behind. In doing so he had established himself as a powerful man, or, if not powerful, a man of consequence, one to be reckoned with. Wolsey’s ruin was his gain. And from there he had maneuvered himself into my confidence. How? By his unscrupulous manipulation of the Church. The undoing of the Papacy: Cromwell’s insight. The domestication of the English clergy: Cromwell’s project. The dissolution of the monasteries: Cromwell’s grand design. These moves had made me supreme over the Church, and monastic wealth had replenished what I had wasted of my inheritance in French wars. But what had they done for Cromwell? No man does anything that does not ultimately benefit himself most; I knew this now, although I had not always known it. In Wolsey’s case that benefit was obvious; and showed itself ostentatiously. But Cromwell had garnered no titles, gloated over no possessions, sported with no women, and exalted in no high rank or office. He was not Chancellor, and wore no gold chain. He did not preside over Court of Star Chamber or over Parliament. What drove him? What did he want? Whatever it was, finding himself in my confidence, making himself indispensable to me, and yoking me to the Flemish Mare—all were part of his plan. Although I did not know that plan as yet, I knew Cromwell well enough to know that he would have a plan, for nothing in his life was happenstance. So I would watch, and wait. And in the meantime ... I glanced over at Anne ... I would have to pretend that we were man and wife. And catch Cromwell out. In that, Anne would serve a purpose.
I let her sleep. I had no desire to be surrounded by people until I had my thoughts on course. Let everyone think we slept late because the marriage was a grand success. It served my plans better.
Thus do we become old. It is not in our aching knees, or in our rheuCromwelles. No. It is in the transforming of what in youth is a simple pleasure into something false and face-saving. The wedding night becomes a political ruse. In this we betray ourselves, surprise our own selves in the distance we have already travelled on our life’s journey.
Afore noon, Anne and I, attired in our “second day” costumes, greeted Cromwell and the other Privy Councillors before adjourning to a midday feast. In these short winter days, dinner was served when the sun was at its height. I took care not to smile overmuch, lest it be misinterpreted. Let them puzzle over exactly what I felt; let them wonder how pleased I was; let no one be sure of where he stood with me.
A rush of pleasure filled me at the situation. I enjoyed leaving men in limbo, uncertain as to what exactly was happening to them—or was about to happen. It was an ugly feeling, and I was ashamed that I could relish it so. Yet emotions and feelings were not sins, were they? Only actions were sins, and I had done no unkind action. In fact, I was behaving in a most generous and kingly fashion toward them. I spoke vaguely of “our pleasure” in the Lady Anne, and invited them to join us in “our dinner.”
Fifty members of the court dined with us in the Great Hall. Anne and her ladies from Cleves, all identically got up in headdresses that reared up around their faces like the wrinkled ears of elephants, chattered away to each other on the dais.
Cromwell, in his customary plain black robes, was seated just down on the table to the right, talking gravely to Brandon. I noticed that he left his wine untouched. Brandon did not, of course.
Across, seated at the other table, were the women. Brandon’s new wife, Katherine. (I persisted in thinking of her as his “new wife,” even though they had been married as long as Princess Elizabeth had been alive.) Bessie Blount —now Lady Clinton. My eye lingered fondly over her, but she was no longer the Bessie I had known. She was thin and coughed often, pulling her furs as close about her as she dared, for fashion’s sake. She was consumptive. I could see it, mark it coldly in one part of me, whilst the other w
inced. Not Bessie ... she could not grow old. We want the sharers of our youth to remain forever young, to remind us of what we were, not of what we are. Best to die young, then? Certainly, for those to whom your existence is a touchstone, an affirmation.
Princess Mary, dressed all in purple. She loved the colour, and, as she was entitled to wear it, saw no reason not to have her headdresses, her handkerchiefs, her shoes, as well as her gowns, the colour of squashed violets. No reason, save that it was singularly unbecoming to her and made her face look yellow. Next to her was a rare, pretty creature who knew everything about colour and how to use it. She had auburn hair and the fair skin that sometimes goes with it, and wore dusky pink, which made her face and hair seem of sublime tints. She was chattering away to the Princess Elizabeth on her left. Elizabeth’s startling red hair was drawn demurely back into a snood, and she was attired in modest brown. Although only six, her manner was so grave and her demeanour so old that from across the room she seemed to be old Margaret Beaufort, come again to taunt and judge me. Her black eyes—keen, sharp buttons—were the very same. But the creature next to her—all froth and frills and foam—was making her laugh. Who was the lady?
A splash of spittle landed before me. Anne was speaking. I turned. Yes, she was saying something, but I could not ufore meiv>
“She says she is well pleased with such a godly company,” he repeated stiffly.
“Tell the Queen”—how strange it sounded!—“that I will engage a tutor for her straightway. She must needs learn the language of her people.”
Anne nodded vigorously, her headdress swaying. Again I thought of elephant ears. “They are in England now,” I said. “It is time that they lay aside their native costumes and dress according to fashion here. I shall have the court milliner measure the ladies of Cleves tomorrow.”
The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers Page 43
