The Autobiography of Henry 8 Read online

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  Epilogue

  Author’s Afterword

  PRAISE FOR MARGARET GEORGE

  The Autobiography of Henry VIII

  “I have read The Autobiography of Henry VIII with great interest and found it quite an impressive work. The author has obviously researched her subject thoroughly.... I would say that anyone interested in Henry and his times would want to read this book.”

  —Vi Ms. George contributes intriguing material to the popular mythology....”

  —The NewYork Times Book Review

  “A feat of imaginary research...The writing is smooth and stylish.”

  —Washington Post Book World

  “...an extraordinarily well-researched novel which always catches the flavor and color of the era it celebrates.... Margaret George is able to interpret... happenings freshly...a real triumph of imagination. The Autobiography of Henry VIII is... immensely readable.”

  —Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “Beautifully and lyrically written. And unlike so many fictionalized autobiographies, it not only narrates historical events but gives its subject his own dramatic voice.”

  —Baltimore Sun

  “If your taste runs to huge novels with detailed descriptions of ceremony, pageantry, music recitals, feats, explicit sex-scenes, and the idea of Henry VIII as both self-doubting hero and royal showman, then this is your book.”

  —Minneapolis Star and Tribune

  “A highly readable, entertaining novel that provides a wealth of easily discernible history of Tudor England.... George gives us the character Will Somers, ‘his fool,’ whose timely and humorous interjections help give Henry’s tale some balance.”

  —Philadelphia Daily News

  “The author has done a brilliant job and readers will find this book enlightening as well as enjoyable.”

  —Library Journal

  The Memoirs of Cleopatra

  “A thrilling story...Her ‘memoirs’ are vivid and enthralling. Read them.”

  —Washington Post Book World

  “In nearly a thousand pages, [George] creates countless memorable moments.... Readers looking to be transported to another time and place will find their magic carpet here.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “A 976-page time machine...The first page transports you to the aquamarine waters of the Mediterranean.... Throughout the novel, Ms. George gives a sweeping, lush interpretation of the life lived by one of history’s most mysterious and misunderstood women It’s as if you lived there, walked the streets and counseled the Queen through her turbulent life.... Here again, Ms. Georfont size="3">Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

  “An historical novel of exceptional quality, and one that is completely mesmerizing. The world of Mary Queen of Scots is brought vividly to life by Margaret George, and the heroine is captivating—beautiful, emotional, learned, rash, impulsive, always courageous, but inevitably flawed in her judgement.... A wholly engrossing book and a rare treat.”

  —Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “A triumph of historical fiction.”

  —Houston Chronicle

  “George delivers a gorgeously detailed novel...the best kind of historical novel, one the reader can’t wait to get lost in.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  ALSO BY MARGARET GEORGE

  The Memoirs of Cleopatra Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

  THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF HENRY VIII. Copyright © 1986 by Margaret George. Afterword copyright © 1987 by Margaret George. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  “The Triads” on page 735 are translations from the Irish by Thomas Kinsella:

  Thirty Three Triads, published by Dolmen Press, Dublin, 1955;Atheneum,

  New York, 1961. Reprinted by permission.

  The translation from the Irish of “Cathleen” is reprinted . by permission of Tom McIntyre.

  “The Hag of Beare” from The Book of Irish Verse, 1974, by John Montague, is reprinted by permission of Harold Matson Company, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  George, Margaret.

  The autobiography of Henry VII.

  1. Henry VII. King ofEnglian, 1491-1547—Fiction. I. Somers,William, d. 1560. II. Title.

  PS3557.E49A96 1986 813’.54 86-11871

  ISBN 0-312-19439-0

  10987654

  For Alison and Paul

  did long for martyrdom and went to ... heroic? ... lengths to achieve it. He literally forced the King to kill him. And got that so-called heavenly crown he lusted after as old Harry had lusted after Anne Boleyn. Harry found the object of his lust not as palatable as he had imagined; let us hope More was not similarly disillusioned once he attained his desire.

  I forget. I must not make such jests with you. You believe in that Place too. Believers are all alike. They seek—what was More’s book title? —Utopia. It means No Place, you know.

  As I said, I live quietly here in my sister’s household in Kent, along with my niece and her husband. They have a small cottage, and Edward is ... I hesitate to write it ... a gravedigger and tombstone carver. He makes a good living at it. (Just such puns used to be my living.) But he tends his garden as others do (we had wonderful roses last year), plays with his children, enjoys his meals. There is nothing the least death-like about him; perhaps only that sort can stomach such a profession. Although I think being a jester is equally bound up with death. Or providing a scent to cover it, anyway.

  I came here before Edward had his coronation. The boy-King and his pious advisers had no need of a jester, and I would have stood about like a loose sail luffing in the wind. Neither is Queen Mary’s court the sort of place where one makes jokes.

  Do you remember, Catherine, that summer when you and I and all your Boleyn family and the King gathered at Hever? You and your brother Henry were brought to see your Boleyn grandparents. Hever is delightful in the summer. It was always so green, so cool. And the gardens had truly the best musk-roses in England. (Do you perchance remember the name of your grandparents’ gardener? I am not far from Hever now, and perhaps could consult with him... assuming he is still living.) And it was an easy day’s ride from London. Do you remember how the King used to stand on that hill, the first one from which you could glimpse Hever, and blow his hunting horn? You used to wait for that sound, and then go running to meet him. He always brought you something, too. You were the first Boleyn grandchild.

  Remember your uncle George that summer? He was trying so hard to be the gentil parfit knight. He practised riding about in his armour, ran lists against tre
es, and fell in love with that sloppy girl at The White Hart. She gave her favours to every man who frequented the tavern, except George, I think. She knew that to do so would stop the flow of sonnets he wrote exalting her purity and beauty, and she enjoyed laughing at them.

  Your mother Mary and her husband were also there, of course. I always thought your mother more than her sister Anne’s equal in beauty. But of a different sort. She was sun and honey; the other was the dark of the moon. We were all there that summer before everything changed so horribly. The tide has indeed gone out, leaving that little time as a brave clump of ground projecting above the muddy, flat rest of it.

  I am rambling. No, worse, I grow romantic and sentimental, something I abhor in others and will not tolerate in myself. Now, to return to the important thing: the legacy. Tell me how I may get it safely into your hands across the Channel. It is, unfortion against destruction. In fact, it can all too easily be destroyed by any number of things—sea, fire, air, or even neglect.

  I pray you make haste with your reply. I am distinctly less curious to discover at first hand the shape and disposition of my Maker than are you and others of your sect, but I fear I may be honoured with a celestial interview in the near future. The Deity is notoriously capricious in his affections.

  Ever your

  Will Somers

  Catherine Carey Knollys to William Somers:

  June 11, 1557. Basle.

  My dearest Will:

  I beg your forgiveness in taking so long to place this answer in your hands. Messengers who will openly carry things from England to us here in exile are few in these times; the Queen makes sure of that. However, I trust this carrier and equally trust your discretion in destroying this letter once you have read it.

  I am distressed to hear of your ill health. But you, as King Henry’s favorite jester, were ever prone to exaggeration in your talk, and I pray God this is but a further example of your art. Francis and I have prayed for you nightly. Not in the idolatrous Mass, which is worse than worthless, it is a travesty (O, if the Queen should see this!), but in our private devotions. We do not do badly here in Basle. We have enough clothes to keep us warm, enough food to keep us fit but not fat; more would be an affront to God, many of whose poor creatures are in bodily need. But we are rich in the only thing worth having—the freedom to follow our consciences. You no longer have that in England. The Papalists would take it all away. We pray daily for that tyranny to be lifted from your shoulders, and a Moses to arise to lead you from spiritual bondage.

  But about the legacy. I am curious. My father died in 1528, when I was but six. Why should you wait near thirty years to hand it on? It could not have been scurrilous or treasonous. And that is another thing that puzzles me. You spoke of his “enemies.” He had no enemies. William Carey was a good friend to the King, and a gentle man. I know this not only from my mother, but from others. He was well regarded at court, and his death from the plague saddened many. I am grateful that you remember now to do it, but if I had had it earlier... No, I do not blame you. But I would have known my father better, and sooner. It is good to meet one’s father before one becomes an adult oneself.

  Yes, I remember Hever in the summer. And my uncle George, and you, and the King. As a child I thought him handsome and angelic. Certainly he was beautifully made (the Devil did it) and had a certain presence about him, of majesty I should say. Not all kings have it; certainly Edward never did, and as for the present Queen...

  I regret to say I cannot remember the name of the gardener. Something with a J? But I do remember that garden, the one beyond the moat. There were banks of flowers, and he (of the forgotten name) had arranged it so that there was always something in bloom, from mid-March to mid-November. And great quantities, too, so that the little manor of Hever could always be filled with masses of cut flowers. Strange that you should mention musk-roses; my favourites were the her. It is extremely valuable, and many people would like to destroy it. They know of its existence but so far have confined their efforts to asking the Duke of Norfolk about it, the remnants of the Seymour family, and even Bessie Blount’s widower, Lord Clinton. Sooner or later they will sniff their way to me here in Kent.

  There, I have told it all, except the last thing. The journal was written not by William Carey, your supposed father, but by your true father: the King.

  Catherine Knollys to Will Somers:

  September 30, 1557. Basle.

  Will:

  The King was not—is not!—my father. How dare you lie so, and insult my mother, my father, myself? So you would rake up all those lies from so long ago? And I thought you my friend! I do not wish to see the journal. Keep it to yourself, along with all your other misguided abominations of thought! No wonder the King liked you so. You were of one mind: low-minded and full of lies. You will not muddy my life with your base lies and insinuations. Christ said to forgive, but He also told us to shake the dust off our feet from towns filled with liars, blasphemers, and the like. Just so do I shake you from mine.

  Will Somers to Catherine Knollys:

  November 14, 1557. Kent.

  Catherine, my dear:

  Restrain yourself from tearing this letter to pieces in lieu of reading it. I do not blame you for your outburst. It was magnificent. A paradigm of outraged sensibility, morality, and all the rest. (Worthy of the old King himself! Ah, what memories it brought back!) But now admit it: the King was your father. This have you known always. You speak of dishonouring your father. Will you dishonour the King by your refusal to admit what is? That was perhaps his cardinal virtue (yes, my lady, he had virtues) and genius: always to recognize the thing as it was, not as it was generally assumed to be. Did you not inherit that from him? Or are you like your half-sister Queen Mary (I, too, regret your relationship with her), blind and singularly unable to recognize even things looming right before her weak eyes? Your other half-sister, Elizabeth, is different; and I supposed you were also. I supposed it was the Boleyn blood, added to the Tudor, that made for a uniquely hard, clear vision of things, not muddied by any Spanish nonsense. But I see I was wrong. You are as prejudiced and stupid and full of religious choler as the Spanish Queen. King Harry is dead indeed, then. His long-sought children have seen to that.

  Catherine Knollys to Will Somers:

  January 5, 1558. Basle.

  Will:

  Your insults must be answered. You speak of my dishonouring the King my father. If he were my father, did he not dishonour me by never acknowledging me as his own? (He acknowledged Henry Fitzroy, made him Duke of Richmond—the offspring of that whore Bessie Blount!) Why, then, should I acknowledge or honour him? First he seduced my mother before her marriage, and now you say he subsequently ct horror wherever he went. The only good he did, he did merely as a by-product of evil: his lust for my aunt, Anne Boleyn, caused him to break from the Pope. (Thus the Lord used even a sinner for His purposes. But that is to the Lord’s credit, not the King’s.) I spit on the late King, and his memory! And as for my cousin, Princess Elizabeth (the daughter of my mother’s sister, naught else), I pray that she may... no, it is too dangerous to put on paper, regardless of the trustworthiness of the messenger or the receiver.

  Go thy ways, Will. I want no further correspondence from you.

  Will Somers to Catherine Knollys:

  March 15, 1558. Kent.

  Catherine:

  Bear with me yet a little. In your wonderfully muddled letter I sensed one essential question; the rest was mere noise. You asked: If he were my father, did he not dishonour me by never acknowledging me as his own?

  You know the answer: He was taken out of his true mind by that witch (now I must insult you again) Anne Boleyn. She tried to poison the Duke of Richmond; would you have had her try her hand on you as well? Yes, your aunt was a witch. Your mother quite otherwise. Her charms were honest, and her thoughts and manner honest as well. She suffered for it, while your aunt-witch thrived. Honesty seldom goes unpunished, and as you know, your mother did n
ot have an easy berth in life. He would have acknowledged you, and perhaps your brother as well (though he was less certain of his parentage), if the Witch had not prevented him. She was jealousical purposes, forbidden. Ostensibly this was for our protection. But it had the effect of cloistering us. No monk lived as austere, as circumscribed, as dull a life as I did for those ten years.

  And that was fitting, as Father had determined that I must be a priest when I grew up. Arthur would be King. I, the second son, must be a churchman, expending my energies in God’s service, not in usurping my brother’s position. So, from the age of four, I received churchly training from a series of sad-eyed priests.

  But even so, it was good to be a prince. It was good for elusive reasons I find almost impossible to set down. For the history of the thing, if you will. To be a prince was to be—special. To know when you read the story of Edward the Confessor or Richard the Lionheart that you had a mystic blood-bond with them. That was all. But enough. Enough for me as I memorized reams of Latin prayers. I had the blood of kings! True, it was hidden beneath the shabby clothes, and would never be passed on, but it was there nevertheless —a fire to warm myself against.