If you could see how everyone here rejoices in having so great a prince, how his life is all their desire, you would not contain yourself for sheer joy. Extortion is put down, liberality scatters riches with a bountiful hand, yet our King does not set his heart on gold or jewels, but on virtue, glory and immortality. The other day he told me, “I wish I were more learned.” “But learning is not what we expect of a King,” I answered, “merely that he should encourage scholars.” “Most certainly,” he rejoined, “as without them we should scarcely live at all.” Now what more splendid remark could a prince make?
And Erasmus came. There he found others of like mind, namely Linacre, John Leland, and Richard Whitford, besides Pace and Colet. And the young Thomas More, who was even then writing his Utopia and struggling to keep himself free from the beguiling royal web spun by Henry. It was composed in equal parts of gold and charm—a deadly combination, which sooner or later trapped everyone he chose to cast it upon. Not that Harry was lacking in intellect or talent. He was gifted; therein lay the danger, the confusion in his own mind and in those of others. He was truly eager for knowledge, in a boyish fashion, all his life. He knew ships and was a good seaman, and was more knowledgeable about French coastal waters than the authorities, for example. As a common soldier from Harry’s disastrous French war notes in his diary: “He was learned in all sciences, and had the gift of many tongues. He was a perfect theologian, a good philosopher and a strong man at arms, a jeweler, a perfect builder as well of fortresses as of pleasant palaces, and from one to another there was no necessary kind of knowledge, from a King’s degree to a carter’s, but he had an honest sight of it.”
His passion for theology may have exceeded his actual grasp of it, but nevertheless it was sufficient to impress the Pope himself and many learned bishops. Above all, there is no denying his extraordinary talent as a musician. He composed works of all kinds, from masses to motets and popular tunes and instrumentals. They are still regularly performed today; his motets O Lord, the Maker of All Things and Quam pulchra es are used even in Queen Mary’s Masses.
Just two days ago I heard a pretty young girl in the Cobham market singing “Greensleeves.” I asked her where the tune had come from. “I know not,” she replied. “Only that ’tis a customary tune.” Harry composed it, and common people still sing it. Had he not been King, he could have lived by his music; I am sure of it.
Since that was not to be, he gathered the best musicians and voices in the realm, kept them at court, and organized them into “The King’s Musick.” They were attendant on him, and under the direction of Robert Fayrefax. They made superb music, and there was nothing remotely resembling them in any other country, any other court. The French (allegedly the leaders in such things) had a dreadful facsimile group, which sang out of time and out of tune, with a “music master” who could not even read music, in addition to being chronically drunk—usually during performances.
HENRY VIII:
There were other, minor things, such as the refurbishing—and refurnishing—of the royal apartments to suit my taste. (I had begun by banishing that stinking monkey, which was the greatest improvement possible.) I ordered carpets from the Turks, glass vessels from Venice, marble and wood-inlaid tables from Italy, and enamel ware from France. (This in spite of the fact that the Infidels were permanently at enmity with all Christian states, that Venice was beleaguered, and France hostile to us. It is curious that merchants never go to war, and resent it only for disrupting the trade routes.) Father’s crude furniture and rush floor coverings were to be replaced as soon as the camels and ships could send their successors.
The Audience Chamber, in particular, needed work. For a King, do like a King, Farr had said. I now knew this to be impossible without the proper trappings. An Audience Chamber should dazzle the onlooker, and it does no good to be resplendently attired if the canopy above one’s head is threadbare or moth-eaten.
WILL:
If his calculated desire was to stun, he succeeded. I remember well the first time I saw him in full panoply, standing beneath the canopy of state. It was as if he were not an earthly man at all, but some other creature entirely. Which a King must be.
We forget, you and I, that being King is an occupation, just as cabinet-joining or road-paving or law-reading. I know the official belief: that Kings are somehow different, springing from a divinely ordained race. Yet Harry’s great-grandfather was a Clerk of the Wardrobe. Where was the blood royal in him? At what stage did it miraculously appear? No, Catherine (as you are radical in religion, perhaps this extends into other areas as well?), it appeared in his descendants only when they were called to be King. “For a King, do like a King.” It is simple, yet not so simple. The truth is that very few men can convincingly “do like a King,” try as they will. Harry could; he was a genius in it; a master at capturing and holding men’s imaginations and loyalties. He sensed from the beginning the power of physical impressions, and spared no effort to play up his greatest asset: his dazzling appearance. Do you remember that witty Venetian ambassador, Giustinian? He was at Harry’s court for four years and wrote a book entitled, appropriately enough, Four Years at the Court of Henry VIII. Here is his recording of one of Henry’s “audiences”:
“His fingers were one mass of jewelled rings and around his neck he wore a gold collar from which hung a diamond as big as a walnut. He received the Venetian ambassadors under a canopy of cloth of gold, wearing a doublet of white and crimson satin, and a purple velvet mantle lined with white satin.”
To be a King is to be un-ordinary, extraordinary: because we will have it so, we demand it, as we demand our carpenters make smooth-sliding drawers. Much of Harry’s behaviour is incomprehensible if judged as the actions of an ordinary man; as King, it appears in a different light. If a man is consciously trying to be an ideal King, an outside King, then all the more so.
And there can be no wavering, no half-measures. One must be King every instant, while retiring to the privy stool as well as in state audiences. There is no respite: the mask of royalty must gradually supplant the ordinary man, as sugar syrup replaces the natural flavors in candied fruit and flowers. They retain their original outward appearance, but inside are altogether changed in substance.
Harry bore this burden easily, and wore his regality with a splendid conviction. What this cost him as a man becomes apparent as one reads on in his journal.
HENRY VIII:
At times I felt like the Roman centurion in the Gospel who said to Our Lord: I am a man under authority, having soldiers under me: and I say to this man, Go, and he goeth; and to another, Come, and he cometh; and to my servant, Do this, and he doeth it. It was a heady feeling, to be able to command like the centurion, to have men obey me.
Yet I quickly found there was another side to it. Yes, I could command men and women. But unlike the Scriptural centurion, I discovered that ritual surrounded every act of mine, imprisoning me and slowing my movements until they resembled those of a man in a dream. Should I be hungry and require even something so simple as bread and ale, it touched upon the pride and prerogatives of some ten people, each jealous of the other. The messenger must not carry the tray, that was the duty of the Lord Steward’s server, who in turn must not enter the Privy Chamber but hand the tray to a groom, who in turn must give it to . . . You see the problem. Rather than ordering someone to “go here” or “come,” I often went without things rather than submit to the ponderous ritual attached.
Why, then, did I submit at all? Because I quickly grasped the true purpose of this system: to buffer me from the endless demands of self-seekers and petitioners. The long chain of command stretching between myself and my servers wove a tight web about me, and if I could not break out, neither could outsiders break in.
For whenever I left the royal apartments, I was attacked by swarms of people asking things of me. An appointment for their cousin. A good decision, please, from the court lawyer studying their case. To be sure, they did not physically p
ress in upon me; they were more subtle and wore silks and made sure to keep the required several inches away, and instead of shouting, they whispered their requests. But is it any wonder that I needed time alone to hawk and hunt and ride? At times I felt like an anvil, where all men came to hammer at their desires, and my head rang.
In connection with this, there was yet another meeting I must investigate and attend, at least occasionally: the Lord Steward’s so-called Board of Green Cloth. The Lord Steward’s staff was responsible for all the creature comforts at court. He oversaw some twenty-five departments, such as the bakehouse and buttery, the saucery and laundry, each with its own staff. These department divisions were time-honoured and thus totally illogical: for example, “poultry” was responsible for procuring lamb, although the “acatary” was in charge of meat, including mutton. The Lord Steward controlled (if that is the proper word, for they seemed quite uncontrolled) a staff of two hundred and twenty. (In peacetime he controlled more expenditure than any other single individual in the realm.) Nevertheless, he attempted to check accounts and inventory supplies every week with his treasurer and controller, while sitting around a table covered with green baize cloth, hence its informal name: Board of Green Cloth.
I attended three of these meetings. One addressed itself to this problem: Was the best wheat to be procured in Kent or in Dorset? (An interesting question, no doubt, but one that hardly required the Royal Presence.) The second worked out an elaborate scheme for collecting used candle-butts and reusing them. And the third discussed the best use for goose-feathers. It seems there was an abundance of said feathers following a palace feast. After that, I went no more, but sent Wolsey in my stead.
But for deeper matters: I lacked yet one thing which I longed for. A wife. Yes, I would have a Queen. And who but Katherine, to whom I had pledged myself so long ago? I disregarded the nebulous marriage treaties that Father had been fashioning: his death rendered them null and void. (Particularly since he pledged himself as a bridegroom in some of the negotiations.) I would have Katherine, or no one.
But I must hurry, so it seemed. Upon hearing of Father’s Habsburg marriage plans, the Spanish had finally despaired of the marriage between us, and most of Katherine’s possessions had already been transferred out of England by the Spanish ambassador, with her own departure not far behind. She, who had vowed that she would die in England rather than return to Spain unmarried, was about to break her vow.
If she stood ready to break her vow, I did not. She was pledged to me, and I was bound to her. I summoned her to come to the Privy Chamber next day.
She arrived exactly on time. I felt a flicker of disappointment as I saw her, small and poorly dressed, coming toward me across the great floor. She looked much older, and less pretty, than I had remembered. But I had not seen her in full light for almost six years, while I had gone from boy to man. Still, this was my betrothed. . . .
“Katherine,” I said, coming to her and holding out my hands. I towered over her. She was . . . squat. No, petite, I corrected myself. “My wife.”
She looked confused. “No. You are to marry a Habsburg. De Puebla has begun transferring my dowry to Bruges.”
“To hell with the dowry!” I said. “I have been left a fortune, the like of which no English King has ever been bequeathed. I do not need your dowry; I do not want it. It stinks of negotiations, subterfuge, lies, bargains. I want you, Katherine, not your dowry.”
She merely stared at me. I had a sudden dread: perhaps she still knew little English? I started toward her, and she drew away.
“Please, Katherine,” I said. “I wish you to be my wife.”
She stood still. “Very well,” she said, and seemed forty years old, cold and dignified. Then she ran toward me, held out her hands. “Henry!” she cried, looking up at me. Tears shone in her eyes. “I wanted—but I thought”—she blinked away the tears—“I thought it was never meant to be.”
“No, Katherine. Indeed it is meant to be.” With all the blind assurance of youth, I said that. “Against all wishes, we will wed! And soon—so that we may be crowned together.”
“When?”
“As soon as my father’s funeral is past. We will be married privately, and go away into the country for a few days, and be alone—”
“A runaway match!”
I laughed. “Your English is very good. Yes, a runaway match! We will confound them all, all those who advise against it for the sake of treaties, alliances, dowries, dispensations. We are young, and love one another. Nothing else matters.”
“No,” she agreed. “Nothing else matters.”
I bent down and kissed her. Her mouth was firm and sweet. “I am King now,” I said. “We have nothing more to fear.”
XIII
Katherine and I were married in mid-June, just two weeks before the Coronation. It was a private affair; at a simple Mass in the Chapel of the Observant Friars at Greenwich (where I had been baptized), we were married by Archbishop Warham. Only the family attended.
WILL:
A curious fact: Henry never had a dazzling public wedding like the one his brother Arthur had, although the man normally revelled in public ceremonies. When or where his marriage to Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, or Catherine Howard took place remains a mystery to most people.
HENRY VIII:
It was the third time I had stood beside Katherine to recite marriage vows in one form or another. The first time I was ten, the second time twelve, and now I was seventeen.
I try hard to remember that day, as what we later became blots it out. I was proud, and insisted that Katherine wear my wedding gift to her: a necklace of gigantic pearls, each one as big as a marble. I did not know then that pearls are the symbols of tears, and that the common people say that for each pearl the bride wears, her husband will give her cause for weeping. Nor would I have believed it, then. As we stepped out onto the church porch, silvery drops began to fall: a sun-shower. Another omen, pointing the same way . . . you will shed a tear for each raindrop that falls on your wedding day. But to us it felt like the sprinkling of holy water, a special benediction and blessing. Laughing, we clasped hands and ran across the courtyard to Greenwich Palace, where we would have our private wedding feast.
Poor Katherine had no family in England, but no matter, so I thought; I was to be her family now. My grandmother Beaufort was there, although she was ailing, and my eleven-year-old cousin Henry Courtenay, Earl of Devon. There was my quasi-uncle, Arthur Plantagenet, the natural son of Edward IV and one of his mistresses. He was some nine years older than I. Other members of my family were noticeable by their absence: my cousin Edmund de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk, still imprisoned in the Tower, and his brother Richard, fled abroad to France. It was a small feast.
But it was a merry one. There was almost visible relief on Grandmother Beaufort’s face. Her grandson was safely King and had taken a wife, and the future of the family was no longer in jeopardy. She could die now, and she did, just three weeks later.
While I sat beside Katherine, I could not stop staring at her, in disbelief that she was to be mine. Nor could she keep from looking at me—at the ten-year-old boy who had been her friend, now a boy no longer, but a King.
Yet looking at her (all the while the minstrels were playing and the seemingly endless procession of dishes was presented) only made me more anxious and preoccupied. I wished the feast to be over; I wished it to go on forever.
Shall I confess it? I was a virgin. Unlike my companions of the tiltyard and the exercise field, I had never had a woman. How could I, guarded and sequestered as I was, and constantly watched by the King? Oh, there had been the customary invitations from the serving girls. But I had no desire for them—perhaps because they offered themselves so freely. Or perhaps because I was embarrassed to reveal my virginal state, which I assumed would be obvious, and then they would laugh at me in the kitchens and the laundry. In the beginning it was simply that I was too young, and was frightened; then, later, ironically, I wa
s too old.
And now I must take Katherine to bed. The young King, proclaimed a second Hector, another Lancelot, and so on, was as inexperienced as his older, sickly brother had been before him. And with the same woman. I remembered how, with the blithe ignorance of a ten-year-old, I had disdained his timidity and lack of self-assurance.
We were alone in the Retiring Room. The entire humiliating court ritual of “putting the couple to bed” had been duly observed. Our friends and attendants had come especially to undress us ceremoniously (behind separate screens), and mine had crowded around me, telling obscene jokes and making suggestions. I kept drinking wine. Brandon winked and put his hand over the cup and said, “No more of that, Your Grace. You know the proverb: ‘Look not thou upon the wine when it is red in the cup; at the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder.’ ” I hastily put down the wine cup, and they laughed loudly.
Behind the other screen, Katherine’s Spanish attendant and dear friend, Maria de Salinas, made her ready. Then we were led out from behind our respective screens (like lambs to the slaughter, I could not help thinking, and our white garments only enhanced the image) and taken to the great bed, with its new velvet hangings. We climbed the wooden steps on each side and got into it, embarrassed and awkward. Maria and Brandon then pulled the covers up over us and the entire company stood back and observed us with satisfaction.