The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [1]
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 trees, 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