The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [10]
WILL:
A candid opinion of how jesters are perceived by their audiences. It was always a mistake to have us follow a banquet; full stomachs make people unreceptive to anything pertaining to the mind. After eating, a man does not want to laugh, he wants to sleep. I have always believed that in place of the old Roman vomitorium (where they could relieve their distended bellies) there should be a dormitorium, where people could sleep and digest. Perhaps royal architects could incorporate this design in their plans. It should, of course, be directly off the Great Hall.
HENRY VIII:
At last it ended. The jesters exited, tumbling and throwing paper roses and paste beads out over the spectators. The King rose and prodded Arthur to do likewise. No one in the Hall was permitted to stir until the Royal Family had left the dais, and I wondered what Margaret and I were to do as I saw the King, the Queen, and Arthur making their way out. Suddenly the King turned and, with a solemn nod, indicated that Margaret and I were to join them. He had known all along, then, that we were present.
They took no notice of us as we trailed along behind them. The King was busy talking to Warham, and the Queen walked alone, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. Behind her, like a raven, came Margaret Beaufort, all in black, straining to overhear the King’s private conversation. Beside me my sister Margaret walked, complaining about her tight shoes and the late hour and the roast swan, which was upsetting her digestion.
The King’s apartments were on the opposite side of the Manor from the Great Hall, a matter for great grumbling in the kitchens. But when we finally reached them I felt a sense of disappointment. They were old and shabby, not even as spacious or well furnished as the nursery at Eltham. The ceiling was ueen, who was extending her hand. “Also for your marriage.” She handed me a slim package, then nodded at me to unwrap it. I did so, and found an exquisitely illustrated Book of Hours. I looked up at her in surprise.
“Your marriage with the Church,” she explained. “Now that you have progressed so far with your lessons, perhaps you can make use of this.”
I was disappointed for inexplicable reasons. Yet what had I expected? “Thank you, my Lady,” I said, and returned to my seat.
The evening continued in such strained merriment. The King spent much time conferring with his mother, and the Queen never left her ornately carved chair to speak with any of us, but fidgeted with her hands and the fastenings of her dress and listened to Margaret Beaufort’s urgent whispers beside her.
Occasionally I caught some of her words. Cornish. Army. Tower. Defeat.
And still no one had mentioned the lion or the dogs. That was the most puzzling part. I did not understand, but then I understood so little.
I did not understand, for instance, why the King, who was known to be stingy, had had such a sumptuous banquet. I did not understand why, in spite of his words about making merry, he was so obviously glum. I did not understand what the Cornish had to do with all of it.
I was trying to sort out all these things in my mind while dutifully staring at the Book of Hours to please my mother, when a messenger burst into the room. He looked around wildly and then blurted out for us all to hear: “Your Grace—the Cornish number some fifteen thousand! They are to Winchester already! And Warbeck is crowned!”
The King sat, his face a mask. For an instant there was no sound but his heavy breathing. Then his lips moved, and he said one word: “Again!”
“The traitors!” spat the King’s mother. “Punish them!”
The King turned an impassive face to her. “All, Madam?” he asked blandly.
I saw her expression change. I did not know then that her husband’s brother, Sir William Stanley, had just gone over to the Pretender.
She met him, steel against steel. “All,” she said.
Then the messenger went up to them, and there was a huddle of consultation and much alarm. I watched the