The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [104]
We had much to discuss. Mainly it concerned the Pope and Charles: terrors and scourges of us both. Francis suggested that a Papal council concerning my marriage be held in France. He promised to tell His Holiness that I would abide by any decision this council came to. I myself was sceptical of this, but I could not guarantee, even to myself, how I would feel should the Pope grant me my declaration of nullity at this late date.
We retired to Calais, where I found Anne quiet and dispirited. Being almost in France, where she had passed her early girlhood, and yet unable to pass into the land itself, had told on her. Her sister had gone to the French King’s bed and been warmly received. Anne herself had refused both Francis and me, and her reward was to be labelled the “goggle-eyed whore” and to be met in France by a whore—presumably her social equal?
When I entered the royal apartments in Calais, I found a strange sight. Anne was asleep in a padded chair. Her head was tilted back and her mouth open, a position suggesting great ardour—except that she was obviously unconscious. On her neck were Katherine’s jewels. Coming closer, I saw that she was wearing them all: the earrings, the bracelets, the necklaces. It was as if she had decided to put all on in an attempt to flout the ostracism—to say, in effect, I shall wear the jewels regardless. Even if I must wear them alone.
I stood looking at her. Poor Anne. Asleep, she looked so young, like the girl I had first fallen in love with. She had given up her youth for me; had endured public calumny; had grown into a woman, waiting for me to make a move. Now this humiliating venture into France—meant for her triumph—had ended, once again, as her disgrace. How stubborn, how childlike, to put on the erstwhile Queen’s jewels and then fall asleep.
I approached her, supremely beautiful there in the half-light of the large candle standing on the nearby table. The dancing candlelight flickered off the cut surfaces of the gems round her neck.
“Anne.” I touched her. She did not stir.
“Anne.” This time I shook her, gently. She slowly opened her eyes and looked at me. She seemed confused.
“Oh,” she finally said, then looked down at her finery. She had evidently meant to wear it in privacy and take it off long before I appeared. Now she was embarrassed.
“You are practising for being Queen,” I heard myself saying. “There is no harm in that.”
She shook her head, and tried to reenter the world. “I—I fell asleep....” she mumbled.
“So I see.” I laughed. She did not. Instead, she forced herself up out of her chair and began to walk rhythm hands all the while. For a long time she did not speak. She seemed as a madwoman. Finally I interrupted her nervous to-and-fro motions, as one will stop a sleepwalker.
“Anne, what is it?” I asked, as gently as I knew how. Yet she continued to stare at me with blank eyes—open, but uncomprehending.
“Anne,” I persisted, “you must tell me what eats away at you so.”
She looked at me mournfully, as if she knew but were loth to tell. I had seen the same look in Mary’s eyes when she was but seven or eight and had done something wrong.
“It—it is—only that I am sad.” She touched her jewels. “I love to touch them. They are royal. And when I am alone, I can believe in all you promised—that I will be your wife, that I will someday be honoured in France, and that the French King himself, not his whore, will receive me.
She came toward me, took my face in her hands. “Ah, Henry. The King of England is my only friend.”
“And you will be Queen of England,” I assured her. “And then you shall have many friends. So many you will not know which truly are your friends.”
She laughed, a half-stifled laugh. “All those in power say such. But I should imagine I will always know my friends.”
“You think, then, that to be in power is to leave perception