The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [109]
The next morning, in bright sunlight, it seemed a singular event, nothing permanent or significant. I whistled as Norris dressed me, and even complimented him on the sweet-smelling fire he had built for us.
“I hope it added to your pleasure,” he said modestly.
I managed a great smile that felt real to me. “Indeed!”
He looked pleased.
“I trust the Papal messenger spent an unproductive night?” I was relieved to have this topic to turn to.
“ Aye. ”
“Where is he now?”
“Breaking his fast with the Duke of Suffolk.”
Ha! I chortled at that. Charles Brandon hated the Pope almost as much as I, though he had far less cause. Rome had most obligingly granted him annulments of two previous marriages, setting an encouraging example for me at the start of my own negotiations.
“I believe Brandon believes—or so he will tell Clement’s envoy-that I am hunting in New Forest, some two or three days hence. He must seek to find me there.”
“I shall so remind him,” Norris said, his face showing no surprise at these instructions. Even then I wondered how he had taught himself such a trick. He bowed and left to carry my message to Suffolk’s house.
I hoped the Papal pet would enjoy his fruitless hunting trip. Perhaps a wild boar would cooperate and yield him some meat, though not the meat he was seeking.
That meat must now attire itself for another day, I thought, heaving myself up; it must apply the sauces and garnishes to make itself palatable to its onlookers.
Before I had finished this overlong task, Cromwell begged leave to see me. Gladly I sent the barber and perfumier away, particularly the latter. He had been offering several new scents for my pleasure, “to stir the sluggish winter blood.” But they served only to remind me of what had not stirred the night before. Now the offending odours hung in the air, heavy, accusing. Muttering, I turned to greet Cromwell.
“Your Grace!” He had a grin on his face, and it sat so strangely on him that I felt it boded ill.
“What is it?” I tried to keep the alarm out of my voice.
“Your Grace, I have here-our deliverance.” He flung out his arms, and two ancet receive them! Say you were not allowed admittance to my chamber. You fool!”
He shook his head, laughing, and came toward me, striding through the repulsive “winter blood” perfume-cloud like Moses through the Red Sea. “Nay, Your Majesty—all your prayers are answered.” His voice was soft.
“The bulls,” I whispered. “The bulls!”
“Yes.” He handed them to me reverently. “They just arrived at Dover on a midnight ship. The messenger rode straight here.”
I unrolled them quickly and spread them out. It was true. Pope Clement had approved Thomas Cranmer as Archbishop of Canterbury and accepted his ordination.
“Crum!” The nickname was born in that moment of exhilaration and complicity.
“Congratulations, Your Majesty.” Again the eerie grin. “This means you have won.”
I stared down at the parchment, at the Latin, at the heavy signature. I had won. It had taken six years since the first “enquiry” into my matrimonial case. The coveted parchment now felt so light, so attainable. Six years. Lesser men would have turned back, been intimidated, counted the costs. Lesser men would not now, in March of 1533, be holding the parchment that Henry VIII of England now held.
It would be the last time I ever required approval or permission from another person to do or not to do anything.
“Yes. I have won.”
“And how does it feel?”
“It feels right.”
While the other Papal messenger was slogging his way along muddy March roads toward the New Forest near Winchester, I entertained his more successful compatriot at Greenwich. I toasted Clement with the best wines and enquired solicitously after his health and praised his bravery during his imprisonment, and so on. Then I packed his messenger straight back to the Continent on the first available ship. Cranmer I prepared for his consecration as Archbishop.
“And quickly,” I explained. “Before Clement can