The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [116]
“Always.”
I guided her to the little stone structure, standing lonely and dark on the far edge of the night’s warm noises and light. She hesitated.
“I will come with you and light a torch,” I said.
I pushed the warped wooden door open into the echoing interior. A single flame flickered on the altar, signifying the sacred Presence of the consecrated Host.
I lighted a large floor-candle near the door, and reached out to touch Anne’s shoulder. “Pray in peace,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for not smiling at me.” I knew what she meant; to express a genuine urge to piety is to risk ridicule.
“Pray for me,” I asked.
June first. In the middle of the night, enchanted May had given way to high summer and the political reality of Anne’s procession through the streets of London. Would the city welcome her? Yesterday’s show on the water had been pretty, but the string-music and cannonfire and fireworks had masked any jeering, and the malcontents had not bothered to venture out on boats.
The streets were different: freshly widened, gravelled, and lined with scaffolding, with a great “display” at every corner-an open invitation to troublemakers. True, the Lord Mayor had been warned, and he had certainly put on a brave show yesterday, but even he could not control the rabble; he knew that, and so did I, in spite of my threats about “traitors.” The idea that two hundred royal constables could keep any sort of discipline over a hundred thousand Londoners was absurd. Today Anne must ride forth, trusting in their goodwill—and God’s.
I glanced up at the sun, already a bright hot ball in a clean sky. That, at least, was auspicious. Ascending to the highest ramparts of the square White Tower, I could see westward all across London, whence Anne must cross to Westminster Abbey. Already the streets were choked with people, some of whom must have been there all night.
I myself intended to watch the procession from a window in Baynard’s Castle, and it was time I set out, before the crowd thickened.
Cromwell, having no part in the procession, awaited me in the appointed room at Baynard’s Castle, actually not a castle at all but a decrepit old royal dwelling that happened to be situated along Anne’s route. He had arranged for comfortable viewing-chairs, deep cushions, and music to amuse us as we waited.
“We are quite without a part in today’s show,” I commiserated with Cromwell. “Which I find consummately amusing, since we are the ones who arranged it all.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “The Lady Anne-that is, the Queen-also played a part.”
“Not as bigbes and titles, while the true power stays out of sight.”
“It was ever thus,” he shrugged, presenting me with a covered silver bowl. I took it; it was icy cold. Curious, I removed the top.
“Sherbet, Your Majesty. They have it in Persia to cool themselves on hot days like today.” Cromwell nodded. “I can have it made in other flavours, but mint is my personal favourite.”
I tasted it; it was a splendid fillip on the tongue. “Marvellous! Crum, you are marvellous!” How did the man find such ingenious ways of making everything pleasant-and feasible? Not only the coronation of an unthought-of Queen, but the sherbet to pleasure it.
By noon I could hear the trumpets sounding from the Tower, and I knew Anne had set out. It took an entire hour for the front part of the procession to pass by. It was led by twelve Frenchmen, all dressed in blue velvet, both they and their horses, signifying Francis’s goodwill; after them came squires, knights, and judges in ceremonial robes; the new-made Knights of the Bath in purple gowns; then the peerage: dukes, earls, marquises, barons, abbots, and bishops in crimson velvet. In their steps followed the officers of rank in England-archbishops, ambassadors, the lord mayors of London and other cities, the Garter Knight of Arms....
Finally, Anne. She was borne through the streets like a precious jewel, sitting in an open litter of white cloth-of-gold, borne by two white-caparisoned horses, a canopy of gold shielding her from the rude stare of the