The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [125]
How far back did it go? Its entrance yawned a little farther to one side, and it was wide—about ten feet. “Cave!” I yelled. “Cave!”
“Halloooo!” came an answer, and figures emerged out of the whiteness, struggling toward me. I bent down and began to crawl awkwardly along the cave floor, feeling for a back wall. When none appeared, I motioned for the men to follow me.
“I can stand!” cried Cromwell, shuffling forward, testing the ground at every step. I raised myself up, expecting to bump my head, but did not. Even raising my hand, I encountered no rock overhead. But I felt a series of soft, silken bumps, which rustled and resettled themselves.
“A chamber with bats as ladies-in-waiting,” I said. “Let us make a fire, and quickly.”
Within a few minutes the men had brought in a large pile of wood and several armloads of leaves and dead matter. Will struck his flint and steel, showering sparks upon the cold, inert stuff. It took a good quarter-hour before one cooperative leaf began to smoulder, and again as long before its neighbours caught fire. The cold within the cave was even more intense than without. I had the feeling that this cave harboured cold even on Midsummer’s Eve, stored it up from successive years like a miser with his gold.
Now the larger branches began to catch fire, sending out a mass of evil-smelling smoke. Choking, the men crowded closer. But the warmth was so feeble I could scarce feel anything. I rubbed my hands hard, hoping to bring them to life. They felt like two blocks of wood—wood that dripped blood.
“Courage!” I said. “It will not be much longer now.”
“‘Well, comrades. Now that we have suffered in the beginning, fortune promises us better things, God willing,’ ” muttered Neville.
Those were my own words on the first miserable night at camp in France in 1513. How had he remembered them all these years? I was touched. But looking at him, I saw only sullen discomfort on his face. Perhaps that was all he remembered of the old French campaign—cold discomfort. It hurt me to think that my companions-in-arms did not treasure the experiences we had shared, especially those noble war experiences of our youth. “Ah, that was a glorious night,! I said.
“In the French mud?” scoffed Carew. “ ’Twas almost as miserable as this cold.”
“The French campaign was a blessed one,” I insisted. “How I wish you others here had shared it with us.”
“I was scarcely born,” said George Boleyn. “It was my father who accompanied you.”
“And mine,” said William Brereton, unwrapping his cloak from about his eyes, which peered out of his pudgy, lamblike face.
“My father made me the night beinnhink henceforth he should not stir without a supply of these.” He held up the vial of pills.
Surely he wouldn’t need more! Those ten were all I had with me, and what if I were stricken with the excruciating leg pain? With no way to dampen it, I might betray myself and my weakness. I took them back from Cromwell in what I thought was an offhanded manner. “What is wrong with him?” I asked.
“A bad heart. He will get these ‘attacks’ from exertion from now on.”
“Exertion? Blowing on a fire is exertion?” demanded Neville.
“At his age, yes. After the strain of the journey—”
“Nonsense!” Neville barked. “Age—exertion—” Carew and he were the same age. “Preposterous!”
The neglected fire now burst into full flame, like a contrary child. I turned to it with relief, glad to be done with this conversation. Where had Cromwell learned so much about medicine? During his “studies” in Italy? I knew so little about him, really. I wondered if he had detected my leg weakness. And how would I manage to change my bandage amongst all these men? Perhaps it did not need to be changed; perhaps it could stay on overnight.
Boleyn returned, white as a corpse, dragging several branches inside. He looked relieved to see that there was warmth at last.
“It was all I could find,” he said, gesturing toward the outside. “Already the snow is so deep it is hard to see where wood