The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [129]
His thirst for their ruin seemed primary, his concern for their morals secondary. His emphasis distressed me.
“Not now, Crum!” I barked, and the cold, clear air seemed to encapsulate my words, to surround each of them with a box. Did the fool not understand that I was about to meet my daughter, whom I had not seen in almost two years? My daughter, whom I loved and with whom I was yet at enmity. Human emotions: these did not reckon in Crum’s scales. Except as something to be used to undo a man.
And I was so nervous, so anxious, my heart was pounding louder than my empty stomach was growling. I felt it not, so filled with joy and dread was I to be approaching Beaulieu. I would see Mary; we would talk; all things would be resolved, for love could overcome any barrier.
Beaulieu: a beautiful red brick royal residence, almost a miniature Hampton C">
I longed to lean down, embrace her, tell her I loved her. But if she could be hard, she would learn that I could be harder still. Ruby must crack against diamond.
“Indeed,” I said. “I acknowledge your fealty. Know, then, that you must go straightway to Hatfield House and begin to serve in the Princess’s household.”
“Be it unto me according to thy wish,” she said.
“Stop echoing Scripture! You shame it, and yourself! You are no Virgin Mary, lass, so do not style yourself thus!” Had she inherited Katherine’s tendency to religious excess?
On the way back to London, my men, well fed now, were eager to know the cause for my stormy and hasty departure. I had stamped into the dining hall, bade them tuck the food straight into their bellies, and leave. I did not seat myself, but grabbed several pieces of meat pie and white manchet bread, and ate them ravenously, all the while standing and directing my party to get their cloaks.
Now the dry-eaten food seemed lodged in a series of little lumps from my mouth to my stomach. That, and my choler, choked me. I longed for Will to ride beside me, but he had departed from Beaulieu to his sister’s house. None of the others would do, not at this moment when I realized that I had lost my daughter; that my Great Matter was not resolved upon my clever juggling of Papal bulls and decretals and consecrations and Parliamentary acts; that treason lurks in hearts and goes unconverted and undetected in most cases. The line must be, would have to be, drawn across families and old loyalties. Even my own.
But to have lost my daughter—no, it was too hard. I could not bear it, I would soften it somehow. Then I was minded that I had tried to soften it, and it was Mary who would not have it so.
So be it.
I motioned for George Boleyn to come forward and ride with me. That he did, looking gratified and puzzled.
“George, I love you well,” I began, for the pleasure of confusing him further, “and therefore I will make a present to you. From henceforth Beaulieu is yours. »
Yes, Mary must surrender it to Queen Anne’s brother.
He looked dumbfounded, as all are at receiving utterly undeserved gifts.
“As soon as the Lady Mary has removed herself, and her household has gone, you may take possession of it.”
I waved away his stammering, inadequate thanks.
Another few miles farther on the ride, I beckoned Chapuys to take his place beside me. I was holding audience on the road, as surely as if I had a secretary to direct my appointments.
Chapuys rode forward, his entire being as eager as ever for some sparring. I would not disappoint him.
“Ambassador,” I said, “You must be made privy to the conversation betwixt the Lady Mary and myself. I have forbidden her to continue to style herself ‘Princess,’ and her household has been disbanded. I just her a traitor.”
“Of what does this Oath consist?”
How many times