The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [158]
I rode alone in the meadows when I smelled it. I would have had Jane beside me, but I could not seek her company unchaperoned, and so I did not. The pastures and meadows turned velvety emerald; and the woodlands were a display of pastel colours, as the baby leaves of a thousand trees uncurled: not green at all, in their first hours, but lavender, pink, red, gold.
Cromwell had all in order. The arrests would be made on May Day, following the customary jousts.
“Everyone will be all together then, and that should simplify matters,” he explained. “The ceremonial presence of the Yeomen of the Guard will serve to disguise their true purpose.”
Disguise, true ... the tortuous theme of the past half-year.
“The arrests can be made unobtrusively. In the confusion and high spirits, no one will notice. They can be imprisoned by nightfall, all at once. Interrogation the next day, May second. Trial by May tenth. Execution by May fifteenth at the latest,” he said.
“Good.” The sooner it was over, the better.
“It will be necessary for you to attend with the Queen,” Cromwell said apologetically.
“Quite so.” If she could play her part, so could I.
We sat in the royal box, Anne and I. This was the first year I had not participated in the May Day tournament. The reason I gave out was my fall in the January jousts. Still, it was difficult to play the part of a spectator, as if I were an old King, one who existed only as a voyeur. It was a world with which I had no wish to acquaint myself, had always disdained and rejected.
Humility, I thought. Being thought old and infirm and accepting it with grace is humility. Just as Christ pretended to be powerless before Pilate. (Although he could not resist the cryptic comment about only “allowing” Pilate to have power.) But comparing myself with Christ was pride. I extracted pride even from humility; I could squeeze it from any situation, like juice from an orange.
Anne was in white, the same white she had worn, and so well, at her Coronation. She knew how fairly it set off her dark hair, her creamy skin; and such were her powers that for a few moments, as I sat beside her, I strad to the spectators, to the participants. The sun was bright on the field, and shone on the knights’ armour. I longed to be with them, instead of penned up in this watching box.
Anne’s lovers all rode in the contests. I watched her carefully out of the corner of my eye to see how she behaved toward them. Weston and Brereton caused her no notice—poor men! did they suspect how little she regarded them? —but she quivered with attention to her brother George, who performed well enough. (Not as a champion, but certainly passable.) Then Norris took his place, riding against Francis Bryan. Before beginning, he made the customary bow to the royal box.
Suddenly Anne leaned forward and flagrantly dropped her handkerchief. He picked it up, kissed it, passed it along his brow, then handed it back up to her. Their hands met, caressed.
This effrontery was a spark to my tinder. It was so brazen, so blatant, that I could not endure it. The insult was too great.
I stood up and said softly to Anne, “So, Madam. You shall have your reward.” I looked my last at her. I should never see her again upon this earth.
I left the royal box, and informed Cromwell that I was returning immediately to the palace. “Make the arrests as soon as this course is over,” I ordered him. “Do not delay.”
The handkerchief had been the last liberty Anne would take with my folly of having loved her. There is required a small act to kill love utterly; for reasons known only to God, large, heinous acts do not do it. Perhaps they are too great, have too many chinks and explanations. Only a small act of malicious disregard can achieve the final killing. A lace-edged handkerchief did what even Smeaton’s confession had failed to do completely, that is, in every corner of my being.
Norris had not ridden, after all. He had divested himself of his