The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [171]
Already it was nicknamed “the Great Bible” for its size. The recently promulgated “Ten Articles of Faith” required for believers in the—wy!—Church of England specified that each church should have a Bible in English, and Miles Coverdale’s translation was being used for the purpose. Originally it was to be printed in France, for their presses were larger than ours, but the English churchmen had run afoul of the French Inquisitor-General and had had to transfer their entire printing operation to England. The copy I consulted was one of the advance ones, sent for my inspection. One necessary change: Anne’s name on the dedication page, as Queen, must be replaced by Jane’s, as was being done elsewhere in stone and wood carvings.
I turned to Luke, Chapter fifteen, verse ten.
Likewise I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth.
Or one person who realizes that he is not a sinner.
And he said, A certain man had two sons.
To have hoped so fully, so that the thing seemed so assured . . . now this second death. God teases us on the rack of expectations; the earthly ones we construct as implements of torture are poor imitations of His own.
The door opened. I was no longer looking at it, and so Mary was fully in the room before I saw her. And then she seemed a vision.
A tiny young woman—that was my “little girl,” She was short, and that made her seem young, belied her true age.
“Father.” Her voice was low, gruff. It seemed an odd thing to issue from her throat.
Before I could reply, she flung herself down at my feet and began reciting, in that near-growling voice, “I, most humbly lying at your feet to perceive your gracious clemency, my merciful, passionate, and most blessed father, Supreme Head of the Church of England....” The words were all stuck end-to-end as she admitted her mother’s marriage incestuous, abandoned her allegiance to Rome, and acknowledged my claims of overlordship of the Church of England.
I bent down and pulled her gently up, hugged her to me. Her head came only up to my chest.
“Mary, daughter. You need say no more. Thank you for coming back to me.”
At once she began to cry, and I knew she wept for her “betrayal” of her dead mother. But to go on living is no betrayal. I said nothing and let her cry. But oh! my heart sang to have her back . . . back from both Katherine and Anne. God be thanked that they were both dead. Their deaths freed me from my past, and my mistakes.
“You are welcome here at court,” I finally said. “Come, the Queen wishes to see you again.”
“Queen Jane was always kind,” she said, in a low monotone.
Jane had come to court when Katherine was already isolated and beginning her stubborn martyrdom. The self-seekers had followed Anne’s rising star. But Jane had remained with Katherine and befriended Mary, who was only seven years younger. (Jane had been born the same year I became King.)
Together we walked from my inmost private room and out into the common chamber. I requested that the Queen come straightway. While we waited, Mary and I stood together awkwardly. I no longer felt elated, but almost uncomfortable with a grown woman who was a stranger but also my daughter. Would Jane never come and relieve this tension?
Jane, Jane, help me, as you always do....
Jane appeared, at the far end of the chamber, and came swiftly toward Mary, arms outstretched, a great natural smile on her face.
“Mary, Mary!” she cried, genuine welcome in her voice.
Mary tried to kneel, but Jane embraced her instead. “I have so longed for this day,” said Jane. “Now my happiness is complete.” She held out her other arm to me and locked us all together, turning the water of awkwardness into the wine of ease, against all odds.
LXXVIII
Edward the Confessor. Pilgrims had come from far away to see it, and had addressed their most fervent prayers to it. It was a glass vial containing drops of the Virgin’s milk—miraculous