The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [182]
The line of granite-faced castles was rising steadilyy pcame and made obeisance to England, in little tame waves. Across that water lay France, visible on clear days, but not today.
The water made the soothing slap-and-slide sounds meant to allay my fears. It was hypnotic, and seemed to say, It is good, it is good, it is good. ... False waters. French-tainted waters.
I turned and looked behind me, at the round belligerence of my defence castle, so muted and grey against the equally dull greenish grey grass on the knolls surrounding it. War had the characteristics of an elephant: grey and wrinkled and bulky. Also expensive to feed and house.
Cromwell was no longer visible. He had left the high places and was undoubtedly inspecting the heart of the castle, where men and ammunition must quarter. If there were a weak spot there, he would find it and seek to have it corrected.
I continued to watch the cold, grey-green sea spread out before me. Watching the sea, I did not have to think; and I was weary of thinking. All my thoughts were unpleasant.
“Your Majesty.”
Cromwell was beside me. “Ah, Crum.”
“The underground provisions are marvellous!” he reported. “Although under the earth, the whitewash and simple designs and open chambers make them aesthetic and even restful. And the decision to have only large chambers is not only practical, but avoids that ugly, cramped feeling of being confined. Von Haschenperg is a genius!”
Even though Crum was no military tactician, he understood the needs of ordinary soldiers—had he himself not served as a mercenary in Italy?—and thus his comments were valuable.
“I am pleased you find it so.”
Together we stood and looked toward France. I knew our conversation must tread on this delicate matter. But I was not eager for it.
“My negotiations with the French for your bride have foundered,” he finally said, hands clasped behind his back, still staring out to sea.
“How so?” I likewise kept my eyes firmly fastened on invisible France.
“The three daughters of the Duc de Guise have proved ... difficult,” he said. “The first, Marie—”
The widow of the Duc de Longueville, I suddenly remembered. The silly old Duke, held captive in England, who had acted as Louis’s proxy in “consummating” his marriage to Mary ... was his widow yet alive?
“She is young, and although large in person, is thought to be attractive,” said Crum, answering my unasked question.
Large. I myself was “large.” “Well, as I am large myself—” I began.
“It seems she is betrothed to the King of Scots already,” said Cromwell.
James V, son of my sister Margaret. How old could he be, as James IV was killed in the Battle of Flodden in 1513.... Twenty-seven, then? Damn the Scots! I had heard little from them in a generation, had mistook their quietness for subservience.
“But her sisters, Louise and Renée, are said to be beautiful. I have sent Holbein to take their likenesses. Unfortunately, Renée, the most beautiful of the three, is I be is intelligent and loyal, and inclined to the match,” Cromwell said.
“And she is beautiful,” I added. Holbein’s portrait assured me of that. Intelligent—I needed that. And loyal—no less important.
“Indeed she is!”
“And not too Protestant? I’ll not have a Lutheran!”
“No, her house thinks as you do. A rare thing in these troubled times, to have recognized the twin dangers of Papacy and heresy.”
“Is her brother content to have her marry away from the Continent?”
“He is content, and ready to sign a marriage treaty.”
So here it was. I must marry again. Despite all my restrictions, both political and personal, it seemed a bride had been found to meet them. And beyond that, to provide a bit of exotica ... a Rhine Princess, whose device was two white swans, emblems of candour and innocence. There was a family legend in Cleves that a faerie