The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [186]
Cromwell appeared. Upon entering the chamber he looked astonished. “Your Grace—honoured Council members—” he began, playing for time while he figured out what was occurring, the better to be in control.
“I like her not!” I relieved Cromwell of the mystery, and of the need for preliminaries and niceties. There he stood, the man responsible for all this. My enemy.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Flanders Mare! The Lady of Cnd now—the wedding attire. When I ordered it, I had allowed every profligate desire to express itself. Each layer of clothing sought to outdo the one just beneath it. Now they were to be fitted together in one blinding ensemble. Culpepper held out the first undergarment, which was of finest China silk, embroidered with white. It was so light it almost floated as he passed it to me; and the sleek feeling as it slid down next to my skin was like a seductive serpent. But the layers after that became heavier and heavier, encrusted with gold thread and gemstones, Oriental pearls and silver of Damascus, until only a man of my breadth and strength could have worn them all.
I have worn armour and I know how heavy that is; but this was its equal. Yet what are gold and jewels but civilian armour?
My bride awaited me. My fate awaited me. Neither was what I would have chosen, but the ways of God were mysterious, and imperious. In just this frame of mind, I went forth for the public reception of Anne, Princess of the Duchy of Cleves.
The day was fair and clear and cold. Against the hard blue sky the golden tents sparkled, like galleons tossed on a sea. The standards above them snapped smartly like sails. Perhaps someday it would be possible for men to sail on an icy sea ... if a ship’s hull were constructed of very thick wood, several layers. ... Ah, what could I not do that day, what might I not invent, if only in imagination?
I rode surrounded in glory. Such a company of bravely bedecked knights —six thousand in all, counting the King’s Guard, yeomen, pages of honour, spears and pensioners, and all their trappings: the crimson velvet, the antique gold, the knots of gold—shining clearly and sharply in the January morning.
There were thousands more awaiting us on the broad heath—the Germanic merchants of the Steelyard on the east side, glaring across at their rivals, the merchants of Genoa, Florence, Venice, and Spain. In between were our own English merchants—all told, some twelve hundred men.
Down from Shooter’s Hill came Anne of Cleves in a carved, gilded chariot, drawn by horses trapped in black velvet. Like Diana drawn by steeds....
So I told myself, and so the noble chroniclers recorded it. On the parchment of the Kingdom, Diana, chaste and beautiful and athletic, was met by Jupiter, mighty and lust-filled and benevolent. You can read how glorious it all was, how the earth shook at our encounter and all the Kingdom rejoiced. Truly that day we all believed it, I as much as any other—and so history is made, so it becomes fixed like fruits preserved in wine long past their season.
Side by side, the Lady Anne and I rode down the hill and across Blackheath, and all my subjects cheered. The Thames (which had not frozen) was filled with boats with satin sails and banners, shooting off fireworks.
That was the public side. But once we reached Greenwich Palace, once the chariot was put away and the black velvet taken off the horses—then I was but myself again, a rebellious small boy inside the magnificent and ordained structure. I squirmed and fought. Once again I did not want to go through with it. The saintly resolve that had begun my day did not outlast the sunset. I gathered