The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [189]
Yes, Cromwell. I had thought him my ally, yet who was he really? He had appeared conveniently when Wolsey had left court, ostensibly to act as Wolsey’s agent in the tangled financial affairs he had so uncharacteristically left behind. In doing so he had established himself as a powerful man, or, if not powerful, a man of consequence, one to be reckoned with. Wolsey’s ruin was his gain. And from there he had maneuvered himself into my confidence. How? By his unscrupulous manipulation of the Church. The undoing of the Papacy: Cromwell’s insight. The domestication of the English clergy: Cromwell’s project. The dissolution of the monasteries: Cromwell’s grand design. These moves had made me supreme over the Church, and monastic wealth had replenished what I had wasted of my inheritance in French wars. But what had they done for Cromwell? No man does anything that does not ultimately benefit himself most; I knew this now, although I had not always known it. In Wolsey’s case that benefit was obvious; and showed itself ostentatiously. But Cromwell had garnered no titles, gloated over no possessions, sported with no women, and exalted in no high rank or office. He was not Chancellor, and wore no gold chain. He did not preside over Court of Star Chamber or over Parliament. What drove him? What did he want? Whatever it was, finding himself in my confidence, making himself indispensable to me, and yoking me to the Flemish Mare—all were part of his plan. Although I did not know that plan as yet, I knew Cromwell well enough to know that he would have a plan, for nothing in his life was happenstance. So I would watch, and wait. And in the meantime ... I glanced over at Anne ... I would have to pretend that we were man and wife. And catch Cromwell out. In that, Anne would serve a purpose.
I let her sleep. I had no desire to be surrounded by people until I had my thoughts on course. Let everyone think we slept late because the marriage was a grand success. It served my plans better.
Thus do we become old. It is not in our aching knees, or in our rheuCromwelles. No. It is in the transforming of what in youth is a simple pleasure into something false and face-saving. The wedding night becomes a political ruse. In this we betray ourselves, surprise our own selves in the distance we have already travelled on our life’s journey.
Afore noon, Anne and I, attired in our “second day” costumes, greeted Cromwell and the other Privy Councillors before adjourning to a midday feast. In these short winter days, dinner was served when the sun was at its height. I took care not to smile overmuch, lest it be misinterpreted. Let them puzzle over exactly what I felt; let them wonder how pleased I was; let no one be sure of where he stood with me.
A rush of pleasure filled me at the situation. I enjoyed leaving men in limbo, uncertain as to what exactly was happening to them—or was about to happen. It was an ugly feeling, and I was ashamed that I could relish it so. Yet emotions and feelings were not sins, were they? Only actions were sins, and I had done no unkind action. In fact, I was behaving in a most generous and kingly fashion toward them. I spoke vaguely of “our pleasure” in the Lady Anne, and invited them to join us in “our dinner.”
Fifty members of the court dined with us in the Great Hall. Anne and her ladies from Cleves, all identically got up in headdresses that reared up around their faces like the wrinkled ears of elephants, chattered away to each other on the dais.
Cromwell, in his customary plain black robes, was seated just down on the table to the right, talking gravely to Brandon. I noticed that he left his wine untouched. Brandon did not, of course.
Across, seated at the other table, were the women. Brandon’s new wife, Katherine. (I persisted in thinking of