The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [191]
And your welfare, I thought. And your very existence.
I nodded expansively and chucked Anne on the cheek.
That evening, after the light supper of cold venison, pudding, and bread, a slim young man was announced. Anne and I were once again retiring to the “bridal bower,” and the rest of the courtiers and attendants had withdrawn—doubtless to jest and pity me. Well, their laughter and their pity would be short-lived.
flourished a basket of books, pens, and paper.
Crum—always daring in fulfilling a request. Who would have thought of sending someone to begin lessons this very night? Only Crum.
I motioned the young tutor in, sat him down with my bride before a table.
“I ... am ... Anne.
“You ... are ... Martin.
“He ... is ... King Henry.”
I fell asleep to this refrain on the second night of my new marriage.
LXXXVIII
For the next week or ten days, Anne gave herself over completely to her English lessons. I was astounded by her concentration and diligence. Every morning when I left her, I kissed her on the cheek and said,
“Good morning, sweetheart.” At night before going to sleep, I gave her yet another chaste peck and said, “Sleep well, my dear.” By the fourth morning she was able to say, “Good morning”; by that evening, “And you as well, husband”; and before many more days were out she was inquiring solicitously about my state business, my Council meetings, and the forthcoming nuptial tournaments and celebrations. Soon I would have a talking horse.
She was also (as befit a domestic beast) docile in allowing her women to be sent back to Cleves, in being assigned a whole new group of attendants, and in being measured and outfitted for a new wardrobe. Her “elephant ear” headdresses were cheerfully surrendered, and she showed a surprising taste for luxurious fabrics and fashionable gowns. She certainly had the frame to carry any extravagance in weight or colour. It was truly like trapping a great horse.
I spent my days closeted in meetings, poring over the latest diplomatic dispatches regarding the “amenity” between Charles and Francis. They must catch no wind of the lack of success in my new marriage, and rather than trust anyone, I must play my part so well that no one, not even Cromwell, would suspect. So I acted the happy bridegroom, watching myself as though I were detached, marvelling at my own ability to dissemble. It is a talent I suspect everyone possesses. Those who lament, “I can never lie, my face gives me away,” are the cleverest liars of all.
Forward went the plans for the great national celebrations. Protocol must be served, and on a windy day in late January the jousting barriers were put up in the tiltyard of Whitehall Palace; the brightly coloured flags were raised, and the spectator stands were hung with the Tudor colours.
Crum had employed an innovation: the royal boxes were enclosed, and heated with braziers. We were to gaze out at the contestants through glass plates.
The day of the royal tournaments was blustery and overcast, one of those days that seem grey throughout. But inside the royal glass boxes it was high summer, with all the chattering and uncovered necklines that accompany warmth.
Anne was wearing a square-cut golden velvet and cloth-of-gold gown, and on her hair she had a thin gold wire coronet set with emeralds—quite the latest fashion. She seemed exuberant to be attending this joust.
“In-a Cleves, ve haf no such tang,” she enunciated carefully.
No, I supposed not. What an insufferably dull place s tender and succulent as her foot. She still clutched the handkerchief, but tears glistened on her flushed cheeks, and her cushion-like lips quivered. She was the most sensual creature I had ever touched, the most fleshly and entirely of the senses, of this earth ... and I knew, in that instant, that I must possess her.
I said nothing. I stood up, made my way back to my royal seat.
It was settled. She would be mine. I had