The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [196]
Culpepper stirred on the pallet at the foot of my bed and groaned. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, muttering all the while. His breath was foul. I looked at him, in all his youthful strength and beauty, enmeshed in a hangover; and suddenly it seemed to me a desecration, a perversion of what a man was meant to be. He marred the day, like a boil on a virgin’s cheek.
I must see Cromwell, if this thing were truly to come about. And so I sent for him, which I had not done in some time. He appeared so promptly I could almost credit young Henry Howard’s tale of diabolical power; only the Devil could travel with such speed.
Clean-shaven and obedient, he stood before me. “Your Grace?” He bowed smartly; only his rising voice betrayed eagerness and compliance.
“Things are breaking up on the Continent, like clouds on a March day,” I began.
“Sire?”
“I no longer need the alliance with Cleves!” I barked. “You erected it; you dismantle it.”
ell, ifize="3">“Leonardo da Vinci—even he!—dismantled the arches and pavilions he created for Princess Katherine’s Coronation. He supposedly was a great artist —certainly Francis thought so, buying every small canvas he painted!—and yet he was not above cleaning up his messes. Now you do the same!”
“Sire?” He looked pained and confused. “Pray you, be specific. I am no artist, and have erected no arches filled with cherubim. Nor have I painted Madonnas in strange landscapes.”
“No, you have brought a travesty of a Madonna to my landscape!”
He looked blankly at me. What an actor!
“I mean the Lady Anne of Cleves! A Madonna—that is, a mother—she will never be, and the political reasons for the marriage are insufficient. Francis and Charles drift apart, like those March clouds, and my good coastal defence system will protect me better than an alliance with the Duchy of Cleves. It was a mistake, a ghastly mistake that robs me of the opportunity to happiness. So undo what you have so dexterously done!”
“I thought... that you were fond of the Lady... the Queen,” he mumbled.
“I am fond of my hunting dogs and of the first lute I had as a boy. But that is not enough for a marriage!”
Instead of responding with abject obedience, he walked about the chamber a bit—though I had not given him permission!—and at length turned back to me, musing. (He acted as if he actually had a choice as to whether to obey or not. Why did he try me so?)
His eyes were narrowed. “It is Norfolk who has put you to this,” he said coldly. “He seeks to use you for his purpose.”
“No one uses me!” I bellowed. The fool! “Least of all you!”
He started; I continued. “Yes, you! All over the kingdom they say you use me. Use me for your own schemes. Protestant schemes. Now prove to me that they lie. Undo this insulting Protestant alliance you concocted for me, that you erected just like one of Leonardo’s symbolic arches, all out of papier-mâché and paint. Tear it down. It is as insubstantial as a paper arch.”
He looked grim. “Your Grace—”
“Do it! What has been done can be undone!”
In a heartbeat he accepted the challenge. “What provision shall be made for the Lady Anne?”
I waved my hand impatiently. “A manor—a palace—a royal income.” Those were Cromwell’s concerns. I stopped. Anne was dear to me in a peculiar way. I even loved her, but it was a singular sort of love.
“She shall be my sister,” I said. “I will keep her and cherish her as if she were my dear lost Mary. I have no family,” I said, almost in wonder. “I would like a sister.”
“You must be more specific,” he said dryly.
I sat down and the words came. “She shall be titled ‘the King’s sister.’ She shall be given royal residences and ... shall be my friend.”
“A high honour.” D221; I laughed, but did not answer him. A deflection is no answer; it is not even a sop.
I knew deep inside that Crum was becoming dangerous, and had changed since first he