The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [197]
Yet I hung on that human balance, liking the man, even while knowing he was bad. I lacked the courage to act on my intuition, to just... end Cromwell. Eliminate his presence from my government. Each time I would say to myself, “Next time—next time I’ll do it—” and yet each time he would walk from my chamber a free man, enveloped in his customary power. Power that I must needs revoke. Next time.
So. Now it would be done. I had no doubt of that. I had frightened him, and a frightened Cromwell was a sure servant. He would untangle me from Anne. But I was pleased at my decision to offer her a place in my family. Of course, such a thing was unprecedented, but then, so was our entire relationship. If Cleves were as dull as it seemed to be, Anne would surely have no wish to return to it.
I felt a contentment fuller than any in years. I paced the chamber a bit, trying to understand why.
Of course. I was being given something few men were ever gifted with: an opportunity to relive my life and have it turn out differently. What was Anne of Cleves but a second Katherine ofAragon—a foreign princess to whom I could not be husband? Only this time, instead of wasting years seeking Papal sanction, I had but to say “Do it” to Cromwell—and it would be done. Instead of appealing to foreign rulers and clinging to her “rights” to me, Anne would co-operate, and we would remain friends.
And Catherine Howard! She was Anne Boleyn before she became hard and heartless and corrupted. By some great miracle (for who can understand God’s mind?), I had been given a second chance.
That evening I was to dine with Anne, as I usually did on Thursday evenings; long, comfortable suppers before a hearty fire. I was not disappointed this time.
Anne greeted me affectionately at the door to her withdrawing chamber and pointed to a board set up before the open window, looking out on the summer twilight. My accustomed chair, well bedecked with velvet pillows, was drawn up.
“A new game?” I inquired. How she loved games!
“Ja!” She beamed. “It is call-ed ‘Var.’ ” The board had a figure drawn upon it that was funnel-shaped-narrow at one end, wide at the other. To the side were grouped carved horses and men, and wooden coins of different colours.
“Pray explain.”
“Ah, ja. Vell, it takes ze income from the monasteries, ze New Vorld, ze banks—vool produck-sion, all zose things, and zen buys men with zem, zat is, soldiers, and—zese nations var together.”
It was an elaborate and intricate game, based on sources of income for ten countries, and their national goFrance, while the Emperor stood on the sidelines with Scotland, and the Pope amassed land wealth.
“Leave it set up!” I cautioned. “I wish to conclude this game, see it through to the end.”
She laughed. “I am glad it pleasures you so.”
“Where did you find it?”
“I made it up.”
I was dumbfounded. “You? You created it?”
She was brilliant! A mathematician, a financier, a strategist. Oh, why was she a woman? Poor Wolsey. If only he had had one-third her grasp of these things.
“You are gifted, Princess. Would I could make you Chancellor of the Exchequer. Or War Minister.”
“Und vhy not?” she asked blandly.
“Because you are the Queen,” I replied. But will not be for long, I thought. And then, why not... ? No, impossible. But I would need someone to replace Cromwell.... No, absurd!
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” I said quickly, nodding and kissing her hand. I walked down the corridor to my own apartments swiftly, lest I suddenly act on my own impulse. Beheading a Queen had not alarmed the populace as much as appointing one Finance Minister would.
Within a fortnight Cromwell reported that all obstacles were cleared. The “cause” had been