The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [215]
Still, they have enough recruits to begin again, I thought. A never-ending supply of malcontents, traitorGrace?” A simple request.
I nodded. Kill the thing now. Pluck the plant up, roots and all. And this was supposed to be the place where I must venture forth, taking my Queen. Suddenly I was ferociously hungry to see this mysterious area, the North, which bred mists and rebels in equal quantity.
“Shall I use the utmost force?” Shall I kill swiftly and brutally?
I nodded. The softer way was often, in the long run, the crueller.
He bowed and took his leave.
Brandon. I could rely on him. For half a century now, or almost that, he had been my right arm. But when he failed, as my voice had—what then?
The frost on my windowpanes was melting as the sun rose higher. The days had lengthened noticeably since Christmas, although not enough to put winter to rout. And in the North it would be bitter, icy, and locked in darkness and cold until April. Brandon, the old soldier, would have difficulty penetrating the area. Curses upon the ungracious traitors, to call out my dearest friend, whom as King I could not spare from England’s service.
I began to scratch off the obscuring frost with my fingernail. I felt impaired all round, but this one thing I could correct. I could at least see out of my window.
It needed a cloth to wipe away the frost-shavings and watery melt. “A cloth,” I muttered, and the page stuck one in my hand. I wiped vigorously at the messy pane, until it glistened free and showed me the white world outside as clear as though I were seeing it through my unobstructed eye.
“Ah,” I said. Then I started.
I had spoken, and been heard. My voice was freed.
“Thank you,” I said quite naturally to the page. He nodded. “ ’Tis lovely.” I could hear my own voice, as if it were another’s. “You may go now.” He bowed and obeyed.
Alone, I blinked in stunned excitement. It was back, my voice was back. I crossed myself and whispered, “Thank You. You have answered my prayers.” I crossed over to my prie-dieu and looked up at Jesus on the cross. I looked directly into his eyes, and they seemed to smile at me.
Why had God capriciously decided to restore my voice over such an unimportant command? A cloth to wipe off a frosty window: he had loosened my voice for that.
God frightened me. I understood Him so much less than I had always thought I understood Him.
The page told everyone that I had spoken, and I was soon dislodged from my praying station.
Now that I was able-bodied again, my councillors presented me with all the ugly details of the northern rebellion. The traitorous statements—“the King is the Devil’s agent”; “the King is an Anabaptist”; “the King is haunted by the souls of the monks he killed”—bordered on the blasphemous. What sort of people did I rule?
“I have an evil people to rule!” I shouted in answer to myself. “An unhappy people who harbour sedition in their hearts.” I looked round at all the smug faces surrounding me. What of them? What secret malice lay in their hearts? “I’ll soon make them so poor they’ll nedience!” And you, too, I thought. Any one of you youngsters, if your youth and health give you fancy ideas, I’ll put a stop to that. It’s Brandon and I who are in control, the old soldiers who know how to rule.
“They’ll die for their treason, and we’ll go up in the summer to comfort their widows. The grass won’t even have grown on their graves yet! But their sons will welcome us with adulation, whatever else lies coiled in their secret hearts. They’ll—”
“Your Majesty!” Dr. Butts entered and looked betrayed. His royal patient was up off the sickbed and behaving as normal. “I had heard of your recovery. Why did you not send for me?” He looked hurt. I had insulted him by calling upon him in my need, clutching to him in fear, and then jettisoning him once I recovered. As men do to God.
“I apologize,” I said. “Come, let us be alone.” The others