The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [219]
I was relieved when dawn came and it was time to go to Mass. I needed God; I needed some comfort. I dressed hurriedly and made my way down the Long Gallery to the Chapel Royal. There were few people about, as most preferred a later Mass on Sunday morning.
Kneeling there, I poured out every incoherent thought and fear I had, and offered them up to God. The candles flickered on the altar and the Divine Service went smoothly, but I received no answers, no peace of mind.
“—Thee, for that Thou dost vouchsafe to feed us who have duly received this holy mystery, with the spiritual food—” Outside the chapel doors there was a scraping, a scuffling. Then a shriek, piercing and like a banshee’s.
“No! No!”
“—of the most precious Body of Thy Son our Saviour Jesus Christ, and dost assure us thereby of Thy favour and goodness towards us; and—”
“Henry! Henry! Henry!” screamed the voice, each naming of my name growing fainter, as from a greater distance.
I shook, even ten feet from the altar and with the Body of Christ inside me.
Another scream, muffled now.
“—that we are very members incorporate in the mystical Body—”
Was I dreaming? Was I the only one who had heard the bloodcurdling calls? The priest mumbled on, the worshippers mouthed the responses.
When I stepped out, the passageway was empty.
There was to be a Privy Council meeting at Bishop Gardiner’s residence in Southwark that evening. I called it that afternoon, as Fitzwilliam came to me with still more evidence and depositions. From a field outside Hampton, where I had gone on a pretext of hunting, but in reality to be alone, I issued a command to all the councillors to return to London to attend this emergency meeting. It was to be kept secret, and so I went directly to the royal barge without ever returning to the palace. Rumour had infested Hampton, and now everyone knew something was amiss. Catherine was confined to her apartments, on my orders.
Sitting before me in Gardiner’s fine Council Chamber were Audley, the Lord Chancellor; Thomas Howard, ordered back to London for the occasion, looking pleased and important; William Petre, the Principal Secretary; Brandon, Cranmer....
I ticked off their names. Yged ahead—“to consider certain things, evil charged against the Queen.” I rattled a paper before my face, the original deposition of the informers. “Whilst we were away, the Lord Archbishop and the Council in absentia”—I nodded toward Cranmer, Audley, and Seymour—“were apprised of alleged misdeeds of my ... wife. These were sufficiently grave that the Archbishop saw fit to report them to me in writing. Since then, we have investigated further. But these matters are confusing, and so, before proceeding further, we would lay the entire matter before you. The witnesses—defendants—shall speak openly where all can hear.”
It was unorthodox. I could scarcely credit my own words. Since this frightful business had begun, it was like a fantasy, and everything seemed like a sleepwalk.
“We shall retrace each step,” I said. “John Lassells, speak first.”
They led in an elderly man, who seemed the very soul of reason.
“State your name and title.”
He bowed. “I am John Lassells, resident of London.”
“State your occupation.”
“I know what you aim for, so let us be honest and disclose it straightway,” he blustered. “I spoke of what my sister Mary, who had served as a nurse in the Duchess of Norfolk’s household, told me when I asked her why she did not seek a position at court. It seemed to me that anyone who had known the Queen came requesting a place. There was Joan Bulmer, writing all the way from York; Katherine Tilney, who became her chamberer. Why not my Mary?”
I rapped upon the table before me. “Continue.”
“She replied, ‘I would not serve the Queen. Rather, I pity her.’ I questioned why, and she said, ‘Marry, because she is light, both in living and in conditions.’ ”
I glanced