The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [229]
“He takes little interest in it,” admitted the nurse. “He seems to prefer serpents to true loyal animals.”
I shrugged. He was but four years old. The important thing was that he had an interest.
Mary was settling herself with her music and instruments, and Edward was playing with his snakes, when Elizabeth arrived.
“My Lady Elizabeth,” I said. “And what have you brought?”
She straggled in, dragging a large box after her. With a sigh, she let it rest. “Materials to make Valentines. Red and white paper, and two volumes of poetry.” She ripped off her fur cap. “Tomorrow is St. Valentine’s Day.”ing.
“And to whom shall you send them? Do you already have a Valentine?” I must keep things at a child’s level.
“Perhaps,” she said, “but I must make my message cryptic, or sacrifice my pride.”
She was wise. Would that it would stay with her as she grew to womanhood, and not be scattered before the look in a man’s eye.
“So settle you down, and we shall spend a day together doing as we all like! And at dinnertime, you shall all have your favourite dishes—whether they are healthy or not, or go together or not.” I had taken great pains to find out their favourite treats.
“And Father,” said Elizabeth, “what shall you do? What is your favourite activity?”
Music. Above all, music. “I shall compose a new ballad. And force myself to be ready by nightfall. Then I shall perform.”
We began our tasks, and the sun rose, coming into the chamber.
The cannon sounded from the Tower. It was not easily heard, in midwinter, with all the windows shut tight and stuffed with lambswool against the cold. Mary’s playing all but drowned it.
Elizabeth rose, putting aside her red cuttings. “What was that?” she asked quietly, laying her hand on my arm.
I looked into her eyes. “It was the cannon,” I said. “Announcing that the Queen is dead.”
The Queen was dead. Catherine’s head was gone.
“I shall never marry!” cried Elizabeth.
The others looked up: Mary too old to react, Edward too young.
“Elizabeth,” I said, reaching for her. I would explain it all to her, explain it to this intelligent child.
She was gone from my reach. “Nay,” she said, pretending there were no tears in her eyes. She had cleverly placed herself beyond scrutiny. “Marriage is death,” she shrugged. “I would have none of it.” She gestured toward the Valentines. “This, and no further. Valentines are pretty.”
I went to put my arm around her. When I did, I felt a stiff unyielding thing. She wanted no comforting.
It was I who wanted some comforting, some warmth. But that was beyond reach as well.
The Queen was dead.
Catherine had been led forth onto the scaffold just before dawn. She had worn no mantle against the chilled air. The audience assembled was, for the most part, indifferent. Catherine had had no partisans, no champions.
That in itself was curious. There was none of my Queens who had gone undefended. Katherine of Aragon had had her violent defenders, churchmen who had been willing to die for her, the northern men who had fought on her behalf. Anne Boleyn (due to her witchcraft) had had those who willingly sacrificed their lives and political careers for her. Jane was mourned by the entire realm. Even Anne of Cleves had inspired loyalty and become beloved in certain circles.
(black-mailing her?); now they swam away with equal alacrity.
But why go over this so intellectually? Yes, it was telling and surprising that Catherine was left naked of supporters at the scaffold, but ...
The scaffold. She had mounted it, helped up by others. This is the part I delayed recounting, this is the grisly part. To omit it would be dishonest, yet ... oh, would God it had not occurred!
She stood still in the frosty air, all in black. (All bewept in black and poor estate.) About the scaffold were all the court, and foreign ambassadors. She had everyone’s ear, and every word she uttered would be remembered and whispered and repeated abroad.
Before her was the block upon which she had practised the night