The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [233]
Father, amongst his bloodied handkerchiefs-how I had despised him.
“What now?” I shook my head wildly. “So I now find myself where ordinary men do. But what does a king do?”
“A king spits on the regrets,” laughed Brandon.
Then I, too, began to laugh, and the trembling stopped.
I set six unimaginative Kentish soldiers to stand guard in the Long Gallery. I especially noted how dull of wit and irreligious they were, and posted them with the simple instructions that they were to keep watch all night, relieving one another at two-hour intervals. On no account were they to sleep, and they were to report to me any noises or stirrings they even suspected.
“For it has been said that this cold winter has forced an unusual number of ra>
“Any unusual stirring,” I repeated.
They nodded. Did they truly understand?
I thought my story quite clever. No madman could be so clever. It sounded quite logical and would net me the information I sought.
On the second night I heard the ghost. Its shriekings were quite clear. I cracked open the great doors and looked ... and saw the apparition, like Catherine but not Catherine. It merely used her externals. The guardsmen were flailing at it; one stabbed at the air as if to pierce her breast. The other just leapt about like a dazed frog.
I closed the doors. Others had seen it walk. I was not alone. I was not mad.
The next morning the guards claimed they had seen nothing, heard nothing, and had passed a tranquil night.
Liars. Liars. I was surrounded by liars, cowards, enemies who painted every aspect of life false. To what end?
I thanked them and bade them remain on duty for yet another week, just to be sure.
“For if there be rats, we must exterminate them.”
They agreed. “One quiet night does not guarantee that they are not present.” I looked into their eyes. There was no reluctance there to pass another night on the gallery. Where had this generation got such hardened hearts?
Every night I heard the ghost. Every morning the guards reported an uneventful night. At the end of the eighth day I paid them, thanked them for their honesty and perseverance, and let them go.
“No poisons, then,” I said merrily.
“Nothing to poison,” they agreed.
No. One cannot poison a ghost. One can only poison others’ opinions, and my behaviour at the Valentine’s banquet had done that. Well, no matter. I would set about sweetening them. People’s minds were like wells. First they run clear, then become polluted—but one can always counteract the pollution. Just thrchoose from.” Before the meal even appeared, I was issuing disclaimers for it.
“Five loaves and two fishes?” she laughed.
“About that,” I admitted.
The bread, made from late-winter rye, was thick and heavy. The drink, made from the same, was nourishing. And yes, there was carp: universal late-winter dish.
“Who minds the carp pools now that the monasteries are abandoned?” she asked, matter-of-factly. It was the monks who had developed elaborate fish hatcheries, and made carp a standard part of the winter diet.
“Villagers. But we are not so dependent on carp any longer, now that there is less fasting.”
“A foolish Popish custom,” she said briskly. “I am happy that you abolished much of that, my Lord.”
“But I have not abolished enough?” I chose my words carefully.
She chose hers with equal prudence. “Things are progressing. True things must build on a foundation.”
“What were you reading?” I asked abruptly. “Or, rather, attempting to read?” I indicated her book.
“Private devotions,” she said, handing me the book. “Some of the meditations were—I composed some of them myself.”
I glanced at it. Key words—“faith,” “Scripture,” “blood,” “justification” —branded it Protestant. “Have a care, Kate,” I warned gently, handing it back to her.
She winced at the