The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [245]
“Have you considered what we spoke of, regarding the Princess Mary?”
I did not correct him to “Lady.” He had earned the right to call her Princess. “Yes. I had made negotiations with the French, to marry her to Francis’s second son. Now—” I twisted my belt, wishing to rend it, as if that would cure my rage. “Now that selfsame son is to marry Mary, Queen of Scots. You see how they betray me. And my Mary is left once again husbandless, unwanted—”
“A Frenchman was unworthy of her,” said Chapuys. “But it was loving of you to attempt to arrange it. Perhaps someone from the Spanish royal house ... even someone younger ...”
“Or one of His Holiness’s illegitimate sons?” I could not resist needling Chapuys. “A good Pope-Catholic, by necessity!”
“Why not? An illegitimate King’s daughter for an illegitimate prelate’s son?” He returned the parry. But our fencing was mellow, affectionate, as only long-standing adversaries can grow to be. Jesu, I would miss him!
“Yes. That would do. And as part of the marriage settlement, the Bishop of Rome would recognize my title as Supreme Head of the Church of England.”
“You dream,” said Chapuys.
“A man should dream, and a King must do so,” I insisted. “And such may yet come to pass. Odder things have done so. Nay, I have not given up hope that someday the Pope and I ...” I left the sentence vague, unfinished. Unspecified wishes came true sooner than detailed ones.
“May I take a private leave of Mary?”
“Indeed,” I said. “She would be grieved if you did not.”
Chapuys, gone from England. Another bridge to the past down. Sooner or later, if one srned to Van der Delft. “Let us continue our interview out of doors, in the Privy Orchard.” To Holbein I said, “You are free to do whatever you like.”
While the Imperial ambassador and I strolled beneath the blossoming cherry, apple, and pear trees, caressed by sticky-sweet breezes from the south, Holbein went to his apartments, lay down on his narrow bed, and died of plague.
Plague! The word itself was a call to fear, but in striking Holbein, it had announced its grinning presence within the heart of the palace itself. And Edward was at Whitehall! I had brought him here to spend the summer, so that he could observe court life and feel at home in a grand palace. Edward had been sketched by Holbein, had seated himself within a few feet of him, just seven days before his death!
I must get Edward safely away, and then flee myself. But where would be the safest place? Already, reports were coming in of the severity of the outbreak in London. Corpse-piles were starting to mount in the cross-streets. No one wanted to touch the bodies, let alone bury them. At Houndsditch, near the gun-foundry, someone doused the pile with hot oil and then set a torch to it. They shovelled dirt over the smoking, greasy ashes, making a gruesome little hill.
The plague was prevalent in the Southeast, all through the villages of Maidstone, Wrotham, West Malling, and Ashford, and at Dover. As yet there were no reports of any sickness to the west. I would send Mary west to Woodstock. I would also go west, with Edward, back to Wiltshire, to Wolf Hall.
The Seymour brothers would come; as Edward’s uncles, it was fitting. The rest of the court must scatter, and the Privy Council function as a unit only by means of messengers.
I called together the Council and explained briefly what we must do.
“The plague rages,” I said, “and we must flee. No bravery; I want no bravery. Wolsey showed ‘bravery’ and stayed working in London, until eighteen of his staff died. You are too precious to me for that. I therefore command you to leave London within forty-eight hours. Take as few with you as possible. The plague travels with people, we know not how. If anyone in your household is stricken, move immediately.”
They all looked back at me, seemingly