The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [261]
“The city is a bastard child of England,” he said. “We retain it, but for how long? In Tournai, we were committed to incorporating it into England. Vast sums were assigned for its upkeep. Frenchmen, citizens of Tournai, were to take seats in Parliament. But everyone knows that Boulogne is but a war-pawn, to be returned to France for a ransom. So who shall bother with it? The men are restive, and order hard to keep.”
I sighed. His words were true. Keeping Boulogne victualled and defended were enormous expenditures, and I no longer had the cash reserves I had had in 1513. The truth was that I could not afford Boulogne, as I had afforded Tournai.
“Well, do your best,” I answered. I knew he was waiting for me to reveal my ultimate plan for Boulogne. And oh, yes, I had one: to unite it with Calais, to double the English holdings. But all that took funds, funds which I did not have. I owed the money-lenders of Antwerp huge sums, plus interest, for the taking of Boulogne.
I was tired. “Thank you, my lad,” I told him. “You may go now.”
He bowed, stiffly. He was displeased.
“I call you ‘my lad’ because you were my son’s friend,” I said.
He smiled somewhat. “There is a poem about our years at Windsor,ow I was alone in the room. The candles jumped and flickered, and I remembered yet another reason why I hated Windsor: my son had flowered here in his brief season. He had brought colour to the dead drab stones, a momentary life. But Windsor was death. Nothing survived here.
I began rifling through the poems, looking for the one celebrating his life. Surrey’s portfolio was so fragile. Too fragile to entrust a reputation or memory to.
So cruel a prison how could betide, alas?
Surrey had written the poem in prison, then. His imprisonment had served to bring my son back to life for me, if only for an instant.
I knew what I must do. Go to Brandon’s coffin, where it stood before the high altar. There I would say farewell to him, privately.
The church was empty. The great catafalque stood, like a building itself, black and square, blocking the altar. All about it flickered tapers, lit hours ago and now burnt half down and guttering. They illuminated the coffin in a ghastly, pagan way, jumping like sacrificial maidens.
I knelt on the stone steps. I closed my eyes and tried to see Charles, tried to conceive of his really being there. In my mind I knew his corpse rested somewhere within the great black-draped box, but in my heart I had no contact with him. Charles ... what had been my last words with him?
That night he had come on board Great Harry ... what had we said as he took his leave? What was it, what was it?
“It will be a long night,” I had said. “My thoughts go with you.”
“To be alive is to fight the French. Remember, Your Grace, how we planned it all, at Sheen?”
“Old men fight boys’ battles. Well, good night, Charles.”
“Good night, Charles,” I repeated, and touched the mourning-cloth. “You spoke true. ‘Remember how we planned it all, at Sheen?’ And we lived it. To live a dream is life’s highest reward. Sleep well, my friend. I join you soon.”
I started to rise, but now it all came rushing back upon me. His hand-grasp at Sheen, when he had caught me scrambling over the wall. His bedding of me after I had just wed Katherine of Aragon, and I such a frightened virgin. His acting as my champion throughout my madness with Nan, even enduring censure from his wife. His faithful support of me after Jane died. Suddenly I saw his face in all its ages, heard his laughter, felt his love; that love which had always been present, supporting me. The love which I had sought elsewhere, never realizing that I had had it all along.
Now I was alone. The one person who had truly loved me, and known me throughout all my life, was gone. Brandon had loved me when I was yet the second son; had taken my side when Arthur still held favour and sway.
I put my hand up along the great coffin. “I love you,” I said,