The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [30]
There was a pause. “He’s a youngling. It is said he cares for nothing but sport.”
“And women?”
“No, not women. Not yet! He is but seventeen.”
“Time enough if one is disposed that way.”
“Aye, but he’s not.”
They were almost level with me now. If they turned they would see me. But they did not and continued trudging toward the servants’ entrance of the palace.
“How much longer, think you?”
The other man made a noise indicating lack of knowledge or interest.
My heart was pounding. In that instant I resolved never to allow myself to overhear talk about myself again. They had said nothing of importance, and yet it had distressed me. The way they spoke so offhandedly about Father’s life and my character ... as though they knew us, had proprietary rights over us.
WILL:
It was a resolve Henry seemed singularly unable to keep—not to listen in on conversations. (Happily for me, as this penchant of his is what led to our meeting.)
HENRY VIII:
For them, Father’s passing was of little consequence, as they assumed that it did not presage another bloodbath or upheaval.
But to me? I did not want him to die and leave me ... leave me alone. I loved him. I hated him. I had not known until that moment just how much I relied on his presence, on his being the prow of the boat upon which I rode, protected from the spray and all other discomforts inherent in the vo>
I felt great pity for him. His strange vagabond life had precluded any opportunity to have normal boyhood friends, to make those bonds that last for life. I was deeply grateful that I had been given friends such as Carew, Neville, and Henry Courtenay, and I felt privileged, as they were precious to me. I remember the thought, which came to me vividly and insistently. (How honest I am to record it, in light of their subsequent treason. How much more wise I would have myself appear!)
“I would not be a hermit,” was all I answered.
“Then you would not be King,” he replied softly. “And I see now that you are singularly unsuited to be anything else. You were right—it is God’s doing. And you must—” He was interrupted by a fit of coughing so violent that blood flew out of his mouth and splattered on the floor. “A priest—” he whispered, when it had stopped. “Wolsey.”
I rushed away from his bedside, seeking Wolsey. In the dim chamber, made more so by the clouds of smoke, I could not see him. Was he at the altar? I ran to it, but did not find him. He must be in the anteroom beyond. I ran at the heavy doors, bursting them open, and stood panting on the other side. Wolsey was sitting on a bench, calmly reading a Psalter. Even at that confused moment, I was struck by his almost unnatural composure.
“My fa—”—I corrected myself—“the King calls you.”
Wolsey rose, and together we entered the Privy Chamber.
“Go to him!” I almost pushed Wolsey toward Father’s bed. But he did not move toward him. Instead he dropped to his knees by my side.
“Your Highness,” he said.
I looked about me. No one was facing Father; they were all turned toward me. Wolsey had seen it, whereas I had been blind.
“The King is dead,” said Linacre, coming toward me slowly. I saw Father lying still on the cushions, his mouth gaping open.
“Long live the King!” someone shouted from the back of the chamber, obscenely loud. Then someone else ripped asunder the closed velvet window hangings and wrenched open the casement windows. A flood of sunlight and wind rushed in, dispersing the clouds of sickroom incense.
“Long live the King!” Others took up the cry, until the chamber resounded with it as Father lay unhearing, forgotten.
My sister Mary came to me. I reached out to put my arm around her, to share our strange grief at being orphans. Instead she, too, fell to her knees in homage.
“Your Highness,” she said, taking my hand and kissing it.
“Mary! You must not—”
“You are my King, to whom I owe all obedience,” she said, turning her shining young face up to mine.
Shaking, I pulled my hand away. I pushed past Wolsey and confusedly sought a little-known door from the anteroom, which