The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [31]
I pushed open the heavy, studded door and came outside, dazzled by the r. It was Wolsey.
“Your Grace,” he said. “I stand ready to help you. As the late King’s almoner, I am well acquainted—”
Already the self-seekers were at me. “I myself am well acquainted with the late King,” I cut him off.
“You misunderstand me, Your Grace. I meant with the ... distressing business that is attendant upon a royal death. The obsequies, the funeral, the interment—”
“Father has already arranged for that.” I pulled at the door, but somehow he prevented me.
“Of course, with the final details,” he persisted. He was extremely persistent, this Wolsey. “The magnificent tomb he has commissioned from Torrigiano, the dazzling chapel in the Abbey, already near completed. But the personal details, such unhappy things as the embalming, the lying-in-state, the funeral effigy—”
“Minor things,” I said, trying once more to detach myself.
“Distasteful things,” he said pointedly. “Things dealing with ugliness, when your mind should be engaged elsewhere. You have much to attend to, have you not? Where is the son who could joyfully oversee his father’s funeral? And you must be joyful, Your Grace: you must rejoice, even as the Kingdom does. No gloominess, lest you remind them of—” He broke off tactfully. A rehearsed break. Yet he had touched me on vital matters.
“Then see to it!” I cried in frustration.
He bowed serenely in compliance as I wrenched open the door and at last found myself in the Presence Chamber, alone.
I walked across that large area, strangely plain in spite of the dais with the carved throne-chair upon it. It was situated so that the petitioner must cross the entire length of the room before seeing the King’s face. It was effective, no doubt, yet the overwhelming feeling of the room was of greyness, bleakness, which no amount of royal presence could overcome.
And from there I passed into Father’s private apartments, where he actually lived. But he was dead, I reminded myself....
The great Privy Chamber, so lately turned into a dying chamber, was already changed. The incense burners were gone, the curtains opened. And the bed was empty.
“Where have you taken him?” I cried.
“The cry of Mary Magdalen,” said a voice behind me. I whirled around and saw Wolsey. Again, Wolsey. He must have followed me. “‘They have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid him.’ ”
“Do you seek to impress me with your knowledge of Scripture?” I said blandly. “All priests know such; I as well. I asked where you have taken him.”
Wolsey looked apologetic. “There were things to be attended to immediately. I regret I did anticipate my commission. They have taken him to do the death-mask, then to disembowel and embalm him.”
“I see.” It was sickening. I looked around, feeling a great need of wine. Then I felt a cup pushed into my hand, like a wish fulfilled. Wolsey again. I drank deeply, hoping to dispel the strange se I almost laughed. It was all magic. I took another draught of wine. Ambrosia. I was immortal now, like a god. No, not immortal, I corrected myself. Kings die. Yet they are gods while they live....
I looked about me. This chamber was Father’s no longer, but mine. I walked, a little unsteadily, to the door leading to the King’s closet. This was where Father had spent much time, where he had summoned me often. (The term privy chamber was a misnomer. It was not private at all, but was the place where everyone personally attendant on the King converged: all the gentlemen and grooms of the chamber, the ushers, pages, servers, barbers, and so on. Beyond that, however, only select persons were allowed entrance. Thus the “closet” was truly the first privy chamber in a series of private rooms.) I flung open the door and stood looking at the bare, pitifully furnished room, recalling all the times I had been humiliated there. The hated monkey still chattered and jumped, even now at liberty to roam.
“Take this