The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [32]
The boy took the animal in his arms and carried it away. How easy that was! I stood amazed. Something I had had to endure for years, suddenly gone, swept aside with a word and a gesture. I laughed, delighted. Then I looked about the room, planning other changes. Was it cold? There would be fires. Was the desk old and lacking drawers? There would be a new Italian one, inlaid with rare woods. Was the room old-fashioned? Carpenters would repanel, sculptors redecorate, painters gild.
From there I made my way into the Retiring Room—the first exclusively private royal room, and one to which even I had been denied access—the room where the King took his nightly rest. Father had not slept there in many months, but his great bed (eleven feet on both sides) still squatted in the middle of the room, like a Norman tower. I walked around it, slowly. The hangings were moth-eaten and shabby. I raised my hand and patted one fold, and a great puff of dirt flew out, choking me. Then—I know not what possessed me—I began striking the hangings frantically, beating them, raising clouds of dust. And I felt near tears ... for what, I know not.
My tears and the dust drove me from the bed, and jthe roomrace. The horses saddled, those who are to accompany you dressed and waiting.”
Suddenly I hated him, hated his smug knowledge. “And who are those?” I asked. “I gave you—gave no one!—instructions—”
“Those who love you,” he said blandly. “Your dearest companions and your sister. They will ride with you to the Tower, rest with you there. No Council members, no aged ones today. It is a day for youth.” He smiled depreciatingly, as if to exclude himself.
“You as well,” I said to Brandon. “You must ride with me.”
The day was fair, warm, already ripening toward summer. It charged my blood. I came out into the Palace courtyard to see many people waiting: my friends, my supporters and well-wishers. As I appeared, a great shout went up, a deafening roar. They cried themselves hoarse, their lusty voices rising in the spring air.
And suddenly all was swept away: all hesitation, all awkwardness, all fear ... borne to oblivion on the warm wind. I was King, and glad of it. All would be well; I sensed it, like a promise....
I mounted my great bay, a horse I had ridden in the lists and knew well, and turned him toward the Palace gates. As they swung open, I was stunned to see the unimaginably vast gathering of common people, surrounding the Palace grounds, stretching away on either side of the road to London as far as the eye could see, six, seven deep. Sighting me, they sent up a great cry. And I felt their presence as a kind, friendly thing, nothing to fear. They shouted for me, blessed me, cheered me. Without thinking, I swept off my head-covering and held my arms up, and they cheered all the louder. And I was warmed all over: the sun on my head, their approval around me.
All along the way it was the same: cheering people, standing many layers thick along the riverbanks, as the strengthening sun sparkled the water. We shared that moment, they and I, making a mystic bond between us, exulting in that ultimate luxury: the beginning of things.
We did not reach the Tower until nightfall, so slow was our progress. The city walls of London glowed pink in the setting sun. As we crossed the Bridge, I saw yet more people leaning from the upper stories of their high houses, trying to glimpse me. They had had no time to prepare for this unannounced royal procession, yet they had strung the narrow passageway thick with garlands of fruit-blossoms that swayed in the brisk evening wind, showering us with petals of apple, cherry, pear....
Torches were already lit in the April twilight, great golden flares which turned the fluttering petals to gold as they fell.
Now it all becomes a blur, like the aura from those torches. At the Tower, more trumpets.