The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [37]
England was also formally bound to peace with France by a treaty concluded between Father and Louis. Yet upon Father’s death it became void, and I was not sure I wished to renew it. The Pope had been issuing distressed cries for help as he saw the French encroaching upon Italy; and I had not forgotten that Louis had honoured Edmund de la Pole at court, and even now was harbouring the younger de la Pole brother, Richard. So Louis’s death would solve many problems, or at least halt the voracious appetite of the French state for a little while.
I dressed (or rather, put on my “audience clothes”—this involved the ministrations of a good half-dozen men) and made my way to the Audience Chamber. Wolsey had hurriedly summoned the Privy Council to attend, so that they were awaiting me as I took my place on the Chair of Presence.
The French emissary was ushered in—a perfumed, dandified creature. He made a long-winded greeting, which I cut off, as his reeking person offended me. He stank worse than the rose incense in Father’s death-chamber. I demanded to know his business, and at length he disclosed it. He came bearing a letter from Louis in reply to the one I had purportedly written begging my brother the Most Christian King of France to live in peace with me. He handed me the letter. It stank as well—from proximity to its carrier?
As I unrolled the letter and read it rapidly, I could feel my face growing red, as it does in moments of stress, to my embarrassment.
“What?” I said slowly. “The King of France, who dares not look me in the face—let alone make war on me!—says I sue for peace?”
The phrase “dares not look me in the face” was, I admit, a trifle overblown, but I was stunned. Someone had written a cringing, demeaning letter in my name, forged my signature, and used the Royal Seal!
“Which of you has done this?” I asked, glaring at the line of councillors on either side of the dais.
Was it Warham, my Lord Chancellor? He looked up at me mournfully, like a sad old dog.
Ruthal, the Secretary? I stared into his blackberry-like eyes, which gave nothing back.
Fox, Lord Privy Seal? He smiled smugly, protected by his churchly vestments—or so he thought.
What of the others—Howard, Talbot, Somerset, Lovell? They smiled back, blandly. None of them had the wherewithal to have done it. It must have been one of the churchmen.
I turned and made to leave the room, shaking with anger, not trusting myself to.”
I whirled. “Then give him one!” My voice rang in the large chamber, all freshly bedecked in Flemish tapestry and gilt. “You who are so adept at composing royal utterances—you may continue.” I left the room. Behind me I heard the buzz of voices—angry, bewildered.
Had I distressed them, embarrassed them? No matter. I had wanted to kill Fox, to choke his leathery neck, then fling him out into the courtyard and let the dogs fall on him. Yet I had restricted myself to the use of words alone. At least the foppish Frenchman could not report to Louis that the English King had bodily attacked one of his own ministers.
I leaned against the other side of the door and caught my breath. It was all clear now. Father meant to rule from the grave through his three faithful councillors. That was why he had appointed no Protector: this was surer and more secretive, both of which would appeal strongly to him. So now he could lie serenely in his magnificent tomb-monument—“dwelling more richly dead than alive,” as one court wit had put it—happy in the knowledge that his untrusted, wayward son would never actually rule.
He is insensitive and stupid.... Did he think me so stupid I would not object to others’ forging my signature or using the Royal Seal? This was treason. Did he suppose me insensitive even to treason?