The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [43]
During the extended summer—warm weather lasted even into November—I studied the situation on the Continent like a man watching the steps of a complicated dance and awaiting the proper beat in which to enter it.
It seemed that King Louis XII of France was besieging Pope Julius in Bologna, laying violent hands upon Christ’s vicar, and calling a schismatic Council at Pisa to repudiate Julius’s authority. Ferdinand of Spain and the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian solemnly ordered him to desist, or face just punishment. They called their alliance the Holy League, and who could dispute its solemnity? Or that England, as a Christian realm, would be compelled by conscience to join it?
There was no obstacle of desire: I desired war, and my subjects would demand it of me. There was no obstacle of opportunity: as soon as the invitation to join was issued, then we would step in. There was no obstacle of means: the war could be easily financed out of the Royal Treasury, without having to bother with Parliament.
“But, Your Grace,” Wolsey had said, seeming to know my plans even before I uttered them, “it might be best to call a Parliament, and save your own treasury. The people will grant you anything, in your newness. Later it will not be so easy.”
“It would be stingy to do that,” I objected. “It smacks of my father, and that I would never do.”
“Your father was wise in financial matters. He would never have spent his own money when he could spend someone else’s instead. A splendid maxim.”
“An old man’s maxim! Not a true knight’s!” Somehow, to approach Parliament, cap in hand, asking for an allowance, for permission, like a child—no, never! “I hope never to call a Parliament as long as I live,” I suddenly thought out loud. “Yes, to be so rich I never have to raise money through them—I want that!”
“Then you will have to find other means, Your Grace,” said Wolsey. “For, as I pray God sends you long to reign over us, your treasury can scarcely last for sixty years! No, you must tap another source. Then good riddance to Parliament, I say.”
“Heavy, Your Grace,” Dr. Linacre warned as he handed him into my waiting arms. “Very heavy. He must be made all of muscle.”
Yes, the bundle was weighty, solid. I could feel the squirming power of the child.
“Praise be to God!” I cried, holding him aloft. “Now the future is assured!” I held my successor in my hands.
Striding in to see Katherine, who was already bathed and resting on fresh sheets, I could scarcely keep from shouting with joy. “Sweetheart,” I cried, “you have given England all she wished of you!” There she was, her face radiant, her amber-colored hair falling all about her shoulders—a Madonna, a Madonna whom I adored. I fell to my knees beside her and kissed her hand. “Thank you,” I said. “For the great gift you have bestowed on me, and on our country.”
“On myself, too,” she said.
Then I wanted to raise her up, to pull her from the bed, to dance around the room with her.
“He must be named Henry,” she declared. “He is big and strong, like you.”
I had not planned to name him Henry, but Edward, after my mother’s little King-brother.
“Henry,” she repeated stubbornly. “It must be Henry.”
“If it means so much to you, then, so it shall be.” So long as it was not Alfonso or Felipe or some such foreign-sounding name from Spain. “As soon as you are able, we will invite the realm to celebrate with us. There will be tournaments, feasts, wine from public fountains ... and commoners can come, too. Into the palace ground,” I said on sudden impulse. “He is their Prince, too!”
The Queen’s physicians