The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [49]
“Aye. He’s—he took quarters in the adjoining farmstead.”
Farmstead? What possessed him? “My thanks.”
The ramshackle building lay some fifty yards behind the inn, hidden by a hedgerow. That was fortunate, as it was such an eyesore it would have kept customers away from the inn.
Outside, two little boys were playing. As always, when I saw male children, pain and (yes, admit it) anger rushed through me. I turned away, making my eyes leave them.
I pushed open the loose, flapping door. Instantly I recognized the characteristic heavy odour of metal. A black-robed figure was moving about inside, stirring up the concentrated smell that was the very essence of war.
“Wolsey!”
He almost jumped—the only time I have ever seen him truly taken by surprise.
“Your Grace!” So abruptly did he turn, the folds of his gown swirled like foam.
“What are you doing here?” My voice was sharper than I had intended. Letting the door swing all the way inward, I saw piles and piles of shields, helmets, lances, mail shirts, swords, and handguns on the dirt floor.
“Testing equipment, Your Grace. I have here a sample of each type available to us, along with its cost and delivery time”—he grabbed a sheaf of papers and began thumbing through them—“speed of manufacture, and accessibility. Before we can place orders, first-hand knowledge of the quality is required. For example, the foundry at Nuremberg ... its shields seem decidedly flimsy to me, Your Grace.” He plucked an oval-shaped one from the pile. “Press here. You see? It indents too easily. However, one must take into account the speed of delivery, as opposed to Milan, from which shipments could take a year to reach us.” The facts came spurting out; his voice vibrated with excitement.
“How have you ... obtained all this?” I had given him his assignment on Tuesday; it was just now only Friday.
“Your Grace! I consider it my privilege to carry out any task with thoroughness and speed.”
Thoroughness and speed scarcely described his actions here. Monomania came closer.
“Yes. I see. Well,ize="3">“I have ... convinced him.” I almost said “silenced.”
“A relief for us all.” He smiled.
“Pope Julius lies ill. What think you? Is he like to die? And if so, what does this do to our war?”
“My sources say he is not seriously ill, merely diplomatically ill. He will recover. He means to push France out of Italy. Louis’s latest victories there—they come too close to home. No, the Holy League will stand.”
“England, Spain, the Holy Roman Empire, Venice, the Pope—everyone against France!” I said ecstatically.
“And England the only oak,” he said. “The only oak in a sea of reeds.”
I was startled that Wolsey should speak so derogatorily about my allies. This man who collected and tested all equipment must surely have a reason. “Pray explain yourself.”
He made a show of demurring. Then he spoke. “Ferdinand, the Spanish King—how reliable is he? He lured England into that sham of an expedition against the Infidels, which came to nothing.”
True. My archers had sat and rotted in Guienne, while Ferdinand decided to attack Navarre instead.
“It is Queen Katherine who inclines you toward her father. But is a son-in-law’s duty compatible with a King’s?” The words hung on the air between us. “And Maximilian, the Emperor—he is known as a liar. He prides himself on his lies. Why, when Louis accused him of deceiving him twice, he cackled, ‘He lies. I deceived him three times!’ As for Venice, she has no army. Now, what a rabble—with you as the only true knight!”
“But when an honest knight pursues the course of truth, what matter if his allies are false? God will direct him!” I believed that; truth to tell, I believe it still.
“It is our duty to use our resources wisely against Satan,” he agreed. “But this alliance ... how can you conquer, without unfeigned assistance? A false ally is worse than an enemy.”
But I still believed in my allies. Nor did I realize that Wolsey inclined so toward the French. The French were civilised, masters of style, as was Wolsey, the butcher’s son. We are surprises