The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [52]
We were traversing the royal apartments. We would go to hers, as the King’s were dark and silent and not yet in order. “The Moors are back in Africa, where they belong,” I said.
“Yes.” Her face was shining. “And the Scots are back in the mountains, where they belong.”
In her withdrawing room, we stood still a long moment and kissed. Her lips, how sweet!
“You put Moorish honey on your lips,” I murmured.
“I do nothing Moorish!” she said, pulling away.
“Surely the Moors had good things to give Spain—”
“No. Nothing.” Now her lips, so soft, were set in a hard little line. “There is nothing good from the soft beds of the East.”
“Yet you spent your girlhood in the ‘soft Moorish East,’ ” I teased. “Watching the fountains play in the Caliph’s Palace in Granada. Come, teach me.” I reached out for her belly.
Which was flat. Entirely flat, and hard as her mouth had been when dismissing the Moors.
“He died,” she said softly. “Our son. He was born the night after I received word that the Scots were massing. In between midnight and dawn. Warham christened him,” she added. “His soul was saved.”
“But not his body,” I said rotely. “You say—‘he’?”
“A son,” she said. “A little son, not formed enough to survive. But enough to be baptized! His soul has gone to Paradise.”
My son. Dead.
“It was the Scots,” I said. “They killed him. Had it not been for them, and their dastardly attack, you would not have delivered before your time.” I broke away from her. “They stand punished. Their King is dead.”
A present King for a future King. Had they truly been punished?
I came back to her and enfolded her in my arms. “We will make another King.”
I led her into her sleep-chamber. But it was not duty that called me, but desire, as Katherine was at her ripest and most beautiful: a queen who defended her realm, a mother who mourned a son, a daughter of the East who could give exotic pleasures, no matter how her Catholic conscience denounced them.
XXI
In recognition of their services on the battlefield, I restored Thomas Howard to his lost dukedom of Norfolk; and I made Charles Brandon the new Duke of Suffolk.
WILL:
A title recently vacated by Edmund de la Pole, as it were.
HENRY VIII:
Wolsey, too, must be recognized. God had opened many Church positions in the last few months, as though anticipating our needs. I gathered them up, making a bouquet of them, and presented them to Wolsey: Bishop of Lincoln, Bishop of Tournai, and Archbishop of York. In one brief ceremony he catapulted himself (like one of the cannonballs from the war machines he had helped supply) from simple priest to powerful prelate. “For a man only lately a mere priest, you aim high.” I smiled. “I like that.”
“What else could I aspire to?” He attempted a look of innocence.
“What else, indeed? And for what do you intend this palace you are planning?”
Wolsey had just acquired the lease of a tract of land far upstream on the Thames from the Knights Hospitalers. He had consulted masons and builders and had twice already braved icy riding paths to inspect the grounds.
“Hampton? ‘Tis not a palace, ’tis but a manor house. An archbishop, after all, must have quarters befitting his office.”
“There’s York Place for that.”
“It’s old and damp.”
“So are my palaces. So, my friend and minister, you aim at something grand. How would you like a ... cardinal’s hat?”
“Yes.” No disclaimers, no hesitation. “Cardinal Wolsey. That’s higher than Canterbury. A cardinal would be a worthy representative and minister for you. As King, you deserve no less a man to serve you.”
His flattery was so ready. “Oh, yes. I owe it to myself to make you Cardinal. Let’s see, now. There is a new Pope. What is he like? How best should we approach him for this little favour?” I paused. “We’ll flatter Leo. He’ll send the cardinal’s hat, never fear. By King of France, and you’ll be Cardinal Wolsey!”
And I would be a father, pray God. The Queen was pregnant again, and surely this fourth time we would