The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [55]
“Then I shall not wed Louis. I shall enter a convent instead.”
“You would do that, rather than submit entirely?” She was a Tudor—stubborn and ruthless. “I would never let you do that to yourself. Very well, then, I grant you your wish.” By the time she was widowed, she’d be more sensible. We all became more sensible in time. Then I had a sudden suspicion. “There isn’t someone now that you fancy?”
She smiled a faraway smile. “There are many that I fancy,” she said. “As any young girl might.”
After we had parted, I could not help reflecting on what she had said. It was true, the company I sought had changed. Instead of Erasmus and Dean John Colet, I wanted Edward Guildford and Edward Poyntz, bluff courtiers. Instead of Katherine, I had Wolsey for my political confidant. I did not want to be alone to pray, or reflect, or compose music. I wanted noise and gaiety and distractions; I wanted power rather than chivalry.
Yet not all of me did. The first Henry, the one who wanted to be a “true knight”—he existed alongside the second one, keeping uneasy watch over him.
XXII
Mary and King Louis were to be married by proxy in England, so that she would arrive in France already its Queen. The elegant Louis d’Orleans, Duc de Longueville, taken prisoner in France during the war campaign, was to stand in for Louis and recite his vows for him. Although technically a hostage, de Longueville in fact behaved as a French diplomat, and it was to him that King Louis sent his wedding gift for Mary: a pendant necklace made of a gigantic, pear-shaped pearl so singular that it had a name of its own—the Mirror of Naples. I made a promise to myself to have it appraised by honest English jewellers before Mary left for France.
The ceremony was to take place at Greenwich, with Archbishop Warham presiding, in the presence of the peers of the realm. I had transformed the gathering-room of the royal apartments with cloth-of-gold and silk, so that it glittered like a cave of gold, a treasure-hoard of legend.
“Come, Katherine,” I said, turning to my wife. “It is time.” I offered my arm. Katherine took it, wordlessly and stiffly; that was the way things were between us now.
In my outer chamber, Wolsey was waiting, resplendent in gleaming brocade vestments. As part of the ceremony he was to be recognized by Louis as furthering the cause of France. Katherine nodded stiffly to him. That was how things stood between them, as well.
Mary made a lovely bride. One would never suspect, hearing her lilting voice pronouncing the hastily learned French vows to de Longueville, pledging her love and fidelity, that she had ever desired anything else. The rings were exchanged, the bridal kiss conferred, the papers signed. And now the marriage must be “consummated” by proxy.
This had been my inspiration. A proxy marriage might be repudiated, like a precontract or betrothal. But a proxy consummation—that was another matter.
“An absurd idea,” Katherine had sniffed. “Verbal agreements, properly witnessed, or signed documents, are all that honourable men require.”
“Like my father and your father? We made verbal agreements and went through a public betrothal. Was it honoured? Why did you have to sell your dower-plate for food, then? You still continue to believe in honour, my duck?”
“I believe in your honour,” she said.
Wolsey, on the other hand, had appreciated the genius of it. “The very uniqueness, the novelty of it, will seal it in the eyes of the world,” he said. “It will be, in its own way, even more of a consummation than the ordinary kind.”
“Quite.”
I had had a great state bed set up in the middle of the Assembly Chamber. It was canopied, but no bed-curtains were hung to obscure the view, and no coverlets of fur or wool were arranged there to veil the required actions.
The entire company gathered about the bed, while Mary retired to change into a nightdress. Katherine and her attendants waited until Mary emerged, clad in her magnificent dishabille, then escorted her with stately steps up to the bed, laying her out on her back upon the satin