The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [58]
“The parents were anxious for their children to acquire French manners.”
By God, that rankled! For how long would the world look to France for its standard of elegance and style? I was determined that my court would usurp it. “The court of King Louis is as lively as a grasshopper in November,” I snorted. “They’ll learn little there.”
“They’ll learn from the shadow court, the one headed by Francis Valois, Duc d’Angoulême. Unless Mary gives Louis an heir, Francis will be the next King of France. Already he holds court and practises. The little Boleyns and Seymours will learn from him, not from Louis.”
“Francis’s wife, Louis’s daughter Claude, is as holy as Katherine, so they say.” My tongue was becoming unguarded with fatigue. “It can hardly be stylish there.”
“Madame Claude is ignored. Francis’s mistress sets the tone.”
Openly? His mistress presided openly? “What sort of fellow is this Francis, of the house of Valois?”
“Much like yourself, Your Majesty.” Of late Wolsey had introduced this title for me, saying that “Your Grace” was shared alike with Dukes and Archbishops and bishops, and that a monarch needed his own title. I liked it. “Athletic, well educated, a man of culture.” He paused. “It is also said he enjoys a blemished reputation as an insatiable lecher.”
“Already? How old is he?”
“Twenty, Your Majesty.”
“Are his ... attentions always welcome?”
“Not universally, Your Majesty. He is most persistent, so it is said, and will not desist once he has his sights set on a prey. When the mayor and prayed just as intently. My prayers began in proper, stiff sentences. O Lord, Mighty God, grant, I beseech you, a son, for my realm. But as hours wore on, and Linacre appeared, shaking his head, they became frantic, silent cries. Help her, help me, give us a child, I beg you, please, I will do anything, perform any feat, I will go on a crusade, I will dedicate this child to you, like Samuel, here am I, Lord, send me ...
“It is over.” Linacre flung the door wide. I leapt to my feet.
“A son,” he said. “Living.” He beckoned for me to follow him.
Katherine lay back, like a corpse upon a pallet. She did not stir. Was she—had she—?
De la Sa was massaging her abdomen, which was still distended and puffy. Great spurts of blackish blood shot out from between her legs each time he pushed, where it was caught in a silver basin. The blood was lumpy with clots. Katherine moaned and stirred.
“The child,” Linacre indicated, turning my eyes from the grotesque horror on the bed that was my pain-wracked and damaged wife. Maria de Salinas Willoughby was bathing the babe, washing blood and mucus off him.
He was so tiny. Tiny as a kitten. Too small to live, I knew it on the instant.
“We thought it best that he be baptized immediately,” said Linacre. “So we sent for a priest.”
I nodded, aware of what he was admitting. Baptize him quickly, before he dies. No ceremony. Any priest will do.
A young priest appeared from the outer chamber, having been hurried from the Chapel Royal, where he served with minor duties. He was still adjusting his vestments and carried a container of holy water.
“Proceed,” I ordered him. Maria had the babe dried and wrapped in a blanket by now.
“His ... robe,” protested Katherine weakly.
“She means the christening robe she fashioned for him,” explained Maria.
“We haven’t time.” I said the words, feeling nothing. Numb as a hand held against cold metal.
“The robe ...”
“It is right here, Your Grace, I’ll see to it,” Maria reassured Katherine tenderly. She pulled the dainty thing over his head, not even straightening it, just so she could comply.
“Godparents?” asked the priest.
“You, Maria, and you, Brandon.” What difference? Anyone would do. There would be no duties as the child grew.
“Name?”
“William,” I said. A good English name.
“I baptize thee, William, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” A trickle of water on his soft forehead.
Quick, now: wrap him warmly,