The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [60]
We settled ourselves on the·silken cushions: strangers.
“So you have followed your heart,” I finally said, for want of anything else to say. “As you threatened to do.”
“I love him!” she cried. “I love him, I love him, I have loved him since I was a child!”
The oars outside the windows made slurping noises as they dipped in and out of the water.
“Can you not see him for what he is? A womanizer, someone who knows all the tricks, all the things to win an unsophisticated heart.”
“Is that so?” Her face took on a transcendent, triumphal look. “And what did he win by marrying me? Banishment from court, and from your favour.”
“He won England’s fairest jewel.”
“And your best playing card. Who is the calculating one, Brother?”
I stood accused. Yes, I was worse than Brandon. He had seen Mary and loved her, risking my wrath and banishment from court. I had seen only the loss of a playing card. When had this happened to me? I hated myself, hated that thing I had become: ugly, base, experimenting with my own body as if it were a thing apart from myself.
But a realist. A king who was not a realist cheated his people. That was the truth of it.
A bright arc of foam, spray: the Thames was rising past us. I saw York Place on our port side. Wolsey’s residence had gaily fluttering banners planted by the water-stairs, inviting dignng and muscular, weak and weedy, fat and soft? Is it as good as mine?
“I did not avail myself of it,” she said.
“But surely you could tell—”
“Jewelled raiment and well-tailored clothes disguise bodily defects,” she said. “That is what they are designed to do.”
They were throwing out the landing ropes. There was not time for an answer, an honest answer.
“Was he a man?” I cried.
She looked puzzled.
The barge bumped against the padded piles. We were there.
“All men are men,” she answered. “More or less.”
XXV
With the departure of the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk came the arrival of Wolsey’s cardinal’s hat. The hat, conferred by Leo X, along with a blessed golden rose for me for my fidelity and orthodoxy, arrived at Dover, encased in a regal box. Wolsey arranged that it be conveyed to London with all proper reverence, there to be welcomed by the Abbot of Westminster Abbey. Afterward it was placed upon the high altar of St. Paul’s, and then, in a drama designed to dazzle the eye, it was placed upon Wolsey’s head, creating a scarlet presence against the ancient grey stones. The chanting of the choristers framed the moment in divine approbation.
“You see what a serpent you have nurtured in your bosom,” muttered Katherine, standing stiffly beside me. “He glistens and gleams like the very creature in the Garden of Eden.”
A splendid metaphor. Wolsey’s satin indeed gleamed by the fluttering candlelight. But he was too plump to pass for a serpent. I said as much, while the chanting covered my low voice.
“A demon, then,” said Katherine. “Although Satan himself is sleek, some of his lesser demons must be gluttonous, just as their counterparts on earth.”
“Ah, Katherine.” She hated Wolsey with such an unreasoning hate, held him responsible for all the changes in me, when in fact he merely facilitated them; they originated within myself.
“How long will you wait before appointing him Lord Chancellor? Will it be a Christmas gift?”
Damn her for her insight! In truth, I had planned a December ceremony, separating the cardinalship from the chancellorship by a decent interval of two months. Archbishop Warham was old and ready to retire. But more to the point, I no longer listened to him on political affairs or considered any of his opinions, so he was useless in his office.
“It is no gift. He has earned it.”
Katherine did not reply, merely gave me a withering look of disdain. I did not care to argue. I was keeping my promise to myself, never to fight or hurt or upset her again. Her new pregnancy must be undisturbed,