The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [65]
First we had to make our way through the city, sleeping now in the bluish midsummer darkness. Did anyone now follow those ancient midsummer rituals used for foretelling the future? Make a cake, scatter certain flowers about the bed, then walk backwards in silence.... The houses seemed quiet. The people therein—my charges—rested secure. O God, if only I could provide them with the one security they needed above all—an undisputed heir to the Throne.
We passed out through the Bishopsgate of the city walls, and directly into the countryside. It was still in that darkest time of night, even at midsummer. I could not see what lay before me. Only Richard, motioning me on, guided me. He knew this road well. It was well worn between the Priory of St. Lawrence and the house of Wolsey, its protector and patron.
Dawn came up early in the eastern skies to our right as we rode. I had tried, all the way and in silence, to banish the picture in my mind of the malevolent child my true wife had borne me. The darkness could not lend itself to this. I could bear to think about it in daylight, no other time. The curse was buried now, safely.
Up came the sun. The countryside about us was fresh. The sun licked all the growing furrows of the fields, encouraging them as children. The intense greenness seemed a promise of explosion into fertility and, beyond that, ripeness. A green goddess r,” he said. His very words made me sure that they disapproved. “They think it will be soon.”
Very well. I turned my back, indicating that he should depart from me. I looked out over the grounds of St. Lawrence’s, delighting in the order, the simplicity, the production. That was what I longed for in my realm.
I thought of going to the church, which I could see blocked out before me, a great grey building. But I was afraid of missing the end of Bessie’s time, and also ... I was too confused, I cannot write it clearly. But I felt that even cleansed as I was, it was presumptuous to visit the altar of the Lord....
“Your Majesty!” A young novice came to the chamber doors. “Mistress Blount has a fair son!”
A son.
“She calls for you.” He smiled. No condemnation there. (Was he too young? Too close to the source of temptation?)
“I come.”
I followed the young man through the doors of the waiting room, through the Prior’s receiving room, and into the inner guest chamber. I noted, even in my distracted state, that it was lavishly appointed.
A midwife, accompanied by a nurse, came toward me, like a priest elevating a Host.
“Your son,” they said, almost in unison. They presented a bundle to me. I peered into it.
It was his face. Prince Henry’s. Exactly the same.
Jesu! I wanted to cross myself. The dead child brought back to life again, in another child, one who could never inherit the throne—whilst the child of the Queen was born a thing accursed.
“Henry,” I murmured, in recognition.
“Henry!” they cried, all the onlookers.
The wrapped bundle felt as heavy and vigorous as the other one. God had returned him to me. But not by Katherine.
Now I shook. I could not think on it. I knew not what it meant.
The midwife indicated that I should follow her. “In this chamber, Your Majesty, she awaits.” How delicately she phrased it.
I passed through an adjoining room to find Bessie all bathed, perfumed, coiffed, and awaiting my attendance. Curiously, I did not find her beautiful, but false. Women after childbirth should not resemble perfumed courtesans.
“Bessie,” I said, coming to her side. The morning light was streaming in through windows on the right side of the room. Motes danced in the sunlight. The casements were cranked wide open, and the mixed, heady smell of the infirmarians’ herb garden below was rolling into the chamber. I fancied that the odour made me drowsy. For I was suddenly and overwhelmingly sleepy.
“We have a son,” she said.
“Yes. We have a son. I have seen him.” My