The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [68]
Then Queen Katherine appeared on the decks. She was wearing so many jewels the sun glinted off them and kept her face hidden. She raised her hand and made a gesture to the onlookers. Then she turned and slowly descended the ramp to join her husband.
She was squat and old, and there was a stifled gasp from the crowd. They had expected a beautiful young Queen, someone like Henry’s own sister Mary, and instead there was this ... Spanish warship. Indeed, she did resemble a man-o’-war, with her stiff brocaded skirts and strange, boxlike headdress (standard in the Spain of her youth, some thirty years earlier) and slow, deliberate movements. One almost expected a gust of wind to puff out her skirts and blow her along.
Standing beside her husband, she did not turn toward him or acknowledge him in any way. Instead, she raised her hand in stately fashion (to which we were expected to respond by cheering) and turned her head into the sun.
Which was a mistake. The sunlight on her aged face, in combination with the ugly headdress, reduced the onlookers to silence. She is so old, we all thought. (Later it was reported that Francis had observed, “The King of England is young and handsome, but his wife is old and deformed”—a remark for which Henry never forgave his “dear royal brother.”) But one can understand Francis’s bewilderment, as we were all struck by the contrast. On the one side, Henry, handsome and bursting with physical power; on the other, a woman riddled with gout and troubles.
HENRY VIII:
Katherine and I walked through the streets to a joyous welcome. It was dusk when we set out, and the individual faces in the crowd could be seen by natural light, but by the time we ended the procession, torches had been lit.
We retired to a town house owned by a wealthy wool merchant, on loan for our royal use. We began to settle ourselves for sleep. But then Wolsey appeared. I left Katherine (doubtless she welcomed the privacy to make her personal devotions) and went downstairs to confer with the Cardinal.
He was wearing lesser ceremonial clothes—designed to impress the onlooker, but still permitting some ease of movement and com the widowed Queen’s hurried departure ... ah, they dance as if it were their profession!”
Some few unimportant people had remained in France after Mary had eloped with Brandon. But what of them? They were negligible.
“What dance measures do you prefer?” he pressed me. “I will instruct my musicians.”
“I dance anything. It is of no matter which begins.”
“A monarch without modesty!” he exclaimed. “How refreshing!”
As the tables were cleared away, the musicians began to assemble in the far end of the hall. There were not as many of them as in an English ensemble, but I trusted they would make decent music.
Katherine and I would lead out the first measure, an Alhambra-rhythm, as danced in Spain. She could still do a turn and execute a measure to those melodies, recalling her girlhood.
The company applauded dutifully. Then Francis and his Queen did a slow, dignified dance.
Now both Claude and Katherine could be retired, while Francis and I danced with others, having honoured our spouses.
Francis brought a woman over to me. I had seen her in the French company and at once began speaking French to her, when Francis corrected me.
“She is one of yours, mon frère.” He touched her bare shoulders lightly. “An Englishwoman. Mary Boleyn.”
The lady bowed. She was wearing a May-green gown, as I recall, that wrapt round her shoulders and breasts. Her hair was that honey colour which always aroused me, whether in fabric or hair or just the sun streaming into a room. It was my weakness. How did Francis know?
I took her as my partner. “An Englishwoman, harboured in the very French court?” I murmured. She followed my every movement,