The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [69]
“Not many,” she replied. “My sister Anne, for one.”
I looked about to indicate curiosity. In France, I already felt, everything was indirect, including questions.
“She is too young to be here. She does not yet put up her hair. A wild creature, so our father says.”
“Perhaps France will tame her.”
“That is his hope. In truth, France does not tame, but refines, boldness.”
The message was clear. I took it. “When we return to England, we would take comfort from your presence,” I said.
One sentence. So much simpler than the untutored business with Bessie.
“As you wish,” she replied, looking at me. She did not touch me.
That inflamed me more. She was a clever courtesan.
For courtesan she was. I could recognize one by now. This one had been polished by Francis to a high sheen. Had he enjoyed her? What had he taught her?
I had resolved not to involve myself with women, after the business with Bessie. But a practised courtesan? Surely that was different.
And the njoer advice, and closeted himself with her until noon every day for “consultations.” She in turn called him, “Mon roi, mon seigneur, mon César, et mon fils.”
For an instant his smug face altered. Then he smiled. “Indeed,” he said. “I shall name her after my beloved mother. I can think of no greater honour.
Evidently, I thought. Pity you cannot marry mère yourself. He was truly disgusting.
WILL:
And would Henry not have been closeted with his own mother, had she lived? How closely linked are jealousy and disgust? Why have no learned men studied this? I myself find the question more absorbing than the dreary debates raging today about the true nature of the Eucharist.
HENRY VIII:
Penny being through, I raised myself out of the leather chair and removed the towel. “I have business to attend to,” I said pointedly.
Still, Francis continued to stand before me, smiling absurdly. Must I make a banner and wave it before his hooded eyes? “I thank you for your assistance,” I said. “But now duties call us in separate directions.”
He bowed. “Indeed. Yet we shall meet later—in the afternoon, for the first joust.”
Protocol dictated that I accompany him through my private apartments. Reluctantly I joined him and together we left my bedchamber, traversed the inner chamber, and opened the door into the large Privy Chamber. At least a dozen attendants looked expectantly toward us.
“Bon jour, ” said Francis, lifting his plumed bonnet.
The chamber was some twenty feet wide. Before we had crossed ten, Francis abruptly paused. He put one finger against his cheek and raised his left eyebrow. Then he plucked off his head-covering and tossed it into one corner.
“Wrestle with me, brother!” he cried.
He caught me off guard. Before I could even alter my stance, he came at me, hitting me unfairly, throwing me on my back.
A row of surprised courtiers stared down at my shame. I knew now why Francis had selected a tightly fitting costume for me—it hampered my movements quite effectively.
He stood back, a false look of consternation on his face. “O! O! Sacre bleu!” He uttered a string of similar French inanities.
But he did not offer me his hand or help me to my feet. Instead, he stood well back, trying to appear surprised.
I rose to my feet. “In France, do you not customarily give an opponent the chance to prepare for a contest?”
“One must always be prepared for the unexpected, cher frère.” He rolled his eyes toward the painted ceiling and shrugged. “Life seldom warns us when she is ready to strike a blow. I merely imitate life.”
I stripped off the confining surcoat. Let us fight, then, away from pubons) they applied equally to all of life as well, to the very fact of being born a human creature. His last point, that rain and hail and “strange skyward happenings” had wrecked the pretty pretend-palaces, summarized the whole meeting: the entente cordiale was insubstantial and immediately destroyed by the first breath of real politics.
That did not stop me from being annoyed