The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [94]
When I heard it I was happy. Wolsey had cheated the wolves at court. There would be—nay, could be!—no trial for treason. Had he taken poison? The more noble and brave he!
And at the end, he had called on God and died in a stone cell in Leicester Abbey rather than the Prior’s house at St. Lawrence’s. Had he repented in time? Where had his soul flown?
I was alone. Wolsey was gone. My father gone. Katherine gone—as my advisor. I stood alone. And there was much to do.
Before me stood a road leading to Rome. I knew it well. I could travel it, but it would be time-consuming, expensive, and humiliating. And the verdict was uncertain, for all that.
A smaller, sister road branched off. It led away from Rome, from Wolsey, from everything I had ever known. I could not see where it led, but it could be no less time-consuming and uncertain. Yet it beckoned me. There I would go, regardless of who tried to hinder me. It would not end at Rome, but ... where? At myself?
All the candles had been snuffed except one, flickering in a lantern. Anne was in her night-robe—a ruby velvet one—and her black hair was down and streaming over her shoulders. In the eerie light she looked half-supernatural, half-mad.
As I stepped in, she rushed toward me—a black and red wraith. A devil. “Are you finished?” she fairly shrieked. Her black eyes reflected odd jumpings of the firelight.
“Aye,” I said.
“While I sat here, alone! I could hear the music—” She turned away abruptly.
“Music you have heard many times before. And will hear again.” My head hurt, and I was weary. I had looked for comforting, not a harangue.
“When?” She whirled on me. “How many years will I endure Christmas shut up here like a prisoner? You leave me alone—”
My head ached. The bright firelight, once so enticing, now seemed hostile. I drew myself up. “Forgive me, Mistress,” I said. “I did not mean to intrude upon you. I also care not to be berated. Good night.” Before she could protest further, I turned and shut the door behind me.
Without thinking, I sought Katherine’s company. Soothing, kind Katherine.
She was having her hair brushed by a maid of honour when I entered. It was long and, at its ends, still a honey colour. But the rest was the colour of Thames mud.
She smiled to see me, then held out her hand and led me to a padded chair. She sat as near as possible. She leaned forward, and her eyes shone.
“I am so happy that you have come to see me!” she said. I smiled.
A fire was burning steadily. Just as I approached it, I could hear the strange sucking noise of the winter storm outside. The casements rattled. How miraculous to be inside, to be warm.
The fire was a hot one. I could feel it from ten feet away, and held out my hands to be warmed. Katherine came up beside me and held out her hands also—although they could hardly have been cold.
She smiled brightly. In the half-light of the fire I could see the young girl that once was. Then she, too, began to berate me.
You never come to see me ... you do not eat with me ... you leave me to sit neglected and forsaken, as lonely as in purgatory....
She reached out and grasped my arm, her fingers digging so painfully into my flesh that all I could think was how to disengage them.
She went on and on, about all my shortcomings and injuries to her person, until I thought her tongue must run dry. Still it did not. Then I became angry.
“It is your own fault if you are neglected and uncomfortable!” I yelled, then lowered my voice. “You are mistress of your own household and can go where you like and live as you like!”
“But not without my husband,” she said in mock subservience.
“You have no husband!” I burst out. “Your husband is dead, and has been, almost thirty years! I am not your husband. Learned doctors of the Church have e of that!”
Katherine drew herself up. “Doctors! They are stupid creatures. You yourself