The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers by Margaret George
Authors: Margaret George
Ads: Link
seven deep. Sighting me, they sent up a great cry. And I felt their presence as a kind, friendly thing, nothing to fear. They shouted for me, blessed me, cheered me. Without thinking, I swept off my head-covering and held my arms up, and they cheered all the louder. And I was warmed all over: the sun on my head, their approval around me.
All along the way it was the same: cheering people, standing many layers thick along the riverbanks, as the strengthening sun sparkled the water. We shared that moment, they and I, making a mystic bond between us, exulting in that ultimate luxury: the beginning of things.
We did not reach the Tower until nightfall, so slow was our progress. The city walls of London glowed pink in the setting sun. As we crossed the Bridge, I saw yet more people leaning from the upper stories of their high houses, trying to glimpse me. They had had no time to prepare for this unannounced royal procession, yet they had strung the narrow passageway thick with garlands of fruit-blossoms that swayed in the brisk evening wind, showering us with petals of apple, cherry, pear....
Torches were already lit in the April twilight, great golden flares which turned the fluttering petals to gold as they fell.
Now it all becomes a blur, like the aura from those torches. At the Tower, more trumpets. I am there again, I am seventeen....
I am escorted inside the fortress by the royal guard, costumed in the April green and white Tudor colours. I go to the White Tower, dismount, throw off my cloak, call for wine. Then am overwhelmed by tiredness. The magic is gone; my legs ache, my eyes burn....
The others follow me inside: Brandon, Neville, Carew, Compton. Someone brings wine in great goblets. Neville plucks two from the tray and hands me one in the familiar, careless gesture he commonly uses, turns to clap his hand on my shoulder, suddenly stops, the familiar gesture frozen, the old companions now King and subject. His blue eyes, so like mine, register dismay.
Of the nine councilmen, all were accomplished. Seven were honest, two were not: Empson and Dudley, Father’s erstwhile finance ministers. In spite of the Council’s attempts to shield its own, lesser Crown servants managed to reach my ears with information regarding their unscrupulous methods of money-collecting and “law enforcement,” and how they were despised throughout the realm by noblemen and poor alike. It was they who had so tarnished my father’s reputation amongst the people in the closing years of his reign.
I ordered them arrested, and exempted from the general pardon. I cancelled the bonds they held for the payment of their extorted loans. They were traitors, for their victims were “by the undue means of certain of the Council of our said late father, thereunto driven contrary to law, reason and good conscience, to the manifest charge and peril of the soul of our said late father,” as my proclamation said.
They had imperilled my father’s immortal soul: for that they deserved to die. They were executed, as befitted their evil.
WILL:
So the tender-hearted youth, who so shrank from “political” executions, could be roused by “moral” crimes? He would not execute for a title, but for a soul....
HENRY VIII:
Of the seven remaining councillors, three were churchmen: Archbishop Warham, the Chancellor; Bishop Fox, Lord Privy Seal; Bishop Ruthal, Secretary. For the laymen, there were Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, Lord Treasurer; George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, Lord High Steward; Charles Somerset, Lord Herbert of Raglan, Lord Chamberlain; Sir Thomas Lovell, Chancellor of the Exchequer and Constable of the Tower.
They met at half-noon every day, regardless of the amount of business at hand. The meetings were exceptionally boring: the first one I attended directed itself to an hour-long debate as to whether the expense for the late King’s coffin should be deducted from the Crown’s privy purse or from general household
All along the way it was the same: cheering people, standing many layers thick along the riverbanks, as the strengthening sun sparkled the water. We shared that moment, they and I, making a mystic bond between us, exulting in that ultimate luxury: the beginning of things.
We did not reach the Tower until nightfall, so slow was our progress. The city walls of London glowed pink in the setting sun. As we crossed the Bridge, I saw yet more people leaning from the upper stories of their high houses, trying to glimpse me. They had had no time to prepare for this unannounced royal procession, yet they had strung the narrow passageway thick with garlands of fruit-blossoms that swayed in the brisk evening wind, showering us with petals of apple, cherry, pear....
Torches were already lit in the April twilight, great golden flares which turned the fluttering petals to gold as they fell.
Now it all becomes a blur, like the aura from those torches. At the Tower, more trumpets. I am there again, I am seventeen....
I am escorted inside the fortress by the royal guard, costumed in the April green and white Tudor colours. I go to the White Tower, dismount, throw off my cloak, call for wine. Then am overwhelmed by tiredness. The magic is gone; my legs ache, my eyes burn....
The others follow me inside: Brandon, Neville, Carew, Compton. Someone brings wine in great goblets. Neville plucks two from the tray and hands me one in the familiar, careless gesture he commonly uses, turns to clap his hand on my shoulder, suddenly stops, the familiar gesture frozen, the old companions now King and subject. His blue eyes, so like mine, register dismay.
Of the nine councilmen, all were accomplished. Seven were honest, two were not: Empson and Dudley, Father’s erstwhile finance ministers. In spite of the Council’s attempts to shield its own, lesser Crown servants managed to reach my ears with information regarding their unscrupulous methods of money-collecting and “law enforcement,” and how they were despised throughout the realm by noblemen and poor alike. It was they who had so tarnished my father’s reputation amongst the people in the closing years of his reign.
I ordered them arrested, and exempted from the general pardon. I cancelled the bonds they held for the payment of their extorted loans. They were traitors, for their victims were “by the undue means of certain of the Council of our said late father, thereunto driven contrary to law, reason and good conscience, to the manifest charge and peril of the soul of our said late father,” as my proclamation said.
They had imperilled my father’s immortal soul: for that they deserved to die. They were executed, as befitted their evil.
WILL:
So the tender-hearted youth, who so shrank from “political” executions, could be roused by “moral” crimes? He would not execute for a title, but for a soul....
HENRY VIII:
Of the seven remaining councillors, three were churchmen: Archbishop Warham, the Chancellor; Bishop Fox, Lord Privy Seal; Bishop Ruthal, Secretary. For the laymen, there were Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, Lord Treasurer; George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, Lord High Steward; Charles Somerset, Lord Herbert of Raglan, Lord Chamberlain; Sir Thomas Lovell, Chancellor of the Exchequer and Constable of the Tower.
They met at half-noon every day, regardless of the amount of business at hand. The meetings were exceptionally boring: the first one I attended directed itself to an hour-long debate as to whether the expense for the late King’s coffin should be deducted from the Crown’s privy purse or from general household
Similar Books
