The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers by Margaret George Page B
Authors: Margaret George
Ads: Link
people say that for each pearl the bride wears, her husband will give her cause for weeping. Nor would I have believed it, then. As we stepped out onto the church porch, silvery drops began to fall: a sun-shower. Another omen, pointing the same way ... you will shed a tear for each raindrop that falls on your wedding day. But to us it felt like the sprinkling of holy water, a special benediction and blessing. Laughing, we clasped hands and ran across the courtyard to Greenwich Palace, where we would have our private wedding feast.
Poor Katherine had no family in England, but no matter, so I thought; I was to be her family now. My grandmother Beaufort was there, although she was ailing, and my eleven-year-old cousin Henry Courtenay, Earl of Devon. There was my quasi-uncle, Arthur Plantagenet, the natural son of Edward IV and one of his mistresses. He was some nine years older than I. Other members of my family were noticeable by their absence: my cousin Edmund de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk, still imprisoned in the Tower, and his brother Richard, fled abroad to France. It was a small feast.
But it was a merry one. There was almost visible relief on Grandmother Beaufort’s face. Her grandson was safely King and had taken a wife, and the future of the family was no longer in jeopardy. She could die now, and she did, just three weeks later.
While I sat beside Katherine, I could not stop staring at her, in disbelief that she was to be mine. Nor could she keep from looking at me—at the ten-year-old boy who had been her friend, now a boy no longer, but a King.
Yet looking at her (all the while the minstrels were playing and the seemingly endless procession of dishes was presented) only made me more anxious and preoccupied. I wished the feast to be over; I wished it to go on forever.
Shall I confess it? I was a virgin. Unlike my companions of the tiltyard and the exercise field, I had never had a woman. How could I, guarded and sequestered as I was, and constantly watched by the King? Oh, there had been the customary invitations from the serving girls. But I had no desire for them—perhaps because they offered themselves so freely. Or perhaps because I was embarrassed to reveal my virginal state, which I assumed would be obvious, and then they would laugh at me in the kitchens and the laundry. In the beginning it was simply that I was too young, and was frightened; then, later, ironically, I was too old.
And now I must take Katherine to bed. The young King, proclaimed a second Hector, another Lancelot, and so on, was as inexperienced as his older, sickly brother had been before him. And with the same woman. I remembered how, with the blithe ignorance of a ten-year-old, I had disdained his timidity and lack of self-assurance.
We were alone in the Retiring Room. The entire humiliating court ritual of “putting the couple to bed” had been duly observed. Oua bto be prescribed: there was nothing else one could do effectively to ease that desire.
Katherine seemed to be a virgin. But then, it is hard for one virgin to be sure of another. Thus, years later, when the controversy raged about this very question, I kept a diplomatic silence, lest I betray myself.
XIV
WILL:
All of England went on a general holiday for approximately half a year—from old Henry’s death in April until the autumn winds blew. There was a great rejoicing among the people, from the lowest (with whom I consorted in those days) to (I assume) the highest. The mood pervaded everything at the time but is very difficult to describe now: a feeling of jubilation and expansiveness. They were ready to embrace Young Harry (as they called him), permit him anything, then forgive him for it. They almost longed for him to sin, so that they could show him their great acceptance.
But he did not sin. He behaved well, as if he were following a private code entitled “The Honour of a Prince.” Not only was he young and handsome and rich, but he attended five Masses
Poor Katherine had no family in England, but no matter, so I thought; I was to be her family now. My grandmother Beaufort was there, although she was ailing, and my eleven-year-old cousin Henry Courtenay, Earl of Devon. There was my quasi-uncle, Arthur Plantagenet, the natural son of Edward IV and one of his mistresses. He was some nine years older than I. Other members of my family were noticeable by their absence: my cousin Edmund de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk, still imprisoned in the Tower, and his brother Richard, fled abroad to France. It was a small feast.
But it was a merry one. There was almost visible relief on Grandmother Beaufort’s face. Her grandson was safely King and had taken a wife, and the future of the family was no longer in jeopardy. She could die now, and she did, just three weeks later.
While I sat beside Katherine, I could not stop staring at her, in disbelief that she was to be mine. Nor could she keep from looking at me—at the ten-year-old boy who had been her friend, now a boy no longer, but a King.
Yet looking at her (all the while the minstrels were playing and the seemingly endless procession of dishes was presented) only made me more anxious and preoccupied. I wished the feast to be over; I wished it to go on forever.
Shall I confess it? I was a virgin. Unlike my companions of the tiltyard and the exercise field, I had never had a woman. How could I, guarded and sequestered as I was, and constantly watched by the King? Oh, there had been the customary invitations from the serving girls. But I had no desire for them—perhaps because they offered themselves so freely. Or perhaps because I was embarrassed to reveal my virginal state, which I assumed would be obvious, and then they would laugh at me in the kitchens and the laundry. In the beginning it was simply that I was too young, and was frightened; then, later, ironically, I was too old.
And now I must take Katherine to bed. The young King, proclaimed a second Hector, another Lancelot, and so on, was as inexperienced as his older, sickly brother had been before him. And with the same woman. I remembered how, with the blithe ignorance of a ten-year-old, I had disdained his timidity and lack of self-assurance.
We were alone in the Retiring Room. The entire humiliating court ritual of “putting the couple to bed” had been duly observed. Oua bto be prescribed: there was nothing else one could do effectively to ease that desire.
Katherine seemed to be a virgin. But then, it is hard for one virgin to be sure of another. Thus, years later, when the controversy raged about this very question, I kept a diplomatic silence, lest I betray myself.
XIV
WILL:
All of England went on a general holiday for approximately half a year—from old Henry’s death in April until the autumn winds blew. There was a great rejoicing among the people, from the lowest (with whom I consorted in those days) to (I assume) the highest. The mood pervaded everything at the time but is very difficult to describe now: a feeling of jubilation and expansiveness. They were ready to embrace Young Harry (as they called him), permit him anything, then forgive him for it. They almost longed for him to sin, so that they could show him their great acceptance.
But he did not sin. He behaved well, as if he were following a private code entitled “The Honour of a Prince.” Not only was he young and handsome and rich, but he attended five Masses
Similar Books
