Read Online The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers by Margaret George - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Margaret George
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Brandon.
“We will,” they chorused. “But we only wanted you to see it. Look, the decorations—”
“I said return it!” bellowed Brandon.
Carew raised his eyes in appeal to me, as I had feared he would. Yet it was bound to happen, sooner or later....
“Yes. Return it,” I muttered. I hated being put in this position.
“Only if you promise to establish an armoury of your own when you become King. There should be one in England, after all.”
“Oh, go!” I said, embarrassed. They picked up the half-suit of armour and reluctantly took it back up the stairs.
Afterward, as we watched Compton and Bryan facing each other in hand-to-hand combat across the rush-padded mat, I leaned over to Brandon. “Thank you,” I said, “for telling them. I dared not.”
He shrugged. “Yet it was to you they turned. Best get used to that, Your Grace.”
A thud. Compton had been thrown, and Bryan was bending over him. Neville and another boy took their places. The air was rank now from the sweat and exertion, which mingled with the odours of last night’s dinner in the Hall.
Night was falling already. Someone had just come in to light the torches. Soon this must end, and I would have to go back to my solitary room.
I looked at the others around me. They were well-favoured and healthy and—young men. Some were betrothed, one was already married, and most had had women. They talked about it sometimes, casually, which meant it was not even new to them. Like the first time one takes the Sacrament, one anticipates it and thinks much about it afterwards. But as it becomes part of one’s life, -one says easily: “I have received my Maker.” Just so did Bryan and Compton and Carew talk of women.
WILL:
How like Harry to find a religious simile for the sexual act! The Sacrament, indeed!
HENRY VIII:
So I would think about Katherine alone. I was to be betrothed. I would not tell anyone yet. And I wondered: when was I to be married?
We were betrothed, formally, three months later, with the provision that the marriage would take place on my fourteenth birthday.
The ceremony of betrothal took place at the Bishop of Salisbury’s residenardeners claimed, and certainly the plants continued to bloom an extraordinarily long time.
Father and I and the lawyers were to meet Katherine and her Spanish lawyers directly at the Bishop’s. So we rode through London, but took separate routes, lest it appear that we were too familiar already.
In truth, I had not seen Katherine since she and Arthur had left court to go to Ludlow. She had been ill herself of the same fever that had killed Arthur, and had not even attended the funeral or been able to return to London for some time. When she did come, she had been settled in a riverside house on the great open Strand between the city and Westminster. It was called Durham House. There she lived, surrounded by her Spanish household, speaking Spanish, wearing only Spanish clothes, eating Spanish food. For a time everyone had waited to see if she might be carrying Arthur’s child, but that soon proved to be merely wishful thinking on the King’s part. Arthur was dead indeed.
And now I was to have his leavings. That rainy June day a little over a year since his death, I went to claim the first of them.
We took the royal barge to the water steps of Blackfriars monastery. Horses awaited us there, and we rode up a muddy lane that led away from the river and up to Fleet Street, itself a muddy little path connecting the Strand to the streets of London. We saw few people, as we were outside the main part of London the entire time. It was not a pretty journey, and on the way it began to drizzle, just to complete our discomfort.
At the Bishop’s house on that dismal little street, we were ushered into a small room where Katherine and her party awaited us. It stank of wet wool and too many bodies packed into a tight space. It seemed that the number of lawyers required as experts and
“We will,” they chorused. “But we only wanted you to see it. Look, the decorations—”
“I said return it!” bellowed Brandon.
Carew raised his eyes in appeal to me, as I had feared he would. Yet it was bound to happen, sooner or later....
“Yes. Return it,” I muttered. I hated being put in this position.
“Only if you promise to establish an armoury of your own when you become King. There should be one in England, after all.”
“Oh, go!” I said, embarrassed. They picked up the half-suit of armour and reluctantly took it back up the stairs.
Afterward, as we watched Compton and Bryan facing each other in hand-to-hand combat across the rush-padded mat, I leaned over to Brandon. “Thank you,” I said, “for telling them. I dared not.”
He shrugged. “Yet it was to you they turned. Best get used to that, Your Grace.”
A thud. Compton had been thrown, and Bryan was bending over him. Neville and another boy took their places. The air was rank now from the sweat and exertion, which mingled with the odours of last night’s dinner in the Hall.
Night was falling already. Someone had just come in to light the torches. Soon this must end, and I would have to go back to my solitary room.
I looked at the others around me. They were well-favoured and healthy and—young men. Some were betrothed, one was already married, and most had had women. They talked about it sometimes, casually, which meant it was not even new to them. Like the first time one takes the Sacrament, one anticipates it and thinks much about it afterwards. But as it becomes part of one’s life, -one says easily: “I have received my Maker.” Just so did Bryan and Compton and Carew talk of women.
WILL:
How like Harry to find a religious simile for the sexual act! The Sacrament, indeed!
HENRY VIII:
So I would think about Katherine alone. I was to be betrothed. I would not tell anyone yet. And I wondered: when was I to be married?
We were betrothed, formally, three months later, with the provision that the marriage would take place on my fourteenth birthday.
The ceremony of betrothal took place at the Bishop of Salisbury’s residenardeners claimed, and certainly the plants continued to bloom an extraordinarily long time.
Father and I and the lawyers were to meet Katherine and her Spanish lawyers directly at the Bishop’s. So we rode through London, but took separate routes, lest it appear that we were too familiar already.
In truth, I had not seen Katherine since she and Arthur had left court to go to Ludlow. She had been ill herself of the same fever that had killed Arthur, and had not even attended the funeral or been able to return to London for some time. When she did come, she had been settled in a riverside house on the great open Strand between the city and Westminster. It was called Durham House. There she lived, surrounded by her Spanish household, speaking Spanish, wearing only Spanish clothes, eating Spanish food. For a time everyone had waited to see if she might be carrying Arthur’s child, but that soon proved to be merely wishful thinking on the King’s part. Arthur was dead indeed.
And now I was to have his leavings. That rainy June day a little over a year since his death, I went to claim the first of them.
We took the royal barge to the water steps of Blackfriars monastery. Horses awaited us there, and we rode up a muddy lane that led away from the river and up to Fleet Street, itself a muddy little path connecting the Strand to the streets of London. We saw few people, as we were outside the main part of London the entire time. It was not a pretty journey, and on the way it began to drizzle, just to complete our discomfort.
At the Bishop’s house on that dismal little street, we were ushered into a small room where Katherine and her party awaited us. It stank of wet wool and too many bodies packed into a tight space. It seemed that the number of lawyers required as experts and
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