his servant Wolsey had aimed to be Pope – Wolsey the butcher’s son, a fellow that had once been put in the stocks for a brawl at a fair, but whom he had raised to be the greatest priest and statesman in England, and, almost, in Europe. Yes, he had brought England back into the Continent, he had made her a power to be feared and courted.
‘Look at the Field of the Cloth of Gold!’ he shouted suddenly.
That
showed Europe was at his feet – and with what a show! The English had outvied the French at every point; François alarmed at the competition, had sent anxiously to him beforehand to ask him to forbear making so many rich tents and pavilions. François had shown him with great pride a portrait of a woman called Mona Lisa that he had bought from the old painter Leonardo da Vinci who had died the year before; he had paid four thousand florins for it, a ridiculous sum for a picture, and of a rather plain woman too.
Henry could retaliate with Holbein, whom he had honoured with his patronage and an income of
£
30 a year (less
£
3 for taxes) apart from the sale of his pictures. The new Dutch School was coming far more into fashion than those old Italians.
They said François was as tall as Henry, but it was only because the Frenchman’s wretchedly thin legs made him seem taller than he really was. If only he could have matched his knightly prowess against François in the tourney, which cautious royal etiquette forbade, he would have proved himself the victor, he was sure of it. He had overcome all his opponents in it, and killed one of his mounts from sheer exhaustion (François had overcome all his too, but they had probably thought it wise to let him win). Henry had excelled even his crack English archers at the long bow; the French had gasped with admiration of his aim and strength. Certainly he would have been more than a match for François.
‘Remember how I threw him in the wrestling bout?’ he chuckled. ‘What a to-do there was! Kings mustn’t be thrown! Why, Kate, you and the French Queen had to pull us apart, d’you remember, hanging on to our shirt-tails like a couple of fishwives parting their husbands in a brawl!’
The hall seemed to rock to the sound of that mighty guffaw , and echoed it back in a frozen silence. No one knew where to look, what to say. The King heard and saw the emptiness all round him, a herd of sheep staring, but not at him, not at anyone, a wavering cloud of white foolish faces, scared and averted, and among them a very young redheaded girl playing with the nutshells on her plate. Who was that girl? She was always cropping up, baffling, frustrating, charged with some hideous memory.
The scene grew thicker, more confused. ‘Kate!’ he called in sudden terror, ‘
Kate
!’ A woman was hanging on to his arm, imploring him something. She seemed to think it was her that he had called – why, he did not even know who she was! Somefellow was loosening his collar, the woman put water to his lips.
He stared at the red-headed girl and knew now she was his daughter – but not by Kate. There had been other Kates, Annes, Jane – but the Kate who could remember him at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, as King and bridegroom at eighteen, as a child of ten riding beside her, that Kate had gone for ever, and would never come back.
Not Katherine of Aragon hung on his arm, but Catherine Parr, who knew him only as an obese, sick old man.
He made a mighty effort and guffawed again. ‘Why, how I’ve scared the lot of you!’ he gasped out. ‘Who do you think I took you for, Kate? I was asking only if you remembered hearing the tale. You were only a little girl when it happened.’
But he spoke with difficulty and his lips had gone blue, as had his twitching hands where the great jewelled rings were sunk in fat.
Bess, holding on to her nutshells so tight that they cut into her hands, stole a glance at him under her down-dropped eyelids and thought his face looked like a glistening suet
‘Look at the Field of the Cloth of Gold!’ he shouted suddenly.
That
showed Europe was at his feet – and with what a show! The English had outvied the French at every point; François alarmed at the competition, had sent anxiously to him beforehand to ask him to forbear making so many rich tents and pavilions. François had shown him with great pride a portrait of a woman called Mona Lisa that he had bought from the old painter Leonardo da Vinci who had died the year before; he had paid four thousand florins for it, a ridiculous sum for a picture, and of a rather plain woman too.
Henry could retaliate with Holbein, whom he had honoured with his patronage and an income of
£
30 a year (less
£
3 for taxes) apart from the sale of his pictures. The new Dutch School was coming far more into fashion than those old Italians.
They said François was as tall as Henry, but it was only because the Frenchman’s wretchedly thin legs made him seem taller than he really was. If only he could have matched his knightly prowess against François in the tourney, which cautious royal etiquette forbade, he would have proved himself the victor, he was sure of it. He had overcome all his opponents in it, and killed one of his mounts from sheer exhaustion (François had overcome all his too, but they had probably thought it wise to let him win). Henry had excelled even his crack English archers at the long bow; the French had gasped with admiration of his aim and strength. Certainly he would have been more than a match for François.
‘Remember how I threw him in the wrestling bout?’ he chuckled. ‘What a to-do there was! Kings mustn’t be thrown! Why, Kate, you and the French Queen had to pull us apart, d’you remember, hanging on to our shirt-tails like a couple of fishwives parting their husbands in a brawl!’
The hall seemed to rock to the sound of that mighty guffaw , and echoed it back in a frozen silence. No one knew where to look, what to say. The King heard and saw the emptiness all round him, a herd of sheep staring, but not at him, not at anyone, a wavering cloud of white foolish faces, scared and averted, and among them a very young redheaded girl playing with the nutshells on her plate. Who was that girl? She was always cropping up, baffling, frustrating, charged with some hideous memory.
The scene grew thicker, more confused. ‘Kate!’ he called in sudden terror, ‘
Kate
!’ A woman was hanging on to his arm, imploring him something. She seemed to think it was her that he had called – why, he did not even know who she was! Somefellow was loosening his collar, the woman put water to his lips.
He stared at the red-headed girl and knew now she was his daughter – but not by Kate. There had been other Kates, Annes, Jane – but the Kate who could remember him at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, as King and bridegroom at eighteen, as a child of ten riding beside her, that Kate had gone for ever, and would never come back.
Not Katherine of Aragon hung on his arm, but Catherine Parr, who knew him only as an obese, sick old man.
He made a mighty effort and guffawed again. ‘Why, how I’ve scared the lot of you!’ he gasped out. ‘Who do you think I took you for, Kate? I was asking only if you remembered hearing the tale. You were only a little girl when it happened.’
But he spoke with difficulty and his lips had gone blue, as had his twitching hands where the great jewelled rings were sunk in fat.
Bess, holding on to her nutshells so tight that they cut into her hands, stole a glance at him under her down-dropped eyelids and thought his face looked like a glistening suet
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