Fatal Throne: The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All Read online

  Gloria a Dios.

  When I first saw her, I was a boy, just a child, and she seemed to me to contain everything I wanted from adulthood in the years to come. There was the savour of foreign nations in her strange clothing; the hint of secret wisdom in the way she watched us all; the reminder of a wider world of kings and armies in her opaque Spanish language (at first we could speak together only in Latin, meeting in some middle place foreign to both of us); the revelation of beauty and dignity in her serene walk; and lastly, in the conferences about her marriage with my brother, she gave me the first glimpse I had that friendship, and even love, are chits in games of power. Hands clasp, and then armies march. Lips meet, and scarlet cardinals of the Church come together in locked chambers. Nations move. Katharine had in her veins the blood of Castile and Aragon, the blood of kings, and our Tudor family’s would mingle with theirs, and so we would make ourselves a dynasty to outlast the emperors of Rome.

  Thus I gaped at her when I was a boy. I knew I was designed to be larger than the world, and when I was a child, I was already restless to take up the globe in my small hands. I saw my brother Arthur tasting the first fruits of power with Katharine at his side, and I mooned after her, as if she were adulthood itself. As a boy, I imagined that the kiss of this princess would impregnate me with sovereignty, the rule of the world.

  But of course, though I was a bright child—quite extraordinary in many ways—brilliant even, by everyone’s account—I did not yet understand the subtleties of power. I did not understand that Katharine herself was a pawn.

  My father’s interest in Katharine’s marriage, first to Arthur, and then to me, waxed and waned depending on the politics of Spain. My father was a miser—a stringy-haired miser—and poor Katharine was left almost to starve as he decided whether she was useful to him and to our family. After my brother Arthur died (may Christ lead his weak, timid soul by hand to Heaven), Katharine and I became allies in that stingy court. We exchanged secret glances in the audience chamber as my father raged. This is when I came not simply to admire her, but to love her.

  With my father’s death, those grim years were over, and I grasped the throne with both hands. I announced to the world that it had been my father’s desire that I marry Katharine. A few days after our coronation, I had my father’s favourite ministers arrested, and so ended the regime of misers. After their execution, a pretty time of dancing began, and hunting, and all the pleasant sports of youth.

  I had won what I had wanted. It was all mine.

  Do not say that I did not love her. I did; I do. I was not “unkind” to her, as I hear some whisper. I always sought to celebrate her, to protect her.

  I will always remember, for example, the joy I felt the night our first son was born—our heir so briefly in the world. The Queen’s chambers had been closed to men for days, a secret place only for her ladies-in-waiting and the midwives. When a man brought me the news of the birth, however, I dashed immediately to her rooms and yanked aside the arras draped over the door—kicked the door open and rushed into the room of women, eager to embrace her and my boy and the world itself.

  “God be praised!” I crowed. “I have a son!”

  The people were cheering for us in the streets. We had an heir. England would be strong.

  I could not believe Kate’s beauty that night, though she was exhausted, and I could not accustom myself to the precious workmanship of our child (the chiselling of his lips, the volutes of his tiny ears). He looked exactly like his father: red hair, blue eyes. “How can I ever thank you for this greatest of gifts, Kate?” I asked her. “A son. An heir for England.”

  I lay half beside her, and we called him Henry, and then whispered—foolishly, for we did not know yet that our union was cursed—that he was our little Henry IX.

  If that boy had not died—if she had given me more boys—all our lives would have felt as sweet as that moment, and in our love would have been the advance of nations.

  After a few minutes of my Queen and me resting side by side, the nursemaids and midwives who had been scolding me this whole while to let Her Majesty and the little one sleep, brushed me towards the door. As soon as I stepped out of the apartments, I could not help myself, but darted back into the bedchamber to kiss her and our tiny Prince again.

  I can barely think of it now without weeping.

  That night, I strolled the agitated halls, unable to rest, joy was so thick in my veins. I could not sleep without release of ecstasy, so I called for a servant-girl named Polly whom I had several times found convenient, having seen a fine shaft of light illuminate her jaw in the stable yard, and we spent an hour in passionate embrace. As we did, giggling together, and as I felt the jubilation rushing through my limbs, I thought on my Queen wife, and my spending was a tribute to her.

  “I am a maker of men,” I whispered at the point of rapture.

  “Funny, isn’t it,” said Polly, “that both the Queen and me have your flesh passing through us tonight?”

  It was a coarse and repulsive jest, spoken with a knowing leer. As I have said, I always wish to protect poor Katharine. I was shocked.

  “Polly,” I said, “that is a disgusting thing to say. Do not speak that way of your Queen or compare yourself in any way to Her Blessed Majesty.”

  The girl looked confused. “But you and me, we’re tricking her,” she said. “You’re lying to her. You’re the one—”

  I pushed the girl hard towards the edge of the bed. “I am protecting her. I will see no harm come to her.” I grabbed Polly and squeezed her arm hard. “She will never hear of this. She will never know a minute’s sadness.”

  I thrust the girl from me. She looked as if she might argue—as if I had not decreed her silence.

  “She don’t know that you have other women?”

  “Compton,” I called.

  William Compton, Groom of the Stool, looked up. He was sitting near the bed, studying receipts by candlelight.

  I ordered him to take Polly out, to dismiss her from her position, to send her into Cornwall or the north.

  She wept, I think, but I explained that I could do worse; she needed to recognize my mercy.

  When she was gone, it took me a long while to regain my poise and joy. She troubled me, which made no sense, for she was no one of importance, no one of my acquaintance. It was not until the monks sang compline that my thoughts were clear again, and my child’s face floated above me as serene as the moon.

  It is no good thinking of those things now. The years of—I will not call it failure, for it was not my failure—let us rather call it judgement. The years of God’s judgement upon Katharine and me for wedding against His law. The small, dead mites, weakened by her womb.

  I am a king and a maker of men. Kings run through my marrow and seek release. Make no mistake: If a physician could see my living veins, he would see them stuffed with royal homunculi hungry for rule, and the branches of my blood would appear to be a dynastic tree in miniature, waiting to burst forth and flower. So many nights, I can feel the unborn rampage.

  But when my seed hit Katharine’s morbid, chilly womb, my sons withered. So I’ve been told by several physicians—and I paid them enough to get to the truth of the matter.

  Do not say it is her “fault.” It is not her fault that she could not nurture my vivid seed. God’s will was against us, and as time went on, she became a poor vessel for kings: damp and sad, no life in her limbs, always praying in frigid chapels.

  Look at the history of our nation—of every nation—of old Rome itself: Where the succession of father and son is not clear, the whole country suffers. There are wars and revolutions. Think of the great Anarchy after the son of the first Henry drowned amidst the puking drunkards on the White Ship; for a generation, armies trooped back and forth across the kingdom and burned the fields; monarch fought monarch; a woman empress sought to become Queen of England, throwing everything into chaos; and there was no peace.

  So the love between a king and queen i
s no dalliance. It is no pleasure. It is men’s work. It is the route to power and safety for a whole realm.

  For this reason, I knew that the best solution for the kingdom and for my beloved English people was to convince Katharine to put aside the crown. It was out of love and concern for her, too—for why should she suffer continual sorrow and sadness? Why should she spend her days frowning and worrying her rosary?

  A nunnery was the perfect solution, though she would not agree. I could see her in comfortable rooms, well attended by noble nuns, sewing shirts for the poor. Writing letters to our Mary. Enjoying the warmth of the great hearth-fires in the winter and the cloister orchards in the summer. Perhaps she would acquire a monastery cat. Hidden away from the burdensome world, she would finally be at peace.

  One woman cannot encompass me. I must spread my arms wider to embrace the whole globe; I only feel that I am myself when I am victorious and commanding whole nations, drinking in not merely the kisses of one set of lips, but the perfume of life itself.

  Shortly after our daughter Mary was born to Katharine—with the promise still of future heirs, sons who could bear the weight of the kingdom on their shoulders—shortly thereafter, Cardinal Wolsey and I concluded a treaty among all the kings of Christendom. Wolsey worked the details; but it was largely my doing. I brought all nations together in a great truce of perpetual peace. Of course, you will say, it did not last long—peace can never be perpetual, where there is strength—but that is not my failure. It was the failure of the King of France and the Holy Roman Emperor, Katharine’s own nephew. They could not keep from each other’s throats. I brought them together, however, which was a great feat for the king of an island nation just growing into its full power.

  And so I proposed to Francis I, the young, new King of France, that we meet in person to express our royal affection for each other, since our countries had so recently been at war. It was agreed we would come together for diverse festivities, jousts, and contests.

  I can think of no happier time in my life than those splendid weeks on the shores of France.

  When two kings of the greatest dignity meet, all must be planned well in advance so neither is seen to yield anything to the other—especially when they are two of the greatest monarchs of Europe, both young, both beloved by all people, both sportsmen, always eager for the prize. So we met on French shores—but on English ground, near the town of Calais, which I held as a foothold from the wars of our ancestors.

  I ordered to be built there an enchanted palace of illusion, which rose up out of an empty field in mere days like the work of a magician—like the ones old Merlin had conjured up for his lady-love. Being cunningly made of insubstantial silks and soft canvases painted to look like marble and stone, it appeared in the twinkling of an eye—and it disappeared just as quickly a few weeks later when we were done with it, to the amazement of all. It took six thousand men to build, all at my command. It had turrets that looked out over the plains, and gilded carvings, and great windows of painted glass that glittered in the sunlight, and on its battlements stood statues of the most fearsome and famous warriors of old: Alexander the Great, King Arthur, King David, Julius Caesar, Charlemagne, Hector, and Hercules. Before the palace gate stood a fountain that spewed out wines, day and night. Under a statue of old, drunken Bacchus, god of liquor, it was written, “Whoever wishes, be of good cheer.”

  “Aha!” I said to Katharine as she saw the palace for the first time, with windows flashing and a light Cabernet spilling merrily from the fountain. “Won’t the eyes of all guests be astonished?”

  “It is magnificent, Henry,” she agreed. “King Francis’s hospitality will never equal yours.”

  I was delighted. “He will try and fail,” I prophesied.

  I led her through the palace by the hand, displaying all the rooms draped with costly silks and damasks. Her attention was caught by the statue of Hercules, who wore a lion skin of gold. He was wrapped in a banner that read, “In women and children there is little assurance.”

  She frowned. “That does not seem very courteous to the French Queen.”

  “That?” I said. “That! See, Kate, women are honoured here upon this field, but they are only guests. This is a place for man to meet with man and discuss the fate of the world. Not for women’s talk of gossip, pretty dresses, and dainty toys.”

  I did not wish her to say something glum, so I pushed her playfully towards the bedchamber that had been prepared for her, and said, “Do not fear! Your elf-king Henry has summoned up a whole altar just for you alone, crowded with golden icons of the saints.” At that, she smiled. I pulled her to me and declared, “My Katharine, we are perhaps the greatest man and wife in all the world today.”

  She had petty fears: She said the King of France might betray me, and that he had invited me to this field only to catch me unaware with a greater force than mine. She was listening to the hen-clucks of the court, and I told her she should not meddle in the affairs of men.

  When I went out to greet Francis, we met on terms of strict equality, each the mirror image of the other. Neither could arrive on the field before the other. I ordered a cannon fired from our camp to announce our readiness, and we heard an answering report from the encampment of the French. Then we issued forth, each court to meet the other at a green valley in the middle. Before me in parade went the gentlemen, squires, knights, and barons; with me rode the bishops, dukes, and earls, Wolsey by my side, and the Marquis of Dorset marching before me, carrying the great Sword of State in its sheath. We numbered in the thousands, but marched silently.

  I had grown my beard out to match King Francis’s. I had heard his was dark; mine was red as copper.

  Latimer came riding up to me in haste. “My King and sovereign,” he said. “I have been with the French army, and they are more in number than we are—double our number.”

  I did not fear them; I knew how Katharine would gloat if I showed fear, as if I’d taken her advice. I gave the order for us to march on.

  I was dressed for royal victory in cloth of silver and damask ribbed with gold, studded with gems, and in a feathered black bonnet; no expense had been spared, and I had demanded over a thousand yards of velvet for my costumes. I recount these details of dress not to be womanish, but because my court must have presented such a beautiful spectacle to the people we passed—for there were thousands who had gathered to watch us ride out. They pushed and shoved at one another on the far side of a ditch while my retinue marched serenely on.

  We came in sight of the French King and his retainers. At this moment, I saw that the Lord Admiral of France, riding in front of Francis, bore their Sword of State unsheathed and naked.

  Wolsey was shocked. “They did not tell us their sword would be naked. I thought all swords should be sheathed.”

  “Show no surprise,” I counselled him. “But I will not allow their sword to be unsheathed and mine to be sheathed. Both swords should be unsheathed.”

  “Agreed,” said Wolsey, and he gave the command that the Marquis of Dorset should draw our Sword of State and carry it erect before me.

  So we faced the French across the valley, King Francis’s horde on one side, mine on the other. It was announced by heralds that everyone must be silent and completely still, upon pain of death. When all sound had ceased, when all the thousands were motionless, my cousin king and I rode down the valley towards each other.

  We met for the first time upon that field, at its centre, where there stood a tent pavilion made of cloth of gold, heaped with Turkey carpets.

  “My dear cousin,” said the King of France. “I have travelled to see you because I wish so much to aid you however I can, given my tremendous might and all the realms that are mine.”

  I would not let this little boast go unanswered, and so I said, “Sir, neither your realms nor any other places of your power are the matter of my regard, but rather your steadfastness in keeping the promises we have made in our charters.”

  We embraced as cou
sins and declared our mutual love. I could see him taking account of me, as I took account of him, judging whether he would excel at the hunt, at hawking, at the joust, at the gaming table, at the architect’s bench, in the diplomatic chamber. I had heard he was handsome, but he was not as handsome as I—his face a little too French, a real cheese-knife of a nose.

  In the tent, we ate delicacies and discussed the important affairs of nations—especially the marriage between my little daughter, Mary, and his infant son, the Dauphin. (It is not my fault that that marriage never came to pass. The discussions were sound.)

  And so began our week of feasts, bouts, tournaments, jousts, and contests of athletic pride upon the Field of Cloth of Gold. Never was more chivalry on display than at our meeting.

  A pavilion was built so Francis and I could watch with our Queens, Katharine and Claude. We were young, sporting men, though, so we often went down, girded ourselves up, and cracked some skulls with the rest. We had agreed we would never meet in a contest against each other—for to do so would compromise the dignity of the loser. But still, we joined our subjects upon the field and delighted in the games.

  I may say that I broke many more lances than Francis in the joust. And though we did not keep score, I am sure all the assembled must have noted my excellence in archery.

  The more I watched the King of France, the more I knew we would agree on much and form a great alliance. Over the years, we would hunt together—not simply in the forests of my demesne, but across the fields and mountains of Europe. We were so alike.