seem better for a while; then the ulcer would make itself felt again and the pain could at times be so agonizing that he would cry out with it and hit out at any who irritated him.
Last year had been a trying one for him. He had made fresh claim to the throne of Scotland, had attacked the Scots and given them a trouncing at Solway Moss. But the battle was not decisive. State affairs were pressing and he needed escape from them at times. For, as he often said to his friends, a king is a man for all he is a king. And he had suffered—as a man, as a husband—great sorrow.
Now, with the trees budding and the birds disturbing the royal slumbers in the early morning, so that he would awaken in his lonely bed (or if it was not lonely, it was occupied by one whose presence there disturbed his conscience), he felt that he, like the trees and flowers and grasses, was renewing his strength. As a husband, Fate had treated him cruelly. But did that mean he would never know good fortune in marriage?
The plain fact was (and, thought Henry, I am a plain man to whom facts should be plain) the King was in need of a wife.
So on this March day, when the winds seemed to penetrate the Palace of Greenwich, the King stumped up and down his Privy Chamber, while outside in the audience room several of his courtiers awaited his summons; none dared approach without it. They feared his anger. And he wanted none of them; he wished to be alone with his thoughts. Yet, because he needed a new wife, he could not shut out of his mind memories of his other wives.
Five of them! It was a good tally. François Premier, across the water, had had only two; but his mistresses were legion.
There, thought the King of England, we differ—the King of France and I. His little mouth grew prim; his little eyes were complacent. It was a habit of his to compare himself with the lecher, François. They were of an age; and love was the ruling influence in the life of the French King. Henry liked to think that kingship occupied that place in his. All knew that Madame d’É tampes ruled at the French court as once Madame de Chateaubriand had ruled.
Using his healthy leg, Henry kicked a stool out of his way. The veins stood out on his temples. The very thought of the dark, sardonic face of his enemy infuriated him at all times.
“He has no conscience,” he muttered. “And I…I am all conscience. Oh God, Thou knowest what a man of conscience I am.” The King often addressed God, addressed Him as an equal; for as the King saw himself to be always right, always obeying his conscience, he felt sure, as a man of God, of the constant approval of the Almighty.
Two wives of his had died at his command, young women both of them; and some called them martyrs. Not that any dared say such things in public…if they had any respect for their tongues, for tongues could be cut out for saying such words; and ears could be lopped off for listening to them. Henry insisted (and God must know this too, for Henry continually explained to God) that he had been reluctant to order the death of those two wives of his; but he was a good man, a man of God; he had a conscience which would not allow him to find happiness in an irregular union. It was better that a woman should die than that the King should be forced to illicit pleasure.
God understood that he was right, because the King and God saw through the same eyes. Henry was sure of that. Anne Boleyn haunted his dreams now and then, with her mocking black eyes and her clever tongue; but God had given him a sign that in the case of Anne Boleyn he had acted with wisdom and righteousness. Had not Jane Seymour, Anne’s successor, produced a son? Little Edward was now safely past his fifth year; he was the heir for whom, through the barren years with Spanish Katharine and the fiery ones with Anne Boleyn, he had longed. And Jane had given him that son. Meek little Jane. He had forgotten how quickly he had tired of her; he liked to say now:
Last year had been a trying one for him. He had made fresh claim to the throne of Scotland, had attacked the Scots and given them a trouncing at Solway Moss. But the battle was not decisive. State affairs were pressing and he needed escape from them at times. For, as he often said to his friends, a king is a man for all he is a king. And he had suffered—as a man, as a husband—great sorrow.
Now, with the trees budding and the birds disturbing the royal slumbers in the early morning, so that he would awaken in his lonely bed (or if it was not lonely, it was occupied by one whose presence there disturbed his conscience), he felt that he, like the trees and flowers and grasses, was renewing his strength. As a husband, Fate had treated him cruelly. But did that mean he would never know good fortune in marriage?
The plain fact was (and, thought Henry, I am a plain man to whom facts should be plain) the King was in need of a wife.
So on this March day, when the winds seemed to penetrate the Palace of Greenwich, the King stumped up and down his Privy Chamber, while outside in the audience room several of his courtiers awaited his summons; none dared approach without it. They feared his anger. And he wanted none of them; he wished to be alone with his thoughts. Yet, because he needed a new wife, he could not shut out of his mind memories of his other wives.
Five of them! It was a good tally. François Premier, across the water, had had only two; but his mistresses were legion.
There, thought the King of England, we differ—the King of France and I. His little mouth grew prim; his little eyes were complacent. It was a habit of his to compare himself with the lecher, François. They were of an age; and love was the ruling influence in the life of the French King. Henry liked to think that kingship occupied that place in his. All knew that Madame d’É tampes ruled at the French court as once Madame de Chateaubriand had ruled.
Using his healthy leg, Henry kicked a stool out of his way. The veins stood out on his temples. The very thought of the dark, sardonic face of his enemy infuriated him at all times.
“He has no conscience,” he muttered. “And I…I am all conscience. Oh God, Thou knowest what a man of conscience I am.” The King often addressed God, addressed Him as an equal; for as the King saw himself to be always right, always obeying his conscience, he felt sure, as a man of God, of the constant approval of the Almighty.
Two wives of his had died at his command, young women both of them; and some called them martyrs. Not that any dared say such things in public…if they had any respect for their tongues, for tongues could be cut out for saying such words; and ears could be lopped off for listening to them. Henry insisted (and God must know this too, for Henry continually explained to God) that he had been reluctant to order the death of those two wives of his; but he was a good man, a man of God; he had a conscience which would not allow him to find happiness in an irregular union. It was better that a woman should die than that the King should be forced to illicit pleasure.
God understood that he was right, because the King and God saw through the same eyes. Henry was sure of that. Anne Boleyn haunted his dreams now and then, with her mocking black eyes and her clever tongue; but God had given him a sign that in the case of Anne Boleyn he had acted with wisdom and righteousness. Had not Jane Seymour, Anne’s successor, produced a son? Little Edward was now safely past his fifth year; he was the heir for whom, through the barren years with Spanish Katharine and the fiery ones with Anne Boleyn, he had longed. And Jane had given him that son. Meek little Jane. He had forgotten how quickly he had tired of her; he liked to say now:
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