King's Fool (30 page)

NOW THAT KING HENRY the Eighth is dead I can stop playing the buffoon and go over it all in serious thought. Now that his great, disease-ridden body has ceased to struggle for breath I can go back to the splendid beginning. After twenty years of faithful service which far exceeded the normal role of Court Jester I may, without disloyalty, even write of it.

With that varied service in mind I have just sought audience of the comptroller of the royal household, Sir John Gage, and asked leave to tender my resignation.

“Le roi est mort. Vive le roi!”
he reminded me.

Certainly we now had young Edward on the throne and he would need a jester. His sister’s fool Jane, perhaps, or that gentle rhymster of Cranmer’s could amuse him. But I was too old, I said.

“Too old at forty? Or run out of quips at last, Will?” Sir John asked kindly but absently, being harassed by all the new arrangements he must make in the royal household.

“The right
kind
of quips,” I said. For how could one shock a delicate, whey-faced lad of ten with the lusty kind of merriment that had called forth his father’s mighty laughter? And a lad hedged about by Protector Seymour’s stern avuncular prudery, at that.

The comptroller must have appreciated my point for he made things easy for me. “You can still be King’s Jester officially, and come back to us on special occasions, which will give you a livelihood, but would mean that you must live in or near London. And, of course, there will always be bed and board for Will Somers in any of the palaces. And a host of friends of your own making.” He turned back to his document-laden table to ring a small hand-bell. “Well, I will instruct one of the clerks to make up the wages owing to you,” he said, assuming a more business-like tone. “Besides which his Grace the late King has left you something.”

“I know. His own harp,” I said, grinning warmly at the very thought. “Several times he promised it to me, those evenings when he was sad and we used to make music together. ‘Will, you monkish old celibate, I am sure to go before you,’ he would say, with that fat chuckle of his. ‘For ’tis wives that wear a man out.’ And I do assure you, Sir John, there is nothing I could value more than that finely strung instrument. I shall play it evenings in some ordinary little home.”

I bowed formally and turned away. But Sir John went on speaking, and that hint of kindly laughter was back in his voice. “It need not be such a particularly
little
home, Will,” he was saying. “King Harry set aside a sum sufficient for you to build a comfortable house to raise your family and play your favourite tunes in for the rest of your life. You have a boy, I think, who is his Grace’s godson.”

Suddenly I realised what an unworldly zany I had been never to have expected such benefit, even in a Court full of grasping time-servers. Henry must have realised it, too, for had not his last words to me been, “Have you ever asked anything for yourself?” Standing there, with a warmth of gratitude at my heart, I felt the crowded years roll back. It was as if the recent sight of the Tudor’s gross, tortured body heaving itself impatiently beneath the hands of scared physicians had been completely expunged. Instead I recalled the tall, athletic Tudor as I had first seen him, half Welshman and half Plantagenet, standing in the pride of his manhood with the morning sunlight about him. Standing on the bowling green at Greenwich Palace, strongly muscled legs apart, ruddy head thrown back, roaring with laughter at some foolish jest which I, a new-come country bumpkin gaping at the sport, had had the temerity to make. Outstanding he was then, as always, among his gaily-dressed group of courtiers. Not merely because he happened to be King of England but because he could surpass them at any sport, yet compose a learned Latin treatise as expertly as a sonnet, and because when he led their laughter their world seemed a good place for a man to live in. And now—after all the exciting, cruel, incredible years—I could still hear his mellow voice demanding my name and vowing, “By the Holy Rood, Will Somers, I like you for a witty, impudent knave! By your master’s leave, who brought you here, we will keep you as our Jester.” And keep me he did, for twenty years or more, and used me kindly. Which, as any aspiring young man knows, could be my making and leave my name a household word. Although at the time it tore me to pieces to be parted from Richard Fermor, the best master that ever man had. And from all that was Richard Fermor’s.

Groping blindly, before tears unmanned me, I pulled open the comptroller’s door at Whitehall, and closed it behind me, shutting out the past.

Could it be, I wondered, that a man goes back to his Maker as he was first moulded, all comely and generous, and not as Life, or some black-eyed witch of a woman, makes him? I, who for years had been teasing others with riddles, would leave my glittering, demanding world of wit and motley, and try by weighing and remembering to solve this biggest riddle of all. I would live with my wife and family in some pleasant place out Shoreditch way and write it all down. Strange things that could happen to humbly born men like myself. Royal confidences and kindnesses and passions which it is given to few humbly born men to remember.

QUESTIONS BY ELIZABETH R. BLAUFOX

1. Who is the central character in
King’s Fool
?

2. In chapter two, Will says of himself, “I am one of those miserable sinners who hunger to be noticed. I need to bolster up my inadequacy with applause, as stronger men need breath.” What other characters does Will meet who also represent this type of “sinner”?

3. In chapter five, as Joanna is extended to the first of the possible suitors her father finds for her, Will learns his “first valuable lesson about the power of ambition and the price which women are often called upon to pay for it.” What other women does Will encounter who teach him more of the same lesson? In what ways do women today pay the price for men’s ambitions?

4. Throughout the book, Margaret Campbell Barnes uses the hindsight of history to draw out the irony in Henry’s obsession with producing a male heir. In chapter nine, King Henry says to Will, “And what would happen to this country in the hands of a woman?” What do we know did happen? What is the irony behind his fears?

5. What moment in the story do you think marks the turning point in Will’s relationship with the king from one of service to one of intimate friendship?

6. In chapter thirteen, Will describes watching Queen Katherine of Aragon’s trial as “like storing in one’s mind a momentous hour of history.” Throughout the book, he is indeed an accidental witness to history. How does Will’s unique perspective and the author’s use of the first person narrative give the reader a fresh view of a familiar story?

7. The book splits quite evenly into two halves: The first is Henry’s reign and marriage with Queen Katherine of Aragon. The second half is the years following, with all his other wives. We almost see two different kings, as well. Was there a specific turning point for the “two Henrys,” or was the change gradual?

8. Henry’s actions are driven by many different influences, though it can at times be hard to discern the root of his motivations. What are the political factors driving his actions? What are the religious factors? What do you think are the real, personal fears?

9. Thomas Wyatt says of Anne Boleyn in chapter eighteen, “It is so often
fear
, do you not think, Will, which makes people relentless?” What is it that Anne fears? Is fear at the root of her dislike for Will?

10. After Anne Boleyn loses their second child, Henry blames her “for the whole up-turning of a Church and kingdom.” Can this blame really be laid entirely on Anne? Who else should be held responsible?

11. Throughout the book, how does Will’s attitude toward and relationship with the king change? What are the factors that cause this change?

12. Of all Henry’s wives, it is his two foreign wives—Katherine of Aragon and Anne of Cleves—who seem to manage him best. Why do you think that is? What qualities do each of these women exhibit that give them the ability to stand up to him as they do?

13. History has painted King Henry VIII as a tyrant, and he is most notably remembered for his remarkable number of marriages. Discuss Barnes’s portrayal of Henry. What about this Henry can you identify with, relate to, or even sympathize with?

14. What is the irony in the title
King’s Fool
?

BY MARGARET CAMPBELL BARNES

IT IS ALL OVER,”, lifting a face reddened and blotched with tears.

“You mean between you and the King?”

Anne regarded her younger sister with curiosity and awe. It was two years or more since she had last seen her, and it was difficult to imagine that this girl with whom she had eaten, played, and slept could be the King’s mistress. But then Mary was so sleekly beautiful. Anne put out a hand and lifted a tress of the soft fair hair which she had always envied. It seemed to her like living gold, and the tendrils of it curled instantly, confidingly, round her slender fingers. Soft, confiding as Mary’s nature.

“Do you care so much?” asked Anne.

“I w-wish I were d-dead!”

But then Mary had always cried easily. George had been wont to twit her for it. Whereas with herself such abandonment of grief would have betokened a broken heart. If she were ever fool enough to break her heart over a man!

“But you didn’t love him?” she expostulated.

Mary’s blue eyes, awash with tears, regarded her reproachfully.

“You couldn’t have!” persisted Anne.

“No. Not love perhaps.”

“I know that you must feel angry, and a fool, and hate to meet people,” said Anne, groping for what her own reactions would have been. “But you can go home for awhile. Until people have something else to talk about.” Her gaze, accustoming itself to the dim and fading light, wandered round the disordered tent until it came to rest upon a richly enamelled necklace which would have looked well against her own white throat. “And, of course, you will miss all the dresses and the jewels,” she sighed.

“That is the least of it,” lamented Mary, who could look just as delectable in a dairymaid’s smock. “It was the cruel way he did it. Urging me to come to France in his train, flattering me, and then, when I had given him everything, just dropping me like a wornout glove.”

It was the old story. How could Mary be so simple? What had she expected, wondered Anne, feeling infinitely more worldly-wise.

“Did he tell you himself?” she asked, curiously.

In spite of her grief, Mary gave vent to a little splutter of laughter at the bare suggestion. “Kings don’t have to deal with unpleasant details of life like that,” she explained bitterly.

“How then—”

Mary sat up dabbing at her eyes and pulling her expensive miniver wrap about her. “He just didn’t come any more,” she said drearily. “I used to lie awake waiting. And when he was well on his way to Calais, our father told me he had orders to conclude my marriage with Sir William Carey immediately.”

“Are you with child?” asked Anne.

“How should I know yet?”

How strange to bear a child who, but for a bar sinister, might have ruled England! Another Fitzroy, like Bess Blount’s handsome boy. But evidently Henry did not mean to acknowledge this one. It would be inconvenient, perhaps, at a time when the Pope was being approached about a divorce. Anne wondered irrelevantly if her first niece or nephew would look like the King. She tried to think of something comforting to say. But it was a long time since she had lived with her sister, and they never had been as close companions as herself and George. “You were to have married Will Carey anyway,” she reminded Mary. “Perhaps you will grow fond of him. He is quite a pleasant sort of person.”

“But only a knight. Considering that I gave his Grace the flower of my womanhood, he might have done something better for me!”

Coming from someone heartbroken it seemed so small a grievance.

“It is really only her self-love that is hurt,” decided Anne. “It could not be her heart.”

She sat for awhile in the gathering gloom imagining how she herself would have behaved in her sister’s place. Never, surely, could she have been so meek and tearful about it all!

“Mary,” she essayed presently.

“Yes?”

“What is it like to be the King’s mistress?”

Mary answered almost dreamily, “It is exciting. The way people watch when he speaks to you in public, and knowing how some of the women envy you. The covert glance, the thrill of a passing touch, and everybody really knowing. It is much more exciting than marriage.”

Mary was smiling now and turning the King’s opal on her finger. Her face was flushed, and there was a warm reminiscent quality in her voice which made Anne feel uncomfortable. But the gloom lent itself to confidences.

“I meant what is he like as a lover?”

“Oh, of course he is not young, if that is what you mean. But he has wit and poise. He is always master of the situation. Being wanted by him makes one feel surrounded by luxury and importance.”

Mary drew up her knees beneath the coverlet and sat hugging them. “And you know, Nan, I think even if Henry Tudor were not royal at all, there is something about him that would make other men’s love-making seem tame.”

“It could be,” admitted Anne doubtfully. But it was all beyond her comprehension. Her mind had strayed to poor Will Carey, who would be forced to take the King’s leavings. Probably Mary had not sufficient imagination to be sorry for him.

But why should she bother? She had her own way to make—her own life to live. She was confident that she could do well enough for herself.