“But we have the Pope’s dispensation!” she cried.

  “So I told them. Do not worry, my sweet. All is well. Think you I would have married you if there had been the slightest doubt? I would not have risked your future, or mine. But the Pope has given us his blessing, and now you are my wife in the eyes of God.” And he began kissing her fears away.

  * * *

  —

  He could not bear to be apart from Kate. Every afternoon, he was to be found in her apartments, discussing politics, theology, or books, or just enjoying being with her. He often stayed for supper, and he always joined her for Vespers. His chief desire was to please her.

  Every night, they were lovers. Once awakened to the joys of sexual union, Harry could not get enough, and Kate was a willing partner, responding joyously to his lustiness. He was now enchanted by how much she adored him. “My Henry,” she liked to call him. He had never known such contentment. And soon, God willing, their happiness would be crowned with God’s gift of a son.

  * * *

  —

  Three weeks into June, the court moved to the Tower of London, for it was traditional for sovereigns to lodge there before being crowned. When the royal barge drew up at the Queen’s Stairs beneath the Byward Tower, the sun was blazing down and cheering crowds lined the riverbanks. The Constable of the Tower bowed low as Harry ascended the stairs, which were lined with Yeomen Warders in their ceremonial livery of scarlet. Before him, a fanfare sounded.

  The Constable escorted the King and Queen along the outer ward of the fortress. To their left, the great White Tower soared above them, as mighty today as when it was built by William the Conqueror centuries earlier. Ahead lay the King’s Hall and the ancient royal palace. Harry had ordered that it be refurbished for his coronation and its chambers hung with tapestries and painted cloths of red, green, and white, the Tudor colors. A distant throaty roar reminded him that the Tower housed the royal menagerie; even the lions were making him welcome!

  For all the pageantry and splendor of his reception, and the fortress’s long and illustrious history, Harry did not like the Tower, with its unhappy associations. In the bedchamber Kate was occupying in the Queen’s Lodgings, Mother had passed away. It was six years ago now, and still he felt her loss keenly. And there were sinister memories here, too. His great-uncle, the Duke of Clarence, was said to have been drowned in a butt of Malmsey wine within these walls. And, eight years before he himself was born, his mother’s brothers, the famous Princes in the Tower, had been murdered so that their uncle—another great-uncle, the Usurper Richard—could seize the throne. Father, of course, had avenged their deaths at Bosworth, but their bones had never been found. Despite the heat, Harry shivered a little to think that they were probably still hidden somewhere nearby.

  Enjoying a rare moment of privacy before the feast that was being prepared, he inspected his surroundings with distaste—the thick stone walls, the crudely painted murals of angels and heraldic beasts, the ancient, musty smell of the place (by St. George, was that whiff of refuse coming from the moat?)—and decided that he would not visit again unless he had to. He had inherited many great houses, most of them far more fitting for a modern monarch.

  * * *

  —

  The next day, London afforded its King and Queen a state welcome, as Harry and Kate processed in a glittering column through Cheapside, Temple Bar, and the Strand to the palace of Westminster. The buildings along the route were hung with tapestries, and the conduits flowed with free wine. Above Harry’s head was a rich canopy borne by the barons of the Cinque Ports. Beneath his robe of crimson velvet furred with ermine, he wore a doublet of gold embroidered with precious stones, and across his shoulder was slung a baldrick of rubies. Not far behind him, Katherine, in white satin and ermine, followed in a litter hung with white silk and cloth of gold, her ladies, clad in blue velvet, riding behind on matching palfreys.

  In Cheapside, Harry doffed his bonnet to the Lady Margaret, who was watching the spectacle from a window, weeping for joy. Exultant crowds packed the streets, hailing him as he went. On, on he rode, the bells of St. Paul’s and over a hundred City churches ringing out in salute, and then he was on the Strand, passing the grand houses of the nobility.

  Not until late afternoon did the great procession arrive at the sprawling palace of Westminster, his chief residence and the seat of royal government since time immemorial. As the King and Queen entered the vast Westminster Hall, trumpets sounded and the assembled court made its obeisance.

  Here, as in the Tower, the royal apartments reflected the faded splendor of a bygone age. When Harry entered the cavernous Painted Chamber, he was assailed by memories of his father, whose bed with its depictions of Paradise still stood there, the bed in which, in all probability, he himself had been conceived. It was strange to think that his parents, who had come together in love to create him, were now reunited in Heaven.

  On the wall above the bed was an ancient mural in still-vivid colors of red, blue, silver, and gold. It depicted the coronation of Edward the Confessor, England’s royal saint, whose jeweled shrine stood in Westminster Abbey, opposite the palace. Harry had a special affection for the Confessor, who had been the embodiment of a wise and merciful ruler, one he meant to emulate. He would be crowned tomorrow within a stone’s throw of the shrine, as if St. Edward himself were hallowing the occasion. The knowledge left him feeling so exalted that he felt quite dizzy.

  All through the feast that evening, his mind was on higher things. He had been chosen by God to rule his people, and tomorrow the Church would confirm him in that high honor, and he would receive the crown of his forefathers. Looking at Kate, sitting solemnly beside him at the high table, he knew that she too was thinking of the immense significance of what lay ahead.

  Until four in the morning, the two of them knelt, keeping vigil in the chapel of St. Stephen, watched over by images of angels, saints, and a great mural of King Edward III and his family. As his eye lighted on Edward’s son, the renowned Black Prince, who had won famous victories during the Hundred Years War, Harry vowed that he would be worthy of his illustrious ancestors; he too would bring glory to the English Crown.

  Chapter 4

  1509

  It was Midsummer Day. From his window in the palace, Harry watched the crowds gathering. Workmen were trying to keep the press of people back so that they could lay a striped carpet from the door of Westminster Hall to the Great West Door of the Abbey. He felt a frisson of excitement and awe. He was ready, spiritually and in every other sense, dressed resplendently in royal robes of crimson furred with ermine. Despite his lack of sleep, he felt wide awake and invigorated.

  When he entered Westminster Hall, everyone fell to their knees and he stood there for a marvelous moment, smiling at them. Then there was a flurry as they all took their places for the procession to the Abbey. Wolsey was nearby, talking to John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, Grandmother’s saintly confessor.

  “This day consecrates a young man who is the everlasting glory of our age,” Wolsey exulted.

  “Aye,” smiled the gaunt-faced Fisher. “This day is the end of our slavery, the fount of our liberty, the beginning of joy. Watch how the people, liberated, run before their King with bright faces!”

  Harry reached out and grasped each of them by the hand.

  “Thank you,” he beamed.

  Suddenly, there was Kate, golden-haired and beautiful in her crimson mantle and white satin gown, smiling at him like a Madonna in a church. Leaving the two clergymen, who smiled after him indulgently, he hastened to take her hand as their retinues gathered around them. Then, preceded by the nobility in furred gowns of scarlet, they walked to Westminster Abbey to deafening cheers.

  * * *

  —

  He had been acclaimed by the peers. He had sworn his coronation oath, vowing to defend his realm, uphold the Church and administer justice fairly. He had been anointed with holy oil and made different to ordinary mortals, invested with an insight into the subtle mysteries of state denied to them. He was set apart now, hallowed as God’s deputy on earth, called by divine right to hold dominion over his subjects. As King of England, he had no superior but the Almighty.

  Seated in the ancient coronation chair in this state of grace, he stared straight ahead as Archbishop Warham placed the crown of St. Edward on his head. At that wonderful moment, when he felt his soul lifted to a higher plane, the trumpets sounded and the choir burst into the Te Deum, their voices sounding more divine than human. Then all the bishops came forward and led Harry to his throne to receive the homage of his chief subjects.

  He watched Kate’s face shining as she too was crowned, and then took her hand and led her, both smiling with happiness, out of the Abbey. As the crowds roared, the organ and trumpets sounded, drums thundered, and bells pealed out, proclaiming to the world that King Henry VIII had been gloriously crowned to the evident joy and comfort of all his realm.

  The coronation banquet in Westminster Hall was greater, Harry wagered, than any the Caesars had known. When he was seated at the high table, a fanfare sounded, and the Duke of Buckingham and the Earl of Shrewsbury rode into the hall on horseback to herald the arrival of the first sumptuous dishes. The palace kitchens had been working at full stretch for days. There were fine and succulent meats in abundance, and every kind of delicacy. After the second course, the King’s Champion, Sir Robert Dymmock, observed the tradition of parading up and down the hall on his courser before throwing down his gauntlet with the customary challenge to anyone who dared contest the King’s title. Of course, no one did, even though Harry was watching all those Yorkist cousins closely. Beaming, he rewarded Dymmock with a gold cup.

  After the banquet, he led the entire company outside for a tournament that lasted until midnight. Still filled with elation, he found it hard to sleep when finally he did get to bed—alone, since Kate was exhausted and he did not feel he should visit her on this of all nights. In the end, he rose, taking care not to disturb the gentleman who slept on a pallet at the end of his bed, and donned his velvet night robe and slippers. With a nod to the guards outside his door, he slipped down the spiral stair to his walled privy garden and made his way through a wicket gate to the gardens beyond, which led down to the river. Behind him, torchlight glimmered through the palace windows. He savored the pleasure of being alone for once. He wanted to reflect on the marvelous day that had passed and grasp the reality of the great change that had taken place in his life.

  * * *

  —

  The celebrations continued for several days. Harry delighted in the jousts and tourneys that were held in the grounds of the palace of Westminster. Sitting in a pavilion covered with tapestries and hung with rich cloth of Arras, he fervently wished he could join the gallant young lords and knights taking part. But on this, his councillors had stood firm. Without an heir, he must not put himself at risk. But it would not be for long, he was sure. He was doing his husbandly duty—and pleasure—nightly now, and soon, surely, Kate would be with child. Next year, all being well, he would be the one in the plumed helm, leading the challengers in the lists.

  At least they hadn’t banned him from going hunting. In honor of Diana, goddess of the hunt, deer were herded into a miniature park and castle that had been created in the tiltyard, and there chased and slaughtered before their bloody carcasses were presented to the Queen and the ladies.

  In the midst of the festivities, Harry was summoned urgently to the bedside of his grandmother at the house of the Abbot of Westminster. The Lady Margaret had lived to see him attain his majority and now, finally, was ready for her eternal rest. Harry arrived just in time to hear her weakly exhort him to take as his mentor her confessor, the devout Bishop Fisher.

  “He is the most holy and learned prelate in Christendom,” she gasped. “There can be no better man to guide you, my sweet King.” Harry bowed his head in acquiescence. Another old man, much to be admired, but of what use to a young man was a cleric who wore a hair shirt beneath his episcopal robes, slept on hard straw matting, scourged himself regularly, and ate mainly bread and pottage? Still, he need not pay too much attention to him.

  He grieved for the Lady Margaret, for she had been a constant and loving presence all his life. He ordered that the church bells toll for six days to mark the old lady’s passing. Bishop Fisher paid tribute to her virtues in a homily preached at her funeral at Westminster Abbey and prevailed upon his friend Erasmus to write her epitaph. With her passing went the last of the adults who had wielded authority over Harry in youth. Now there was no one left of his close kin to gainsay his will.

  Now he began to rule his kingdom.

  * * *

  —

  Thanks to his father and Skelinton, he was well aware that on his shoulders lay the entire responsibility for England’s government. Parliament, the Privy Council, the officers of state, the judges, the sheriffs, and the mayors all exercised authority in his name. He was also the fount of honor and, in times of war, the nation’s military leader.

  He was not daunted by the weighty task that lay ahead of him, but consumed with resolve. He could hear his father saying, “Kings govern by the grace of God.” But God would be Harry’s ally. If no one else kept faith with him, the Almighty would prosper his affairs.

  It was important, therefore, to enhance and maintain his prestige and that of the monarchy. A king needed not only to be visible and in touch with his subjects, but also to impress them and foreigners with displays that would dazzle the beholder. Even Father had understood this, insisting that elaborate ceremonial attend every aspect of the lives of himself and his family, and employing pageantry and symbolism calculated to enhance the royal image. Harry intended to take things further and build or beautify palaces to serve as settings for his princely magnificence. After he let it be known that architects, artists, musicians, and scholars were welcome at his court, talented men began flocking to it, enhancing his own prestige. An army of workmen were set to constructing, painting, restoring, gilding, glazing, and carving, as he embarked on a busy building program. He decided to style himself “your Majesty,” in the continental manner, although most people still continued to use the traditional titles of “your Grace” or “your Highness.”

  Not for nothing had Harry imbibed humanist teachings on sovereignty. He had read that the perfect ruler should be a prince of splendor and generosity, giving freely to everyone. Old Skelinton himself had enjoined him to be bountiful, liberal, and lavish. And he would, he resolved—he was rich enough! His court would be the most magnificent in English history. He would outshine even his European rivals, the King of France and the Holy Roman Emperor.

  He knew he looked every inch the King, with an air of authority and assurance that came naturally to him, and he had heard people predict that, in the future, the whole world would talk of him. Everyone expected marvels of him, and he was determined not to disappoint them.

  He was happy to delegate power to his ministers, leaving them to work out the details of his policies, but made it clear that he remained very much in control, and kept his own counsel. He managed to control his temper—most of the time—although he saw red when his councillors protested against his determination to send Empson and Dudley to the block, and silenced them with a snap of his fingers.

  “If anyone dares cross me,” he threatened, “there is no head in my kingdom so noble but I will make it fly off!” He regretted the outburst later, yet still felt it right that he had put them in their places.

  Little escaped his scrutiny. He was grateful now for his encyclopedic memory and an education that had provided him with a vast store of knowledge, advantages when it came to briefing ambassadors and dealing with state affairs. He delighted in amazing his councillors with his command of information.

  He clashed with them once more when he again raised the subject of war with France. Kate had just told him that she was with child, and he had spun her around in joy, thrilled at the prospect of having an heir—and exultant that no one could now say he had not provided for the succession.

  “I am resolved to play a prominent role in Christendom,” he told them, “and reclaim what is mine by right.”

  “Your Grace may be lusty for glory,” Surrey cautioned him, “but remember that the King of France is richer in resources and manpower than you are.”

  “Did that deter Henry V or the Black Prince?” Harry countered. “By St. George, they didn’t have to contend with old women like you pouring scorn on their endeavors! Besides, King Ferdinand is my ally.”

  The faces around him looked dubious.

  “Is your Grace sure that Ferdinand is not using you to fight his wars for him?”

  “The Queen’s got at him,” he heard someone mutter.

  He stifled his annoyance. He knew some believed that Spain was ruling England at one remove. It was true that Ferdinand’s letters were always full of good advice, much of it undoubtedly to his own advantage, and that Kate naturally took her father’s part, but, dammit, Harry was not to be taken for a fool, and he could make up his own mind.

  “May I remind you,” he said icily, “that my interests and Ferdinand’s are one and the same in this matter of conquering France? France is his ancient enemy as she is mine. With her vanquished, we will both be the stronger.”

  “But you can’t both conquer France,” Surrey’s son, Lord Thomas Howard, pointed out. He had a face like granite, with thin lips and a high-bridged, aristocratic nose.

  “We can portion it out between us,” Harry said, summoning his patience. “Divide and conquer—haven’t you heard of that? I know I have the right. My people want war. They want victories like Agincourt.”