Free The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers by Margaret George Page A

group, and there never was such camaraderie as I saw that June night among the bridge-dwellers.
    We wound through the streets in the very heart of London. Houses here were closely packed, and each must have sheltered twenty inhabitants, judging from the number pouring out into the street. They were celebrating the end of their working day, and for a few hours would revel in the fading violet light.
    As we turned west and went past St. Paul’s and then left the city by the Ludgate, I suddenly knew where we were bound. We crossed the little bridge over the stinking, sluggish Fleet River and were soon there, at the Bishop of Salisbury’s house.
    It was almost full dark now. Father dismounted and bade me do the same. Once we were standing side by side before the Bishop’s door, he gripped my arm and said harshly, “Now you will tell the Bishop you are here to make a solemn protestation against your betrothal to Princess Katherine. You will sign papers saying it troubles your conscience. Do you understand?”
    “Yes,” I said dully. So Father meant to have it both ways: an open betrothal, a secret disclaimer. The dowry business had not been settled. I had heard it from Brandon. People talked freely before him, and he in turn told me what I needed to know.
    Father gave me a shove and indicated that I was to knock for entrance. The Bishop opened promptly; it had clearly been arranged in advance.
    “The Prince is sore troubled in his conscience about the betrothal to his brother’s widow,” said Father. “He is here to assuage that conscience.”
    The Bishop murmured sympathetically and led us in. The papers were already spread out on his work table, neatly lettered, with a large space on the bottom for my signature.
    “He is anguished,” said Father. He played his part well.
    “Ah,” said the Bishop. “And what troubles you, my son?”
    Father had not rehearsed this with me. I had no idea of what to say, except the truth. “The thought of the Princess in my brother’s bed torments me! I cannot bear it!”
    Yes, that was true. The thought of her and Arthur together was repugnant to me. I wanted her entirely to myself, for myself. Yet she had lain with him....
    “Because it would be incestuous,” supplied the Bishop. “To uncover thy brother’s nakedness, as the Scriptures say.”
    “No ...” I wanted to tell him it was not so much because Arthur was my brother as that he was—had been— a man. I would have felt the same no matter who i
She looked horrified. I could make out a pale face and the great, open O of her mouth. “Henry!” she whispered. “It is a sacrilege—”
    “I meant no disrespect for the Sacrament. But oh, Katherine, I had to see you!” I reached my hand out and grasped hers. “Three years! Three years they haven’t let me see you, or speak to you, or—”
    “I ... know.” Her voice was soft and her accent heavy. Possibly she had understood very few of my words.
    “And you are my betrothed! I am—I am responsible for you.” Where I had gotten that notion I cannot say—certainly not from Father. It must have been from the knightly tales I still doted on. “It distresses me that you are alone, and have so little.”
    She flared. “And who told you that?” Spanish pride—my first glimpse of it.
    “It is well known. Everybody says—”
    “I have no need for pity!”
    “Of course not. But for love, my dearest Katherine—” My other hand sought hers. “I love you!”
    She looked discomfited, as well she might. “We must go back,” was all she finally said.
    “No one will find us here. Not for another hour,” I insisted. “Oh, stay a little! Talk with me. Tell me—tell me what you do, how you spend your hours.”
    She leaned forward. Our faces were only a few inches away in the close, warm darkness. “I—I pray. And read. And do needlework. And write the King my father. And”—this so low I had to strain to hear it—“I think of you, my Lord.”
    I was so excited