Read the Story
Guess the Song
here's a clue...
I wake early, in the first soft
light of dawn, with a wonderful idea fully formed in my mind. Nothing can
compare with the rare thrill, this frisson of creative inspiration. There is a
special alchemy in making something of great value from nothing but the words
in my head. I call out to my ever-present, invisible attendants.
‘Bring
me quill and parchment!’
They
wait at my door night and day, some to guard me, others seeking favours, but
the most important know my needs, and how to satisfy them, without question. My
wife has her chattering ladies, yet I value my gentlemen of the chamber more
than she knows. They guard my secrets with their lives.
Pulling
on a cape of thick, velvet-lined fur over my nightshirt to ward off the chill dawn
air, I slide my feet into silk slippers and hum to myself as I rehearse the
words in my head. These words could change my life. I sense they might hold the
answer to the problem that keeps me awake at night, and torments my dreams.
My
father’s dying gift had been a question. ‘You know your duty?’ His voice was
rasping, like the call of a rave, his words sounding harsher than he no doubt
intended.
‘To
ensure the succession.’ The words tripped from my tongue so easily, yet now
haunted me. I forgave my father’s tone, yet only now do I understand. The old
man was dying of the quinsy, a miserable end. Even with his great fortune, he
could not find a cure. I’d known my father would not last long if the simple
act of swallowing caused such agony.
He’d
done his duty. An heir and a spare,
that’s what they said, his self-serving acolytes. In truth, it was a relief
when he died. When my older brother was taken by the sweating sickness, my
father changed. His heart hardened and the sparkle vanished from his eyes. Then
my mother, the love of his life, followed her son eleven months later, and my
father lost his faith in our merciful God.
I
think of my father more often as I grow older, and begin to value his
qualities, perhaps even miss his suffocating attention. What would he have said
if I’d told him I loved him? Would he have said he loved me, as he’d loved my
brother, or scowled at my weakness, and blamed my poor mother for making me
soft.
His
plan was for me to enter the church. I smile at the thought. Sometimes I
daydream about the life I could have had, so free of care, responsible only for
men’s mortal souls. I would have been the greatest archbishop in Christendom,
eclipsing the bishop of Rome, yet the prize was stolen from me by my brother’s
sudden passing.
My servant returns and sets out fresh
parchment, a silver inkpot and a fine new goose feather quill. I test the
sharpness of the nib against the flesh of my palm, an old habit, taught by my
writing tutor, although I know it will be perfect, as it always is.
Dismissing
the man with a wave of my hand, I sit at my gilded desk and begin to write in
French, the language of courtly love.
Alas my lady, whom I
do so love
A
good start. Direct, yet raising a question in the good lady’s mind. Alas? A
magical word, with the power to conjure much speculation. I sit back and read
the words aloud, savouring them. Then I read the line again, more slowly this
time, pleased to hear the beginnings of a simple melody in their rhythm. Now
the great idea must follow, before it eludes me like the slippery elvers I hunted
as a child.
Suffer me to be your
humble servant
Humility.
I recall the cautionary words of St Peter. ‘Clothe yourselves with humility,
because God opposes the proud but shows favour to the humble.’ This will
surprise her, perhaps even raise a smile. She well knows I’d never been
anyone’s servant, although I’ve suffered at the hands of many over the years. What more can I offer, as my gift, than servitude?
I
need to develop and reinforce this theme, so what better than with commitment? I
know what they say, the gossipers of court. They dare to laugh behind my back, believing
they do so with impunity, but I know. I have ways of knowing what is said, when
they think I cannot hear. They see my short-lived dalliances and misunderstand.
They dare to say I don’t know the value of commitment. I mutter a curse at the
gossipers as I dip my quill in the silver inkpot and write, my brow furrowed
with concentration.
Your humble servant I
shall always be
The
next line flows effortlessly from my subconscious mind, like the mysterious quicksilver
used by my physicians, and I sit back in my chair, startled at the truth it
reveals.
And while I live,
I'll love none else but you.
Now
the time has come for my lady’s response. I wish she was at my side, sharing
this precious moment with her shy smile. I picture her in a silken nightdress,
revealing more than some might think proper. Forcing the sultry image from my thoughts,
I instead imagine her most perfect reply to my verse.
Alas, fair sir, you
are good and kind
Alas
again. Does it convey concern, or pity, for my hopeless infatuation? If pity,
the lady redeems herself by recognising my best qualities. My stern grandmother
took it upon herself to make me good and kind. She’d died two months after my
coronation, and I miss her wisdom, yet recall her advice.
She
lies now in the abbey of Westminster, her hands in perpetual prayer. When I
visited last, a shaft of sunlight, filtered by the stained glass, lit up her
gilded face with a delicate, rosy pink, as if she was restored to life.
Memories of my devout grandmother inspire my words, so fast I write the next
two lines.
Wise and courteous
and from a noble house,
And as good as one could
find
My
grandmother was so proud to be a Beaufort, the most noble of houses, in the
line of the royal House of Lancaster. My father claimed we had true royal blood,
as good as one could find, yet the royal blood flowing in my veins if from my
mother, her blood of kings, of the royal
House of York. A wave of sadness threatens as I remember my mother, who never
failed to show me her love.
But I can't forget
the one I love.
Melancholy
distracts me from my task. I must recall my waking mood, and the unexpected joy
I’d felt at the thought of being able to express the love that burns in my
soul, like the red-hot embers of a smithy’s forge.
‘Bring
me wine, and comfits!’
I
hear their footsteps on polished floors as they rush to do my bidding, and
return with a silver tray. I watch in silence as my goblet is filled, then sip
the rich red wine and feel its warmth restore my spirits. The dish of sugared
comfits tempts me, but I must write more before these words escape my mind.
Alas my lady, think upon
your case:
Between us two, no
need for advocate.
Certainly not, and
you know it well.
Be gone, for you are
doing nothing.
I smile, pleased at my ingenuity. She is vain, and will know the meaning, yet dare I threaten to dismiss her as punishment for inaction? I can and will, for she plays the game of courtly love so well, a quarry worthy of a king.
Now
a touch of honesty. They say confession is good for the soul. I know not how to
win her heart, yet by admitting as much, might surprise her with my honesty. I
take another drink of wine, savouring the fruity aftertaste as words form in my
head.
My heart sighs and
tenderly complains,
when it cannot find
relief
I know not how it
wants me to woo
Pleased
with the result, I reward myself with a sugared comfit from the silver dish. My
weakness is that once I start, I cannot stop until they are all gone, yet I
deserve this small indulgence. She knows my other weakness well enough, and now
I might use it to seal my words, as surely as I press my royal signet into hot
red sealing wax.
If it is so, I'll go
wooing elsewhere.
Too
harsh a threat? Maybe, yet she knows this is a game, and I grow impatient for
my reward. Now, how to conclude? At last, the reason for alas – and her answer,
offering the hope I crave for more than any dish of sugared comfits.
Alas my lady, and
shall I not?
Certainly, fair sir,
I have not said so.
There,
it is done, and as I read my words aloud, I find I’m singing them. I have
written not an ode but a song, which I shall sing to her in my fine tenor voice
when next we meet.
Behave rightly and
you will be rewarded.
Alas my lady, from my
whole heart, thank you.
© Tony Riches
Did you guess the song title?
(How many of you thought Greensleeves?)
Helas Madame - Henry VIII
Helas Madame - Henry VIII
by Simone Lo Castro
(You Tube Video)
Author’s note
I’ve spent ten years writing about the men and women of the Tudor court, but this is the first time I have attempted to write Henry VIII in the first person. Helas Madame is one of Henry’s most revealing compositions, and inspired me to think about how my view of his character has changed over the years. His father, Henry VII, seems to have made little secret that Henry was never his first choice as heir to the throne, so he must have felt a powerful need for vindication.
Originally written in ancient French - possibly for Mary Boleyn, but that is not certain. The lines in italics are a verbatim translation of Henry's actual words, I’ve used the translation, which still carries the significance of Henry’s passion. The games of courtly love dominated life at the Tudor court throughout his life, yet I believe such games became a substitute for the true love he found so elusive.
website : https://www.tonyriches.com/
Tony Riches is a full-time UK author of best-selling historical fiction. He lives in Pembrokeshire, West Wales and is a specialist in the lives of the Tudors. For more information about Tony’s books please visit his website
Reviewed by Discovering Diamonds |
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The Full List of Authors
December
4th Helen Hollick Promises, Promises
5th Paul Marriner Memories
6th Pam Webber One Door Closing
8th Barbara Gaskell Denvil Sticks and Stones
9th Judith Arnopp Secrets
10th Erica Lainé Silk Stockings
11th Anna Belfrage Hold Me, Love Me, Leave Me?
12th Annie Whitehead Frozen
13th Tony Riches Alas, My Love
14th Clare Flynn, Zipless
15th J.G. Harlond The Last Assignment
16th Elizabeth St John Under The Clock
17th Alison Morton Honoria’s Battle
18th Jean Gill The Hunter
19th Patricia Bracewell Daddy's Gift
20th Debbie Young It Doesn't Feel Like Christmas
21st Ruth Downie Doing It Properly
23rd Elizabeth Chadwick The Cloak
24th / 25th CHRISTMAS BREAK
27th Barbara Gaskell Denvil Just The One... Or Maybe Two
28th Deborah Swift Just Another Day
30th Cryssa Bazos River Mud
31st HAPPY NEW YEAR
Note: There is copyright legislation for song lyrics
but no copyright in names, titles or ideas
Yes, I assumed 'Greensleeves' but realised the lyrics were different. Fascinating history and beautiful song - thank you. I'm off to read the lyrics in French now!
ReplyDeleteI'm not a fan or supporter of Henry VIII (three kings I can't stand: Duke William of Normandy, Edward I and Henry VIII) but it was interesting to view Henry from a different side here. As a composer / songwriter / poet he was a very talented man. I like the way you got into his mind here Tony, very well done.
ReplyDeleteImmediately thought of Greensleeves, but that would have been far too obvious - didn't know what it was going to be, though! I agree with Helen both in sentiment and praise!
ReplyDeleteI, too, wondered about Greensleeves but knew it didn't quite fit. How fascinating to see a completely different Henry - and thanks for introducing me to such a beautiful song. Lovely story, beautiful music.
ReplyDeleteLike others, my thoughts went straight to Greensleeves ;-)
ReplyDeleteWe often see Henry VIII as a man of his age – strong, uxorious, ruthless – but he was highly educated and cultured as well.
Thank you for this, Tony.
This was the sort of historical fiction I loved when I was younger, before I learned how difficult it is to write. Bravo - I was completely immersed in this story. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteI got Greensleeves – but I also thought of Please Read the Letter that I Wrote, A Very interesting and unusual take on Henry, Enjoyed it!
ReplyDeleteI knew it wasn't Greensleeves but couldn't remember the title even though I play it on my recorder. Enjoyed the story very much. I am going to 'do' first person Henry one day. He fascinates me so much. Such wasted potential.
ReplyDeleteI did guess the song even though I kept second-guessing myself. It's one of my favourites, after all. Excellent characterization of Henry. Really enjoyed it.
ReplyDelete