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eccles
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01-05-2017, 03:18 PM
1

Many a slip

There was a rich susurration of silk as the enormous bulk shifted and the stretched beetroot red of his neck folds brought the great head forward and closer to the obsequious courtier. Candles reflected their lambent light onto each of his ten bejewelled fingers and bought fire to his small cunning eyes. King Henry, the eighth of that name, Supreme Head of the Church of England, omnipotent, gloriously attired and terrifyingly mercurial, was curious.
“Tell me again” he growled, poking a fat digit in the courtier’s ribs and causing him such gut watering fear that his knees actually knocked. “Be speedy in your delivery, I have much of importance waiting. A beauty, you say?”
“Your Grace, she is indeed. A veritable Venus, small of waist, dainty ears and nose, flowing hair, a skin such as cream would envy. And unmarried, your Grace. She had been betrothed but no marriage was forthcoming.”
The king leaned further forward, causing his stout velvet chair to creak in an alarming manner. His huge festering leg stuck out grotesquely and stank abominably. It could be smelled at the furthest reaches of the audience chamber despite all the windows being ajar, causing a visiting Venetian once to remark that an audience with “il re Inglese” was “like nearing a plague pit full of dead dogs.”

The gold tassels at the end of the buttery soft shoe twitched impatiently.
“Well?”
“Well, Sire, I have it on good authority that the maid in question is most anxious for a marriage and has been schooled in- er - all the arts.”
The king leered lasciviously. “Has she indeed? It would be well she has, I have no use for a cold statue.” He smiled a tight, grim smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and rested his gaze on the rest of the court who brayed with mirth obediently. The courtier attempted to breathe through his mouth and waited anxiously.

Truth to tell, the king was desperately lonely. He trusted nobody, of course. Such was the burden of kingship, although dear old Catholic Katherine had been his sounding board and as close to a confidante as anyone could be. It was a pity that their union had been a mortal sin, an abomination in God’s eyes – here he permitted himself a pious prayer – and an even greater humiliation that lust and misguided advice had then lured him into the bed of that traitorous hussy Anne with her witchy eyes and her proud manners. God’s breath, but she was a daughter of Satan and no mistake. He’d had a lucky escape there, but justice had prevailed and she and her incestuous brother and musician boy-lover and the rest of her so-called court had paid the price for their vile traitorous liaisons.

A sentimental tear forced its way from the corner of one pale eye, past the sandy spikes of eyelashes and rolled down his mottled cheek. It fell onto his crimson doublet and lay there for a second like an oily stain. See how weak a woman can make a simple man, he reprimanded himself. Was ever a monarch so unfortunate in love? Jane – my faultless, virtuous, angelic Jane, the mother of my precious boy. My heart’s delight, she so young and unspoiled and compliant, so tragically……

“Er – Sire? Forgive me.” The self-indulgent reverie was interrupted by the hesitant murmuring of the courtier whose legs had gone to sleep and who suddenly recalled the main point of the audience.
The hard little eyes turned to glare down at the bent head. God’s breath, if he wasn’t such a reasonable man he’d have this maggot’s head.

The courtier was fumbling inside a worn leather pouch strapped across his shoulder, reddening and sweating. “I have a portrait, Sire. Of the gentlewoman in question. The potential bride to be, as it were.”

The king stretched out a tree trunk of an arm, quilted and buttoned and festooned with pinpoint diamonds, and grabbed the stiff and rolled paper. He peered greedily on the woman’s likeness.

She was indeed a beauty, as lovely as a virginal milkmaid, with translucent skin, large green eyes, rounded pearly shoulders and just a hint of a seductive smile which bought out a delightful tease of a dimpled cheek.

Her fair hair peeped coquettishly in gleaming tendrils from beneath a most alluring jewelled cap and she wore large exotic earrings and a dainty pendant that crept enticingly towards an ample cleavage. The king licked his lips, threw back his huge head and chuckled delightedly. “We are most pleased. And you are certain Holbein has created a true likeness of – of – what name is she?”

“Anne, Your Grace. From the duchy of Cleves in Germany. It is not certain the lady can converse in our tongue but I am assured the likeness is excellent.”
“No matter,” the king brushed aside the insignificant problem of language. “There are other ways to converse, eh? Eh?”

“Indeed, your Grace.” The courtier felt a stab of sympathy and pity for the lady, and a tiny shiver of revulsion ran through him.

“Get you gone, we wish to study the fortunate lady in private. See to her passage to England without delay. We will greet her personally where she comes ashore. We have sonnets to compose and airs to practice.”

Minutes after the brusque dismissal the courtier sped away gratefully with his nervous perspiration already drying in the evening air, and his leather pouch bouncing with the rhythm of his horse.

In his studio Holbein was frantically searching among the chaos of paper, parchment, squares of canvas, paints, half finished portraits and leftover scraps of bread and apple cores. He was unable to paint unless surrounded by the familiar paraphernalia that was both a comfort and a haven to him, and what seemed like an unholy mess to his sitters and patrons was nothing more than normality. He had plenty of customers for his work both as an artist and as a printmaker, but portraiture was his great love and obsession and he prided himself on realistic depictions of his subjects. How many wealthy clients would return if he was unable to replicate the likeness of their loved ones?

He scratched his beard in frustration, adjusted his grubby smock and stood in the middle of his studio. A brush stuck out from behind his ear and he absently pulled it away and pointed it at a precarious pile of stiff canvasses “Here! I know it was here! Gott knows I’m becoming forgetful but I’m not yet a dolt. It was here, and he will be at my door any minute.”

He scrabbled furiously amongst the crackle of the canvasses, some complete and glorious in their brilliant colours, some muted and sombre as befitting their self-important subjects and others as yet incomplete; a sky with only half a cloud, an elegant hand caressing the ghostly outline of a favourite dog, only a faint plumed tail in view.
Scattered work now lay all around the painter in panicked piles as he bent, cap askew and beads of perspiration breaking out onto his ruddy brow.

Ah! Thanks be to Gott, here it was! Holbein grabbed an upside down painting of a woman – no, a lady. A noblewoman, serious, pale and wearing her dun coloured browns and the squared modest cap that framed her serene face so beautifully. Too late he realised this was not the expected portrait his client was on his eager way to collect.
A loud thumping on his door suddenly started his heart banging in response as he slowly turned the iron handle and invited in one of the most powerful and rich noblemen in the land, all furs and leather, smelling of horses and wealth.
“Well, Holbein, you old reprobate you” he boomed jovially, “Let’s see the wench then in all her saucy glory, eh? My most favoured and accommodating young mistress, ex-prostitute and petty thief until I scooped her up by her little waist and showed her the error of her ways.

Did the pendant I bought her show up well? Have you painted the dimple as I specifically requested? I’ve paid a king’s ransom for this, you know. It will have pride of place in my love nest, well away from my wife, God bless her dull soul and fat ankles.”

King Henry, the eighth of that name, immense, excited beyond measure, primped and perfumed, aglow with jewels, his suppurating leg freshly bandaged and throbbing excruciatingly, asked for the hundredth time whether there was any sign of Anne’s arrival. As he waited, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that this time, this marriage, arranged in love between two great nations, would be a glory. Himself, King Henry, Hal Tudor, wise as Solomon, prolific lovemaker, scholar, statesman and humble jouster would be joined in blessed matrimony to the most fortunate, chaste and undisputedly comely Anne of Cleves.

His sweating palms caressed the surface of the portrait of
Miss Elizabeth “Liz” Spankworthy, ex-prostitute, pickpocket and favourite mistress of Holbein’s rich client and listened eagerly for the sound of the approaching entourage.
Nom
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01-05-2017, 04:14 PM
2

Re: Many a slip

Interesting i have just watched the first 3 Seasons of The Tudors, and came to the conclusion that Royals, Religion , and Politics make very bad bed fellows.

Mind you in those days of no social media, getting the right spouse was harder.
eccles
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01-05-2017, 06:30 PM
3

Re: Many a slip

Did you get the twist though?
Nom
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02-05-2017, 11:08 AM
4

Re: Many a slip

No Eccles cant say i did unless it involves the portrait which was suggested that the Tudor equivalent of air brushing had taken place. I am fick though.
TessA
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02-05-2017, 01:20 PM
5

Re: Many a slip

I think the artist's rich client was trying to get his mistress to be Queen.
I could be wrong...
eccles
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02-05-2017, 03:18 PM
6

Re: Many a slip

Ooh heck, I see my story wasn't very clear. You both missed what I thought was a clever twist!

I didn't really want to have to explain (as it was clear to me, being the author) but ... Holbein got the portrait mixed up with that of a prostitute, and Henry thought it was Anne of Cleves ..... oh hell, forget it ....
Nom
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02-05-2017, 03:56 PM
7

Re: Many a slip

Ahh in the TV series it was deliberate that Holbein flattered Ann of Cleeves and i vaguely remember the portrait of the Prostitute but iam sure it was not misunderstood for AOC. I may well be wrong, and your version is wel written.

Told you i was Fick
TessA
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02-05-2017, 04:25 PM
8

Re: Many a slip

I is fick too!
I read it again and it is obvious now!
TessA
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02-05-2017, 04:27 PM
9

Re: Many a slip

I got distracted because Henry's description reminded me of my first wasband.
eccles
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03-05-2017, 07:02 AM
10

Re: Many a slip

Originally Posted by Nom ->
Ahh in the TV series it was deliberate that Holbein flattered Ann of Cleeves and i vaguely remember the portrait of the Prostitute but iam sure it was not misunderstood for AOC. I may well be wrong, and your version is wel written.

Told you i was Fick
Nom, you're confusing a TV programme with my tale, which is fiction! There was no prostitute in the TV series! To clarify - my short story is just that, a story. It isn't historical fact, and was intended just to entertain. Obviously it failed miserably!

Ah well, so much for my writing career ....
 

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