The kings pleasure, p.12
The King's Pleasure, page 12
—
Wearing a plain black gown, Thomas More seated himself at the table, professing himself overwhelmed at the honor being shown him.
“Nonsense, Thomas,” Harry replied, clapping him on the shoulder. “The pleasure is all ours. It is not often we enjoy the company of such a renowned scholar.”
“But your Grace’s court is packed with men of learning!”
“And none has such a reputation as your good self!”
“We hear you have just remarried,” Kate said.
“Yes, your Grace.” More smiled. “My children are young and need a mother. Alice is a widow, older than me, plain-spoken, and certainly no scholar, but she is an excellent housekeeper and I believe I shall come to love her.”
Harry served his guest some choice slices of meat. “I have heard that your house in Bucklersbury is not only a meeting place for scholars, but breathes happiness.”
“I like to think, Sir, that that is because I run it on Christian principles, in emulation of Plato’s academy. All my children, even my daughters, are enjoying a classical education. They learn Latin, Greek, logic, philosophy, theology, mathematics, and astronomy. And yet their lives are not all learning. I find time to make merry with them, and we keep several wild animals as pets, and an aviary of birds.”
A radiant smile lit up his face as he spoke of his children. Harry could see why men called him the laughing philosopher. And yet he knew More for a man of staunch faith who would never compromise his principles, and there was still something of the ascetic about him. He was deeply pious, and it was rumored that he wore a hair shirt next to his skin. You would never have known it. Far from appearing uncomfortable, he was charming and courteous, with an earthy sense of humor.
“I read your translation of the life of Pico della Mirandola,” Harry said over a dessert of jelly made with hippocras. “It’s a vivid portrayal.”
“Thank you.” More bowed his head, acknowledging his sovereign’s praise. “Italian humanists ought to be better known in England.”
“That’s exactly my own opinion!” Harry agreed. He was finding More’s company stimulating and thinking that he actually preferred it to that of young men lost in luxury or gold-chained nobles, and even women, although Kate was the honorable exception.
“The culture and art of Italy are incomparable,” More said. “I applaud your Grace for bringing over Pietro Torrigiano to sculpt your father’s tomb.”
“It was my father who introduced me to Italian art. He was given Raphael’s painting of St. George and the Dragon, and he commissioned Guido Mazzone to make a bust of me as a child. It’s very lifelike, as it shows me laughing. But Torrigiano…” Harry’s voice tailed off. “The man is a genius, but he has a fiery temper. In Italy, he quarreled with Michelangelo and broke his nose. I wanted Benvenuto Cellini to assist him with the tomb, but Cellini would not be associated with a man of so violent a temper, nor did he wish to live among the English. He called us beasts!”
More smiled. “Maybe your Grace ought to be satisfied with just one volatile Italian!”
* * *
—
“Kate, we ought to have our children educated on humanist principles,” Harry said later, after More had departed and they were sitting in the royal library, leafing through some of the exquisite illuminated manuscripts that Harry had acquired or inherited.
Sorrow briefly shadowed Kate’s face, but then she was smiling again. “I agree, my Henry. And we should ask Master More for his advice. I am sure he will give it readily.”
“A capital idea, darling! Let us hope that it will not be too long before we are having those conversations.”
* * *
—
The Marquess of Dorset had been chosen to lead the French campaign. He was a seasoned soldier and an able strategist, and Harry felt confident that he would soon trounce the enemy.
King Ferdinand had insisted that the best way to take France was from the south, and so, that June, Harry sent his army down to occupy Aquitaine, which had long ago been in English hands. Some of his councillors had advised against it, believing that an attack from the north would be more effective.
“Your Grace should consider that King Ferdinand is thinking of his own interests. With your army in Aquitaine acting as a barrier, the northern border of Spain is protected from a French invasion.”
“But Ferdinand has promised to send troops to help me conquer Aquitaine,” Harry protested. “He can hardly march them through France. No, it makes sense to attack from the south.”
Kate said the same. Her father was committed to helping Harry achieve his dream and she begged him not to listen to his councillors. He was so enraptured with the imminent prospect of being crowned at Rheims that he heeded her unthinkingly.
But, as the weeks passed, the promised troops from Spain did not arrive, and in August the English force was still camped in Aquitaine, ravaged by dysentery and growing alarmingly short of supplies.
Word came from Dorset that Ferdinand had pressed him to assist with the conquest of Navarre, north of Spain.
“That was not part of your agreement!” Surrey thundered in Council.
Harry had to concede that it was not. He was burning with frustration, furious with Ferdinand, who had made a fool of him, and with Kate, who had made so many empty promises on her father’s behalf.
When the English forces mutinied against Dorset, Harry summoned him home in disgrace, then stumped around in a temper for days, snarling at Kate, impervious to her tears. When Dorset presented himself at court, looking gaunt and terrified, Harry shouted at him for the best part of a quarter-hour.
It was Wolsey who stepped in and calmed the waters. “Sir,” he said, hastening after Harry as he crashed out of the council chamber, “all is not lost. The Emperor Maximilian is joining the Holy League, hot against France. King Ferdinand miscalculated in trying to take Navarre before France, but it would be unwise to make an enemy of him, for he is still your friend. Next year, it will be a different story. We will raise a greater army—and you will lead it yourself!”
1513
Wolsey was correct. As the new year dawned, Harry and his allies in the Holy League were again poised to go to war against France, and the almoner was indefatigable, undertaking a multitude of tasks with good humor and efficiency. Harry was amazed at the sheer volume of his work. It would have overwhelmed lesser men, and yet his friend—for that was what Thomas was now—seemed to thrive under the pressure.
Harry was relying more and more on Wolsey these days, though he was aware that the man’s growing power alarmed others. The nobility still considered him an upstart, while the gentlemen of the Privy Chamber, especially Compton, resented his influence over the King.
“There are those,” Brandon said one day, as they practiced at the archery butts, “who would see Wolsey toppled.”
“I am aware of it,” Harry muttered.
“Buckingham complains of his ruthlessness and his desire for self-aggrandizement. Compton is just jealous.”
Harry stole a glance at Brandon, but there was no sign of jealousy there.
“Wolsey is the most earnest and readiest of all my councillors to advance my will and pleasure,” he countered. “He disburdens me of much weighty and troublesome business. He shares my tastes in art and building and so many other things. He’s a good friend, Brandon, and no threat to my other friendships. Love is not finite!”
“Others do not see it that way. I suspect Bishop Foxe sees himself being eclipsed by a man he advanced.”
“I don’t think so,” Harry replied, drawing his bow. “Foxe is not in the best of health these days and hopes for a peaceful retirement spent looking after the spiritual needs of his diocese, which he has much neglected.”
“Ha!” Brandon guffawed. “A bishop seeking holiness? What is the world coming to? But at least you’ll be rid of one of the graybeards who oppose the war.”
Foxe and his aging fellows on the Council were not Harry’s only gainsayers. On Good Friday, John Colet, the Dean of St. Paul’s, was invited to preach before him at Greenwich. Harry admired Colet, who was a member of Thomas More’s circle and a great scholar who had just founded a school at the cathedral, and he was much looking forward to hearing his homily, settling happily into the royal pew in the Chapel Royal.
“In the name of Christ, amen,” Colet began, then surveyed the congregation, which was full of young gentlemen all avid to prove themselves in a war that was now only a few weeks away. “My brethren, all good Christians should follow the example of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Prince of Peace. For they who, through hatred or ambition, fight each other, slaughtering one another by turns, are warring under the banner, not of Christ, but of the Devil!”
Harry stirred in his seat, unable to believe his ears. Of course, the humanists hated war, but this was going too far!
“It is a hard thing to die a Christian death,” Colet continued. “Few enter a war unsullied by hatred or love of gain; can you not see how incompatible a thing it is, that a man should feel that brotherly love without which no one would see God, and yet bury his sword in his brother’s heart? I exhort you, follow the example of Christ, not that of a Julius Caesar or an Alexander the Great! An unquiet peace is preferable to a just war.”
Harry looked about him, seeing faces full of dismay and bewilderment. By God, the Dean had overstepped himself! What if his men, whom he was on the point of leading into battle, should feel their courage gone because of this diatribe?
As Colet left the pulpit, a buzz of murmuring broke out.
“He has betrayed the Holy League, the Pope’s own alliance!” Compton growled. Even some of the bishops were shaking their heads.
Old Surrey lumbered over. “Your Grace should take Dean Colet to task!”
“Indeed, I will!” Harry seethed.
He summoned Colet to Greenwich the next day and received him in the garden of the adjacent convent of the Observant Friars. He was surprised to find him looking as amiable and cheerful as ever, and felt somewhat disarmed.
“Let us speak without ceremony, Mr. Dean,” he said. “I have not sent for you to disturb your sacred labors, which have my entire approval, but that I may unburden my conscience of some scruples and, with the help of your counsel, may better discharge the duties of my office.”
It was the right approach, and he now saw why Wolsey had counseled him to adopt it.
“I have offended your Grace, I know,” Colet said, as they began strolling along the pleached paths.
“I must confess I was surprised to hear your homily against war,” Harry admitted. “But we are at one upon all points, save only that I would have wished you to preach against war at some other time.”
“For Christians, no war is a just one,” Colet said. “That is a universal truth for all times.”
“Yes, but I am committed to a just cause in France and I have to think of my captains and my soldiers, who must not be put off their duty. You do understand my position? King Louis and his forebears have taken what is rightfully mine, and this war I must undertake is purely defensive, and it is in the nature of a crusade, sanctified by his Holiness himself.”
Colet bowed his head. “I understand perfectly, and I will undo any damage I have done to your Grace’s cause. Let me preach at court again, I pray you, and I will speak with such eloquence on the right of Christians to wage war as to inflame even the spiritless and timid.”
“Bravo!” cried Harry, clapping him on the back. “Let it be done—and now let us go and drink to your health!”
He gestured to his gentlemen, who had been keeping a discreet distance. “Bring some wine.” When they had done his bidding, he raised his goblet. “Let every man choose his own doctor. This is mine!”
* * *
—
Harry clenched his hands in anger and glared at his councillors through narrowed eyes. “Suffolk? So Louis thinks to undermine my throne, to save him the need to engage with me in battle! How craven!”
Surrey spread his hands. “Sire, I think he will fight you if he must. But by recognizing the Duke of Suffolk as the rightful King of England, he means to distract you at this time.”
“But he certainly intends to support him,” Buckingham growled.
“Well, he shall support a king without a head!” Harry snapped. “Suffolk’s family have ever been a thorn in the Crown and I will suffer it no longer. He shall go from the Tower to the block. My father had him attainted years ago, but spared his life. I do not mind to be so merciful. The Act of Attainder still stands. He shall die, and I would mete out the same sentence to that traitorous brother of his, but for the fact that he is in France and beyond my reach. See to it!”
Suffolk perished, and Harry found himself all the richer for it, for the Duke had owned many estates and a fine manor house at Ewelme in Oxfordshire, which Harry planned to convert into a beautiful palace. But that would have to wait. First, he was for France, at last!
* * *
—
On a blazing June day, Harry left Greenwich for Dover with Kate by his side. He had appointed her Regent of England in his absence to demonstrate his trust in her. She had wanted to come and wave him farewell, and he had been eager for her to see the splendor and pageantry of his departure, so here they were, riding at the head of a great cavalcade that included a score of peers, not to mention Wolsey on his humble mule. Heralds and trumpeters rode before them, announcing their presence to the crowds who flocked to see them as they wended their way along the leafy roads of Kent.
Harry swung around in the saddle, waving at the people and gazing with pride on the six hundred archers of the Yeomen of the Guard, in their green-and-white liveries, who marched behind him. He had brought also three hundred servants, his great bed of estate, several suits of armor, brightly colored tents and pavilions, and the choir of the Chapel Royal. The French were not only going to be conquered—they were also to be astounded at his magnificence! He could not wait to board his ship.
There was another, secret reason for his buoyant mood. Kate was with child again, and his head was filled not only with dreams of his coronation at Rheims, but also with joy at the prospect of having a son to succeed him, both in England and France. And now he could see the mighty fortress of Dover ahead, high on the cliffs overlooking the English Channel.
In the ancient keep, he formally invested Kate with the regency, and commanded Archbishop Warham and Surrey, now seventy and too old to go campaigning, to act as her advisers. On the last day of June, he bade her a hearty farewell on the quayside at Dover, kissing away her tears and promising he would stay safe; then he bounded aboard his flagship, leaving the gallant Surrey to comfort her and escort her back to Greenwich.
* * *
—
The French who lined the roads gasped in awe at the sight of Harry riding proudly at the head of his magnificent army. They had probably never seen anything so glorious! It was fitting that they were impressed by their rightful sovereign.
When they met, he thought the Emperor Maximilian was suitably stirred to see his ally with such a formidable fighting force. Resplendent in gold armor, Harry had cantered across the field where their armies were drawn up and greeted the Emperor warmly with a firm handshake, taking in his gilded black armor, prominent hooked nose, and sardonic grin.
“Welcome, your Highness!” Maximilian said.
“It is a pleasure to meet your Imperial Majesty!” Harry replied. “I trust in God that we shall do great things here in France.”
“That is my hope, too. Let us go to my tent and discuss our strategies.” The Emperor laid a gauntleted hand on Harry’s shoulder in the most paternal fashion. “It is a shame that King Ferdinand cannot be here, but I know he shares our joint objectives.”
Joint? Harry had been under the impression that Maximilian was supporting his cause because the French were encroaching on the Empire’s borders. Harry was to aid him in neutralizing that threat, then Maximilian and Ferdinand would assist him in the conquest of France. But probably the Emperor was merely expressing solidarity with Harry; after all, he would benefit from having an ally on the French throne.
Matters moved frustratingly slowly after that first meeting, but finally Harry and Maximilian laid siege to the town of Thérouanne, which threatened neighboring Burgundy, one of the Emperor’s chief territories. Harry set up camp to the east of the walls, surrounding himself with heavy artillery. He took quarters in a wooden cabin flanked by colorful tents, each bearing painted wooden statues of the King’s heraldic beasts. Ignoring the foul wet weather, he entertained Maximilian to a feast in a gallery hung with cloth of gold. Since they were constrained to sit and wait for the town to fall, they might as well enjoy themselves.
Infuriatingly, the French managed to get food and other supplies to the besieged townsfolk. Never again, Harry vowed, and moved his headquarters to the tower of Guinegate, where he would be better placed to keep an eye on all comings and goings. While there, he received intelligence that a French army was approaching. They had even attempted diversionary tactics to lure the English forces away. Well, he would put paid to their impudence! Now it truly could be said that this war was defensive.
Riding back to Thérouanne, he gave his captains the order to draw up thousands of soldiers in battle order, ready to face the enemy. He would have led them himself, but his councillors, hovering nearby like clucking hens, fretted that it was too dangerous; he should direct operations from the sidelines. Harry wanted to argue, but Maximilian said it was wise advice, and he did not wish to offend his ally, who clearly had his interests at heart.
