The kings pleasure, p.21
The King's Pleasure, page 21
“He has an eye to a fortune,” Carew observed. “It can’t be love. He’s been committing adultery for years with Lady Hastings, ever since her husband released her from that nunnery.”
Harry felt his cheeks flush. Compton had made his move with almost indecent haste after he himself had been obliged to cease pursuing Anne Hastings in the wake of Kate’s tantrums. “I think Lady Salisbury is aware of that. She turned him down. If he’s not careful, he’ll end up before an ecclesiastical tribunal for living openly in sin with a married woman.”
“Him and half your court!” Carew chuckled.
Harry frowned. Wolsey had been complaining for some time that the conduct of some of his young gentlemen was bringing the court into disrepute. He had winced at that, wishing to be seen as a virtuous prince, but he was also aware that Wolsey and his colleagues on the Privy Council were jealous of the influence wielded by the gentlemen of the Privy Chamber, who were effectively rivals for the King’s ear. The lords had a motive for wanting to curb their influence.
After St. George’s Day, Harry moved to Greenwich, and it was there that the cardinal declared his hand, in Council.
“Your Grace, we are all agreed that the Privy Chamber should be purged of those young minions who behave in a manner not in keeping with your dignity and honor.”
For once, heads were nodding in unanimous agreement with Wolsey. Harry said nothing, torn between loyalty to his friends and the desire to protect the reputation of his court. It must never become the cesspit over which King Francis presided!
Wolsey spoke again. “I am speaking of Sir Nicholas Carew, Francis Bryan, Sir Edward Neville, and Sir Henry Guildford, to name but a few.” Thank God he had not named Compton! “They give your Grace evil counsel. They encourage you to gamble away large sums; they are too familiar and forget themselves. You patiently suffer these things, but because of your gentle nature, you neither rebuke nor reprove them.”
“These men are my friends,” Harry declared. Secretly, he too had become concerned about the overfamiliarity, although he had permitted and even encouraged it. Yet he did not want to dismiss his close companions.
“Alas, Sir, they are not good friends. You may not be aware that recently, during a diplomatic mission to Paris, Neville and Bryan publicly disgraced themselves when accompanying King Francis as he rode in disguise through the streets. They were throwing eggs, stones, and other trifles at the people.”
Harry flushed, remembering the times when he and his friends, all incognito, had visited taverns in London and got drunk and foolish. He prayed that Wolsey had never heard about that.
“I fear that, back home, they are now all French in their eating, drinking, and apparel, and French in their vices,” Surrey sniffed.
“It’s true, Sir,” Norfolk chimed in. “They sneer when they compare your court with that of France; they poke fun at older courtiers and household officers, and generally comport themselves in a reprehensible manner.”
“Aye, Sir,” chorused the other councillors, even Sir Thomas Boleyn.
“We ask your Grace to put a stop to their behavior, since it reflects badly upon you,” Wolsey demanded.
Harry squirmed in his seat; it was like being a youngling again, with Father telling him off. Yet, resent it or not, he knew what he must do. “Very well,” he said. “My Lord Chamberlain, you will summon them all and dismiss them from their posts, then order them to leave court. But they can still make themselves useful to me. Carew and Neville can go to Calais to help man its defenses; the rest can attend to their duties in their own counties.”
He rose and left them to it, not wishing to dwell on how grieved his friends would be to be sent away. And he soon missed them; life had become much less lively. But when, as the days passed, he saw that their removal was little mourned at court, he began to feel justified. A king, after all, should not behave like a fool; he must have dignity, gravitas.
In place of those who had been dismissed, Wolsey brought into the Privy Chamber some older, more sober knights whom Harry liked, even though he knew they were the cardinal’s men. Thankfully, Henry Norris was allowed to remain, for everyone thought him trustworthy, thoughtful, and discreet. No doubt Wolsey, Norfolk, and the rest were hoping that, freed from the influence of his friends, Harry would lead a new, more mature mode of life, paying less attention to revelry and pastimes and more to state business.
Despite this brief accord against the Privy Chamber, the councillors’ resentment of Wolsey was livelier than ever. Norfolk in particular was jealous of that fine palace at Hampton Court. He was now the patron of old Skelinton and it was probably he who had bidden Harry’s former tutor to compose some waspish doggerels attacking Wolsey, which were still causing much mirth among the courtiers. Skelinton had evidently taken pleasure in sneering at the cardinal’s shameless ambition and greasy genealogy.
Why come ye not to court?
To the King’s court, or to Hampton Court?
The King’s court should have the precedence,
But Hampton Court hath the pre-eminence.
Wolsey had been so wrathful when he read this that he had ordered Skelinton’s arrest, but the old man had fled into sanctuary at Westminster Abbey. Harry would have gone after him, too, for Skelinton had dared to attack him in a morality play called Magnificence. Harry had expected it to be laudatory, but instead he found himself heavily censured for immoderate indulgence in pleasure and advised to seek a compromise between showy display and frugality. The play showed him dismissing a wise minister and giving a foolish one too much power, a none-too-subtle message that he found quite unpalatable. Had his old tutor not been skulking in sanctuary, he would have clapped him in the Tower for a spell.
With his friends gone, he absorbed himself in more solemn matters. Just now, he was planning his tomb. Torrigiano had sculpted a glorious monument for his parents in Westminster Abbey. When he gazed on their golden effigies, it was like looking on their living selves again: Father, as dull and severe as ever, and Mother in all her sweetness and beauty. He had thought that Kate would be her image in all things, and that was true to a certain extent, yet Kate had failed where Mother had succeeded, for she had not given him a son.
He wanted an even more imposing tomb for himself, one that would reflect the magnificence of his person and his achievements—an enormous sepulchre of white marble and black jasper, crowned with a triumphal arch bearing a statue of himself on horseback and surrounded by dozens of life-sized gilded figures.
When he was not drawing up plans for his memorial, he spent time in the lists or in the company of his new astronomer, Nicolaus Kratzer, whom he had persuaded to leave his native Germany to enter royal service. Kratzer was brimful of wit and on good terms with Erasmus and Thomas More.
On a warm day in late spring, he brought to Harry’s study his design for a sundial. Normally, Harry would have been riveted, but today he was distracted. The results of the Imperial election were expected at any time, and he was awaiting them with impatience.
In the end, he could contain himself no longer. “Alas, Master Kratzer, state business calls,” he said. “We will discuss your design another time.”
“Is there any news?” he asked for the umpteenth time, bursting into Wolsey’s closet.
“No, your Grace, not yet.”
“Do you think I stand a good chance of being elected?” It was his constant refrain; he could not bear the thought of being passed over.
“I am quite optimistic,” Wolsey replied. “But I don’t think we will get the result this week. Why don’t you go hunting, Sir?”
Harry went, his head full of plans for what he would do if he became emperor. He saw himself in Rome, kneeling before the Pope to receive the crown of Charlemagne, or traveling the length and breadth of Christendom, with all nations bowing before him, or ensconced in the great palaces of Burgundy, Germany, Austria, Hungary, and Italy. Henricus Imperator! What a ring it had!
He was being lavishly entertained once more by Buckingham at Penshurst Place, and enjoying a game of tennis, when Richard Pace’s arrival was finally announced. Harry hastened to receive him in the garden, where they could not be overheard.
“Well?” He was bristling with anticipation.
“Your Grace, I fear it is not the news you wish to hear. The Infante Charles has been elected emperor.”
“That stripling?” Harry exclaimed, appalled. “By God, he won’t be up to it!”
But it would not do to parade his crushing disappointment in public. At all costs, he must not lose face. “Well, I’m sure the electors knew what they were doing.”
“Your Grace can have no idea how much money Charles spent bribing them,” said Pace, with a look of disgust.
“Then I am right glad that I did not win the election, if the Empire is so corrupt,” Harry replied, grateful to his secretary for making it easier for him to swallow his dismay. “Now, my friend, I insist that you take supper with me.”
As they walked back to the hall, he turned his thoughts to the future. “I wish I had not got so caught up with the Imperial election, Richard. I should have been meeting with King Francis, but now it must wait until next year. I know he is as keen for the summit as I am. We have both agreed not to shave until we meet, hence this beard. The Queen does not like it.” He grinned.
“I think it suits your Grace very well,” Pace complimented him. Harry agreed. The fine golden beard made him look very distinguished. But Kate persisted in waging war on it.
“I hate beards,” she protested. “I love you the way you look normally, clean-shaven. I beg of you, get rid of it, for my sake!” She made such a clamor that Harry, preferring a quiet life, capitulated. Then he had to write to King Francis, explaining what had happened and feeling rather a fool. But Louise of Savoy, Francis’s mother, neatly averted a diplomatic incident, declaring that the love the two kings bore each other was not in the beards, but in the hearts. Harry smiled at that. How easily lies became politic currency.
Inwardly, he knew he should not have given way to Kate. There had been an escalating distancing between them, at least on his side. The five-and-a-half-year age gap was becoming ever more obvious. One glance in his mirror showed Harry that ambassadors were not exaggerating when they said he was far handsomer than any other sovereign in Christendom. He was still fair, still admirably proportioned. Nature, people said, could not have done more for him. Next to him, Kate looked faded, the marks of disappointment and sorrow etched on her face, which only became illuminated when her eyes lighted upon him—a middle-aged woman looking like a green girl. Harry’s sense of chivalry had been outraged when he was told that King Francis had called her old and deformed—when he hadn’t even set eyes on her—yet it wasn’t far from the truth. That firm, jutting chin did look deformed, there was no denying it.
He missed Bessie—Bessie, whose pregnancy was progressing well, according to the reports sent by her midwife to Wolsey. As spring turned into summer, he became increasingly excited about the impending birth and anxious lest anything should go wrong. And then, one glorious day in June, Wolsey came to his closet, beaming.
“Your Grace has a healthy son. I have just had the news from Jericho.”
A son! A healthy son! But a bastard who could not inherit the Crown. Harry’s joy was tempered with frustration. How could God be so cruel, when He knew that the thing Harry most desired, and needed, was a boy to succeed him?
“I trust that Mistress Blount is well?” His heart was filled with gratitude toward Bessie, and bitter regret that she was not his wife.
“She is very well and in no danger. And I am told that the child has the beauty of both its father and mother.”
“I shall visit them soon.”
“I advise your Grace to be discreet.”
“No,” Harry said.
“No, Sir?”
“I see no reason for discretion.” Suddenly, he wanted to punish Kate for failing to bear him a son. He wanted to say to her, and to the world, “Look what I can do! The fault does not lie in me!” Never again would he fear that his lack of a male heir was a slur upon his manhood. “The child shall be called Henry Fitzroy—son of the King! And I mean publicly to acknowledge him, so that everyone will know that I am capable of siring boys, if any ever doubted it! You shall be godfather, Thomas, and be responsible for his care. While he is young, you may leave him with Mistress Blount. And I insist that she be called and honored as ‘the mother of the King’s son.’ ”
Wolsey was frowning. “Alas, Sir, I fear she may not be treated honorably, unless she makes a good marriage.”
Harry stared at him. “But I want her back at court. The King of France has maîtresses-en-titer, who openly consort with him. Why should I not have the same?”
“Because this is England, Sire, and your subjects will not tolerate it. The Queen is much loved. By all means, continue to honor Mistress Blount with your attentions, but I pray you be discreet. Let a respectable marriage be a cover for your affection.”
Calmer now, Harry saw the wisdom in Wolsey’s advice. The Cardinal never failed him.
“Very well,” he said.
* * *
—
Wolsey worked quickly. He arranged for Bessie to be speedily married to one of his wards, a wealthy young gentleman called Gilbert Tailboys, who had estates in Lincolnshire and Somerset. Parliament was persuaded to assign her a handsome dowry. Much to Harry’s disappointment, she left court, to live with her new husband, but Wolsey arranged for her to visit in secret, and she and Harry resumed their affair.
Their shared love for their son brought them closer than ever before. Harry delighted in the little boy, who was the very image of himself. If only, if only, this child could succeed him! He could never look at him without wishing that things were otherwise.
Kate said nothing, made no mention of Henry Fitzroy, even though the court had been buzzing with gossip. She must know what had happened, yet she continued to show a loving countenance to Harry. In fact, no one openly criticized him. It was Wolsey who was targeted, as his enemies gleefully accused him of encouraging immorality in the young by the well marrying of Bessie Blount. And that gave Harry an opening to bring back the friends Wolsey had had dismissed.
“Well, my lord Cardinal, you can’t have it both ways,” he taunted him, as they walked in the gardens one day.
Wolsey looked at him blankly.
“Ha!” Harry laughed. “You dismiss my minions, as you were pleased to call them, for their misconduct, yet you openly make a mockery of marriage, or so your opponents say.”
“But I helped you, Sir.” The Cardinal could not hide his dismay.
“You did, and I am grateful. But I am recalling my friends. I will not have it said that you are a hypocrite. And in doing that, I am helping you.” He grinned.
“Alas, Sir, you have outfoxed me,” Wolsey said ruefully.
1520
On a cold February morning, Harry attended the wedding of his distant cousin, William Carey, an up-and-coming gentleman of his Privy Chamber, and Sir Thomas Boleyn’s daughter Mary. Mary had been in France for several years, having gone there in the train of Harry’s sister and stayed to serve the Queen of France. Given what Harry had heard, she was lucky to have secured such a fine husband. The words “soiled goods” came to mind, and it was even rumored that King Francis had boasted of having ridden his English mare. But Boleyn was a clever operator; somehow, he had managed to sell his daughter to Carey. Looking at her, all pert dimples and soft flesh, Harry could see why the young man was so smitten. As he bent to kiss the bride, he felt a twinge of envy—and lust.
After leaving the bridal party to their revelry, he summoned Wolsey to his closet. The time was fast approaching for his meeting with King Francis, for which the cardinal was overseeing every detail involved in transporting five thousand people across the English Channel to Calais, England’s last remaining possession in France.
Wolsey arrived with a sheaf of plans and lists. “Now, Sir, it has been agreed that the meeting will take place six miles from Calais in a place called the Val d’Or, which lies in the open countryside between your Grace’s town of Guisnes, where you will be based, and Ardres, where King Francis will stay. I fear, however, that Guisnes Castle is too small for a sufficient display of magnificence. Might I suggest, therefore, that we build a temporary palace at the meeting place?”
He laid a set of elaborate designs before Harry, who stared at them, impressed.
“It will be a palace of illusions,” Wolsey elaborated. “Not even Leonardo da Vinci could improve upon it. It will be built of timber on stone and brick foundations and covered with canvas painted to look like brickwork or masonry. The dining hall is to have a ceiling of green silk studded with gold roses, and a floor covering of patterned taffeta. There will be a King’s Side, a Queen’s Side, a suite for my humble self, and one for your Grace’s sister, the French Queen. Senior courtiers will be accommodated in Guisnes Castle; the rest can stay in tents. I have ordered two thousand, eight hundred of them. Now these pavilions…” He unrolled a page covered with colorful designs for tents of green and white, blue and gold, and red and gold, all adorned with the King’s badges, beasts, and mottoes. “They will serve for entertainments and banquets. Your Grace will have your own dining tent of cloth of gold.”
“You have done marvelously, Thomas,” Harry beamed.
Wolsey smiled. “I have ordered in great quantities of livestock and foodstuffs. We must spare no effort or cost to impress the French.”
Harry nodded. He was determined to outshine Francis. He had been lukewarm about the visit, but now he found himself looking forward to it. “It is a mighty enterprise,” he observed.
