by David Field
‘I thought perhaps also Burgundy, since you would wish to be assured that your own back is secure. Some of the German states may also be persuaded to join, although you will of course bring them under your own signature when the Imperial crown becomes yours.’
‘If it becomes mine, and only if. They say that Francis has obtained much support within Germany for his claim. And of course he now dominates the Italian city states by fear.’
‘All the more reason to urge him to the peace table,’ Thomas oozed. ‘And in return for your support in this, Henry would no doubt see his way clear to supporting your claim to the Imperial crown.’
‘And you, Thomas? I have formed such an opinion of you that I doubt that all this work is being undertaken by you simply in the interests of King Henry. What do you hope to gain by it?’
‘Rewards in Heaven?’ Thomas smiled back conspiratorially. When Charles had no response, Thomas made his objective clearer. ‘I can foresee a time at which, with my support — which means, of course, the support of England and its King — you will be the Holy Roman Emperor, and Leo will have gone to his Heavenly reward. Rome will by then have been preserved from French aggression by means of the treaty I am in the process of putting together, and therefore who better to preside over the resulting Peace of God?’
Charles burst out laughing. ‘My grandfather was right after all! You seek to be Pope, do you not? And you seek my support as Holy Roman Emperor?’
Thomas bowed in silent agreement, and Charles allowed himself more laughter before he requested that he be escorted to his chambers, where he might sleep off the rigors of what had been a very exhausting three days.
Thomas slept soundly in the belief that the first part of his plan — and in many ways the most difficult — had been achieved. It now required only the consent of Francis of France, and peace would break out across Europe, England would be saved the expense of battle and the need to choose where to commit its army, and the Pope would be obliged to Thomas in a very personal way. And Thomas had already seen the perfect road down which to walk towards an Anglo-French accord, while earning yet more gratitude from his royal patron.
This time the matter was best left to ambassadors and diplomats, and it was a perfect opportunity for the promising young lawyer Thomas Cromwell, who was forever importuning his employer within the Chancery for more demanding duties, to show his mettle. The main bargaining counter was an obvious one, and it should be attended to first.
In February of 1518, Francis had been blessed with a son, and the young Dauphin would one day become Louis XII of France. He would in due course require a bride from a royal house of Europe, and did not the English have an eligible candidate in the person of the two-year-old Princess Mary? Thomas renewed his correspondence with the Bishop of Paris, who had long expressed a desire to see their respective nations joined together by marriage vows, and it came as no surprise when Francis reacted favourably to the suggestion. Then it was the more subtle matter of insinuating that since nothing should stand in the way of eternal happiness for the royal couple, and since the continued English possession of Tournai might be seen as a stumbling block in this regard, why should the English not hand it back in return for a French undertaking never to side with Scotland should England’s northern neighbour in future prove to be anything other than neighbourly?
Almost without realising it, Francis had been drawn into a peace treaty with England, which busy clerks in Chancery lost little time in committing to vellum for the signatures of the parties. It was a fait accompli before the Council ever became aware of it, and although Norfolk was highly indignant that a matter of such high estate had been negotiated by a butcher’s offspring, Suffolk was delighted that Francis was at last to become such a friend to England as he had been to Suffolk in making it possible for him to marry the King’s sister and get away with it.
It was all over bar the ceremony, and in this Thomas was as usual in his element. The French Admiral Bonnivet landed at Sandwich attended by the Bishop of Paris, and accompanied by a sizeable train that included over thirty high nobles, fifty archers, a troop of acrobats, musicians, tennis players and assorted lesser types that was met halfway, and escorted into London in a breath-taking cavalcade.
The Pope was represented by Cardinal Lorenzo Campeggio, his Legate for the occasion, who was able to whisper to Thomas, as they embraced in that chaste way perfected by men of the Church of Rome, that His Holiness had granted Thomas’s request that, in order to give the peace that he had organised single-handed some additional gravitas, Thomas had been appointed Legatus a Latere. This was the equivalent of an appointment for life, and came with a power to convene every Catholic convocation in the realm, including Canterbury. Thomas had finally risen above Warham in the Church, although the old man was almost past caring anyway.
On October 3rd, 1518, a massive procession wound its way into St. Paul’s to a High Mass conducted by Thomas in all his finery. Henry was attended by a thousand richly dressed nobles, and accompanied by the ambassadors who had, the previous day, signed what became known as the Treaty of London. Admiral Bonnivet prayed fervently for the dignity and grace to appropriately represent the absent Dauphin at the betrothal ceremony two days hence. Later that evening, at Durham House, Thomas masterminded the most sumptuous banquet that many could remember, followed by masques, mummeries, dancing and games. Henry danced with the Dowager Queen of France, while the leading minions had been tasked with entertaining some of her most senior Ladies.
There were two obvious and notable absentees, as Henry reminded Thomas as they sat together quaffing wine at the high table, and surveying the swirling dancers in their sumptuous attire.
‘The Queen is feigning yet another malady,’ Henry grumbled. ‘Were Francis present, I would have ordered her to attend, ague or no ague, but perhaps it is best. The merriment would not have been so great, had her dour and pious face looked down upon them with all the disapproval which it is capable of expressing. No matter — I see Mistress Blount on the arm of Francis Bryan, and when he has exhausted himself in the chase, I might perhaps replace him with more carnal vigour.’
‘I trust that Her Majesty will be suitably restored to health for the betrothal ceremony to come,’ Thomas replied, hoping to change the subject before he was obliged to convince himself that he had heard nothing.
‘No doubt she will rise from her sick bed for that limited purpose,’ Henry growled into his malmsey. ‘She will not need to travel far, since we shall be at Greenwich anyway.’
On 5th October, at Greenwich Palace, the two-year-old princess was promised in marriage to a French Dauphin who was across the Channel in his cradle. Consent to the match was given by Henry, for the bride presumptive, and the French Dowager Queen, on behalf of her grandson, while Papal Legates Thomas and Campeggio stood reverently to one side. Princess Mary knew only that she was the centre of attention, robed in cloth of gold, the black cap on her head blazing with jewels as she smiled at all around her and marvelled at the richness of the diamond set in the centre of the gold ring that was ceremonially placed upon her tiny hand by Admiral Bonnivet.
Wincing quietly to herself during the ceremony had been the mother of the bride-to-be, Katherine of England, whose indisposition two days earlier, which had incurred Henry’s displeasure, turned out to be something more ominous. Katherine retired to her chambers ahead of the magnificent banquet stage-managed by Thomas to celebrate his greatest diplomatic triumph, and as Henry finally sobered up, three weeks later, it was Thomas who was obliged to advise him that while he had been lying in Bessie Blount’s arms in his private chamber in York Place, his wife had gone into premature labour and delivered yet another stillborn child. It was to be her last.
Thomas stood to one side, embarrassed, as Henry sobbed quietly, the tears splashing onto his nightshirt as the Groom of the Chamber hastily prepared the morning quaff on a side table.
‘Tell me once again that I am not cursed,’ Henry mumbled through his mu
cus as Thomas sought desperately for something to say. It was Henry himself who provided the inspiration as he thumped the arms of his chair in raging frustration.
‘That effeminate popinjay Francis of France can sire sons, and yet I cannot. I am shamed across Europe, Thomas. The slimy lamprey even foreswore to attend the betrothal, as if England is not good enough to soil his feet on.’
‘If he will not come to you, Hal, then you must go to him. Let me arrange a great tourney in the lands south of Calais, and let it be known that if Francis does not attend, he is no man.’
The first seed had been planted of what would be known to history as ‘The Field of the Cloth of Gold’.
It had taken months of detailed planning that Thomas had personally overseen down to the last detail, and he had all but bankrupted the Treasury in the process. Now, as they sat on the hill on the north side of ‘the Golden Dale’, as the French had christened it, Thomas looked anxiously across at Henry, seeking to read in his face whether or not it had all been worth it. To either side of, and behind, them sat the cream of the English nobility, and on the crest of the southern slope could be seen an equally elegant display of French aristocracy. The two kings would shortly descend, each from his own hill, to embrace in the centre of the valley. The whole of Europe awaited the outcome, and Thomas might find his head on the block if anything went seriously awry.
But so far the signs were good. Good for Henry and good for England, and therefore good for Thomas. Not so good for Queen Katherine, whose sour face when it was turned towards Thomas — which was not often these days — clearly recorded that she heartily disapproved of any preference being shown to King Francis over her nephew Carlos, better known in England as the Holy Roman Emperor King Charles V of Spain, Duke of Burgundy and Lord of the Netherlands. His grandfather Maximilian had obligingly died the previous year, and the Imperial Crown had been handed by the Electors to the candidate they much preferred over his main rival, Francis of France — the same Francis who was hoping to sublimate his anger, resentment and lowered self-esteem with a massive display of pomp, wealth and military might on the flat ground just south of the English-held Pale of Calais.
Katherine had other reasons to be out of sorts with Thomas, the far from holy Cardinal Legate of Rome. It had been Thomas who had hypocritically preached celibacy for the clergy whilst siring two children on his resident harlot, and allowing Henry the freedom of York Place in order to frolic with Bessie Blount in scandalous disregard for his marriage vows to his Queen. While Katherine had gone through the physical and mental agony of yet another stillbirth — and yet another daughter — it was the excited tittle-tattle of the travelling Court that Bessie had just delivered a healthy boy who was to be named Henry in honour of his whore-mongering royal father.
The news had come by fast horse from the Augustinian Priory of St. Lawrence in rural Essex, where Bessie had been closeted for the birth itself, to the royal Court at Calais during the six days it had spent there in order to recover from the sea crossing, and to allow everyone to assemble prior to the massive progress to the southernmost boundary of the Pale of Calais, the English fortress of Guisnes. A few miles to the south, in the officially French village and chateau of Ardres, King Francis and his retinue had assembled prior to heading north to the appointed meeting place that Thomas was nervously surveying as he mentally relived the tumultuous events of the past few days.
Henry had sent for Thomas as soon as he had the news from Essex, and he was the first to confront Thomas with the knowledge that there was now a male royal bastard to be factored into the diplomatic equation.
‘Thomas, as ever your counsel was both accurate and wise! I am the father of a healthy boy by Mistress Blount!’
‘Congratulations, Hal,’ Thomas offered automatically, as he began calculating how this might alter affairs of State far beyond what the birth of an illegitimate boy might ordinarily be expected to do.
‘What say you now of the curse of God? It must surely be Katherine’s curse alone, is that not now proven beyond doubt?’ Henry urged him.
‘So it would seem, Hal, but as I have had occasion to remind you in the past, God does not confide in me regarding these matters.’
‘But was it not you yourself who advised that God’s thunderbolt might be aimed solely at she who brought it down upon her head by her lustful pursuit of a royal crown?’
As always, there was danger whichever way he answered, and Thomas selected his most diplomatic tone as he nodded sagely. ‘Certainly, to the sinner alone go the wages of sin. And regardless of what God may think of your weakness as a mere man, in being seduced by Spanish beauty and guile, you have proved to the world that the Tudor male line may continue, and that can only have been with God’s blessing.’
‘But even if I am forgiven, Thomas, what of England if the Queen is not? If it be God’s will to deny her male issue, he is denying a peaceful and prosperous future to England. Do I not owe it to my people to cast aside she whom God has cursed, and plant my seed in one more worthy of the English crown?’
‘Hal,’ Thomas murmured, panic-stricken by the confidence he was being forced to share, ‘while I can advise you as your friend, I cannot presume to give you counsel on such a weighty matter of State.’
‘Thomas,’ Henry replied more sternly, ‘may I remind you that by my hand you are Chancellor of England? Is there an office of State more elevated from which a king may be advised? What must I do, for the future of England?’
‘For the immediate future of England, Hal, you must approve these final plans for your initial meeting with King Francis. I had assumed that this was why I was being summoned, and I have the lists of those who will accompany you when you ride south.’
‘Would it not be best for you to meet with him first, in order to sniff the wind?’
‘If I wish to sniff the wind of the King of France, I need only apply my nose to his saddle,’ Thomas joked crudely, relieved to see the smile that always denoted a change in the royal mood, and with it a change in the topic of conversation. ‘Do we not have an Ambassador to advise us of the current humour of the man you will shortly be embracing in friendship as the father-in-law of the future Queen of France?’
‘Boleyn? He has been in Paris these many months with his daughters, and his despatches have been both brief and infrequent. I would that you pave my way with your honeyed words.’
Thomas had duly obliged, and with his usual pomp and dignity he had passed within the walls of the French King’s temporary palace at Ardres with his two ecclesiastical crosses held high in the air, horns blowing and pennants flying, to be met in the courtyard, as he dismounted, by Thomas Boleyn.
‘Welcome, your Grace,’ Boleyn said as he bent to kiss the ring. Thomas reminded himself that he was dealing with a man married to a Howard, and adopted his haughtiest tone.
‘Our royal master has sent me on a mission that should not have been necessary,’ he advised Boleyn. ‘But since your despatches are as rare as smiles from a plaster saint, he wishes to know how advanced are the preparations on the French side.’
Boleyn was taking no nonsense from the man his family by marriage detested so heartily.
‘You may advise His Majesty that all is in hand for a triumphant procession, to be followed by the royal embrace on neutral territory. You may also advise yourself that if you had two beautiful daughters of marriageable age, rather than a spotty son and a daughter, neither of whom do you even venture forth in public with, then your hours would be full enough.’
Thomas ignored the slight and got down to business. ‘Does King Francis wish to be advised of the precise order of their meeting? Or will you leave that also to one of your daughters? If my information be accurate, one of them at least has much occasion to be in his presence.’
Boleyn reddened slightly, and gestured to his rear, where two liveried guards resplendent in tunics emblazoned with the fleur de lis emblem in embossed silver stood guarding the entrance door with crossed halberds.
‘Please accompany me into the presence and deliver your honey.’
After being escorted down a succession of corridors, passing through several guarded doors, and being ushered with great ceremony into the Great Hall, Thomas was able to bow for the first time before the man who at present appeared to hold the balance of power across the whole of Europe.
‘Archbishop Wolsey, I have heard much of you. Some of it good, some of it...’
‘I bring loving greetings from my master Henry of England,’ Thomas interrupted him in perfect French as he took in the long Valois face with the prominent nose, slightly hooded eyes and the suggestion of a wry smile.
Francis nodded in acknowledgement. ‘I congratulate you on your French, your Grace. I am surprised to learn that there are those in England able to teach my language so well. From whom did you learn your French, might I enquire?’
‘The French themselves, Your Majesty,’ Thomas replied. ‘In my early career, I was fortunate to be appointed chaplain to the Deputy Governor of Calais, and by such employment to travel over much of northern France.’
‘It seems that you took much from the people,’ Francis replied with a grim smile, ‘not to mention what you took from the Bishop of Tournai.’
‘I was indeed fortunate in receiving the confidence of his Holiness with regard to that office,’ Thomas replied tactfully, his eyes on the floor.
‘And now you bring word as to how we shall meet three days hence?’ Francis enquired.
‘Indeed, Your Majesty,’ Thomas replied, breaking the seal on the vellum scroll he had been carrying. ‘I had occasion to travel through the valley in which the two of you shall meet, and it would seem to be well positioned for such an auspicious greeting.’
‘Ah yes, the Val D’or,’ Francis mused aloud. ‘It is well named, is it not? The “Golden Valley” in your tongue?’
‘Indeed,’ Thomas agreed, ‘and I was much taken by the number of men armed with implements who appeared to be levelling the ground in its centre.’