The King's Commoner: The rise and fall of Cardinal Wolsey (The Tudor Saga Series Book 2)

by David Field

  ‘Symbolic, as well as practical,’ Francis told him. ‘It is fitting that neither of us shall stand upon higher ground than the other, although I am advised that your king is much taller than I, and indeed much greater in all his measurements.’

  ‘He is blessed with a warrior’s frame, certainly,’ Thomas replied diplomatically. ‘But as I approached this temporary palace, I passed through what I can only describe as a new city being constructed beside the village of Balinghem. There seemed to my untutored eye to be several pavilions in the course of construction, with many tents surrounding them.’

  Francis chuckled and wagged a mock admonitory finger at Thomas. ‘Fie, my Lord Archbishop. Your eye can hardly be described as untutored, given the construction that is taking place in your own camp outside Guines. My scouts tell me that your King has ordered the construction of a similar temporary town on his side. Apart from giving work to every carpenter and stonemason in Europe, it would seem that we are destined to compete with each other in pomp and finery.’

  ‘Indeed, and beginning with your first meeting,’ Thomas replied as he urged their business forward. ‘This is the list of those who shall accompany my master to the edge of the rise on the northern side. He will then descend into the vale on horseback, accompanied solely by the young Marquess of Dorset, who will take his sword from him ere you embrace. You may perhaps wish to make similar arrangements.’

  Francis chuckled once again. ‘You may rest assured, my Lord Archbishop, that on the southern ridge you will be blessed with the sight of the finest nobles in France. I shall make the descent accompanied by the Duc de Bourbon, and to him will I entrust my blade while embracing your master. And now let me remind you of what you have been missing since your days in Calais.’

  He snapped his fingers high in the air, and a liveried page strode forward with a large flagon of wine and two goblets. Once they were filled, each man raised his goblet and proposed the mutual toast to ‘l’intente cordiale’.

  Now Thomas was back on the northern ridge of the valley designated for the formal meeting, looking anxiously at the expressionless face of Henry as he gazed across at the massed plumes, pennants, coursers and shining armour of the French contingent. His attention was distracted by the blowing of heraldic trumpets, and the scurrying through the English party of men-at-arms bearing the order that everyone bar the King was to remain rigidly still, with weapons sheathed, on pain of death, while the King descended slowly on horseback down the slope into the valley, which looked to all intents and purposes like a ploughed field following the levelling that had taken place during the course of the past few days.

  The two monarchs sidled their massive war horses alongside each other, and reached out in a firm embrace. Then they dismounted, and each unbuckled his sword and handed it to his noble equerry before they embraced more bodily, and gave every appearance of being pleased to meet at long last. Thomas heaved a sigh of relief, and once the order had been passed down the line that the English were free to move again he turned his mount and headed back the few miles to the English camp, in order to reassure himself that all was in place for what promised to be the diplomatic extravagance of the decade.

  The sight that met his eyes was unrivalled anywhere in the known world, and most closely resembled a massive Crusader camp established with all the wealth that resided in the world. In what had once been two and a half acres of dull, flat land of no great agricultural value had been created a veritable city of marquees and lesser tents. In its centre was a grand pavilion constructed partly of stone for many courses, above which had been erected wooden frames on which had been stretched hundreds of yards of what they called ‘cloth of gold’, a heavy but luxurious fabric woven with silver and gold thread. Above that rose a further thirty feet of artfully crafted wooden frames that had been painted to resemble the stones of a great cathedral. Across the top of the entire edifice had been stretched specially oiled cloth painted a leaden hue in order to resemble roof slates, into which glass panels had been expertly inserted in order that those within might feel themselves to be in the open air.

  This virtual palace was arranged in four blocks, each over three hundred feet in length, in the centre of which was an impressive courtyard. In all, the English palace occupied an area of twelve thousand square yards, and before it were three fountains that spouted red wine, fresh water or spiced claret. There was a ‘chapel’ that resembled a cathedral with its ornate hangings and saintly statues, but which had a gallery to one side that was well appointed enough to host a banquet of its very own. Even the lesser ranks below the royal party — the pick of England’s noble houses, together with representatives of every county in the realm, and not overlooking the Church, which had sent its leading bishops and many lesser clergymen — were sumptuously accommodated in almost three thousand tents that were the pride of the London needleworkers who had been richly rewarded for producing their best work in the shortest time.

  Then it was on to the nearby tiltyard, where on 9th June, the day after the formal meeting ceremony, King Francis rode in with a heavily armed but select escort to view the ground upon which the nations’ champions would clash and clatter in three days time. Both monarchs proudly entered their names in the list, followed by many nobles on either side. Having reassured himself that the bluff fighting men on either side were unlikely to come to premature blows due to their inability to understand each other’s tongues, Thomas retired to his allocated chambers within the main pavilion to study the seating plan for the grand exchange dinner planned for two days hence, when Henry would travel south to dine with the Queen of France, while King Francis would dine with Queen Katherine within the English pavilion in a show of extravagance that Thomas had been persuaded to host. He would have preferred to go south with Henry, but was flattered that Henry obviously considered him the best person to symbolise the nation as the host for the occasion, an honour that might previously have been bestowed upon either the Queen or the royal sister Mary of Suffolk.

  It was at this dinner that the first seed was sown in what would become Thomas’s ultimate downfall. He had been preoccupied in welcoming the guests as they were shown in by young scholars hired for the occasion who were fluent in French, but were dressed as pages, and he had only politely nodded to the ‘Duc’ of somewhere or other who had been announced, and who had sported on his arm a strikingly beautiful young lady with a knowing smile that belied her seeming youth. Then a few moments later he became aware that the young lady in question had been embraced in a warm hug by the Duchess of Suffolk, while her husband Charles Brandon stood by, looking very nonplussed and somewhat embarrassed. As Thomas drew closer to the two women, who were squealing with delight and dancing around each other like two long-lost friends, Mary of Suffolk realised that they had become the centre of attention, and blushed as she explained her bizarre behaviour.

  ‘You must forgive my actions, my lords, but this is Mary Boleyn, daughter of our Ambassador to France, and my most loyal companion during my months in exile at the Court of France. Even when my other ladies were banished, she was allowed to remain, and without her constant company I might have lost my wits, such was my fear and isolation at that time. My Lord Archbishop, might she and her escort be allowed a seat near us? I would deem it a great favour to add to the many we already owe you.’

  Having received a confirmatory nod from Charles, Thomas set about reorganising the seating at the high table, giving up his own seat for the French nobleman who had been the unsuspecting means of reuniting the two breathless ladies, and instructing that another place setting be squeezed in to the left of the Duchess of Suffolk. He was back at the entrance just in time to bow and scrape a welcome to the French king who was the guest of honour, and as he led him to his seat beside Katherine he sensed Francis give a slight start as he gazed across to the left of the high table, where Mary Boleyn was chatting animatedly with Mary of Suffolk.

  It was only then that Thomas remembered the rumours passed on to h
im by the French Ambassador that Mary had graced many a bed at the French Court, including that of the great Valois himself. Thomas looked more closely at her, and could understand why she had experienced no difficulty in seducing half the nobility of France. He also remembered his half-conceived plan to slip her into the English Court as one of the Queen’s Ladies, to the eventual disgrace of the entire Howard family, and it looked as if Fate was lending a hand. As it transpired it was, but not to his advantage.

  The banquet lasted all afternoon, but by seven in the evening the French guests had all departed, several of them draped over their horses’ necks by dutiful and attentive grooms. Thomas was surveying the aftermath of several hundred pounds’ worth of wreckage and spoiled dishes when a page advised him that Henry wished to see him in his private quarters. Thomas assumed that it was in order that he might give Henry an account of how the banquet had gone in the English camp, and was therefore taken aback when the King launched straight into another matter with a bluntness that signified that it was important to him.

  ‘I wish for Bessie Blount to be well provided for, given the recent birth of our son. I also wish to rid myself of her now that she has become a burden and a possible source of gossip at Court. Make this happen, Thomas, preferably by finding her a husband among the many who lie around you at York Place or at Hampton.’

  Thomas was sorely tempted to retort that Bessie Blount was already the subject of considerable gossip in Courtly circles, and that the Queen had no illusions on that score, so that Henry had no need to put her away at this late stage in their relationship. But the look on Henry’s face warned him against any attempt to thwart the royal will, and he merely bowed his head in supplication as Henry continued.

  ‘In return for being comfortably provided for in marriage, she is to be parted from her son, who is to be given the name Fitzroy and brought up in one of the royal palaces. The Queen will be furious, and it must be your honeyed tongue that conveys the tidings. Then I wish you to begin negotiations with the Pope to have Henry Fitzroy legitimised, that he may become my heir.’

  Thomas gulped, and stared in stunned amazement at a King who appeared to have taken leave of his senses. Thomas had no doubt that he could find a husband for the still very attractive and nubile Bessie, and he would, at worst, be prepared to brazen out the wrath of a Queen who seemed to no longer have much regard for him anyway, but the prospect of approaching Pope Leo X with a request for a Papal dispensation that would legitimise a royal bastard conceived in an act of blatant adultery that publicly insulted one of the most prominent and pious Catholic women in Christendom, and the aunt of the Holy Roman Emperor, was unthinkable.

  Henry looked up aggressively when there was no reply from Thomas.

  ‘Was it not for such services that I raised you from your humble station in life?’ he thundered.

  Thomas simply bowed silently and slid slowly backwards out of the presence, only allowing himself a soft curse under his breath once he was safely separated from Henry by a set of heavy doors. Then, since it was Sunday, he retired to his tent and dressed as befitted his ecclesiastical rank prior to conducting a High Mass in the tented cathedral.

  The following day was the first encounter between the two nations in the temporary tiltyard, and everyone was ordered out to watch the brutal exchange between the warriors and monarchs. Queen Katherine was there with her Ladies, and Thomas noted yet again how close she seemed to be with her sister-in-law Mary of Suffolk, although on this occasion they were clearly arguing in that pleasant way that they had. Charles Brandon was being assisted into his armour as Thomas walked across to the English ‘safe’ area, where men, horses, grooms and heralds were all but colliding with each other as they sought to prepare for a day of chivalric aggression.

  ‘Have you come to bless my fortunes in the tourney, dear friend?’ Charles asked Thomas with a nervous grin.

  ‘God has clearly blessed you already, with your warlike frame and eternally youthful vigour,’ he replied. ‘I came merely to enquire why your wife and sister-in-law are conversing with such animation. Is there some issue I can resolve between them?’

  ‘Ever the supportive friend,’ Brandon winced as the groom took in another notch on the strap of his breastplate. ‘They are merely competing for the services of Mary Boleyn.’

  ‘As many men at the French Court have recently done, from my information,’ Thomas muttered. ‘You would be wise to keep your wife’s new lady-in-waiting at home, rather than expose her to the nobles at Court.’

  ‘Truly?’ Brandon enquired with a raised eyebrow. ‘Perhaps I should advise Mary to let her serve Queen Katherine, as she is insisting. Yet Mary is so fond of her that it would be a sad loss.’

  Thomas thought for a moment, then decided to take the plunge.

  ‘Charles, you and I are dear friends, so I feel that I may safely confide in you. His Majesty will shortly be marrying off Bess Blount, and unless his affections for Queen Katherine have been fully restored, his wandering eye will fall upon Mistress Boleyn if she is prominent in your household when he visits. You would not wish to incur Katherine’s ire, as I have done, by being the means by which he was able to consort with Mistress Blount.’

  ‘And yet it would seem,’ Brandon replied with a knowing smirk down at Thomas as he was lowered onto his quarter horse ahead of riding out into the pas d’armes opening parade, ‘that one may, like yourself, earn much advance and favour in Henry’s service by bringing about such meetings. We shall lose no time in inviting him down to Westhorpe once we are home. And now, blessing or not, I must join the line. As ever, Thomas, I am in your debt.’

  He cantered off, and Thomas had to swiftly dodge the mud flung up from the horse’s hooves. In leaping back, he was almost mown down by another mounted knight on his way into the main ring, and he reminded himself that this was no place for a man of God. Besides which, he had a letter to write to Rome, and a daunting interview to request with the Queen.

  The tourney lasted in all for three days, and Henry and Francis lost no time in tilting at each other, with mixed results. Henry succeeded in breaking more lances than Francis in the many charges down the field, but it somehow seemed that Francis was always more loudly cheered from his side than Henry was from the English ranks. Henry attempted to outdo Francis in the matter of accoutrements, and on the final day even succeeded in draping his horse with cloth of gold and pearls. It was left to the Earl of Devonshire to do what Henry had no doubt wished to do, when he unseated Francis and broke his nose. On this somewhat sour note, the contests came to an end, and it was left to Thomas, in his luxurious chapel, to grant a general indulgence to all who had participated as he sang his way through yet another Mass, with Queen Katherine’s eyes boring into his back as he turned to raise the Host in front of the altar.

  He had paid the price of all those who carry unwelcome messages, even from a king to a queen. Katherine, when informed of Henry’s intentions towards his infant son Henry, first of all gasped, then let out a stream of invective in Spanish that left her Duenna almost choking with the effort of suppressing her laughter. Finally Katherine moved so close to Thomas that he could smell the cloves on her breath as she hissed back at him.

  ‘You may tell my husband the King that he does himself no honour by rubbing the nose of his faithful, loyal and God-ordained wife into the shit of his own sin. As for you, Whoremaster-General, you are no better than he, for all your costly vestments that leave you resembling an overfed peacock. Go from my presence, and in future seek audience with me as if you were my fishmonger. Or should I perhaps say “butcher”, since surely that would have been your trade, had you not taken to procuring strumpets for the royal bed?’

  Thomas’s Spanish ran to knowing a stern dismissal from the presence when he heard one, even had the tone of voice in which it was delivered not confirmed that he was no longer welcome, and he bowed ceremoniously out of the door that a page held open in readiness. He reported back to Henry that his first mission had
been accomplished, and that the Queen was far from impressed, but Henry seemed preoccupied with another matter.

  ‘I feel that Francis bested me in the tourneys,’ Henry confessed, a thoughtful look on his face, ‘so I have in mind challenging him to a wrestling match. I have rarely found a man who could best me at wrestling, and by this means I might rescue some of my reputation as a man of warlike action.’

  Thomas refrained from stating the obvious fact, known to every Courtier, that it was not a wise move to beat Henry at anything — wrestling, tennis, hunting, anything — so that his frequent successes were not necessarily a true reflection of his actual ability. However, this was neither the time nor the place to mention it.

  ‘There is still a day left ere we must depart, Hal,’ Thomas said encouragingly. ‘Do you wish me to be the bearer of the invitation to Francis?’

  ‘Who else, Thomas? And also make the arrangements for a suitable ring to be erected on the tiltyard field for which we have no further use.’

  Thomas lost no time in riding south with the invitation, and just before noon the following day, before the entire assembled English and French Courts, the two kings, suitably stripped down to their shirts, doublets and hose, walked warily round each other until the Earl Marshall of England dropped a white cloth to the muddy ground, and the two monarchs came together in a grappling motion that sent them round in circles like two rutting stags with their antlers locked.

  Henry obviously had the height and weight advantage over the man three years his junior, but Francis was more supple and wily, and more than once managed to avoid being thrown by neatly stepping sideways. His agility began to annoy Henry, particularly after the French ensemble began laughing, hooting and baying their appreciation of their King’s athletic prowess. As Henry grew more red in the face he also grew less cautious, and as he attempted to pull Francis towards him in what was intended as a bear hug, Francis slipped his leg behind him and broke the hold as Henry fell over backwards into the mud. Earl Marshall Norfolk had no option but to declare Francis the winner, to the delighted shouts and renewed hoots of the French in the crowd.