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

by David Field

  Henry picked himself up, bowed formally to Francis and walked off the field towards the rope barriers. As he did so, he caught sight of an apprehensive looking Thomas standing, and half hiding, behind the Duke of Suffolk. Henry stormed over to Thomas and glared down at him from his superior height, mud still dribbling off his doublet.

  ‘You’ve given me better advice than that, Thomas. You made me look a fool, as did Francis. The Queen shall get her wish. Invite Carlos of Spain to visit England without delay.’

  XIII

  For the next few years Thomas was required to employ all his powers of diplomacy, as a broker of peace treaties, alliances and marriages. It began as soon as he was being relieved of his riding boots by a footman in the main hall of York Palace, as it was now generally known, and he sent for his trusted senior envoy Thomas Cromwell, who knew Europe, and particularly France and Italy, well, following his years as a mercenary soldier, and who, like his patron, had risen from humble origins, in his case a blacksmith’s shop in Putney.

  Cromwell was instructed to sail on the next tide to Spain, there to persuade the Emperor Charles that the warm sun of English friendship was once again shining in his direction, and that King Henry wished to meet with him in private at Canterbury Cathedral where, if anyone sought to enquire, he was to claim to be visiting the shrine of Saint Thomas A’ Becket by way of pilgrimage. He was to land at Portsmouth, from where he would be discreetly escorted through the southern counties of England by the still relieved and grateful Duke of Suffolk, royal brother-in-law and hardened soldier, to the chosen meeting place.

  Archbishop Warham was sent on pilgrimage to Rome while the Archbishop of York conducted services at Canterbury in his absence, and employed every available minute of his spare time converting the somewhat austere ecclesiastical residence into a palace fit for a visiting monarch who was anxious to keep his precise identity secret. However, his eventual arrival, on a cold frosty night in February 1520, was not a matter that Henry could in all conscience keep from Charles’s aunt, and his Queen, Katherine, and she was already in residence with a select number of her Ladies as Charles’s arrival was announced by Suffolk, whose wife Mary was already in the reception chamber that Thomas had created out of the scriptorium and furnished with rich hangings from Hampton.

  On Katherine’s urging, Suffolk delayed advising Thomas of the arrival of their royal guest until Katherine had an opportunity to steer him towards the narrow window alcove overlooking a busy street and renew her urging that he should not be swayed by Thomas’s gilded tongue into anything that did not suit his immediate plans. Charles looked back into the chamber, where Mary of Suffolk sat with her husband, warming herself at a brazier that Thomas had hastily installed in the normally chilly book depository.

  ‘Dearest Aunt, you must surely appreciate that I have long since been wary of that posturing prelate, who seeks only to advance his own fortunes while pretending to govern the diplomatic affairs of the whole of Europe. It was thanks to him that I was deprived of the hand of that most beautiful of creatures that Suffolk now has in his bed of nights.’

  ‘I hear that instead of her, you will be offered the hand of my own daughter, the Princess Mary,’ she warned him. ‘I remind you of the bonds of consanguinity that should deter any God-fearing man from accepting such a proposal.’

  ‘And yet it would surely bond our two nations together for all time,’ he argued, ‘since the ties of marriage between members of two royal houses may be relied upon to unite forever the nations from which they come,’

  ‘Is that so?’ Katherine snorted. ‘If that be the case, pray explain why England and Spain are not perpetually bound to each other by my marriage to the faithless Henry. It is because of the machinations of that oily prelate who is so much in my husband’s ear that he no longer knows his own mind. Beware of him, is all I ask, and be not misled from your true destiny by that serpent in a Cardinal’s hat.’

  ‘A Cardinal who would be Pope, what is more,’ Charles told her, remembering his previous meetings with Thomas. ‘Fear not, Aunt, I shall play a sweeter tune on him than ever he plays on me.’

  At that moment, Thomas bustled into the room with an embarrassed apology for not having been available to welcome Charles formerly to Canterbury. Charles smiled graciously and advised Thomas that he had hardly been missed, since his aunt had kept him so warmly entertained. Then he looked past Thomas towards the door.

  ‘Does not my royal uncle accompany you, as always?’

  ‘He also sends his apologies, but is at present riding hard from Richmond, having been delayed by matters of State. However, he bid me make you welcome and comfortable in his absence, and his messenger assures me that he will be joining us for supper.’

  Two hours later Henry had made good his promise, and was at the head of the modestly attended, but richly equipped, table that had been set up in the Archbishop’s Hall, and laden with all manner of rich and costly dishes and seemingly endless flagons of wine, which Thomas had personally selected and had carted down from London, to ensure that not one of them was French in origin.

  The supper was accompanied by the most polite and non-political conversation that could be coaxed along by Thomas, who was at his diplomatic best in enquiring about the quality of Charles’s sea crossing, the anticipated state of the ground in Spain for the forthcoming Spring planting, the health of his various royal relatives and so on. It was obvious — even to the giddy Duchess of Suffolk — that the conversation around the table was being deliberately steered off matters of international concern, and as she allowed her gaze to wander several times across at the long-jawed ugliness of their royal guest she suppressed a shudder at the thought that her brother had once contemplated negotiating her into the man’s bed, and held closely onto Brandon’s arm to reassure herself that those nightmare days were well past.

  Hers was not the only gaze that was wandering, and while Thomas was preparing for bed he received an unofficial visit from Henry, who seemed enervated beyond the prospect of retiring for the night.

  ‘Who is the Queen’s new lady-in-waiting, Thomas? The one with the blue gown and the entrancing white neck and brown eyes?’

  ‘That will be Norfolk’s granddaughter, Mary Boleyn. She is comely, is she not?’

  ‘Most certainly she is, Thomas, most certainly she is. Is she wed, or betrothed?’

  ‘No, Hal, but if I may respectfully anticipate your next question, neither is she a maid.’

  ‘And of what concern should that be to me?’ Henry demanded in a tone of voice that sounded a warning that the bounds of familiarity might just have been crossed. Thomas heard the warning, but could still turn matters to his advantage.

  ‘It is to be regretted,’ he replied in his most outraged tone, ‘that she has so disgraced the family name of Howard by the freedom with which she distributed her favours throughout the Court of France — including, or so it rumoured, even to Francis himself. It is unfortunate that my lady of Suffolk was so indebted to her for her ministrations following the unfortunate death of Louis that she was prevailed upon, by her delicate conscience, to repay the debt by urging your dear Queen to take her into her service.’

  ‘She’s a whore, say you?’

  Thomas allowed his embarrassed gaze to fall to the floor.

  ‘It is not for a man of God such as myself to employ such a word to describe one of Her Majesty’s Ladies, but...’

  ‘Thomas,’ Henry interrupted, ‘it is too late at night for your diplomatic games. Answer me truly — is it spoken abroad that she is a whore?’

  ‘Yes, Hal, much though it grieves me to —’

  ‘Yes, yes, spare me the holy oil, Thomas,’ Henry demanded. ‘See to it that she is wed without delay.’

  ‘Hal?’

  ‘Wed, Thomas. Married. Eased into the bed of some limp-cocked noble of the realm who will toast his good fortune while leaving her unsatisfied. God knows we have plenty of those lurking around the Court, if my information be correct.’r />
  ‘I would not know, of course,’ Thomas assured him, while mentally running a list of potential candidates through his mind, without advising Henry that his own intelligence of the sexual prowess of his various Courtiers was much more reliable than Henry’s.

  ‘Then find out, and see to it,’ Henry insisted. ‘On other more important matters, I would have you speak first with Charles on the morrow, to sound out his deepest thoughts regarding affairs in Europe. I wish to send Francis a message that wrestling me to the ground in Guines may have cost him his ambitions in Italy. We must be allied again with Charles, either against Francis directly, or at least bound by such treaties of non-aggression against each other that Francis will think twice before attacking either of us. Ensure that Charles is left in no doubt of our desire ere I meet with him formally.’

  ‘Certainly, Hal, although I think that you will find Charles to be just as anxious as are you to rub Francis’s nose in the shit.’

  ‘And find a husband for the Queen’s whore-in-waiting!’ was Henry’s final instruction as he strode from the chamber with a chuckle of anticipation.

  The next morning Thomas was up bright and early, hearing both of his Masses at the hands of Canterbury’s Dean before the pale winter sun had even shown its face between the jettied gables that hung perilously outwards over the narrow medieval streets of Canterbury. He was helping himself to his second goblet of wine, and toying with a piece of cheese and a slice of fresh bread, when Charles made his somewhat overhung-looking appearance.

  ‘Tomaz, what have you in store for me today?’

  ‘What would you wish, Your Majesty?’

  ‘To you I am Carlos — have you forgotten how you drank me under the table in Granada?’

  ‘I have only lately rid myself of the sore head that followed,’ Thomas assured him, ‘and in the days to come I hope to reward your hospitality by opening a door that shall lead to the permanent closing of doors to Francois of France.’

  ‘What do you propose?’

  ‘It is what Henry proposes,’ Thomas replied, at which Charles burst out laughing.

  ‘Let us not play those games again, Tomaz. You wish to be Pope, and I wish Henry’s alliance against the French bastard. What could be simpler? We can agree that before we leave this breakfast board, and then I can remount my horse and depart for Portsmouth.’

  ‘It is not I who must agree, but His Majesty,’ Thomas pointed out tactfully, earning himself another hoot of laughter from Charles.

  ‘Grandissima mierda, Tomaz. Even in Spain it is known that the safest way into Henry’s ear is through the mouth of Thomas Wolsey. One of our Ambassadors reports that if you want to know what Henry will do, you ask the man in the red hat what he wishes to do. It is even rumoured that he does so for a price, and, if we understand each other, the price of England’s support against Francois is the best seat in Rome for its current Archbishop of York. De acuerdo, yes?’

  Thomas made a great display of sighing.

  ‘You must understand, Carlos, that the King is his own man. True it is that I am most fortunate in that, on occasions, he seems to value my counsel, but I can only act as an ambassador for his wishes. There can be no guarantee that what we discuss over breakfast he will agree to over dinner.’

  Charles smiled slowly before replying. ‘And there can, as you well know, be no guarantee that the College of Cardinals — of which of course you are now one — will prefer you over another claimant to the Papal throne. Thus is life made more difficult for us both. But please make known my wishes to he who you claim to have no influence over.’

  It was agreed in principle before the sun was at its full height over Canterbury’s ancient towers, but Charles was persuaded to remain for one more night, in order to begin his return journey to Portsmouth fresh and fully rested. As Henry and Thomas stood in the West Bell Tower, watching the small group of horsemen wending their way through the streets to the gate that gave access to the Ashford road, Henry took his opportunity.

  ‘Have you yet given thought to a husband for Mistress Boleyn?’

  Thomas had spent half the previous night giving thought to the matter, but his solution needed to seem as if it came from Henry himself. Thomas had an uneasy suspicion that Henry already had carnal designs on the fresh new recruit to the Queen’s retinue, and if Thomas was to avoid even more of Katherine’s ire, he must minimise the opportunities to put that desire into action. If he could marry Mary Boleyn off to one of Henry’s own ‘minion’ Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber, then there would be less opportunity for the King to bed her in any of the royal palaces. This would, of course, once more turn York Palace into a well-heeled brothel, as it had been when Bessie Blount had been in the height of favour, but once again Thomas could claim to be in total ignorance of how, and by whom, his guest quarters were occupied. But first he had to hide his true intentions from Hal himself, not that this was a new experience for Thomas.

  ‘I had thought that for someone from such a noble family as the Howards, only someone of equally noble blood would suffice as a spouse. However, as is quite appropriate, you have most of them in your intimate service in the Privy Chamber.’

  Henry thought for a moment.

  ‘Harry Norreys is but recently married, and as for Francis Bryan, it was you yourself who urged me to expel him from my service in the Privy Chamber due to his wild debauches. Nick Carew is affianced to Bryan’s sister, God help him, and while Will Crompton is between wives, he has important duties close to my interests.’

  And close to your arse, Thomas reminded himself as he banished from his mind any thought of suggesting that the Groom of the Stool and procurer royal of Palace whores be wedded to this elegant new arrival at Court.

  ‘I was thinking of Will Carey, Hal.’

  It would be a wise choice, if Henry agreed. Carey was related to the powerful Percys of Northumberland, and Henry Senior was a close friend of Thomas’s, and had proved invaluable in the capture of Tournai a few years previously. The young Harry Percy was a page in Thomas’s household, most frequently based at York Palace, and best positioned to keep Thomas aware if the King sought to use the official residence of the Archbishop of York as a trysting place with Mary Boleyn.

  Henry nodded slowly in agreement.

  ‘A wise choice, Thomas. He is my third cousin through the Beaufort connection, and would be a suitable husband for one of Her Majesty’s Ladies. See to it that he is left in no doubt where his duties lie towards his King, although given the Lady Mary’s obvious beauty he is hardly likely to regard that as an onerous imposition. And while we are on matters of wedlock, have you yet chosen someone who might wish to end the carnal drought of Mistress Blount?’

  Thomas almost laughed out loud, but checked himself in time. If there was one woman in Christendom least likely to be lacking in carnal exercise, it was Bessie Blount, even if she had but lately risen from her childbed after launching a royal bastard into the world. But Henry had obviously finished with her, and there would no doubt be a generous payoff, both to her and the man chosen to take soiled royal goods to be his lawful wedded wife.

  ‘I had in mind Gilbert Talboys,’ Thomas said reassuringly. ‘He partnered her, as you may recall, at the Midsummer Ball held in your honour at Hampton. He was most put out when she declined his invitation upstairs later in the evening.’

  ‘She had a prior engagement, as you are well aware,’ Henry growled back. ‘But what else did you promise him, in addition to the lady herself?’

  ‘Nothing, Hal, since these matters are within your dispensation. But he is greatly indebted to me, given that I rescued his father from the madhouse, and much taken by the lady herself. She has a smile that would enchant any man.’

  ‘She also has thighs that move with the speed of barn doors flapping in a Spring gale,’ Henry chuckled, ‘but there is no need to acquaint him with that until he discovers it for himself.’

  ‘Leave it with me, Hal. But now we must consider how best to announce to the
world that England and Spain are once again sharing a bed.’

  Back in London, those arrangements were swiftly made, and news was sent across the Channel to Calais that it would be hosting a most significant conference down the road at Gravelines in July. The resulting Treaty of Bruges, drafted in haste but with great care by Thomas Cromwell, pledged both England and Spain against any treaties with, or military assistance to, France during the next two years, and as a further insult to King Francis the betrothal of the now six-year-old Princess Mary to the Dauphin was repudiated, and Charles of Spain undertook to wed her in due course. If Queen Katherine had any private objection, she chose not to express it publicly, and a sumptuous banquet was held behind the forbidding walls of the English fortress of Calais to celebrate this great reunion of England and Spain.

  There was less rejoicing when the tricky Charles took advantage of England’s promise not to come to France’s aid in order to relaunch his own attack on Francis’s troops in Italy. He had also begun to lean heavily on the tired old Pope Leo X to lend him both military forces and the blessing of God for any aggressions towards his old enemy Francis, on the ground that the French king was giving sanctuary to Martin Luther and his Lollard supporters, who were openly challenging the supremacy of the Church of Rome in the Christian world. Since one of the terms of the Treaty of Bruges committed English troops to the aid of anyone who attacked Spain, all that Charles now had to do was provoke Francis into such an attack, and all prospect of peace in Europe would sink without trace.

  Francis was well aware of this, and sought to hide his hand in the actions of others he funded and equipped to make border incursions into Spain, and Spain’s ally Bourbon. His deception was revealed when the commanders of the invading armies were sternly repelled by an indignant Charles, who called upon Henry of England to honour the Treaty. Henry needed no excuse to exact revenge against Francis and assuage his wounded pride, and in July 1522, Henry Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, clattered into Brittany and Picardy at the head of twenty thousand troops and began laying the countryside to waste in anticipation of being joined by Imperial troops under Charles’s command in a combined attack on Paris. When Charles diverted his troops south to Italy instead, Suffolk retreated behind the walls of Calais, and yet another English initiative to regain its lost lands in France had come to nought.