by David Field
Harry bowed slightly on his way through. Thomas raised a hand to delay him, and pointed to the chair on his left. ‘Stay and take a little wine with me, Harry, for I have need of your counsel.’
‘You have need of my counsel?’ Harry enquired, disbelievingly.
‘In some matters,’ Thomas conceded. ‘I am aware that when we travel to Court, in order that I may advise His Majesty, you take yourself off to consort with the Queen and her Ladies. I am also apprehensive that the Queen may be falling too much under the influence of Boleyn and his cronies, who wish to wage war on France while it is weakened by the imprisonment of King Francis by Charles of Spain, who is of course Katherine’s nephew. Have you heard any conversation of this sort during your dalliance with her ladies?’
Harry suddenly coloured deeply, and was anxious to explain himself.
‘In truth, much of my time is taken up in admiring the music of Master Smeaton, who is frequently also in attendance. But this matter of which you speak — is that why John Joachim has recently been biding with us? Brings he entreaties from the French Regent?’
‘None of your business,’ Thomas reminded him curtly, ‘and do not seek to evade my question. Is the Boleyn influence growing over the Queen?’
‘Not that of Sir Thomas, so far as I have observed,’ Harry assured him, glad to have diverted the conversation somewhat. ‘But, as you will be aware, there is another Boleyn who influences the King himself.’
Thomas was well aware that, as he had gloomily predicted, Henry had taken Mary Boleyn as his mistress shortly after her marriage to William Carey, and he was regularly carousing with her here in this very building. Once more the stately London residence of the Archbishop of York had become a royal whorehouse, and Thomas dreaded those occasions when he was obliged to wither under the acid stare of Queen Katherine, who was of the belief that Thomas was conniving at it in order to increase his influence over Henry.
Thomas tutted quietly and selected a piece of chicken breast, in the hope that it would not turn to bile in his stomach, as so much rich food seemed to do these days. The cook had stern instructions to stay her hand when it came to spices, else she would be seeking a new position.
‘Is there no sign of the King tiring of his latest dalliance?’
‘As yet, no,’ Harry replied. ‘But if there be any subtle influence over the Queen from the Boleyns, it may well come from the sister, who seems altogether more silent and guarded than the twittering Mary.’
‘Mary has managed to make a Queen’s Lady out of her sister Anne?’
‘In truth, sir, she did not require a sister to make a lady of her. She is most learned, most douce of temperament, and the least prattling of those who sit around the Queen. She has a quiet beauty, a restrained manner and the most entrancing of —’
‘Yes, thank you, Harry,’ Thomas interrupted him with a wave of the hand. ‘When I have in mind appointing maids of honour to the Archbishop of York, I shall of course consult you,’ he added sarcastically, then grinned in case he had rebuked the blushing youth too far.
‘May I now go in search of my supper, sir?’ Harry enquired. ‘If those musicians you employ applied themselves to their instruments with the same dedication that they devote to their stomachs, our occasional revelries would sound more melodious. As it is, I shall be lucky indeed if they have left me so much as half a manchet.’
‘Yes, thank you, Harry,’ Thomas replied with another wave of the hand, which this time contained a knife on which was pinioned a slice of pork that did not, by its smell anyway, threaten to invoke any stomach acid. ‘You have been most helpful, and mind that you report to me if you note any further change in the Queen’s manner towards the matter of which we spoke.’
As it transpired, Thomas did not have to wait long in order to test the water in that regard. At the end of a brief session with Henry, discussing certain matters of taxation, and being strongly warned by the King not to make any plans that would necessitate the calling of a Parliament that was already on the point of rebellion, Thomas was advised that Katherine wished to see him.
‘For what reason, Hal?’
‘How would I know?’ Henry replied. ‘She never speaks to me, except through her Groom of the Chamber, enquiring gently when it will be my pleasure to resume the royal marriage bed. As if that offered any pleasure these days!’
With trepidation, Thomas heard his arrival being announced over the gentle lute playing of Mark Smeaton, a languid, slim youth with a mop of dark hair spilling out from under his feathered bonnet as he sat in a corner coaxing a lyrical waltz from the strings. The Queen looked up over her needlepoint, and gestured with a downward cast of her eyes for Thomas to advance further into the chamber and take a seat.
As he did so, his eyes lit upon Harry Percy, seated in another corner and playing a game of chess against a young lady who would otherwise have seemed unremarkable, but for her penetrating dark eyes, which contrasted markedly with the white of her neck as it disappeared into what God had no doubt intended should be breasts, before He grew tired of the construction and moved on. Thomas had learned to play chess during his days at Oxford, and had become quite skilled; however, he had never known two opponents conduct the game with the giggles and furtive looks from under the eyebrows that were being exchanged between his page and the new arrival who must be Mary Boleyn’s sister, Anne.
‘My lord Archbishop,’ Katherine said coldly with the curtest of nods, ‘pray tell me why it is so important to my husband that you place obstacles in the way of my nephew in his greatest moment of triumph.’
‘Madame?’
‘Do not “madame” me, my Lord Archbishop. Since we are no longer “Tomaz” and “Katherine”, you may address me as “Your Majesty”.’
‘Then I repeat, Your Majesty, why should you believe my motive to be solely that of thwarting the Emperor Carlos? My desire, as ever, is to best preserve England from a war it cannot afford to lose.’
‘And cannot afford to finance, if my information be correct,’ Katherine replied disdainfully. ‘And the reason for that may be found in your extravagance in sending Suffolk into France with so many men, only to return with no victory to show for it.’
‘There would have been victory, Your Majesty, had your nephew honoured his treaty obligation to come to our banner north of Paris,’ Thomas countered, mentally noting that someone — almost certainly Norfolk or Boleyn — had been in her ear regarding the current state of the Exchequer.
‘And is this why you persecute Carlos when even now he is basking in the glory of his victory over the French idiot?’
‘What Carlos is presently engaged in, according to my latest information,’ Thomas retorted, slightly red in the face, ‘is a warlike progress through Italy that threatens the very Pope himself, in his citadel in Rome.’
‘Carlos is a good Catholic,’ Katherine assured him, ‘and would do nothing to harm the Pope. But if you are so anxious on that score, and so close to his Holiness withal, why are you not there in person, defending him?’
‘Because, Your Majesty,’ Thomas explained patiently, ‘it were better that the balance of power in Europe be maintained between Carlos and Francis.’
‘Better for your ambition, you mean?’
‘No, Your Majesty — better for England, of which you are Queen.’
Any reply that Katherine had intended became enveloped in a disdainful snort, as her eyes snapped sideways towards Mary Boleyn, whose gaze dropped to her needlepoint with the speed of a portcullis with snapped chains. Katherine glared back at Thomas.
‘You may leave us, my Lord Archbishop.’
Thomas needed no further invitation, and bowed his way backwards out of the presence, as protocol demanded. As he looked up, he caught a malicious smirk on the face of Mark Smeaton, and mentally wished him leg cramps. As he cleared the doorway, it occurred to him that Harry Percy had not appeared to notice his presence, such had been the attention he was bestowing on the chessboard — or was it his o
pponent?
On the short wherry trip to the Exchequer, where he had urgent business, he reflected on the sorry pass into which matters had been allowed to drift. Charles of Spain was positioned so as to take the remainder of Italy that was not already under his military control, Francis was languishing in some Spanish prison, England had once again played the part of the jilted bride at the altar, the nation was in financial ruin, he was out of favour with the Queen, and Henry seemed to be reluctant to follow his next advice. And the acid was once again rising to his throat.
Once in his Chancellor’s chamber, he lost no time in sending for Thomas Cromwell, and seeking his best advice on how to replenish the Treasury without further taxing the people.
Cromwell smiled reassuringly. ‘We could always seek a donation, master.’
Thomas began to laugh, then realised that he was the only one doing so. He stared back at Cromwell in disbelief.
‘Are you serious, man? There would hardly be a man in England with his wits firmly inside his head who would voluntarily hand over a groat in the King’s cause at present.’
‘Did I say aught about it being voluntary?’ Cromwell replied. ‘You, as Chancellor, are the gatekeeper to the royal prerogative, are you not? And under that prerogative, His Majesty can command all manner of support from his people in time of great national emergency?’
‘And what emergency would that be,’ Thomas demanded sceptically, ‘bearing in mind that there is currently no threat to the nation, since Charles is in Italy, and Francis is his prisoner?’
‘The emergency that was,’ Cromwell explained. ‘It was necessary to send troops under my lord of Suffolk to protect England during the recent wars, and that required the outlay of much money. Money which we are now obliged to recompense ourselves with, against the next such emergency.’
‘Thomas,’ Wolsey explained patiently, ‘I am currently seeking to persuade Henry to petition for the release of Francis from bondage in Spain. He is currently as much of a threat to England — now or in the immediate future — as I am of besting Norfolk in the tourney.’
‘And how many, apart from the members of Council, are aware of that?’ Cromwell argued.
As Thomas sought hard for an answer, the smile on Cromwell’s face grew broader, and he raised his eyebrows mockingly as he watched his patron struggling to reply. Instead, Thomas posed another question.
‘How say you that we package this unpleasant surprise?’
‘We call it a “friendly” or “loving” grant,’ Cromwell suggested, ‘and we make it clear that it is a once-only levy, not to be repeated annually, but is merely intended to ensure that peace continues to reign within our shores.’
‘And the amount?’ Thomas asked.
‘A matter for you, sir,’ Cromwell replied deferentially, ‘but since it is just for the one occasion, one-fifth would seem appropriate.’
‘Too high,’ Thomas protested, ‘but we must ensure that the Church is called upon to pay more than the laity, to avoid accusations that I was guarding my own bailiwick. Make it one-sixth and one-third.’
‘One third?’ Cromwell repeated, horror-stricken.
‘Only for the Church,’ Thomas reassured him. ‘One sixth for everyone else. Including the nobility who have grown fat off the prosperity that so many years without invasion have granted them. As for its name, call it an “Amicable Grant for the Preservation of the Realm from Foreign Invasion”, or something similar. See to it. Tomorrow, if not today.’
XIV
In Norfolk’s town residence in Spitalfields, well clear of any fire or pestilence that might threaten the less fortunate citizens in the meaner inner streets, there was much laughter and considerable quantities of wine, as the two nobles congratulated each other on how matters were progressing. They were brothers-in-law, since Thomas Boleyn was married to Elizabeth, the sister of Thomas Howard, Third Duke of Norfolk. They were also united in their contempt for the butcher’s son who had not only failed to observe the natural order of things when it came to royal preferment but was urging peaceful negotiations in Europe upon a King who appeared to have no mind of his own. The last thing that the inveterate warrior Norfolk, and the seasoned diplomat Boleyn, wanted was a peaceful world in which they would remain unrewarded for periodic triumphs.
‘I should have left the peasant in the puddle into which I pushed him,’ Norfolk chortled, ‘but in truth it did not have so much shit in it as the dung heap into which he has leapt with his eyes open, but his wits shut for once.’
‘How can we be sure that the people will rebel?’ Boleyn enquired.
‘Because I shall make sure that they do,’ Norfolk replied. ‘The people of Suffolk and the counties north of that are as tight as the arse on a mullet when it comes to money, and the nation depends upon their output of wool and leather for its ongoing prosperity. Once they can be talked into open rebellion, the merchants of London will parade their malodorous bodies in the streets, calling for the head of the fat priest whose idea it was to raise the tax in the first place.’
‘Will they not blame the King himself?’
‘Of course they will, Thomas, of course they will, and this is where my niece, and your daughter, Mary will be of most value to us, reminding His lusty Majesty of whence came this insane idea.’
Boleyn’s face clouded briefly.
‘It is to be hoped that she is still in favour, when that day comes. She complains that of late, Henry seems to tire of her, and on his last visit to Hever he seemed to have more of an eye for Anne.’
‘Tell Mary to invent more games in the bedchamber to hold the old goat’s interest,’ Norfolk growled, before looking behind him, just in case. But the pages had obeyed the earlier instruction to return to their scullery, and the two conspirators were safely alone.
‘I will, certainly,’ Boleyn replied, ‘but it would seem that four years is about the lifespan of any of the king’s infatuations. He still gives Mary presents, but of late they have been more in the way of minor manor houses for which he has no further use, rather than rich items of personal jewellery, as was his custom when his passion was at its height.’
‘Should he show much further interest in Anne,’ Norfolk said, ‘she is to be instructed to yield nothing of her body. Henry was ever a huntsman, and it may be that the thrill of the chase is of more attraction to him than the spoils of seduction.’
‘Anne will have no difficulty in fending him off,’ Boleyn assured him, ‘since she finds him not appealing to her taste. Indeed, I have been led to believe by her sister that she has formed an understanding with young Harry Percy.’
‘Tell her to dampen her ardour in that direction, lest we need her to keep the King in close binding,’ Norfolk warned him. ‘There are to be no “understandings”, no betrothals, nothing to dim her allure to Henry. Leave her in no doubt on that score.’
‘Indeed, I will not,’ Boleyn assured him, ‘but how are we to play the matter of the French king?’
‘I think,’ Norfolk replied with a vicious smile, ‘that the time has come to let the butcher’s son have his way. For one thing, it will keep him out of the realm while we stir up the mob against his new tax, and secondly it will further distance both him and the King from the Queen. When the split finally comes, the blame will fall on Wolsey’s head. As, then, will the axe.’
Thomas was too overjoyed to be as suspicious as he ought to have been when Council’s opposition to his proposal to assist in securing the release of Francis of France suddenly melted. Thomas was instructed to invite Joachim and Louise of Savoy over to England, but to arrange for their arrival to be kept as secret as possible, and for any actual treaty signing to take place in a secure place outside London.
The obvious place, to Thomas, at least, was his country house in Hertfordshire known as ‘The More’. It had come to Thomas as part of his ‘possession’ of St Albans Abbey, and was large enough to host a treaty conference in the peace and anonymity of the countryside just north of London that co
uld be reached easily by horse in half a day. The house was largely of the red brick favoured by Thomas for his reconstruction of Hampton Court, and it boasted a massive ‘long gallery’ over two hundred and fifty feet in length, in which were assembled, in late August of that year, not only a coterie of diplomats proudly headed by Jean-Joachim on a return visit, but also the Regent of France during the exile of King Francis — his very able mother Louise of Savoy. She was particularly entranced to be allocated, as her lady-in-waiting, the serious-minded, restrained, ever accommodating and fluent French speaking Anne Boleyn, accompanied by her father Thomas, the former Ambassador to Paris with whom Louise was very familiar, and who she trusted implicitly.
Henry himself was present for the evening social events in the week or so during which the serious business was conducted by day, leaving the gallant King to escort the Lady Anne onto the dance floor as the Court musicians specially imported from Westminster blew and plucked their way through several evenings of high merriment, made the more possible by the absence of the Queen, who studiedly snubbed any opportunity to mix socially with the woman she regarded as the mother of Charles’s sworn enemy.
The lively brain of Thomas Cromwell was fully engaged framing into treaty language the good-natured mutual exchange of promises that flowed with the banquet wine. These were surreptitiously noted down at the time of their making by Stephen Gardiner, in his capacity at Thomas’s Secretary, and in the certain knowledge that he at least would remain sufficiently sober for the task.
The eventual treaty terms were, on balance, favourable to England, since Louise’s only concern was to acquire England’s intercession with Charles for the release of Francis. This was promised, in return for France’s undertaking never to allow a return to Scotland of the skulking Duke of Albany, who had been acting as Regent for the young James V, son of Margaret Tudor, Henry’s sister, by her marriage to the late James IV. Margaret herself had taken, as her second husband, the Earl of Angus, and the resulting dispute over custody of the heir apparent had led to a renewal of the ‘Auld Alliance’ between Scotland and France that had the potential to completely outflank England on both its northern and southern borders.