by G Lawrence
After years of wandering the courts of Burgundy and France, I felt almost rootless, but the presence of my family beside me now filled a hole that I had hardly understood was there. My heart swelled with the warmth of my mother’s smile, my sister’s naughty laughter, the calm control of my father and the wit of my charming brother.
It was George’s company that I sought the most. Mary and I had known each other as adults already, and the love of a father or mother seems unquestionable when you are young; but George, I knew the least, and yet perhaps wanted to know the most.
Sometimes we would wander the grounds and see the tourneys together. George now rode in the lists and excelled in them. He was a handsome young man. The maids of the court watched him closely and it was a pleasure for me to sense their jealousy in watching us walking out together. It is always nice to be a little envied. For George, there was pleasure too, in having two sisters who were charming and attractive; he was somewhat careful of Mary and me around the other gallants, however. I think he wanted to feel as though he was protecting his older sisters a little, which was sweet of him, if unnecessary. Both of us had spent our entire adult lives at court, and, after all, Mary’s new admirer was the King of England. We believed we were easily capable of looking after our own selves, a belief that for me would come to be cruelly tested in the future.
George was a man of the world, learned and clever. He had a quick tongue, with a great wit and imagination. He and I conversed on many subjects, but religious reform came easily, if quietly, to both our lips. Happily, we were of one mind, understanding that reform was needed and that the Church had to accept this. We spoke in low voices on the subject, and always in private. Although I was not ashamed of my thoughts, and I believed in my heart we were right, it was still dangerous to be found talking openly of reform, to be found questioning the Church. This showed that the Church, as George put it, was insecure, blind to the corruptions being committed in its midst because it could not bear to face them. There had to be changes made. The works of Martin Luther had reached England as well as France, and many were questioning and discussing points of theology and religious change, my family amongst them. George assured me that our father and mother were also keenly interested in the subject.
“And Mary?” I asked with interest. George snorted and looked at me scathingly.
“And I thought you were the clever one?” he asked, with amused distain in his voice. “Mary does not think about such matters, as they are beyond her,” he sniffed and smiled at me. “Mary thinks of Mary’s pleasure, she is incapable of thinking further ahead than a few days; even then her mind is not filled with religious or weighty matters, but rather with the colour of ribbons and the set of her dress. She will die and go to Heaven no doubt, because she will never have entertained a bad thought in her life and any sins will be forgiven because she has never really understood that what she is doing may be regarded as sinful.” George looked at me with sparkling eyes; although his words sounded harsh, his tone was anything but serious. “The truth is, dear sister Anne, that I have two pretty sisters and one clever sister. One clever sister is quite enough for any man to have to deal with. If we all had clever sisters then we should all have to marry clever wives and then what? The world would be in ruins!”
He laughed as my hand flashed out and struck him across the middle. A sudden flare of anger had hit me, but I could not help laughing at his outrageous expressions. I shook my head at him, scolding him for speaking as he did, both about our sister, and about women in general. I did not like to be so dismissed for my sex, even in jest.
“What do you think of this affair with the King?” I asked him as we continued our walk.
We were nearing the tourney fields and knights were out practising in the late morning’s sunlight. Soon it would be too hot for them to fight in their armour, so the tourney would be abandoned to pursue other entertainments that did not cause a man to roast like a peacock. Gallants often found the afternoons were suited to lying in the shaded gardens with the ladies.
George observed appraisingly as we watched two knights fight at the sword. Although covered in heavy armour, they moved fast; striking and hacking at each other with their great swords. Flashes of steel shone like flames as the sun caught the sharp edges of the beautifully made blades. George smiled at me, and still watching the fight, he continued to speak.
“The truth is, Anne, that there are three ways for a woman to advance in this world, and two of them require the opening of her legs, whether within wedlock or without. A woman may marry well, or she may become the sweetheart of a powerful man. There are two of the ways. The last is for a woman to enter a nunnery and then she must do something truly spectacular to be seen at all past her habit. This world belongs to men, and women must please them to advance. They may be clever like you, or foolish like Mary, but either way, they need the pleasure of a man to become the key to their fortunes. Even your beloved Marguerite enjoys her position and favour through the position of her brother. Even the famous Isabella of Castile deferred to her husband. Women must make compromises, and if they are clever, they will learn to turn their men to their will. This is what we must hope Mary is able to do for our family; in the manner of your other friend, the infamous Lady Françoise de Foix, eh?” George gave me a leering glance and I went again to slap him, but he danced out of the way on swift legs, laughing at me.
“Come, Anne!“ he laughed. “You are easily shocked for one who keeps company with the whores and the philosophers of France… what a mixture! Have you never thought of jumping beds like Mary and Françoise, or of entertaining love like the free thinker Marguerite de Valois? Do you know strange rumours abound about Marguerite and François? Some say that the love between them is not that of sister and brother, but that of man and mistress.”
And with that jest, my temper snapped. I stepped forward, and my hand lashed out and caught him surely around the jaw. The sound of the slap rang out across the valley; a short, sharp snap. I leaned in to him. My eyes were fire, my hands were clenched, and I was ready to fly at him. George cupped a hand to his cheek and stared at me in horror.
“You will never breathe a word against the Princess Marguerite in my presence!” I snarled at the abashed face of my brother. “Never, do you understand me? She is a greater lady than any I have ever known. A greater mind than you can ever hope to understand. I may be a woman, but I will fight you as a man if you dare to insult her honour again.”
George was a-taken aback by the vehemence of my anger and could do nothing but nod at me. I shook myself; the anger in my mind snapped at my heels to do more, to keep on screaming at him, to hit him again. I struggled to control it.
“She is a great woman and a great princess,” I spat at him. “She is a leader of reform in France and those who speak against her are those who want to destroy reformers. The words that you have listened to are the words of those who would see corruption continue; those who would have the clergy as rich as kings, whilst the poor starve in the streets; those who would buy their passage into heaven and live in sin upon this earth. You have believed in the words of those who have grown fat on the flesh of their fellow men. Marguerite seeks to heal the Church, to bring the faith further into the lives of the common people. You should feel ashamed of the words you have spoken.” I breathed deeply, trying to calm myself.
“And I know why it is that they say these things of her,” I said. “Because of her devotion to her brother they say these things; and because of this…”
I pulled from my pocket a pamphlet that Marguerite had written. It was a manuscript she had been working on for some years and contained radical thoughts on the nature of spiritual love. It was part of a poetical manuscript that she would later publish under the title Le Miroir de L’ame Pecheresse, or The Glass of the Sinful Soul. Marguerite had given me some of the work to read over, trusting me with her thoughts. She had only shown it to a few, trusted friends, but even so, word of it had reached other courts
.
It was a tract that talked of the relationship of every Christian to every other Christian. It proposed that we were all related to each other in Christ. It outlined a theory that all sexual unions were equally sinful, all guilty of incest of a spiritual nature, as we were all God’s children and therefore all related. Those who were pure of soul could achieve consummation with each other through spirituality and learning. Abstinence from sex, and communion with God was the only way to be sure of this spiritual communion. Due to its radical nature, the work even in these stages of its infancy had excited a lot of scandal. But Marguerite’s main point was that abstinence from sexual relations was required in order to allow spiritual growth under the guidance of God. Those who had taken her words as some sort of excuse for a hypothetical affair between her and her brother had entirely misunderstood the point. Marguerite was a free thinker, but she was also a devout and zealous Christian. Her honour was precious to her; this tract was an expression of her religious and spiritual ideals, not a crass apology for an incestuous affair with her brother. It was also a work that very much upset traditional ways of thinking, as it seemed to advocate a personal relationship with God, not reliant on the saints or on the Virgin, or on priests; something akin to the faith of the followers of Luther.
George took the book from me and looked over the manuscript. He whistled slightly as he leafed through it. “I have heard of this… How do you have this?” he asked, still reading over the scribbled pages.
“Marguerite trusts me,” I said quietly. “I have become her confidante in many ways.”
He whistled again. There was a bright mark on his cheek where my hand and its rings had struck, but he seemed to have forgotten this in the interest he had in Marguerite’s papers.
“So you have the ear of the sister of the King of France, and you have the admiration of the King of France,” he said, looking up. I went to deny this, and he shook his head at me. “Yes, you cannot deny it, Anne. I have seen how he glances at you. And our sister Mary has the admiration of the King of England.”
He rustled the papers in his hands and looked out at the field again. “Our family was made for great things, Anne, or, at least, the women in it appear to be.” George looked down at the precious papers that I had handed him. Although he was a gallant and a warrior, he was also a man of letters and new thought interested him as it did me; almost as much, it seemed, as gossip did.
He handed them back carefully. “I am sorry if I offended you, Anna,” he said. “I intended to make you laugh, not to make you attack me.” He touched his jaw and winced slightly. “I hope you do not plan to treat your future husband in such a way, or we shall have to find a larger dowry than previously planned by our parents to recompense the man for marrying with a Fury.”
I reached out and touched his cheek with my cold pale hand, and tears of remorse sprung to my eyes. He saw them, and he smiled at me, the warmth returning to his eyes again. He put his hand over mine to hold it on his face.
“I shall have to remember that my nearest sister took all the spirit, when the older one took all the sweetness,” he said ruefully.
“Spirit is somewhat more useful at times,” I drew his hand to my lips, kissing it gently.
“Sweetness is what a man desires to come home to,” George said warningly, but then she shook his head and smiled. “But spirit is what puts fire in the belly,” he continued. “I doubt not that you would be the more interesting to chase of the two of you.”
I snorted. “That is only because Mary is a lame hind, apt to fall at your feet before the hunter’s horn is sounded!”
He laughed, and arm in arm, we continued our walk around the fields of contest, talking of lighter matters.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
1520
The Field of the Cloth of Gold
The last of all the great events was a Mass, presided over by the Cardinal of York, Thomas Wolsey who was also the Lord Chancellor of England and advisor to the English King. The Mass was to encapsulate all the promises of peace between the two countries for the glory of God.
The French lined one side of the make-shift chapel that had been created in the vast jousting arena of The Field of the Cloth of Gold, and the English took the other. I was placed on the French side near to my mistress Claude, so I was close to the front with other attending nobles; a place of honour. The service was beautiful, punctuated by singing from the Cardinal’s choirs. When those boys raised their voices to the heavens, I felt as though God Himself were touching my heart, and I felt blessed.
Cardinal Wolsey was a fair, handsome man at this time; although later he was to grow fat and leech-like in appearance. On this day, there was the light of accomplishment on his face. Much of the preparations for this great event had been down to him, and he seemed well pleased with himself. He lifted his arms to God, and I could see him gloating on his success at this meeting. I wondered if perhaps he should have been thinking more on the glory of God and less on the glory of Wolsey.
Wolsey dominated the English Court and had the ear and trust of its King. He had risen high, from comparatively humble beginnings as the son of a landowner, to become the second most powerful man in England. Some said that in truth, he was the most powerful, for things had been said of Wolsey that his King was unlikely to care for if they were repeated to him. An ambassador once remarked of Wolsey that “this Cardinal is King”, for if a man or a lord wanted anything, especially in the first years of Henry’s reign, they needed to speak to the Cardinal before they approached the King. Wolsey had made himself invaluable, and whilst Henry still held the reins of power, it was Wolsey who tended to take hold of all else for him. Henry was not a happy man when the chores of his kingship weighed him down. Wolsey was his man to take on all that the King loved not, and with that responsibility great power came too.
Some called Wolsey’s father a mere butcher, and the term “butcher’s cur” was often applied to the Cardinal behind his richly-dressed shoulders, but Wolsey’s father had been a landowner in truth. Whenever insults are thrown at another, birth and virtue, it seems, are the easiest and most common ways to insult. We all think ourselves so special and unique, but the same things come pouring from our mouths, the same thoughts strike through our minds; we are often so much more alike, so less original, than we care to recognise. As women are insulted using virtue, so often men who rise through intellect are insulted for their birth… and the further one rises, the more people are willing to insult you. Wolsey was a clever man, a charming man, and a ruthless man. He rose high because he had the talent to, and the strength to hold his position. Henry was good at seeing usefulness in men, and in using it. Although Wolsey was no friend to my family and kept a wary eye on my father, since he disliked anyone who wished to rise high at court, seeing them as threats, it cannot be denied that he was an intelligent, wary man, and a ruthless opponent of all those who might challenge him.
But… these are reflections better kept for later in my tale…
Through scholarship and the Church, Wolsey had worked his way upwards to become the King’s advisor, and then Lord Chancellor, and had been made a Cardinal by the Pope in 1515. Wolsey had a keen eye for money, and an able hand to grasp it; he dressed in the finest clothes and had many great houses and palaces in England, some of which, such as York Palace and Hampton Court, were said to outshine even the palaces of the King himself. John Skelton, a court poet, who had been Henry’s Latin tutor when the King was a boy, was famed for his scathing, often scandalous verse on the court. Skelton was not overly fond of Wolsey, whom he saw as the epitome of corruption and vice at Henry’s court. Of the Cardinal’s palace, Hampton Court, Skelton wrote:
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 not been pleased at this poem when he heard it bandied about court, and Skelton nar
rowly escaped arrest by the Cardinal by seeking sanctuary in Westminster Abbey. I doubt not that the King intervened for his old tutor, although Skelton was not welcomed at the Court of England much afterwards. Such was Wolsey’s influence that to offend the Cardinal was most often to be cast from the halls of power entirely. But the works of Skelton lived on. His play Magnificence, a satirical work on the life of a king who fails in his duty as he dismisses his servant ‘Measure’, and takes up with one named ‘Liberty’ to the ruin of his kingdom, was often performed in houses where Wolsey was not a popular figure. But it was not performed at court whilst Wolsey reigned supreme.
Wolsey was fabulously wealthy, owning more land than any in England bar the King, and he received money from other countries too; pensions given to him to endear his favour. France was one of those countries that saw value in feeding the already heavy pocket of the Cardinal. When Wolsey rode out on his supposed humble mule, apparently emulating the figure of Christ, amongst the people, his saddle cover was crimson velvet and his stirrups were solid gold. He was ever surrounded by multitudes of servants, his path marked by silver crosses and sons of noble houses bearing the Great Seal of the King, Wolsey’s mark of true authority. The Cardinal dressed in ermine, silk and red velvet; he held fabulous feasts made famous for their sugared subtleties, danced with ladies of the court, and kept a mistress called Joan Lark, who bore him children. To the King, Wolsey was indispensable.