Lark. Lark. Where had I heard that name? The Lark’s Morning. Good name for an inn. I would find it. By God, it would make a fine morning’s ride, and I was ready for one. Should I ask Katherine? A gallop together, in the damp March air—but no, this was her prayer-time. Nonetheless, I could ask. Perhaps she would ... ? No. She would not.
Thus we use our supposed “knowledge” of others to speak on their behalf, and condemn them for the words we ourselves put in their silent mouths.
Having asked Katherine in my mind, and bee PoMarch is an ugly month, uglier even than November, its lifeless counterpart. I was glad to reach the Lark’s Morning (easy to find, on the main road to Dover), warm myself inside at the fire, and put some heated ale in my belly.
The innkeeper’s daughter (she was too young and pretty to be his wife) seemed unusually flustered when she recognized me. I was accustomed, now, to the stir I caused by my presence (odd how easy it is to become used to being taken for a god), but she seemed more frightened than awed. This puzzled me. I made sure I spoke to her gently, to ease her fears.
“I seek Thomas Wolsey, one of my almoners. Tell me, is he hereabout?”
She smiled; or rather, her mouth twitched.
“Father Wolsey,” I said. “A priest.”
“Aye. He’s—he took quarters in the adjoining farmstead.”
Farmstead? What possessed him? “My thanks.”
The ramshackle building lay some fifty yards behind the inn, hidden by a hedgerow. That was fortunate, as it was such an eyesore it would have kept customers away from the inn.
Outside, two little boys were playing. As always, when I saw male children, pain and (yes, admit it) anger rushed through me. I turned away, making my eyes leave them.
I pushed open the loose, flapping door. Instantly I recognized the characteristic heavy odour of metal. A black-robed figure was moving about inside, stirring up the concentrated smell that was the very essence of war.
“Wolsey!”
He almost jumped—the only time I have ever seen him truly taken by surprise.
“Your Grace!” So abruptly did he turn, the folds of his gown swirled like foam.
“What are you doing here?” My voice was sharper than I had intended. Letting the door swing all the way inward, I saw piles and piles of shields, helmets, lances, mail shirts, swords, and handguns on the dirt floor.
“Testing equipment, Your Grace. I have here a sample of each type available to us, along with its cost and delivery time”—he grabbed a sheaf of papers and began thumbing through them—“speed of manufacture, and accessibility. Before we can place orders, first-hand knowledge of the quality is required. For example, the foundry at Nuremberg ... its shields seem decidedly flimsy to me, Your Grace.” He plucked an oval-shaped one from the pile. “Press here. You see? It indents too easily. However, one must take into account the speed of delivery, as opposed to Milan, from which shipments could take a year to reach us.” The facts came spurting out; his voice vibrated with excitement.
“How have you ... obtained all this?” I had given him his assignment on Tuesday; it was just now only Friday.
“Your Grace! I consider it my privilege to carry out any task with thoroughness and speed.”
Thoroughness and speed scarcely described his actions here. Monomania came closer.
“Yes. I see. Well,ize="3">“I have ... convinced him.” I almost said “silenced.”
“A relief for us all.” He smiled.
“Pope Julius lies ill. What think you? Is he like to die? And if so, what does this do to our war?”
“My sources say he is not seriously ill, merely diplomatically ill. He will recover. He means to push France out of Italy. Louis’s latest victories there—they come too close to home. No, the Holy League will stand.”
“England, Spain, the Holy Roman Empire, Venice, the Pope—everyone against France!” I said ecstatically.
“And England the only oak,” he said. “The only oak in a sea of reeds.”
I was startled that Wolsey should speak so derogatorily about my allies. This man who collected and tested all equipment must surely have a reason. “Pray explain yourself.”
He made a show of demurring. Then he spoke. “Ferdinand, the Spanish King—how reliable is he? He lured England into that sham of an expedition against the Infidels, which came to nothing.”
True. My archers had sat and rotted in Guienne, while Ferdinand decided to attack Navarre instead.
“It is Queen Katherine who inclines you toward her father. But is a son-in-law’s duty compatible with a King’s?” The words hung on the air between us. “And Maximilian, the Emperor—he is known as a liar. He prides himself on his lies. Why, when Louis accused him of deceiving him twice, he cackled, ‘He lies. I deceived him three times!’ As for Venice, she has no army. Now, what a rabble—with you as the only true knight!”
“But when an honest knight pursues the course of truth, what matter if his allies are false? God will direct him!” I believed that; truth to tell, I believe it still.
“It is our duty to use our resources wisely against Satan,” he agreed. “But this alliance ... how can you conquer, without unfeigned assistance? A false ally is worse than an enemy.”
But I still believed in my allies. Nor did I realize that Wolsey inclined so toward the French. The French were civilised, masters of style, as was Wolsey, the butcher’s son. We are surprises to our parents.
I changed the subject. “There is danger from the Scots. They obey no laws of honour or chivalry. They are like to attack whilst we are occupied in France.”
“They are French allies. The ‘auld alliance,’ they call it. Although two more unlikely partners I am hard put to imagine!” The brawling Scots with the mincing French. Laughable. “Leave an able soldier behind to contain them.”
“Howard,” I said. “Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey. He is from the North, he knows it well.”
Just then, two dancing shadows came into the building.
“Father! Father!” they called.
How sweet. The little lads had an affectionate relationship with the visiting priest.
“Mother does not feel well,” they whined.
“I am busy.” Wolsey’s voice was hard.
“She was sick lastre false?Hight="2em" align="left">
HENRY VIII:
I had even overcome the timidity and lack of firm plans from my “committed allies.” Ferdinand had yet to meet me, and Maximilian had only just shown up, without troops, offering to serve as a soldier under my command whilst we besieged Tournai.
The Holy Roman Emperor was an odd little man, with reddish gold hair and a chin sticking out like a shelf. He appeared so affable that one never questioned his thoughts or his motives. Yet this man controlled the Netherlands, Germany, Austria, and bits and pieces scattered about Italy and France! Now he trotted about in my wake as I inspected cannon and their positions, helped load and fire the bombards (our sulphur from Italy was certainly superior, thanks to the Pope, and gave a nice explosion), and at night he dined with me in my collapsible timber house (which boasted all the amenities of my Privy Chamber at home, including my great bed.) He also relieved himself in my private stool-closet, discreetly attached to the house. After dinner, candles flickering on our massive formal dining table, we spread out maps and discussed strategy.
“Tournai will look pretty, razed to the ground like Thérouanne,” chuckled Maximilian. I had besieged Thérouanne for twenty-three days, and when at last it had surrendered, I ordered everyone out and destroyed it.
“I will never raze it,” I said. “I plan to incorporate it into the Pale of Calais, make it English. Why”—I thought of this on the spot—“we’ll send representatives to Parliament!”
“Your Grace!” laughed Wolsey. “That would mean you would have to garrison them. They’d never go to Parliament otherwise—they’re French!”
“Well, parliament is a French word,” said Brandon, attempting to be jolly. “It
means ‘let’s talk.’ And that’s all Parliament does—talk, talk, talk!”
“Aye, aye!” The rest of the company laughed, just to be a part of the merriment.
“Thomas More speaks of a silent Parliament,” Wolsey said. “He plans to lead one.”
“More speaks of many things, most of them preposterous,” chimed in Edward Neville. Sir Edward Neville: I had knighted him just four hours past for his bravery on the field.
There had been much bravery on this campaign. I was astonished at how very brave an ordinary man can be when confronted with the enemy. The first night we marched, it was pouring rain, and we were bogged down in a sea of mud. I rode round the camp at three in the morning, in my armour, to hearten and encourage my men. “Well, comrades, now that we have suffered in the beginning, fortune promises us better things, God willing.”
Suddenly there was a knock at my door. A Scots herald stood outside, come to declare war on England! He concluded, “My King summons Your Grace to be at home in your realm, on the defence.” He was wearing his clan badge and hat, and seemed oblivious to the fact that his King, James IV, was acting in a base manner in choosing this time to attack.
“You have come a far way to deliver your cowardly summons,” I said at length. “It ill becomes a Scot to summon a King of England. Tell him that never shall a Scot cause us to return! We see your master for what he is. For we Z `d.
“Scotland, and its King, have perished,” I said, to inform the waiting men-at-arms around me, companions, my fealty-sworn soldiers: Brandon, Neville, Carew, Bryan, Seymour, Boleyn, Courtenay.
They let out a great cheer. “A glorious day!” yelled Brandon.
“Our King is mighty, he destroys his enemies!” cried young Courtenay.
I stepped to the door of my “house” and looked out across the flat plains of France, feeling the wind in my face. Whenever I want to recall that moment, that high moment of military triumph, I have only to close my eyes and open a window and let the wind blow steady and a little cold across my cheeks and lips. I do it sometimes, in moments of uncertainty. Then I become young again, and mighty.
WILL:
Katherine thought she was pleasing him by sending him the bloody Scots King’s coat in exchange for the captured Duc de Longueville. As if they were an equal exchange!
Katherine was very devoted to Henry; Katherine was very competent and loyal; Katherine was very stupid in crucial ways.
HENRY VIII:
We landed at Dover, almost four months to the day since we had set sail for France. Then, there had been all the excitement of seeing France—I, who had never seen any of England, save the parts around London—and fighting there, against great odds. France had proved fair; and I had proved a warrior. Now part of fair France was my booty.
All along the Dover-London road, my subjects were waiting. They wished to see us, touch us, call their greetings. We had done well; we had touched a nerve in Englishmen, and aroused a longing in them. And next year we would further satisfy that longing, for we would invade France yet again, this time well coordinated with Ferdinand and Maximilian. This season’s campaign had been but the beginning.
WILL:
It was here that I once again saw Henry VIII. I was one of the throng along the selfsame Dover-London road, and I was eager to glimpse him, the Boy-King. I stood for hours, so it seemed, waiting for a hint of movement on the road stretching away on either side. The King is coming. No, the King will be an hour yet. It was interminable, yet I dared not leave. At length—it was almost noon, and we had been waiting, standing, since dawn—he came into view, sitting proudly on a great white horse. He was dressed all in gold, and he himself was gold: his hair, his eyes, his glowing skin. He looked fresh, and as full of grace as any knight new-blessed at Jerusalem. My—whatever it is within the breast that expands into life at such moments—pride, for want of a better word, was touched, and I felt ecstatic beholding him, both as if I were King myself, and at the same time awed that we had such a King.
HENRY VIII:
Katherine wange my travel-stained clothes, in which I had lived since boarding my warship at Calais. Instead, I changed horses, so that I might gallop to her on the fastest steed in the royal stables. I had been faithful to her all the time I had been away, even during that time in Lille, between the besieging of Thérouanne and Tournai, when we celebrated our first victory and there were many Belgian ladies eager to “comfort” a warrior-king....
I had never been unfaithful to Katherine. I did not believe it was right. I had pledged myself to her, and I would keep that pledge. My father had never been unfaithful to my mother. I could not have borne it if he had insulted her so.
The towers of Richmond Palace, rising pale and beseeching against the blanched autumn skies. Inside, inside, was my wife. Mother-to-be, victor at Flodden Field ... oh, truly I was blessed.
Down the walkways (people on all sides pushing, claiming me) I flew toward the royal apartments. And there she was, at the entrance, like any schoolchild, not a royal daughter of Spain. Her hair glinted gold in the murky light. Then it was embrace, embrace; and I felt her warmth in my arms.
“O Henry,” she whispered, close by my ear.
“The keys to Tournai.” I had carried them on my person. Now I presented them to her, kneeling.
She took them, clasped them. “I knew you would win a city. So many times, as a child, I saw my mother or father return with such keys, keys wrested from the Moors—”
So. She compared the memories. Ferdinand and Isabella driving the Moors from Spain, pushing them back, city by city. Could her husband measure up?
We were traversing the royal apartments. We would go to hers, as the King’s were dark and silent and not yet in order. “The Moors are back in Africa, where they belong,” I said.
“Yes.” Her face was shining. “And the Scots are back in the mountains, where they belong.”
In her withdrawing room, we stood still a long moment and kissed. Her lips, how sweet!
“You put Moorish honey on your lips,” I murmured.
“I do nothing Moorish!” she said, pulling away.
“Surely the Moors had good things to give Spain—”
“No. Nothing.” Now her lips, so soft, were set in a hard little line. “There is nothing good from the soft beds of the East.”
“Yet you spent your girlhood in the ‘soft Moorish East,’ ” I teased. “Watching the fountains play in the Caliph’s Palace in Granada. Come, teach me.” I reached out for her belly.
Which was flat. Entirely flat, and hard as her mouth had been when dismissing the Moors.
“He died,” she said softly. “Our son. He was born the night after I received word that the Scots were massing. In between midnight and dawn. Warham christened him,” she added. “His soul was saved.”
“But not his body,” I said rotely. “You say—‘he’?”
“A son,” she said. “A little son, not formed enough to survive. But enough to be baptized! His soul has gone to Paradise.”
My son. Dead.
“It was the Scots,” I said. “They killed him. Had it not been for them, and their dastardly attack, you would not have delivered before your time.” I broke away from her. “They stand punished. Their King is dead.”
A present King for a future King. Had they truly been punished?
I came back to her and enfolded her in my arms. “We will make another King.”
I led her into her sleep-chamber. But it was not duty that called me, but desire, as Katherine was at her ripest and most beautiful: a queen who defended her realm, a mother who mourned a son, a daughter of the East who could give exotic pleasures, no matter how her Catholic conscience denounced them.
XXI
In recognition of their services on the battlefield, I restored Thomas Howard to his lost dukedom of Norfolk; and I made Charles Brandon the new Duke of Suffolk.
WILL:
A title recently vacated by Edmund de la Pole, as it were.
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br /> HENRY VIII:
Wolsey, too, must be recognized. God had opened many Church positions in the last few months, as though anticipating our needs. I gathered them up, making a bouquet of them, and presented them to Wolsey: Bishop of Lincoln, Bishop of Tournai, and Archbishop of York. In one brief ceremony he catapulted himself (like one of the cannonballs from the war machines he had helped supply) from simple priest to powerful prelate. “For a man only lately a mere priest, you aim high.” I smiled. “I like that.”
“What else could I aspire to?” He attempted a look of innocence.
“What else, indeed? And for what do you intend this palace you are planning?”
Wolsey had just acquired the lease of a tract of land far upstream on the Thames from the Knights Hospitalers. He had consulted masons and builders and had twice already braved icy riding paths to inspect the grounds.
“Hampton? ‘Tis not a palace, ’tis but a manor house. An archbishop, after all, must have quarters befitting his office.”
“There’s York Place for that.”
“It’s old and damp.”
“So are my palaces. So, my friend and minister, you aim at something grand. How would you like a ... cardinal’s hat?”
“Yes.” No disclaimers, no hesitation. “Cardinal Wolsey. That’s higher than Canterbury. A cardinal would be a worthy representative and minister for you. As King, you deserve no less a man to serve you.”
His flattery was so ready. “Oh, yes. I owe it to myself to make you Cardinal. Let’s see, now. There is a new Pope. What is he like? How best should we approach him for this little favour?” I paused. “We’ll flatter Leo. He’ll send the cardinal’s hat, never fear. By King of France, and you’ll be Cardinal Wolsey!”
And I would be a father, pray God. The Queen was pregnant again, and surely this fourth time we would have what we—and England—so deeply desired. And urgently needed.
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