by Amy Licence
However, Henry then went on to dismiss Elizabeth and her husband from his wife’s household and would have sent away more ‘tale-bearers’, who were ‘insidiously spying out every unwatched moment’,7 except that he feared a ‘great scandal’. It had become a matter of gossip at court and the king had acted too late to try to contain the spread of it. Again, this makes it seem unlikely that this was simply a matter of one courtier’s wife having an affair with another courtier. Henry was clearly angry about his private business being made public, which also suggests that his concept of his marriage was less ideal and romantic in reality than the image he had projected, or that Catherine had not necessarily expected him to follow the contemporary practice of pursuing sexual gratification elsewhere. This was a fundamental misunderstanding but, until this point, Henry still might have got away with it. The dismissal of her lady, Elizabeth Radcliffe, caused the queen to ask questions. Soon she found out what had been going on and could not conceal her feelings.
According to Caroz, ‘all the court knew that the queen was vexed with the king and he with her’. It was their first big quarrel and, although they probably exchanged their heated words in strict privacy, there is no doubt that the fallout would have been felt by their respective households and that gossip was rife through the whole establishment. Caroz added that the queen showed ‘ill-will’ towards Compton and Henry was annoyed with her as a result. It is understandable that Catherine would be upset by the dismissal of one of her closest female companions and ladies-in-waiting, but in that eventuality the target of her annoyance would have been Henry, not Compton. Her antipathy towards Compton suggests there was more to it. At this point, Caroz went too far. When he attempted to advise his source, Fray Diego, about the correct behaviour for a queen finding herself in Catherine’s situation, the friar rounded on him, claiming he had ‘got it all wrong’.
Perhaps Caroz had over-interpreted the issue, but there was certainly something amiss that caused the first serious quarrel between the king and queen. For Catherine, the last twelve months had been blissful. The possibility of Henry’s adultery fractured their previous closeness and shattered the proudly displayed imagery of romance that had been a feature of their public façade since their dual coronation. No doubt the queen felt not only personally betrayed, but publicly humiliated. The behaviour of her ladies and the scandal attached to the event reflected badly on her household. It was a harsh lesson to learn about her young husband. Through the month of May 1510, into the early summer, a ‘storm went on between them’. The honeymoon period was over.
Further grounds for the theory that Anne Hastings did become Henry’s lover at some point during these early years comes from the New Year’s gift he bestowed upon her in 1513. Featuring in the records for that year, Anne received thirty ounces of silver gilt, the third largest of all the presents in the king’s bequest, marking her out with a degree of preference which otherwise is unexplained. By comparison, Elizabeth Boleyn, wife of the rising diplomat Sir Thomas, was the recipient of a cup with a gilt cover weighing sixteen and a half ounces.8 It does not seem unreasonable to speculate that Henry’s initial desire for Anne may have been thwarted in 1510 but that he may have discreetly continued to woo her following her return to court. The New Year’s gift of 1513 may indicate that he met with some success. Around this time Anne fell pregnant, bearing her first son, Francis, in Leicestershire at some unspecified point in 1514. The relationship of this birth to the gift is an intriguing one, although there were no contemporary suggestions that the child might have been fathered by Henry and the king never sought to acknowledge him as his son. However, at the time, it would have been considered ungentlemanly for any man to claim the child of a married woman as his own; the only illegitimate child Henry would own would be that of an unmarried mother. According to the law, any baby born within wedlock was automatically accepted by the husband, unless under very unusual circumstances. Francis Hastings would find favour at court in the future, becoming a Knight of the Bath in 1533. On balance, given Henry’s later desperation for a son, it seems unlikely that Francis Hastings was his child, although it remains a tantalising possibility.
What is known for certain, though, is that William Compton did go on to have an affair with Anne, starting around 1519, while she was still married to Hastings. He left money in his will of 8 March 1522 for prayers to be said for her soul, which was unusual outside the family unit: ‘two chantries to be founded in his name at Compton, to do daily service for the souls of the king, the Queen, my Lady Anne Hastings, [myself], my wife and ancestors’.9 When the affair took place is unclear, but in 1527 Compton was summoned to the Court of Arches by Cardinal Wolsey to swear an oath that he had never slept with Anne during his wife’s lifetime. Given that he did not marry until 1512 and his first wife, Werburga Brereton, died sometime before 1522, when he wed Elizabeth Stonor, this wording does not rule out Compton and Anne having had an affair. The Hastings marriage survived the events of 1510 and 1527, with George writing affectionate letters to Anne during his absence and naming her as executor of his will. They had eight children together. Anne remains an enigmatic figure, the older, experienced woman who possibly introduced Henry to the illicit passions of extramarital affairs, a sophisticated player at the heart of the young man’s romantic and lavish court.
14
The Baby Prince, 1510–11
The child that hath full the shape
In the mother, by what hap
Is it sometime brought to nought
And may not alive forth be brought?1
Humiliated and hurt as Catherine was, she had her new pregnancy to focus on. When she rode with Henry to the King’s Head in Cheape, London, on the night of St Paul’s Day, 29 June, her condition had not yet begun to show. Within weeks, though, she would have felt the child quicken. That September, eight yards of purple velvet were ordered for the nursery and Henry embarked on a royal progress to a number of religious sites, giving thanks for his wife’s conception. Certain saints had particular associations with fertility and childbirth. In pre-Reformation England, the cult of the Virgin Mary was the most popular, attracting the prayers, offerings and visits of expectant parents. It had also been a favourite of Henry’s mother. In 1510, he knelt before the Virgin’s statue at Walsingham, the East Anglian centre of her following, before embarking on a longer trip to give thanks to St Thomas at Canterbury, St Bridget at Syon Abbey, the Black Cross at Waltham Abbey and other places.
Catherine did not go with him. She was probably being more cautious after her experience earlier that year and remained at Eltham for the duration of his absence. The palace had been Henry’s childhood home and had been extensively remodelled along Burgundian lines by his grandfather, Edward IV. The old great hall had been replaced, new kitchens created and an impressive entrance and courtyard were added. Catherine would have occupied the queen’s lodgings, which Edward had designed, with its brick range of five bay windows alternated with chimney breasts and a recreational gallery, the first of its kind. It also had a conduit system, allowing for a constant supply of fresh water.2 Yet Catherine did not intend to give birth at Eltham. During those weeks, her rooms at Richmond were being transformed into the lying-in suite, worked on by carpenters, cleaners and painters and equipped to receive the expectant queen and her child. The Ryalle Book lists the quantities, details and colours of the equipment required to furnish her two beds and the cradles, with cloth of gold, crimson satin, blue velvet and the royal arms and symbols acting as reminders of the queen’s position and power. On Henry’s return that October, they travelled to Greenwich before proceeding to London to attend a banquet at the Fishmongers’ Hall in Thames Street. By 8 November they were at Richmond, where Henry tilted with William Compton and Charles Brandon. Catherine may have watched this entertainment, but she did not attend the following supper and nor did the ambassadors from Spain nor her cousin Emperor Maximilian, as Henry urged them to go and pay a late-night visit to his queen in her chamber.<
br />
Meanwhile, arrangements were proceeding for the daily care of the imminent arrival. A lady mistress was appointed to oversee the royal nursery, which would have comprised wet and dry nurses, rockers and other servants including those responsible for cleaning, washing and preparing the baby’s clothes, linen and bedding and those liaising with the kitchens to ensure a suitable diet for those who would be breastfeeding. Queens did not suckle their own babies, allowing them to return to royal duties sooner and enabling their menstruation to return more quickly, increasing the chance of conceiving again. Wet nurses were chosen for their healthy looks and their good character, as it was believed their thoughts and the food they consumed could be imprinted on the developing child.
Catherine would have had a say in the appointments, selecting from within her own household when she chose Henry’s nurse, Elizabeth Denton, as her lady mistress. Some confusion has arisen, though, when it comes to identifying his wet nurse, who is listed as Elizabeth Poyntz. Two people named Elizabeth Poyntz had connections with Catherine’s household but their comparative status makes one the more likely candidate than the other. One lady of that name was the daughter of the queen’s vice-chamberlain and chancellor, Sir Robert of Iron Acton. Her royal connections went back to the reign of Edward IV, as her mother, Margaret, was the illegitimate daughter of Anthony Wydeville, brother-in-law to the king. This gave her and Henry VIII mutual great-grandparents. Elizabeth’s exact age is not known, although the date of her parent’s marriage has been suggested as 1479. She was not the eldest child, her brother having arrived in around 1480, so she was likely to have been of an age with the queen, born in the mid-1480s. However, it seems that Elizabeth was unmarried at this point, later becoming the wife of Nicholas Wykes. It would be unusual for an unmarried woman to have received this appointment so there is a good chance that, in fact, the Elizabeth Poyntz referred to in the nursery accounts was Sir Robert’s daughter-in-law, the wife of his eldest son, Anthony. Elizabeth Huddesfield had married Anthony Poyntz in 1499 and her son Nicholas was born in 1510. In order to have a regular supply of milk, a wet nurse would have recently borne a child of her own, suggesting that Elizabeth was employed in that capacity; this is confirmed by a grant made to her in August 1511, referring to her as the prince’s nurse.
Catherine entered confinement early in December. The act of a queen bearing a child was a symbolic event of international significance. While it was a very personal occurrence, racking Catherine’s body with contractions and threatening her life as she laboured to expel her infant, she was acutely aware of the political and dynastic importance of the moment. The memories of her recent experience would also have been fresh, as she prayed and waited. Women were advised to walk up and down their chambers to induce labour, and other superstitious practices included firing arrows and loosening all the ties, laces and fastenings in the chamber, as these were thought to act in sympathy to impede the child. Even sitting with crossed legs or folding the arms was frowned upon. Catherine did not have long to wait, though. Christmas passed, with Henry remaining at Richmond to observe the festivities. Then, on the last day of the year, she went into labour, either braced on the pallet bed or seated in a groaning chair or the crimson velvet chair ordered specially.3 She would have held relics such as the girdle of Westminster, or similar talismans like cowrie shells or precious stones, as well as the inevitable prayers. Her child arrived in the early hours of January 1511. It was a boy.
The joy of the new parents was complete: this male child seemed to herald a secure future and indicate divine approval of the dynasty, the new king’s reign and marriage. Pre-written messages announcing his birth were hastily dispatched across Europe. Through the parishes of England, the church bells rang and prayers were said giving thanks for his safe arrival. In London, the cannon at the Tower were fired, bonfires burned and the streets ran with wine, to celebrate, as chronicler Edward Hall described, ‘the great gladness of the realm’.
But Catherine only knew about this second-hand. Following the custom of the time, she remained in her lying-in chamber for the next few weeks, including the ceremony of baptism on 5 January, when her son was given the name Henry. The godparents were William Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury, Henry’s aunt Catherine, Countess of Devonshire, and Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk and Earl of Surrey – the latter two deputised for Louis XII and Archduchess Margaret of the Netherlands, Catherine’s former sister-in-law. The baby was suckled by a wet nurse and sent off to sleep by rockers while his mother recovered. The following day, a banquet was held in the hall at Richmond, followed by a pageant depicting a mountain, glistening as if it were set with gold and precious stones, on top of which stood a golden tree hung with roses and pomegranates. The mountain opened to reveal a lady dressed in cloth of gold and costumed children who performed a Morris dance.
Catherine’s lying-in process would have lasted around a month. Her body needed time to recover but she was also considered impure until the service of churching, or purification, had cleansed her from the physicality of birth. After she had undergone the ritual of sitting up, assisted by high-status women, she would have been dressed in fine clothes and walked the short distance to her great chamber, where the bed of state was set up. There, the nobility and chapel royal4 witnessed her two duchesses drawing back the curtains and Catherine being raised from the bed by two dukes, in a symbolic return to public duty. She was offered a lighted candle, which she carried in procession to the church door, for a short service of blessing. It was symbolic that Catherine’s purification was timed to coincide with Candlemas, on 2 February, the traditional ceremony of cleansing of the Virgin Mary, when queens usually took the role of Mary in that day’s procession.5 It associated her with the delivery and purity of the Virgin, whose cult was at its height in pre-Reformation England. It was also a joyful affirmation of her survival. In turn, Henry set out on another pilgrimage to Walsingham, where he left an offering and commissioned the royal glazier, Bernard Flower, to make a stained-glass window for the Lady chapel.
Henry and Catherine relocated to Westminster to celebrate their son’s safe arrival and the queen’s return to court. Having re-emerged in public, she was the guest of honour at a joust on 13 February, where Henry first took the name Sir Loyal Heart. Seated with her ladies in a stand draped with cloth of gold and arras, she looked out across a pageant of a gold castle surrounded by a forest, led by a lion and an antelope. Foresters in green blew their horns and the pageant opened to reveal four knights on horseback, carrying spears, with their names embroidered on their horses’ trappers and their costumes covered with the letters H and K, embroidered in gold. With Henry, as Sir Loyal Heart, were Sir Thomas Knyvet as Good Hope, Sir Edward Neville as Valiant Desire and William, Earl of Devonshire, as Good Valour.6 The address of those answering the challenge acknowledged Catherine and the ‘good and gracious fortune of the birth of the young prince that it hath pleased God to send to her and her husband’. The following day the jousts continued, with knights dressed in gold and russet velvet and gentlemen and Yeomen dressed in similar colours, with yellow caps and scarlet hose. Catherine and her ladies looked on as Henry approached under a pavilion of gold, decorated with their initials, topped by an imperial crown, trembling spangles and a ‘goodly plume’. In contrast, Sir Charles Brandon, in a russet satin gown ‘like a recluse or religious figure’, offered his services to Catherine, which she accepted. He was followed by Sir Henry Guildford, the Marquis of Dorset, Sir Thomas Boleyn, then Henry Stafford, Buckingham’s younger brother, and many other knights. Their feats of strength and bravery, dedicated to Catherine, continued to surprise and delight the entire day. It was the most elaborate display of affection and respect for the queen, an extended public affirmation of Henry’s love for his wife. For Catherine, it must have gone a long way to repairing the damage done by the Anne Stafford incident and strengthening the marital bond. Henry was proud of her and wanted to show the world the extent of his love.
After the
jousts, Catherine accompanied her husband to hear evensong and, after supper, repaired to the smaller White Hall. Not to be confused with the palace that later went by the same name, Westminster’s White or Lesser Hall adjoined the Painted Chamber and, at about a quarter of the size of the surviving Great Hall, it was a more intimate venue. A banquet was held, followed by dancing, minstrels playing and a second pageant. Lords and ladies in cloth of gold, white and purple satin, threw the golden H and Ks sewn on to their garments to the people watching. This provoked such a dash for the gold that some attempted to pull off the king’s clothes and would have ‘foughten and drawn blood’ had they not been restrained by guards, as Holinshed relates: ‘Suddenlie the rude people ran to the pageant and rent, tare and spoiled the pageant.’ It was a terrifying moment, as the good-humoured celebration turned ugly, but Henry and Catherine retired to the king’s private apartments, where the feasting continued and ‘this triumph ended with mirth and gladness’.
Nine days later, terrible news came from Richmond. The little prince had died. Coming in such contrast to their celebrations and happiness, Catherine’s grief was extreme. She ‘made much lamentation’, ‘like a natural woman’. Henry made little outward show of grief, and ‘like a wise prince took this dolorous chance wondrous wiselie, and the more to comfort the quene he dissembled the matter’.7 According to Holinshed, by Henry’s ‘good persuasion and behaviour’, Catherine’s sorrow was ‘mitigated, but not shortlie’.8 Briefly, she had glimpsed the happiness she had longed for: a devoted husband and a healthy son. With little understanding of the factors influencing infant mortality, deaths of this nature could only be explained as the will of God. For some reason, Catherine believed, as she knelt in long hours of prayer, this was part of the divine plan. Either that or she and Henry had done something to anger God.