Another army must be raised, and the industrious Cardinal Beaton managed to gather a force of ten thousand men in only three weeks. Oh, the Cardinal, the Scots Cardinal! He had been commissioned by Pope Paul III to publish the Papal bull excommunicating me, in Scotland. How I despised him! Cardinals, I believe, were created by Rome expressly to torment me in this life.
This Cardinal’s army was to be led by Oliver Sinclair, King Jamie’s “favourite.” He loved him more than he had ever loved any woman, thereby incurring the disdain and derision of his subjects. The hated Sinclair was no soldier. At the edge of the Solway River, in southwest Scotland, Jamie suddenly decided to leave his troops, declaring that he would cross into England from Lachmaben, when the tide ebbed. So that Sinclair could have the battle to himself, and thereby acquit himself? Who knew what he was thinking?
Across the Solway I had three thousand Englishmen, hastily drawn up under the command of the Deputy Warden of the Marches, Sir Wharton. Although outnumbered, Sir Wharton led boldly and scattered the Scots, driving them into the bog, where his men killed them with spear and sword, or left them to be sucked into the muck or drowned in the river. Twelve hundred were captured, including Oliver Sinclair. The Borderers—who had largely composed the Scots force—took a perverted pleasure in punishing their King by surrendering to us witht God had still a greater one reserved for us. When he heard of the defeat, King Jamie wilted and died. “Fie, fled Oliver?” he said. “Is Oliver taken? All is lost!”
He drooped at Falkland Palace whence he had crawled in abject defeat. His wife was in her last days of pregnancy, but that held out no hope for him. His other sons had died, and any child born at this hour would be foredoomed.
It was a girl, in any case. When he heard of her birth, he said, “Is it even so? The Stuarts began with a lass, and they shall end with a lass.” Then he turned his face to the wall, and said, “The de‘il take it. The de’il take it,” and died. Jamie was thirty-one years old. He left a week-old baby girl, christened Mary, called Queen of Scots, as his heir.
CXVII
What a windfall! What extraordinary fortune! I could scarce credit it, other than that at long last I enjoyed God’s favour and basked in His rewards!
Scotland was mine, and for the price of a border skirmish! Sir Wharton and his three thousand men, with no elaborate war machinery, no field provisions, had delivered Scotland squarely into my hands, as if by divine edict.
I was suzerain of Scotland. I was grand-uncle of its infant Queen. I would marry her to my Edward. It was perfect; it was all part of a Divine Plan, I could see it now. Before, it had all been masked in murkiness, and I had floundered like a man in a mist, but still trying to discern the will of God, still trying to follow it when I received no external sighting, relying only on the steerings of my conscience. Now I had my reward, now all the mists were cleared away, and I had steered true. I found myself in a marvellous place.
Scotland and England would be one. Edward would be Emperor of Great Britain: ruler of Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and England. I, who as a child had had to take refuge in the Tower against a rebellion by Cornishmen—I would leave my son a throne that incorporated three other realms. In one generation the Tudors had gone from local kings to emperors. Because of me.
Scotland was mine! Scotland was mine! I would be a kind and gentle husband to her, as I had been to all my wives. I would honour her and treat her with respect. No mistreatment of the prisoners of war, and no (public) gloating over King Jamie’s death. Instead, I gave the Protestant-leaning Border noblemen we had taken as prisoners instructions to “woo” the Lowland and Highland Scots upon their release, to convince them their future lay with England. They were to return to Edinburgh and act as our agents there.
As for the infant Queen: I issued an order (as her uncle and guardian) that we would draw up a treaty at Greenwich, arranging for her marriage to Edward.
Things always come round a second time; history never exactly repeats herself, but sets up the pieces of the game the same way. In 1286, the Scottish King Alexander had died, leaving his six-year-old granddaughter, “the Maid of Norway,” as his heir. King Edward I of England, who already claimed overlordship of Scotland, immediately moved to have the Maid Margaret betrothed to his son Edward. But the girl had died travelling between Norway and Scotland, and thus the peaceful and natural union of the two countries was averted. But this time there would be no death, this time all “would go merri steerrievances against the King of France, and my tentative battle strategy are all outlined within this document.” I handed him a tightly rolled parchment, which I had written myself, past midnight, and which no man had read or witnessed—nay, not even Will. “I have sealed it well, on both ends, and secured the outer case. Tell Charles to ascertain that the seals are unbroken. I know that you will guard it well en route, and no spies will glimpse its contents.”
“Cromwell is dead, Your Majesty,” Chapuys’s dry little voice said. In old age he resembled a scorpion: brittle, desiccated, but still dangerous.
Pity. I could have used Cromwell now; if not the scoundrel himself, at least his methods. Under my direction, Cromwell’s leftover spies were quite slipshod and inefficient. I lacked their master’s diabolical genius. “Aye. And so letters are safe again.” I laughed.
“Is this farewell?” he asked, quite simply.
“Possibly,” I said. The Emperor might decide not to send him back to England. It was likely a new ambassador would return with Charles’s reply, while Chapuys would be pensioned off to spend his latter days near the Mediterranean, soaking up the sun like a lizard. “I shall miss seeing you, my friend.” Farewells hurt, always more than one expected. I hated them.
“Have you considered what we spoke of, regarding the Princess Mary?”
I did not correct him to “Lady.” He had earned the right to call her Princess. “Yes. I had made negotiations with the French, to marry her to Francis’s second son. Now—” I twisted my belt, wishing to rend it, as if that would cure my rage. “Now that selfsame son is to marry Mary, Queen of Scots. You see how they betray me. And my Mary is left once again husbandless, unwanted—”
“A Frenchman was unworthy of her,” said Chapuys. “But it was loving of you to attempt to arrange it. Perhaps someone from the Spanish royal house ... even someone younger ...”
“Or one of His Holiness’s illegitimate sons?” I could not resist needling Chapuys. “A good Pope-Catholic, by necessity!”
“Why not? An illegitimate King’s daughter for an illegitimate prelate’s son?” He returned the parry. But our fencing was mellow, affectionate, as only long-standing adversaries can grow to be. Jesu, I would miss him!
“Yes. That would do. And as part of the marriage settlement, the Bishop of Rome would recognize my title as Supreme Head of the Church of England.”
“You dream,” said Chapuys.
“A man should dream, and a King must do so,” I insisted. “And such may yet come to pass. Odder things have done so. Nay, I have not given up hope that someday the Pope and I ...” I left the sentence vague, unfinished. Unspecified wishes came true sooner than detailed ones.
“May I take a private leave of Mary?”
“Indeed,” I said. “She would be grieved if you did not.”
Chapuys, gone from England. Another bridge to the past down. Sooner or later, if one srned to Van der Delft. “Let us continue our interview out of doors, in the Privy Orchard.” To Holbein I said, “You are free to do whatever you like.”
While the Imperial ambassador and I strolled beneath the blossoming cherry, apple, and pear trees, caressed by sticky-sweet breezes from the south, Holbein went to his apartments, lay down on his narrow bed, and died of plague.
Plague! The word itself was a call to fear, but in striking Holbein, it had announced its grinning presence within the heart of the palace itself. And Edward was at Whitehall! I had brought him here to spend the summer, so that he could observe court life and feel at home in a grand pal
ace. Edward had been sketched by Holbein, had seated himself within a few feet of him, just seven days before his death!
I must get Edward safely away, and then flee myself. But where would be the safest place? Already, reports were coming in of the severity of the outbreak in London. Corpse-piles were starting to mount in the cross-streets. No one wanted to touch the bodies, let alone bury them. At Houndsditch, near the gun-foundry, someone doused the pile with hot oil and then set a torch to it. They shovelled dirt over the smoking, greasy ashes, making a gruesome little hill.
The plague was prevalent in the Southeast, all through the villages of Maidstone, Wrotham, West Malling, and Ashford, and at Dover. As yet there were no reports of any sickness to the west. I would send Mary west to Woodstock. I would also go west, with Edward, back to Wiltshire, to Wolf Hall.
The Seymour brothers would come; as Edward’s uncles, it was fitting. The rest of the court must scatter, and the Privy Council function as a unit only by means of messengers.
I called together the Council and explained briefly what we must do.
“The plague rages,” I said, “and we must flee. No bravery; I want no bravery. Wolsey showed ‘bravery’ and stayed working in London, until eighteen of his staff died. You are too precious to me for that. I therefore command you to leave London within forty-eight hours. Take as few with you as possible. The plague travels with people, we know not how. If anyone in your household is stricken, move immediately.”
They all looked back at me, seemingly healthy. As Holbein had been, when he perched Father’s wax death-mask on a stool, just scant days ago....
“Since we must now part, to reunite in autumn, God willing, I must open all my mind to you,” I told them. “We prepare for a war with France. The Emperor has already declared war on Francis, and it is our intention to join him, taking the field in person.”
At this bold pronouncement, the French-leaning members, such as Edward Seymour and John Dudley, looked unhappy. The non-fighters, like Wriothesley, Paget, and Gardiner, likewise had clouded countenances. But since Seymour and Dudley were essentially soldiers and wanted war, and Paget and Gardiner were Imperialists, there was something for them in the Continental venture regardless.
“At this moment the negotiations are tangled, but only over diplomatic style. England will war against France and solve the Scots problem once and for all. Their insubordination has grown intolerable. I wthert>
Norfolk and Suffolk looked resigned, but tired. They were old. A Continental army meant that they must lead it. Of course, Norfolk had his flamboyant son to assist him. Suffolk had no one, his son having died betimes.
“I myself am bound for Wiltshire, with my son. I will stay at Wolf Hall.”
If Edward Seymour was annoyed by my commandeering of his ancestral seat, he did not show it. He merely sat calmly and nodded, as if he had known it all along.
“I will have at my command a group of trusted messengers, with the best horses from the royal stables. I expect to conduct the business of the realm as well as humanly possible, and I will speed all things to you for your consideration. In the meantime, I pray God will keep us and spare our lives.”
One and all, we crossed ourselves.
Let it not be me, each of us prayed. Spare me.
CXIX
Would I go alone to Wolf Hall? I would have preferred it; but as King it was necessary that I have a few reliable others to accompany me, preferably including a Seymour, as I was going to their home. Edward Seymour I could not ask after all, I had realized that. He was too important to the realm; better he should go into seclusion at some other place and preserve his life, if our party were stricken. Thomas—now there was company, there was amusement ... but at bottom he was a man so empty of matter that he had never held a position of importance, and hence would be no loss to England should he succumb to the plague along with myself.
Is there any worse verdict that can be passed on a human life? He is expendable. His death would make no difference. I shuddered in even thinking it, as it seemed to be a curse. I liked Tom Seymour, I had not meant it ill.... But the truth was, his presence was not essential to any activity or person.
There needed to be a woman, a woman’s influence during this exile. A soft woman, a kind woman, a woman concerned with Edward, who could further his studies, as I was not keen on bringing tutors along. The widow Latimer, Kate Parr—was she still at court? I had been remiss in disbanding all the remnants of Catherine’s household. As I had no intention of marrying again, I knew that once Catherine’s ladies had left, there would be no more women at court. Not that I cared. But my attendants, my Council, my musicians—they cared. A monastic court would not appeal, would not draw the finest minds. So I lingered and delayed, keeping a posthumous court for a dead Queen.
The Lady Latimer was still at court, although she had already submitted a request to be allowed to return to Snape Hall, her late husband’s estate in Yorkshire, to take care of her three stepchildren. I sent for her.
She appeared promptly, and when I made what I assumed would be a startling request, she made a startling answer.
“I prefer to go straightway to my own home,” she stated. “My lands, my servants, my Lord Latimer’s children—they will need me there, with all the confusion—”
God’s blood! Did she not understand? There was death about, not “confusion.” The plague was not something that needed a competent administrator to direct it. Furthermore, my request was not a “request.” A royal request is an order.
“Madam,& ed ... for a little while. Flies were thick on the lower portion of the heap, making an obscene humming noise, writhing in iridescent waves over their feed. On top of all, like an offering, lay a naked maiden, pale and lovely, her golden hair serving as a funeral pall. Even as we passed, death-defying scavengers climbed on the human pile, searching for jewellery.
Outside the city gate, men were digging trenches. The dead would be thrown in, up to the top, and some little dirt shoveled over them. The men who dared to handle the corpses often followed them within a few hours. As I saw and smelled their sweat, I knew these were braver than any of King Arthur’s knights. What Galahad would have fled before, and Lancelot would have avoided altogether, these men faced unflinchingly.
Suddenly I realized that I knew not what had become of Holbein’s body. Had it been properly attended to? Surely so!
WILL:
No. Holbein was consigned to just such a trench-interment, where he decayed cheek-by-jowl with a tavernkeeper or a wet-nurse, and their dust is now mingled.
The plague brought about moral dislocations in every aspect of life. Neighbourliness evaporated, as everyone fled from the sick and refused to touch them, leaving only extortionists, whose greed exceeded their fear, to tend the dying.
The plague, and fear of it, reduced people to such terror that they forgot themselves and let their true natures reign. The Seven Deadly Sins stood revealed, glaring and gigantic, in every man, woman, and child.
Pride? There were groups who withdrew from the plague-ridden people around them and, shutting themselves off completely, thought themselves safe if they embraced “moderation” and “tranquillity.” They ate the most delicate viands and drank the finest wines, listened to sweet music, and admitted no one to their quarters, although neighbours were beating on their doors, begging for help. Not only did they refuse entrance to other people, they even refused any news of what was happening beyond their immediate quarters, in London or the realm itself.
Pride wears many hats: another is bravado, as when Charles, Duc D’Orleans, Francis’s favourite son (for the plague raged in France as well) rushed into a plague-stricken house and punctured the feather mattresses with his sword, shouting, “Never yet has a son of France died of plague,” and died of plague on schedule three days later. Then there was the pride of not fleeing, of standing at one’s post stalwartly, as Wolsey had done.
Avarice bared its face boldly, with all fear of reprisal and ca
stigation gone. The scavengers, as Hal described, picking over the bloated victims; the extortionistic rates charged for the simplest services; the “pickmen” who appeared, like ghouls, to charge for carrying biers to a burial place, all “respectable” people having fled. Avarice propelled men forward to grasp at positions and possessions abandoned by their rightful owners.
Envy and anger joined hands in letting inferiors wear their masters’ clothes and exercise their masters’ offices, like evil children let loose to romp in cultivated fields. The anger of the underlings expressed itself in the glee they took in tossing their masters into unmarked graves or in leaving them to decay in public view: the ultimate shame and degradation. Squire Holmes, who had once worn los erstwhile servants.
Gluttony, even in this poisonous time, managed to find a niche for itself. Since one might be dead tomorrow, should not one die with a surfeit in one’s belly, one’s lips still sticky with spiced wine? There were those who declared that they would as lief die of overindulgence as plague and, in fact, thought they would cheat the plague thereby. So they caroused, eating and drinking continuously, feasting on dead men’s stores, going from house to house scavenging, not for gold, but for meat and drink. They passed their last days in an oblivion of wine and pastries.
Others, of course, embraced lust as their answer to plague, preferring to die by an onslaught of Venus. They made their impending release from the moral code their excuse for violating it. They abandoned themselves to licentiousness, setting up orgy-rooms in death-emptied houses, where they indulged in every Roman and French vice known to man. Even respectable women were pawns of lust-inflamed men who came to “minister” to them as they lay incoherent and weak with plague. They were “examined” and exposed and then sported with ... and left to die.
The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers Page 56