by Alison Weir
Cromwell’s portraits show a thickset, portly man with heavy jowls, a small, severe mouth, and porcine eyes. They do not reveal his hearty manner, nor his skill at dealing with people. Chapuys recorded that in conversation his innate reserve would give way to jovial banter and animated expressions: “he is a person of good cheer, gracious in words and generous in actions.”5
Although he was not university educated, Cromwell spoke Latin, French, Italian, and some Greek, and was cultivated enough to hold his own with the likes of Kratzer, Dr. Butts, and, later, Holbein, who were all regular guests at his table. After the death of his wife, Elizabeth Wykes, in 1527, he never remarried, but may have taken mistresses. When he was due to stay with Norfolk at York in 1537, the Duke wrote, with wry humour, “And if ye lust not to dally with my wife,” he could supply for his guest’s comfort “a young woman with pretty proper tetins [breasts].” 6 Yet the jovial, urbane exterior masked a calculating mind that could remain coldly detached from human considerations when making political decisions. Many of those who trusted Cromwell would live to regret it.
The Boleyns wasted no time in taking up Cromwell. He held similar religious views to theirs, and his considerable abilities and growing power could be harnessed to their advantage. As for the King, he was confident that his new adviser would be able to expedite his Great Matter.
There is no doubt that the tortuous delays in resolving his nullity suit, combined with sexual frustration, his ever-present fears about the succession, and the heady experience of autonomous government, were all responsible for changes in Henry’s character that were becoming apparent at this time. He was growing ever more suspicious of people’s motives, and was so troubled about the Great Matter “that he does not trust any one alive.” 7 Erasmus and others were forcibly struck by his increasing resemblance to his father, Henry VII, in this and other respects.
Henry’s virtuous conviction that he alone was right was making him supremely egotistical and sanctimonious: Luther had aptly commented, “Squire Harry will be God, and do as he pleases!”8 Where he had once been politically cautious, he was now prepared to be headstrong and ruthless in order to have his way. Chapuys astutely observed, “When this King decides on anything, he goes the whole length.”9 Henry was also turning into a master of the art of self-deception: his concept of himself as a paragon of knightly chivalry and virtue never faded, and his perception of people and events was sometimes advantageously distorted.
The young, idealistic humanist with liberal ideas about kingship was giving way to a selfish, dogmatic tyrant. Henry might still be affable and accessible, displaying calculated bonhomie when it suited him—he would often greet Chapuys with an affectionate hug10—and his sense of humour was still lively, if a trifle touchy, yet he was more often the masterful embodiment of kingly authority, whose majestic, formidable presence aroused in lesser mortals both respect and fear. These days, the royal temper was more in evidence, and the King knew just when to use it to reinforce obedience. He also made no secret of his feelings: when he was pleased, his eyes glittered; when angry, he reddened; and when he was miserable, he sighed frequently or even wept.11 As he grew older, he became ever more sentimental.
Henry was developing an increasing desire for privacy, which led him to build increasingly complex privy lodgings in his palaces, some of which—notably at Hampton Court, York Place, and Greenwich—were accessed by covered galleries or stairs from private watergates, so that he could move from house to house without being seen by the public.
This increasing emphasis on privacy resulted in the King’s abandoning his old-fashioned stacked lodgings in favour of the kind of apartments that Francis I was building for himself, which were all on one level, invariably on the first floor. The King’s would be on one side, the Queen’s on the other, and their privy lodgings were usually connected. Each suite had its own watching chamber, presence chamber, and privy chamber, with the inner sanctum, or secret lodgings, beyond, accessible only to the Groom of the Stool and those specially invited. These privy lodgings were becoming increasingly complex, with the addition of more and more chambers and closets, and they enabled the King to withdraw completely from public life if he so desired.
Long galleries were also growing in popularity. People used them for recreation on wet or cold days, and Henry himself liked to discuss business while walking in them. During the next few years, he was to build several fine galleries, notably at Hampton Court, Whitehall, and St. James’s Palace, all affording good views of the gardens. Most of these galleries were private, with the King himself holding the only key. Here, he displayed his tapestries, pictures, mirrors, and maps.
These changes took place around 1530, and resulted in some palaces’ falling out of favour because their stacked lodgings were considered outdated. Among them were Beaulieu, which would from henceforth be used by the Princess Mary; Richmond;12 and the great palace at Eltham, which was inaccessible by river. Although Henry still hunted in the park, and occasionally visited, he retained Eltham chiefly as a nursery palace for his children.13 Bridewell Palace had proved too small, and was possibly subject to foul smells from the Fleet River; after 1530, Henry never used it, but lent it to the French ambassadors as their official residence.14 He now regarded Greenwich as his chief residence, but even that would soon be superseded by York Place, which in 1529 had been designated a greater house. Greenwich would nevertheless remain one of the King’s favourite country houses.
In order to keep up with the latest European architectural trends, and to satisfy a newfound greed for property that would reflect the magnificence of his status, the King now embarked, at enormous cost, on an orgy of buying and rebuilding that was to last for the rest of his reign. Hitherto, Wolsey had taken charge of royal building projects; now Henry made his own decisions, and there was no restraining him. In 1534, Thomas Cromwell lamented, “What a great charge it is to the King to complete his buildings in so many places at once. How proud and false the workmen be; and if the King would spare for one year, how profitable it would be to him.”15 So eager was Henry to have his new or refurbished houses finished that he paid his workforce a fortune in overtime fees, issued constant directives, and often arrived to take up residence before the paint was completely dry.16 The works completed in haste were not always executed to the highest standard, and were sometimes carried out with an appalling disregard for safety—several workmen are known to have been killed or injured.17
Because the King now preferred to spend his leisure in private, being entertained by his musicians and fools, or gambling with favoured courtiers, there were far fewer court entertainments than there had been in the first half of the reign. It was at this time, therefore, that the recreational complexes in the royal palaces came into their own, for the diversion of courtiers who might otherwise become bored and listless.
These facilities, however, were built primarily for the King himself, who still excelled at “manly exercise.” “He sits his horse well, jousts, wields the spear, throws the quoit, and draws the bow admirably. He plays at tennis most dextrously.”18 Although he did not joust as often as in former days, he retained his passion for hunting and hawking, and continued to enjoy tennis, bowls, and cockfighting. After 1530, he built new sports complexes at Hampton Court, Greenwich, and Whitehall, and also at several lesser houses. That at Whitehall would have five tennis courts or “plays,” two bowling alleys, a great tiltyard, and a cockpit. At Greenwich there was another cockpit, a timber-framed tennis court, a bowling alley, and a mews for hawks. Henry’s covered tennis play at Hampton Court was completed in 1534 and was linked by a gallery to Wolsey’s earlier court. It is not the tennis court that is there today, which dates from the 1620s, as it was converted into lodgings for the future James II in the 1670s.19 Most of Henry’s tennis courts were beautiful crenellated Perpendicular buildings with buttresses, tiled floors, and windows on two levels, protected by wire frames.20 The larger courts measured eighty-three feet by twenty-six feet.
With the rise of heresy, there came a change in attitudes towards the New Learning, which many closely associated with the cause for reform. Many humanists were at odds among themselves, and the partisans of both the King and the Queen had been pressuring famous scholars for their support. The older generation, which included Fisher and More, tended to support the Queen, while the younger, led by Cromwell and Gardiner, championed the King. 21 At court, in the universities, and later throughout the kingdom, the new learning was becoming irrevocably identified with the cause of reform. This cause attracted many radicals, if not outright heretics. Predictably, the climate in which intellectual freedom had flourished was changing to one of intolerance and censorship.
Henry tried to enlist the support of his learned cousin, Reginald Pole, who, having completed his studies in Italy, had been sent off to canvass the University of the Sorbonne in Paris; in 1530, the King recalled him and offered to make him either Archbishop of York or Bishop of Winchester. Pole, a scholar whose sympathies lay with Queen Katherine and who had no taste for public office, refused. This led to a violent quarrel in which the King barely restrained himself from punching his cousin, who emerged from the interview in tears. Amicable relations were soon restored, however, and Pole retired to the London Charterhouse.
The Duke of Suffolk was certainly out of favour at this time, having raised the matter of Anne Boleyn’s past with the King. Anne would not forgive such an insult and accused the Duke—possibly with some justification, given later events22—of seducing his son’s betrothed, a girl of no more than eleven. Henry therefore refused to see his old friend, but at length he prevailed on Anne to relent, and Suffolk was recalled. 23 But Suffolk was in a difficult position because his wife, Mary Tudor, loathed Anne Boleyn, and would not go to court while she was there. Suffolk, who himself secretly sympathised with the Queen, therefore found himself the victim of divided loyalties.
Anne was now doing her best to force courtiers to abandon the Queen, threatening to have them dismissed if they did not give her their support. 24 Her adherent, William Brereton, a Groom of the Privy Chamber, and Thomas Wriothesley, a member of the royal secretariat, were given the task of obtaining the signatures of noblemen and courtiers for a petition to the Pope, urging him to grant the King an annulment without further delay.
By 1530, a new humanist scholar had risen to prominence at court; John Leland, who had been educated at St. Paul’s School and the universities of Cambridge, Oxford, and Paris. He had begun his career as tutor to Norfolk’s younger son, Lord Thomas Howard, then been made a court chaplain, and had recently been appointed Keeper of the Royal Libraries. His chief task was to catalogue the many manuscripts and printed books in the King’s collection. It was Leland who first suggested to the King the idea of mapping the whole of Britain, a project that did not come to fruition until Elizabeth’s reign.
The summer of 1530 brought with it the plague, causing the king to flee from Hampton Court to Greenwich. Before his arrival, several poor folk were expelled from their homes as a precautionary measure; the King later compensated them for the inconvenience. During August, Henry gave himself “entirely to hunting privately and moving from one place to another.”25
His son Richmond was sent back to Windsor, where Norfolk’s thirteen-year-old son, Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, was sent to keep him company and share his lessons. They remained there for two years and forged a lasting friendship. Surrey, who was to become one of England’s greatest poets, later looked back, when Richmond was dead and he himself in prison in Windsor Castle, upon that time of awakening adolescence as an isolated idyll. He celebrated it in one of his most moving poems, which reveals more details of Richmond’s formative years than any other source:
So cruel prison, how could betide, alas,
As proud Windsor? where I, in lust [vigour] and joy,
With a King’s son, my childish years did pass
In greater feast than Priam’s sons of Troy:
Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour,
The large green courts where we were wont to hove
With eyes cast up unto the maidens’ tower,
And easy sighs such as folk draw in love.
The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue,
The dances short, long tales of great delight,
With words and looks that tigers could but rue,
Where each of us did plead the other’s right.
He recalled them playing tennis under the watchful eye of a governess, and missing the ball because their thoughts were on young girls:
The palm play where, despoiled [stripped] for the game,
With dazed eyes oft we, by gleams of love,
Have missed the ball and got sight of our dame,
To bait her eyes, which kept the leads above.
There were happy hours spent jousting, riding, and hunting, and secret confidences shared:
The gravel ground, with sleeves tied on the helm,
On foaming horse, with swords and friendly hearts,
With cheer, as though one should another whelm,
Where we have fought and chased oft with darts.
With silver drops the mead yet spread for ruth,
In active games of nimbleness and strength,
Where we did strain, trained with swarms of youth,
Our tender limbs, that yet shot up in length.
The wild forest, the clothed holts with green,
With reins availed and swift, y-breathed horse,
With cry of hounds and merry blasts between,
Where we did chase the fearful hart of force.
The wide walls eke, that harboured us each night,
Wherewith, alas! reviveth in my breast
The sweet accord: such sleeps as yet delight
The pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of rest.
The secret thoughts imparted with such trust,
The wanton talk, the divers change of play,
The friendship sworn, each promise kept so just,
Wherewith we passed the winter nights away.
Give me account, where is my noble fere [companion]
Whom in thy walls thou didst each night enclose?
To other lief [dear], but unto me most dear.
Echo, alas, that doth my sorrow rue,
Returns thereto a hollow sound of plaint.
Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew,
In prison pine, with bondage and restraint;
And with remembrance of the greater grief,
To banish the less, I find my chief relief.26
In 1531, the King gave Richmond the early fifteenth-century house at Collyweston, Northamptonshire, Margaret Beaufort’s former residence, as his principal seat, but it appears that he rarely used it before 1533.27
Cardinal Wolsey, meanwhile, had retired to his See of York and was staying at Cawood Castle, preparing for his belated enthronement as Archbishop. Suddenly, in November 1530, the Earl of Northumberland—the former Lord Henry Percy, whose courtship of Anne Boleyn the Cardinal had ended—arrived at Cawood with Walter Welch of the Privy Chamber and, in the King’s name, arrested Wolsey for high treason. The Cardinal was charged with having attempted to enlist the support of foreign rulers in his own cause and having been in secret correspondence with Rome.
Wolsey travelled south with the Earl; they were met on the way by the Captain of the King’s Guard, Sir William Kingston, with twenty-four of his men. The Cardinal knew that at the end of his journey the execut
ion block awaited him. But he was also a sick man, and when they arrived at Leicester Abbey for the night, he collapsed. As he lay dying, he said, “If I had served God as diligently as I have done the King, He would not have given me over in my grey hairs.”28 He was buried in St. Mary’s Abbey in the hair shirt that he had worn secretly during the last months of his life.29
George Cavendish rode south to Hampton Court to inform the King of Wolsey’s death, and found Henry at shooting at the butts. Noticing Cavendish leaning against a tree looking pensive, the King came up and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“I will make an end of my game, then I will talk with you,” he said. Later, Norris summoned Cavendish to the privy lodgings where the King, wearing a gown of russet velvet lined with sables, awaited him. After Cavendish broke the news, Henry spent an hour “examining me of divers weighty matters concerning my lord, wishing that liefer than £20,000 that he had lived.”30
Henry kept his personal sorrow to himself, but he was determined to assert his authority over the Church that Wolsey had represented. In December 1530, spurred on by Cromwell and the rampant anticlericalism engendered by the Great Matter, he indicted fifteen of his senior clergy-men under the Statute of Praemunire for having recognised Wolsey’s unlawful ecclesiastical jurisdiction.
After dropping this bombshell, Henry presided with the Queen over the Christmas celebrations at Greenwich, while Anne Boleyn made herself scarce. She had recently made a fool of herself by adopting a motto that had long been used by the Emperor’s family, and ordering it to be embroidered on her servants’ doublets. Given the fact that she had spent her youth at the court of Margaret of Austria, she was probably aware of what she was doing, but the defiant gesture had backfired when people began laughing at her, and she hastily had the mottoes removed.31 Anne was back at court by New Year, however, when the King had to give her £100 to buy him a gift,32 and she was at his side when, in February 1531, he visited Sir Nicholas Carew at Beddington Park in Surrey.