by Alison Weir
It was upon such men that the King relied at times of crisis. Until now, his advisers had urged him to deal gently with the rebels, but he had no intention of keeping his promises, although he lured Robert Aske, one of the leaders of the rebellion, to spend Christmas at court, there to be lulled into a sense of false security.
It was a bitter winter, so cold that the Thames froze. Henry and Jane, swathed in furs, rode on horseback through the gaily decorated streets of London to a service in St. Paul’s Cathedral, then galloped across the ice-clad river to Greenwich, instead of travelling by barge,1 much to the delight of the crowds who came to see them. Christmas was kept with wonderful solemnity and splendour, marred only by news of the death of the Queen’s father, Sir John Seymour, on 21 December at Wulfhall. Both the King’s daughters were at court, and at New Year Mary received many expensive gifts from her father and stepmother, and from Cromwell.
Aske went back north convinced that his sovereign was on his side, but in January 1537, another rising broke out in Yorkshire. This time the King was prepared—and bent on vengeance. Martial law was imposed in the north, and Norfolk and Suffolk set about suppressing the rebels with grim ferocity.
The King’s anger had been fuelled by news from Rome that his cousin Reginald Pole had not only accepted a cardinal’s hat from the Pope but had also published a vicious tract2 condemning Henry, who had been generous to him in youth, as a heretic and adulterer. Worse still, the Pope had appointed Pole to coordinate a European offensive against Henry while he was occupied with the rebellion. This was treason of the worst kind, and all those linked by blood to Pole, who was out of reach of Henry’s justice, suffered the consequences. Cromwell had warned the King that Lady Salisbury and her sons might unite with the Exeters and other conservatives against him, and that now seemed all too credible, despite Lady Salisbury’s condemnation of her son’s book. From now on, the Poles and the Courtenays were under suspicion. “The King, to be avenged of Reginald, will kill us all,” they predicted. 3
God, it appeared, was on the King’s side, for at the end of February Queen Jane revealed that she was at last to bear him a child. There was no more talk for the present of her coronation, for Henry wished to spare her any undue strain that might threaten her precious burden, and was happy to postpone the ceremony until after the birth.4 In March, the Queen stood sponsor at the christening of her brother Edward’s daughter, who was named in her honour; Mary and Cromwell also attended. The following May, the baby’s father, Lord Beauchamp, was admitted to the Privy Council.
That spring, the Pilgrimage of Grace was finally—and ruthlessly— suppressed. The King and many others took this success as a sign of divine approval. Two hundred rebels, including Aske, were executed, and Henry emerged stronger, more powerful, and more respected than ever before. Norfolk and Suffolk were restored to high favour, and other magnates, such as the Earls of Rutland and Shrewsbury and Sir John Russell, who had been especially proactive on the Crown’s behalf, basked in the King’s gratitude. Henry also dubbed forty-eight new knights. Hard on the heels of the rebellion, Cranmer published, on the King’s instructions, a book outlining the doctrines of the Church of England. Entitled The Institution of a Christian Man but known as The Bishops’ Book, it marked a return to more orthodox beliefs. 5
Spring brought warm weather. Henry told Norfolk that he had intended to go north to overawe the subjects who had dared rebel against him, but confessed, “To be frank with you, which you must keep to yourself, a humour has fallen into our legs, and our physicians advise us not to go far in the heat of the year.” 6 He was suffering from “a sore leg that no man would be glad of,”7 perhaps a recurrence of the ulcer or abscess that had first troubled him in 1528, which may have been triggered by his fall in January 1536. Now both legs were affected, one worse than the other, and from henceforth Henry would be subject to attacks of unbearable pain and suffer intermittent problems with mobility and consequent weight gain, which only exacerbated the problem. His condition would also have an incalculable effect on his increasingly irascible temper, for he found it hard to be incapacitated after leading such an active life, and drove himself when it would have been better to rest. But, as a ruler, he could not afford to be seen as losing his grasp.
The condition Henry suffered from was probably osteomyelitis—a septic infection of the bone resulting from an injury that caused splinters of bone to break away. When, from time to time, the splinters worked their way through the skin, there would be sudden swelling accompanied by agonising pain, relieved only by a discharge of pus and the removal of the bone shard. It could also have been a varicose ulcer, perhaps made worse by a fall, or thrombosed or infected varicose veins. It has recently been suggested that the King’s sore legs were due to scurvy, contracted as a result of eating a diet too high in protein,8 but there is plenty of evidence that Henry liked fruit and vegetables.
This attack was severe enough to confine the King to his chambers: “he seldom goes abroad because his leg is something sore.” 9 His physicians tried many remedies, including herbal baths, and Henry devised some of his own, but to little effect.10 For such a fastidious man, the condition was distasteful and humiliating. It is said that his fool, Will Somers, was the only person who could keep his spirits up when his leg was paining him, which would account for the close friendship between these two very different men. During the King’s period of seclusion, there was much speculation at court as to the severity of his illness. Lord Montague privately observed: “He will die one day, suddenly. His leg will kill him, and then we shall have jolly stirrings!”11
Henry’s low spirits were evident when a French merchant brought to court the latest velvet bonnets, lace trimmings, and other luxuries from Paris. Henry refused to see him, saying he was “too old to wear such things.” He later changed his mind and bought a rich collar, a hat, some fur, some linen, and a mirror.12 In fact, he would continue to adorn himself magnificently, and set fashion trends, until the end of his life.
When Henry recovered, he took Jane on a short pilgrimage—his last—through Kent, visiting Rochester, Sittingbourne, and Canterbury, where they made offerings at the shrine of St. Thomas Becket, which would be destroyed the following year. After a brief visit to Dover, the royal couple made their leisurely way to Hampton Court.
While in Kent, they may have taken the opportunity to visit three former archiepiscopal residences that the King acquired from Cranmer that year, having decided that the Archbishop, who owned sixteen houses, had too much property in Kent. Charing Palace had been built around 1300, and a stone gatehouse and hall survived from that time, but Archbishop Morton had converted the other buildings into a brick courtyard house at the end of the fifteenth century.13
Knole, which the King liked for its “sound, perfect and wholesome situation,”14 had been built as a private residence by Archbishop Thomas Bourchier in 1456–1460, and on his death in 1486 had passed to the See of Canterbury. Henry enlarged the house and park, building the battlemented west front with its gatehouse, King’s Tower, and octagonal chimney stacks, and constructing or extending the Green Court15 to house his retinue. He also installed plasterwork ceilings, marble chimneypieces, and carved panelling, examples of which survive.
Otford, which Henry disliked because it was low-lying and “rheumatic,” was acquired as a satellite house for Knole, of which Henry said, “If I should make abode here, as I do surely mind to do now and then, I will live at Knole, and most of my house shall live at Otford.”16 History, however, does not record that Henry spent very much time at Knole at all. Otford, despite its situation, was one of the most splendid palaces in England. Warham had rebuilt much of the original moated manor house— reputedly erected by Thomas Becket in the twelfth century—around 1514–1518, retaining only the hall and chapel. His new palace was vast— the brick outer court measured 270 feet by 238 feet—and ornamented with gilded carvings; it was surrounded by beautiful gardens with topiary, herbs, rare fruits, and high hedges. T
he King had on several occasions been entertained there. He now ordered some rebuilding,17 but made only one recorded visit thereafter.
In 1537, the King offered one William Reed the suppressed priory of Tandridge in exchange for the manor of Oatlands at Weybridge, Surrey, which he later incorporated into the Honour of Hampton Court.18 During the next eight years, the King was to spend £16,500 (nearly £5 million) on constructing a large palace around the core of the old moated house; it was built of brick and stone around three courts, one of them irregularly shaped with an octagonal tower, and the royal lodgings were gabled rather than crenellated. Outside there were terraced gardens with fountains, a pleasance, and a deer park. The fruit trees for the orchards, like the stone of the fabric, came from nearby Chertsey Abbey.19 The royal lodgings were hung with fine French tapestries, the floors laid with Turkey carpets, and the furniture upholstered in velvet and cloth of gold. Oatlands, which covered ten acres, was designated a greater house, and Henry regularly used it as a hunting lodge.20
In 1537, to mark the renewal of his hopes for an heir, the King commissioned Holbein to paint a vast mural of the Tudor dynasty in the privy chamber at Whitehall Palace. This magnificent work—which measured perhaps twelve feet by nine feet—depicted the full-length, almost life-size figures of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York standing on marble steps draped with a Turkey carpet behind Henry VIII and Jane Seymour, in a splendid antique setting with a classical roundel, grotesque pillars and friezes, trompe l’oeil decoration, and shell-shaped niches, which perhaps reflected the architecture and décor of the privy chamber. The painting, which was by then deteriorating, was lost when the palace was destroyed by fire in 1698, but is known through two small copies commissioned by Charles II in 1667 from a mediocre Dutch artist, Remigius van Leemput.21 Holbein’s full-size cartoon of the two Kings survives,22 however, although it shows Henry VIII facing sideways rather than forwards, as in the finished mural. The dominating figure of the King was so realistic and majestic that visitors approaching the throne below the mural claimed they felt “abashed and annihilitated” 23 by its power. This was the definitive image of Henry VIII—feet firmly apart, hands on hips, gazing with steely authority at the viewer—from which many subsequent portraits derived, and was in fact the first English state portrait, launching a royal tradition that continues to this day. The deliberate dissemination of this image may well have been government policy, but the evidence suggests that after the Reformation there was a popular demand for portraits of the King.
At Hampton Court, work was continuing on the royal apartments. The so-called Wolsey Closet, reconstructed in Victorian times from surviving fragments of Tudor interiors, gives some idea of the décor in the privy lodgings, with a plain stone fireplace; oak linenfold panelling; a carved Renaissance frieze bearing mermaids, dolphins, urns, and Wolsey’s motto; painted panels depicting Christ’s Passion; and a chequered gilded ceiling studded with Tudor roses, sunbursts, and Prince of Wales feathers, which must date from after 1537.
The Queen’s pregnancy progressed well. Late in May she appeared at Hampton Court in an open-laced gown, and on Trinity Sunday Te Deum was sung in St. Paul’s and other churches throughout the realm “for joy of the Queen’s quickening of child.”24 But in June, there occurred another, more virulent outbreak of plague, which drove the court to Windsor and a fearful Jane to an over-rigorous observance of holy days and fast days, much to everyone’s concern. Lord Hussey wrote to Lady Lisle, “Your Ladyship could not believe how much the Queen is afraid of the sickness.” 25 In London, the pestilence was killing off a hundred victims every week, and the King forbade anyone from the City to approach the court. He cancelled his plans for a large-scale hunting progress, concerned that the Queen, “being but a woman, upon some sudden and displeasant rumours that might by foolish or light persons be blown abroad in our absence, being so far from her, might take to her stomach such impressions as might engender no little danger or displeasure to the infant.”26 Instead, he confined himself to short hunting trips, staying at houses within a sixty-mile radius of his wife. His companions found him in good spirits, behaving “more like a good fellow than a king.”27
Meanwhile, Surrey was diverting the waiting court with his escapades. According to the late-sixteenth-century poets Thomas Nashe and Michael Drayton, while visiting the Lady Mary at Hunsdon in 1536, he had met a young maid of honour, Lady Elizabeth FitzGerald, the penniless ten-year-old daughter of the late Earl of Kildare. Surrey immediately conceived a romantic yet platonic affection for this child, and immortalised her in a sonnet as “Fair Geraldine,” in imitation of Petrarch’s love poems to Laura. The courtiers were intrigued by this odd affair, but even more amused when they learned that the hotheaded young Earl had been imprisoned at Windsor for punching Lord Beauchamp in the face within the verge of the court. Beauchamp had provoked the attack by suggesting that Surrey was sympathetic to Aske and his rebels; thanks to the intervention of Cromwell, and the fact that the Earl was known to be loyal, the King was inclined to be sympathetic. Surrey remained in confinement for only two weeks, and spent the time writing verses, among them the poignant poem recalling his years at Windsor with Richmond.
Lady Lisle, who had been unsuccessful the previous year, was still desperately trying to get her daughters, Anne and Katherine Basset, accepted in the Queen’s household. To this end, she assiduously dispatched braces of the quails Jane craved from Calais.28 While eating some at dinner one day, the Queen told the Lisles’ agent, John Husee, that she would take one of Lady Lisle’s girls as a maid of honour, but wished to see them both before deciding which. They were to travel from Calais and present themselves, suitably dressed, at court. The girl chosen must be “sober, sad, wise and discreet, and lowly above all things, and be obedient, and governed and ruled by my Lady Rutland and my Lady Sussex, and serve God and be virtuous, and be sober of tongue.”29
The Queen ceremonially took to her chamber at Hampton Court on 16 September. To minimise the risk of plague, Henry moved with his riding household to Esher, where he would await news of the birth.30 From there, he issued orders for a Garter stall to be prepared at Windsor for the expected prince.
On 17 September, Lady Lisle’s daughters arrived, and Jane chose the younger, Anne Basset, who had been educated in France and was highly accomplished. She was “a pretty young creature,” “fair, well-made, and behaveth her self so well that everybody praiseth her that seeth her.” The Queen had her sworn in, and commanded her mother to provide her with a new wardrobe—no French hoods or low necklines—and a maid. Anne was to become a popular figure at court, highly regarded by the King, and never lost her good reputation.
The Queen’s labour was long and hard, but at the end of it, at 2 A.M. on 12 October 1537, she gave birth to the long-awaited Prince. The King was jubilant, weeping with joy as he held his son for the first time, 31 and the country erupted in celebration. Hugh Latimer wrote, “We all hungered for a prince so long there was so much rejoicing as at the birth of John the Baptist.” Te Deum was again sung in St. Paul’s, a two-thousand-gun salute resounded from the Tower, church bells pealed out, bonfires were lit, free wine was distributed in London, and there were processions, street parties, and civic banquets. Meanwhile, royal messengers sped off to all parts of the realm with “the most joyful news that has come to England these many years.”32 The kingdom had an heir, and the Tudor dynasty was assured. The spectre of civil war, which had threatened for so many decades, retreated into oblivion.
The Prince was to be christened in the new chapel royal at Hampton Court. In 1535–1536, the King had converted Wolsey’s old chapel into a lavish Perpendicular masterpiece with Renaissance details and installed a beautiful oak fan-vaulted ceiling, carved by Richard Ridge and another master craftsman, Henry Corren,33 and painted blue and gold, with drop pendants, piping putti, and the King’s motto, “Dieu et mon Droit,” on the arches. There were new stained glass windows, carved choir stalls and benches, paintings, tapestries, a black-and-
white-chequered floor, and an organ. Pews for the King and Queen were set in a gallery above the main body of the chapel, which had crystal windows and was approached through two richly appointed “holyday closets” with battened and gilded ceilings.34 The arms of the King and Queen were set in stone plaques either side of the chapel door, where they may be seen today.
The Prince was brought here on the evening of Sunday, 15 October, in a magnificent torchlit procession, led by knights, ushers, squires, and household officers, followed by bishops, abbots, and the clergy of the Chapel Royal, the entire Privy Council, foreign ambassadors, and many lords, among them the Earl of Wiltshire. Then came the Lady Elizabeth, just four, borne in the arms of Lord Beauchamp and carrying her brother’s richly embroidered white baptismal robe and the chrysom oil. The Prince followed, on a cushion held by the Marchioness of Exeter, with Norfolk supporting his head and Suffolk his feet, all walking under a canopy of cloth of gold supported by four Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber. The Prince’s long velvet train was carried by the Earl of Arundel, who was followed by the baby’s nurse, Sybil Penn, and the midwife who had delivered him. The Lady Mary, who was to be the Prince’s godmother, walked behind, attended by many ladies. Although there were four hundred people present, numbers had been restricted for fear of plague.
In the chapel royal, at midnight, Archbishop Cranmer baptised the Prince with the name Edward, after St. Edward the Confessor, in the silver-gilt font which had been set up on a dais draped with cloth of gold. Nearby was a cubicle formed of tapestries, in which were set a basin of perfumed water and a charcoal brazier, so that the infant should not catch cold when he was undressed. Suffolk, Norfolk, and Cranmer were godfathers. Garter King of Arms then cried: “God, of His almighty and infinite grace, give and grant good life and long to the right high, right excellent and noble Prince Edward, Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester, most dear and entirely beloved son to our most dread and gracious lord, King Henry VIII!”