An Argumentation of Historians

by Jodi Taylor

  The lists were surrounded on three sides. Nobles and royalty sat in the big stand – lesser mortals, dogs and historians stood around the other two sides, using their elbows to get to the front for a good view. The fourth side was a mass of brightly coloured tents – or pavilions, I suppose, would be a more accurate term. Each pavilion was decorated in the livery of its owner. Front and centre was Henry’s pavilion, easily distinguished not only by the royal arms hanging limply overhead, but because it was twice the size of anyone else’s.

  ‘A spot of overcompensation, do you think?’ muttered Peterson. ‘That and the infamous codpiece, of course.’

  Behind the pavilions, an army of armourers, blacksmiths and farriers were working overtime on last-minute repairs. I could see the glow of braziers, bright on this grey day, and hear the metallic beat of hammer on anvil. Caparisoned horses were being led around, snorting with excitement and kicking out at anyone they didn’t like the look of. Some of them had a very nasty look in their eye and most people were giving them a wide berth.

  ‘I’m not going over there,’ muttered Markham, never at ease with anything in the animal kingdom. ‘Look at the size of the feet on that one.’

  Entertainers, conjurors, ladies offering a few minute’s affection for a really very reasonable fee, musicians and pie men were working their way through the spectators, their shouts adding to the considerable din. People laughed and money changed hands. A considerable number of casks of ale had obviously been broached – because that’s always helpful when trying to keep public order, isn’t it? – and I could see and smell various animals roasting on spits.

  I caught a glimpse of a muddy mongrel racing past with a lump of part-cooked meat in its mouth, closely pursued by two or three other, larger dogs. His little legs were going like the clappers and I hoped he made it to safety.

  Even the weather was fine. It wasn’t warm – England in January is never warm, but it wasn’t raining and there was no wind. Pennants hung limply in the still air, but it wasn’t unpleasant. No frost covered the grass on which we were preparing to picnic. More importantly, the sky was flat and grey. There was no sunshine to dazzle riders and ruin their aim. An equal advantage to all.

  And still the crowds were pouring in. I palmed my recorder and got what I could. We were surrounded by people from all walks of life. Townspeople, merchants, tradesmen and their families, locals and those who’d made the journey from outlying villages. There was colour everywhere. Especially in the stands where the nobility sat in comfort, being served wine and sweetmeats. You didn’t catch them sprawling on the cold ground like us.

  When I judged they’d had enough time to get themselves into position, I called the others. Clerk reported his team was well situated, directly opposite the stand, and that he could see us and I should pull my skirt down.

  I grinned and told him his codpiece was slipping.

  ‘We’ve a good view from here,’ he said.

  ‘Well, keep your eye on Norfolk,’ I said. ‘I especially want footage of him racing off to break the bad news to the queen.’

  ‘Copy that,’ he said calmly, and closed the link.

  Sykes reported that she and her team were exactly where they wanted to be, which was within a stone’s throw of the king’s tent. Bashford was still conscious and there were no chickens around so she was hopeful of a successful outcome. I could hear his indignant ‘hey’, in the background.

  We’d brought packs and baskets with us and so, just like everyone else, we were having a bit of a picnic. The usual St Mary’s staple fare – thick brown bread, a giant wedge of cheese, and apples, all washed down with water. It would have to keep us going all day, too. With that and all the running I do, you’d think I’d be as thin as a rake, but I’m not. I just can’t understand it. Oh, and there was a large slab of fruit and nut chocolate hidden in the bottom of the basket, because I need to keep up my sugar levels.

  Munching a piece of cheese, I was panning around and getting some great footage of people and what they were wearing. Most people had doublets and dresses inclined towards russet and brown, especially the poorer people, because the dyes were cheap and easily obtained. The middle classes – merchants and the like – wore long gowns of dark, rich colours. The Sumptuary Laws laid down very strict rules as to which fabrics and furs which class of people could use.

  For the more expensive reds, greens and blues, you had to look to the nobility in the stands. Beside me, Peterson was dictating details of the appearance and composition of the common spectators and I was busy recording details of the high-born ladies in the stand – their long, full sleeves and ornate headdresses. One or two of them looked almost exactly like the queens in a pack of playing cards. Some hair was visible, especially among the younger women. There was a great deal of fur worn – white, cream, dark – and obviously mostly for show because, even in January, most women wore their cloaks thrown back so people could admire their dresses. They would be wearing their best clothes for the occasion. I wondered how many had dressed to catch the king’s eye. Anne Boleyn was pregnant, but some reports suggested that the king had begun to tire of her already. Speaking of which … I craned my neck to see if I could spot Jane Seymour in the chattering stands. We’d all studied the Holbein portraits and sketches before setting out, but I wasn’t that confident of recognising her even if she was here, so we would get a record of everyone here today and sort it out when we got home.

  It’s a funny thing about Holbein’s sketches of Henry’s wives. To my modern eyes, only Anne of Cleves looks even remotely pretty. I suppose that’s the changing face of beauty. No wonder women can never catch up. I myself would probably have been extremely desirable about twenty thousand years ago, when the only competition would have been from a shaggy mammoth or a toothless old hag of fifteen.

  Just as we were finishing our lunch, the warm-up crew appeared, parading around the arena, playing instruments, singing and dancing. We packed away our picnic and got to work.

  Minstrels – all men – stood in the centre. Some had stringed instruments, others played pipes or what looked like recorders. They were actually very good. Around them whirled dancers and acrobats – all men – jumping and tumbling in time to the music. The crowd was eager to be pleased and clapped and cheered every one of them. As did we. They left the field to great applause.

  Peterson turned to me. ‘All right?’

  I nodded. I was. I was dry and comfortable and enjoying myself. As was everyone else. It was good to be back at work. I’d missed this, but we were up and running again. Hawking was repaired. We had our pods back. Leon was recovering and Matthew was safe. We would work something out with the Time Police. It had been a bad year but it was over now. I could look forward to the future.

  All around me people were craning their necks. They were waiting for the king. We were all waiting for the king. We were waiting for Henry Tudor, by the Grace of God, King of England, and France, Defender of the Faith, Lord of Ireland, and of the Church of England in Earth, under Jesus Christ, Supreme Head. If you ask anyone who is England’s most famous king nearly everyone will say Henry VIII. Not Henry V – although he’s my favourite. Or Richard the Lionheart – a right royal plonker, if ever there was one. Or mighty Edward III – hero of Crécy and Poitiers. Or Edward II – the worst king ever in the entire history of kinging. Or Charles II – who was sex on legs apparently. It’s always Henry VIII – man and monster combined. And we were about to see him. There was a huge air of excitement and anticipation. And that was just me.

  We had speculated on whether the king would open the tournament and then take part, or whether he was already suited up for the opening bouts and would delegate the opening ceremony to someone else. The atmosphere was electric. A crowd this size could never be completely silent, but there was certainly a hushed air of expectation.

  Of course he opened it himself. This was Henry Tudor and if there was one thing he loved above everything it was attention. To be the centre of the
spectacle … to have all eyes on him … to have the admiration of men and the adoration of women …

  Trumpets sounded in the distance. He was coming. We scrambled to our feet. I had my recorder ready. ‘OK, people, this is it. Good luck everyone.’ My words were nearly lost in the huge roar of approbation and excitement. He was here.

  The trumpets sounded again – closer this time. The crowd was parting. And here he was at last, leading the parade into the arena.

  Trumpets blared again and the crowd went into overdrive. And he knew how to work them. Heading his entourage of brightly coloured courtiers, he paraded slowly around the ring, waving graciously and smiling at the pretty girls.

  Shouts of ‘Harry for England’, and ‘God save His Grace’, rang out around us. This was it. Here he was. Right in front of us. This was Henry VIII – Henry Tudor himself. Here. Not twenty feet away. Close enough for me to see the fine detail of his tunic and the feather in his hat. He wasn’t yet as fat as he would be – he was nowhere near that yet – but he was still heavier than most. He was a big man – well over six feet – and his physical presence was bigger still because he dressed to impress.

  He wore a doublet of deep vibrant red with a thickly padded red and gold fur-lined short coat over the top. Rather dashing scarlet gloves were setting a new fashion right at this very moment. A soft hat concealed most of his hair but, yes, he was a ginger, just like me. Yay! I shouted, jumped up and down and waved like any star-struck teenager drooling over a boy band, and for one moment – just for one moment – he looked directly at me. Oh my God, Henry Tudor looked at me! I grabbed Tim’s arm.

  ‘Tim, he looked at me. Did you see?’

  ‘Steady on, Max. You are a married woman, you know.’

  ‘The king looked at me. Markham, did you see?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he shouted over the roar of the crowd. ‘I’m doing my job and watching your backs, not falling about like an hysterical groupie. Seriously, Max, I’m ashamed of you.’

  I didn’t care. ‘But the king looked at me.’

  ‘The king looks at every woman under seventy,’ said Peterson, severely. ‘There’s nothing special about you.’

  I still didn’t care, but one of us should get on with the job, so I palmed my recorder again and got stuck in.

  His clothes today were not as laden with jewels as those in his portraits, but he wore a large ruby in his hat and a magnificent golden chain around his neck. Jewels studded his garters as well, which were cutting tightly into his legs. The garters were very smart but they were known to be the cause of many of his problems. He had good legs. Actually, he had very good legs and he showed them off with tight-fitting stockings with even tighter garters to hold them up. He wouldn’t want to spoil the effect by having his stockings bunched around his ankles. But those garters would give him – and possibly had already given him – the varicose ulcers that would plague him throughout his life and play a large part in turning him from man to monster. Jewelled garters aside, everything he wore was designed to catch the eye and invite admiration.

  He was still extraordinarily handsome – in his youth he must have stopped traffic – but he was just beginning to be jowly. I suspected he was extremely vain – although he had good reason to be – but watching him now as he paraded around the crowd, basking in their adoration, it was easy to imagine the dismay his increasing weight and lack of physical attractiveness would cause him. Maybe dismay was too mild a word. Anguish maybe? Despair? To have been the most handsome prince in Christendom, the best at everything, to come first in everything, to be admired and envied, and then to deteriorate into the bloated paranoid wreck of a man he would become, lashing out at friend and foe alike. Indeed, no longer able to distinguish one from the other … what must he have seen when he regarded himself in the mirror? Or did the massive self-confidence dwindle into self-delusion so that he always saw himself as a young, virile, handsome king?

  He was a big man. In every sense of the word. He stood head and shoulders above those around him. The crowd was cheering and he was lapping it up. Judging from their reactions to him, at this point in his life he was still hugely popular. He was everyone’s idea of what a king should be.

  ‘Not sure there’s a lot of hair under that hat,’ said Peterson, himself the proud possessor of a hairstyle frequently resembling a windblown haystack. And, as the king moved on and the glamour faded, I could see he limped slightly.

  ‘The leg,’ I said in excitement. ‘He already has the leg ulcer.’

  He was really enjoying himself, waving to the crowd, eyeing up the women, tossing sweetmeats to children. Well – actually he stood, head thrown back, legs spread wide in that famous stance and several lackeys threw sweetmeats for the kids, but the thought was there.

  Those in the stand rose to their feet as he entered. There was another fanfare; the crowd fell silent in anticipation, the king took his position, gazed majestically around him, raised his handkerchief, paused dramatically and then let it fall. Another huge roar went up and, to yet another brassy fanfare from the trumpets, we were off.

  The first event was an archery competition. Designed, I guessed, to give the king time to nip off and climb into his armour. We watched several heats. One was between a team of professional soldiers against the locals. Each flight was cheered or booed depending on which side of the ground you were standing.

  The locals lost their bout to a great deal of good-natured heckling. A small purse and a keg were presented to the winners. And then – this was it.

  They were bringing up the horses. Grooms led them between the tents. It took two grooms per horse just to hold them back. Riders were climbing into their saddles and lining up for the parade.

  We joined the general surge forwards. We didn’t have a lot of choice, actually. We were packed in tighter than sardines. The crowd was very obliging. Those at the front sat on the ground so those behind could see. Pedlars passed among the crowd selling last-minute sweetmeats and souvenirs and generally standing on people.

  There were six riders. Two teams of three. Each man would fight all those on the other team. Nine bouts altogether. Not that events that afternoon would get that far. I looked at the excited faces around me. This would be a good afternoon’s entertainment for them – the excitement of the joust and the presence of the king himself. I wondered how much of his courtship of Jane Seymour was popular knowledge. Perhaps we weren’t the only ones craning our necks for a sight of his new girlfriend and possible future queen. Yes, everyone was looking forward to an afternoon of fun and excitement. And apart from us, no one knew what would happen today. How it would all end. How everything would change.

  The riders paraded around the ring. Henry’s team, which he obviously captained, was known as the Challengers. One of the permanent members was Charles Brandon, Earl of Suffolk and the king’s brother-in-law. He was generally reckoned to be the best jouster in the land and was always very careful to lose to Henry – but not by too much. Henry had a temper even before his accident. Brandon wasn’t here today, hence the teams of only three instead of the usual four. I guessed the other two would be Nicholas Carew, and Henry Bourchier, Earl of Essex. The heralds had announced their names but the noise was so great I couldn’t make them out.

  The composition of the other team, known as the Answerers, was unknown to us. There’s no record of the combatants, but we would record their liveries and check them on our return.

  Henry was easily the biggest man there and easily recognisable in his magnificent armour. The popular picture of a war horse, or destrier, is of some colossal lumbering beast, capable of carrying a man encased in heavy armour, and that is true – they were immensely strong, but they were also highly manoeuvrable. They had to be. No one would go into battle on a horse too big to move at faster than a trot. None of them were even as big as modern shire horses. Except for Henry’s horse, which was huge and, I suspected, was fed on red meat. He was a magnificent black beast, currently raring to go, fro
thing at the mouth and working up a heavy sweat. It was typical of Henry that he would ride a horse that took three grooms to control. The horse was drawing nearly as many admiring glances as the king, which, as Peterson said, was all very well, but when you knew this horse was going to be crashing down on top of him at God knows what speed …

  Henry opened the batting, magnificent in his ornate armour which glinted gold even on this dull day. His horse, guessing the moment had come, was rearing and plunging. There were now four men hanging off him. Henry sat easily in his saddle. The crowd was going mad with excitement. As were we.

  I don’t know who was his first adversary – his badge was quartered with black chevrons on a white background. He stood to our left – the king was on our right. They took up their lances – drums rolled and the trumpets sounded – Henry’s horse half reared, scattering grooms in all directions – and they were off.

  It was over in seconds.

  The two great horses thundered full tilt towards each other. No one held back. Their enormous hooves flung great divots of mud and sand high into the air. The earth shook beneath my feet. I mean really shook. And I’m married to Leon Farrell so I know earth shaking when I feel it. As the two riders levelled their lances, I found I was holding my breath.

  Necks outstretched, ears laid back and foam flying from their bits, the two horses met at the middle of the tilt – the central barrier – with an almighty great crash. The rider on the far side of the tilt tumbled backwards over his horse’s rump to sprawl on his back, unmoving. First blood to Henry and his team. Most of the crowd cheered wildly, jumping up and down and waving their arms. A few groaned and made rude gestures, possibly concerning their favourite’s ancestry. Or lack of.

  Men ran towards the fallen body and heaved him to his feet. He stood, swaying gently. The crowd applauded politely. He raised his arm to the king, presumably either to acknowledge defeat or possibly to check it was still attached. Henry, meanwhile, was doing his lap of honour, graciously acknowledging the cheers of his subjects. Would he pause at the stand and search the crowd for one face in particular?