The Scarlet Peacock

by Field, David

  Katherine was welcomed into London by a massive crowd that threatened to sink London Bridge by its sheer weight, and proudly heading the triumphant procession was the young Prince Henry, already displaying the love for knightly display that would epitomise his later life. Behind him, intermixed with some of the finest young nobles in England, were dozens in the Spanish retinue, including Katherine’s duenna, or personal attendant, and several black-skinned ‘Moorish’ servants, one of whom was proudly blowing a trumpet fanfare that fell strangely on London ears, but added to the bizarre spendour of the proceedings.

  The wedding was fixed for 14th November 1501, in St Paul’s Cathedral, and was to be conducted jointly by the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London. A week beforehand, Thomas travelled with the primate to the door of the Bishop’s Palace, then excused himself in order to slip back to his own house down the lane. The next morning, after Mass, the primate and his chaplain travelled by royal barge to Richmond Palace, where the Archbishop was to meet with King Henry to discuss matters of state in addition to ensuring that young Prince Hal had made all the necessary arrangements for the wedding breakfast that he was deputed to host at Baynard’s Castle, just down the road from the Cathedral.

  While the Archbishop was in attendance on the King, Thomas opted for a stroll through the gardens of the Palace, hoping by such exercise to break the gastric wind by which he was constantly plagued due to his rich diet. Approaching him from the opposite direction was a young couple walking sedately arm in arm, and as the distance between them and Thomas narrowed, he realised that he was about to confront an older version of the young savage who had punched him into the mud of Edmund Pountney Lane all those years ago. Thomas smirked as Howard’s face fell, and he couldn’t resist the first word.

  ‘Cross yourself – here comes a priest.’

  Thomas Howard managed a pale smile in response, then turned to the elegant fair-haired lady on his arm.

  ‘May I introduce my wife Anne? Dearest, this is Thomas Wulcy, with whom I went to school. He was the finest scholar in our class, and as you can observe he has since taken holy orders.’

  ‘Indeed he has,’ Thomas replied with a triumphant smile, ‘and were you to push him into the mud today, as you once did in the streets of Ipswich, you would incur a penance of many thousands of Pater Nosters. You might also incur the royal wrath, since my master the Archbishop of Canterbury is even now in attendance upon his Majesty.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Howard replied with an ingratiating smile as he turned back to his wife, who appeared somewhat nonplussed by this thinly veiled exhibition of mutual dislike. ‘I omitted to give my dear wife her full entitlement. She is Anne of York, the former Princess Anne who is the daughter of the late King Edward, the sister of the Queen, and therefore the sister in law of King Henry. That makes me a royal brother in law, as I calculate.’

  ‘The last I heard, you were destined for the Tower,’ Thomas sneered back ungraciously, invoking another superior smile from Thomas Howard.

  ‘I was never destined for the Tower, and my father only resided there a short while until his Majesty recognised his true loyalty to the rightful monarch, and honoured him with the duty of putting down a rebellion in the north, by which process I became Sir Thomas Howard. I was knighted on the field by my father, who has been restored to his title of Earl of Surrey, a title that one day will of course be mine.’

  ‘If you are not killed on the field of combat,’ Thomas reminded him. Howard was still smiling as he waved away this particular objection.

  ‘I had forgotten that you were so disinclined to risk your body in anything that smacks of manly exercise. Now, if you will excuse us, the Queen awaits us for an early dinner.’

  As they moved past Thomas down the path, Anne Howard looking at him sideways with curiosity as he gave her a polite bow, he concluded, with some regret, that the arrogant young buck had probably got the better of their exchange. But nothing lost, he reminded himself. ‘He that lives by the sword shall die by the sword’, or so it was foretold in the Gospel of St. Matthew, and in these uncertain times a false word or an unwise alliance might result in death by the axe. Howard’s reference to dinner had set Thomas’s stomach rumbling, and he headed back towards the great hall, pausing by a yew hedge to break wind gratefully in remembrance of his latest encounter with Thomas Howard.

  As he sat at the small board with Archbishop Deane, breaking bread in what he hoped was a pious-looking replication of the Last Supper, he was advised that by virtue of his office under the primate he had been allocated a place in the nave of St. Paul’s for the wedding ceremony. From there, as he stood craning his neck over the feathered bonnets and gable hoods of half the nobility of the realm, Thomas watched the solemn procession of the bride from the Galilee Porch at the west end of St Pauls and down the long line of Norman pillars to the raised platform that had been constructed for the occasion a few feet in front of the rood screen. Prince Arthur was waiting there with the Archbishop, the Spanish Legate and nineteen other mitred clergymen in all their ecclesiastical finery, for the ceremony that would make a fifteen-year-old Spanish girl the queen-apparent of a nation of whose language she knew very little.

  While the remainder of the congregation gazed in awe at the magnificence of the ceremony, the beauty of the bride and the solemnity of the wedding rites, Thomas looked in jealous fascination at the pectoral crosses on the chests of the bishops, their gilded mitres and their jewel-encrusted croziers. Was he not one of the foremost Latin and Greek scholars in the entire land? Could he not speak many of the languages of the nations immediately across the Channel? Did he not possess diplomatic skills honed in the settlement of petty parochial disputes between the parishioners whose causes he occasionally judged during his rare visits to his benefices? Yet here he was, still a humble priest, dressed in a plain black soutane that contrasted sharply with the colours of the rainbow by which he was surrounded. If there was justice in this life, as well as Heavenly reward in the next, he should by rights be one of those on the raised platform, waving the incense and administering the Host with a jewelled hand upon which sat a fine gold ring of office.

  Two days later, it was time to return to Canterbury, but when Thomas was admitted to the Archbishop’s chambers in the Bishop’s Palace, his patron was not alone. Seated across from him at a small table upon which sat a flagon of wine, two goblets and a platter of wafers, was a man who looked as if he had died some months previously, to judge by the skeletal set of his skull and the thinness of the frame under his simple ecclesiastical robes. Thomas stood uncertainly in the doorway until Henry Deane waved him over.

  ‘This is the chaplain of whom I spoke earlier, Richard. Thomas, may I introduce Richard Foxe, Bishop of Winchester and a good number of other places beside? He has need of your linguistic skills.’

  ‘In what regard, my lord?’ Thomas enquired of the corpse-like visitor, whose mouth broke into a rictus smile that was both encouraging and repellent at the same time. He held out a parchment to Thomas, who accepted it without taking a seat. As Thomas stood there, Foxe explained.

  ‘It is a despatch for the French Ambassador from King Louis, which in accordance with our normal practice has been intercepted and opened. We are currently engaged in diplomatic negotiations with Louis regarding his intentions towards Italy, in the hope of further ingratiating ourselves with Spain, and we wish to know what instructions the Ambassador has received regarding how to progress these negotiations. Take as much time as you require, and while you do so feel free to refresh yourself with some of this excellent Rhenish wine.’

  He beckoned to a page for an additional goblet to be placed at Thomas’s disposal, and as he poured himself a generous measure he read through the two-page vellum, taking care not to damage the seal whose wax had clearly been melted slowly over an even flame. After some five minutes he looked back up at Foxe and announced his conclusions.

  ‘The Ambassador has been instructed to proceed slowly. See
here – “doucement”? That means “slowly” in our language. However, he is not to positively obstruct any prospect of eventual agreement, simply to leave the door open wide, depending upon the outcome of his king’s latest armed venture south of his borders. See here again, “ne fait pas dilatoire” – that best translates as ‘do not act in an obstructive way.’

  Foxe’s face relaxed into another sepulchral smile.

  ‘It is as we had hoped. Our own king needs time to see the direction in which the wind blows. He will be most comforted by this, as indeed am I, since the King in one of his stubborn tempers is not a man with whom to discuss matters of fine diplomacy.’

  Thomas looked across at the Archbishop.

  ‘My lord, we must depart without much further delay, if we are to reach Canterbury by nightfall. Even then it will be a hard ride, and my old donkey is hardly the fastest mount on which to progress.’

  Henry Deane smiled back indulgently.

  ‘There are others in Canterbury to whom I may confess my sins, which have barely risen above gluttony these past days, God be praised. His Grace of Winchester here has asked that you be allowed to remain, since there are other matters of translation upon which he would value your counsel. He is accommodated at Richmond, while you are comfortably housed here in Putney. I shall not require you again until Mass next Sunday.’

  Thomas bowed from the presence, having promised to call on Foxe on the following forenoon. For the next few days he learned much of the devious machinations of King Henry around the thrones of Europe, the importance to England of its trade links with Burgundy, but the threat to it posed by the heir to the Holy Roman Empire, Maximilian, who was allied to Burgundy by marriage. Henry required to maintain good relations with Maximilian, and he was officially allied with him in seeking to keep the French out of Italy; at the same time, diplomatic overtures were being made to Louis XII of France in the hope of preventing him from further attacking principalities in Italy, since this would be likely to result in both Spain and the Emperor demanding that Henry commit English troops to a war with France, which he could ill afford.

  The diplomatic ground was clearly more of a swamp than a bog, and Foxe was amazed by the alacrity with which Thomas grasped the essentials, and by the second day of their discussions was even able to venture a few suggestions of his own as to how the impasse might be skirted around. It was with considerable reluctance that Foxe allowed Thomas to ride back to his duties in Canterbury, and as he did so Thomas reflected on how bored he was with the prospect of conducting the same old Mass, day in and day out, for an elderly cleric who seemed to have lost interest in affairs of state, and was merely cushioning his own soul against the bumpy journey to Heaven that he anticipated having to take in the near future.

  Before he was called upon to do so, however, King Henry had a delicate matter for his primate to negotiate at the other end of his kingdom. Henry had recently been obliged to put down a challenge to his throne by a pretender claiming to be the Duke of York, son of the late King Edward, and one of the ‘Princes in the Tower’ who Richard III had been accused of having murdered. His real name was Perkin Warbeck, and he had been given considerable support and encouragement by the Scottish king James IV. King Henry was anxious to seal the northern door to his kingdom by means of a perpetual peace treaty with Scotland, possibly cemented by intermarriage between the two royal houses. Unfortunately, it seemed that James was reluctant to enter into any treaty directly with Henry, given that his army had suffered an ignominious defeat at the hands of the Earl of Surrey, whose well regulated troops had ensured that the Scots got no further south than Coldstream, barely a day’s march south of Edinburgh. In the circumstances, any face to face confrontation between the two monarchs would seem, to the rest of the world, like a capitulation on unfavourable terms by a defeated monarch, and James was a proud man.

  Richard Foxe, as Lord Privy Seal, had been given the thankless task of bringing James to the bargaining table, and had delegated it to the Keeper of the Seal, and his old friend, Henry Deane, with a helpful suggestion that he leave the actual organisation of it to his chaplain. Thomas rode eagerly back to the capital, rejoicing at being given something more mentally challenging than devising soft penances for a rapidly ageing primate whose sins were almost laughably mild. Within twenty-four hours he had identified the most appropriate channel of communication, and organised a meeting, via his chaplain, with the Spanish Ambassador, Don Pedro de Ayala, who was also the accredited ambassador to the Scottish court, and could therefore act as a speaking tube between London and Edinburgh without exciting comment.

  Thomas tactfully persuaded Don Pedro that his English was far superior to Thomas’s Spanish. Indeed it was, but this also gave Thomas a linguistic advantage as he advanced his plan while they sat in Don Pedro’s suite of rooms in Westminster, drinking a fine Shiraz and sizing each other up.

  ‘How would such a treaty benefit Spain?’ Don Pedro enquired, genuinely curious as to why this plump English priest would be seeking his intervention.

  ‘Simply in this,’ Thomas smiled back reassuringly. ‘Scotland has long been an enemy of England, and the need to secure his northern border against incursion necessitates King Henry keeping back many troops that might be employed elsewhere.’

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘France, for one. Scotland and France have a sad history of aligning against England. They call it the ‘Auld Alliance’, and on many past occasions, when England has been at war with France, the Scots have harassed it from the north.’

  ‘Then why should my lord of Aragon not simply let the Scots stir the French? That way, England would need to wage war on France, which is what my sovereign would have you do anyway.’

  Thomas smiled. ‘Because, for the reason I just explained, any war with France would bring the Scots down upon us, necessitating that we withhold a sizeable number of troops from direct warfare with King Louis, troops that might be sent to assist the Spanish cause.’

  Don Pedro thought for a moment, before nodding slowly, then taking the discussion to its next logical stage.

  ‘And what seeks King Henry as the terms of such a treaty?’

  ‘A vow of perpetual peace, and a marriage between the two houses. This might even result in Scottish troops being loaned to England to fight against France.’

  ‘And who are to be the partners of this marriage?’

  ‘King James himself, obviously, since he is currently unmarried, but said to be a vigorous lover of women.’

  ‘And the English bride?’

  ‘The Princess Margaret.’

  ‘Diablo! She is but a child!’

  ‘She will be thirteen on her next birthday, which is not long away. She is well developed for a girl of her age, and doubtless would be in a suitable condition for the marriage bed before being allowed to travel north to consummate the peace.’

  ‘No doubt this is the will of her father, but what mother would allow her virgin daughter to be sacrificed to a man with lusts such as King James is reported to feed?’

  ‘You are a diplomat, my dear Don Pedro, and an excellent chess player according to my sources. You, above all others, know that on certain occasions it is necessary to lay a pawn in the way of a king.’

  ‘A pawn yes – but a young virgin?’

  ‘And how long would her virgin status be likely to last in this wicked world that God has led us into, my friend? She will become a queen ere long anyway, and it is better that she become a queen whose throne can be united with Spain’s. If it come to that, your own Infanta Katarina was little older when she became the Princess of Wales. Were you not the one who arranged for her to lose her maidenhood at the age of fifteen?’

  Don Pedro, a staunch Catholic, winced with guilt at the memory of what he had been all but ordered by his king to bring about, and reminded himself that the blame in the eyes of God would lie with those wicked manipulators of secular power who traded virgin girls like prized horses.

  ‘Ve
ry well, Tomaz. But we must both pray for absolution for our sins in this regard. Will you grant me absolution now, as we sit here, that I may more comfortably sleep this night?’

  Foxe, and to a lesser extent Deane, were richly praised by a relieved King Henry for having brought about the resulting Treaty of Perpetual Peace, while being silently cursed by Queen Elizabeth, who feared for the health and comfort of her pubescent daughter at the hands of a wild barbarian whose legion of bastards were always on public display in the nursery of Stirling Castle. For Thomas, it was a triumph that would not be forgotten, and would shortly be rewarded.

  *

  When Archbishop Deane died in February 1503, Thomas was genuinely mournful of his passing, since he owed him so much in his career thus far. He was now also minus a senior appointment, and was therefore more than a little intrigued when Richard Foxe, attending the funeral at Canterbury, introduced him to Sir Richard Nanfan, Deputy Governor of Calais, who was highly regarded by King Henry as the result of his involvement in the negotiation of the Treaty of Medina del Campo that had resulted in the short and tragically doomed marriage of Katherine of Aragon to Prince Arthur, who had died of the sweating sickness only five months into their marriage. This left ten year old Prince Henry as the heir to the throne unless Queen Elizabeth could coax another male child from her overtaxed womb.

  Calais had suddenly become more important to the English than it had been for years. It was the last foothold for English forces in Continental Europe, and the sole remaining trophy of the years in which, under the now legendary Henry V, England had dominated France in the Hundred Years War. All but Calais had subsequently been lost by the witless Henry VI, but it remained as a secure landing site for English soldiers, should they wish to invade again. It was therefore both strategically crucial to English military ambitions in France, and a permanent thorn in the side, not only of the French but also those nations such as Burgundy and Italy that the English could access most easily by means of a twenty-five mile Channel crossing. It was also the most obvious port through which England’s all important wool trade with the Continent could be conducted.