The Scarlet Peacock

by Field, David

  ‘Most certainly, your Excellency, but first I have a gift from my king as a token of both his esteem and his heartfelt grief that he may have offended you, when the insult was in truth only intended to Ferdinand of Spain. If I might be permitted?’

  The Emperor nodded his approval, and Thomas looked behind him at the entrance to the great hall in which they were met, in which stood a tall young man dressed from head to foot in the livery of a priest of York, beside whom was a long wheelbarrow that had travelled all the way from Calais on a horse-drawn cart. Thomas waved his hand, and the young man solemnly walked down the hall pushing the barrow, then halted before the Imperial dais.

  ‘You bring me vegetables?’ Maximilian enquired, much amused. Then his face set in a look of amazement as Giles Wakely solemnly lifted the cloth from the barrow to reveal a massive suit of full armour, made from burnished gold and stamped throughout with the ancient symbols of the Imperial crown. Thomas took advantage of the stunned silence.

  ‘His Majesty King Henry is well aware of your love of armour, your Excellency, and hopes that you will accept this humble and loving gift as a small token of his regret that he should have appeared to cast a slight upon your royal house while intent merely on rubbing the nose of Ferdinand of Spain in the goat droppings in which it belongs.’

  Maximilian burst out laughing out of sheer joy and amusement, and Thomas’s mission was already accomplished. The royal armourer had performed his commission well, and would be richly rewarded from the privy purse without Henry ever being advised of this diplomatic expenditure. Although Thomas would not hesitate to advise him of the success of the mission. Relations between England and the Empire had been restored, Ferdinand remained insulted, and France would soon have a new Queen with Tudor blood in her bridal offerings. Thomas could now look forward to the coming year.

  But not for long.

  CHAPTER 7

  Pride before a fall

  The New Year celebrations for 1515 were barely over when Henry found his patience and affection for those closest to him stretched to breaking point on the rack of European diplomacy. As usual he sent for Thomas to guide him through what he must do, and fortunately for him his recently consecrated Archbishop of York was well prepared, as the result of several earlier audiences.

  The first had been with the urgently commissioned and temporary French Ambassador Gilles de la Pommeraie, a personal friend of the man who would be French King, Francois of Angouleme, Duke of Valois and cousin of King Louis. Gilles brought urgent news from the French Court of a momentous event that had previously only been rumour, and Thomas charitably overlooked the man’s pointed failure to kiss the ringed hand that he held out for the purpose as he sought to be the first man at the English Court to have the rumour confirmed.

  ‘You are here to advise me that Louis is dead?’ he enquired as he poured two goblets of Beaujolais and handed one to his visitor in the Great Hall of his new residence at York Place, the traditional London home of the Archbishop of York, which he was in the process of extending on a vast scale. The man accepted the wine with a grateful smile and nodded.

  ‘Oui. C’est vrai.’

  Thomas smiled encouragingly and opened his arms wide in a broad gesture.

  ‘As you can see, Monsieur l’Ambassador, this is a very large room, and we are the only two in it. Although my French is passable, it is, I suspect, less of a credit to me than your English is to you. You may speak in English without fear of being overheard.’

  ‘Bien merci. Oh, I am sorry, I mean “thank you very much”. It is, sadly, true that King Louis died on the final day of the last year, and I am sent by his nephew Francois to enquire regarding your King’s intentions towards the widow.’

  ‘That were a question best put to his Majesty,’ Thomas replied diplomatically, ‘since she is his sister.’

  ‘And yet it is said at the French Court that you know the King’s mind better than he does,’ Gilles smiled knowingly. ‘Or perhaps it is better said that no-one can influence the King’s mind more than you, and my master would have you urge upon his Majesty the importance of ensuring the Lady Mary’s appropriate re-marriage within France.’

  ‘Where is the Princess Mary at this moment?’ Thomas enquired.

  ‘She is a guest of France at the Hotel de Cluny, attended by ladies from the French Court, where under our law she must remain for forty days to ensure that she is not with child by the late King.’

  ‘Is it true that the late King Louis employed much of his remaining energy in an attempt to ensure that she was?’ Thomas smirked. The Ambassador grinned back coyly.

  ‘The rumours in Paris are that this is what killed him, but then the Lady Mary is a beautiful lady.’

  ‘King Louis left no heir?’ Thomas enquired cautiously.

  ‘No male heir, certainly,’ Gilles explained. ‘As you may know, we have the Salic Law in France, and this denies the throne to Louis’ only child, a daughter named Claude. Some years ago she was married to my master Francois, Louis’ cousin, and by a series of misfortunes that have beset the other branches of the House of Valois he has become the likely heir to the throne of France, unless the Lady Mary, as former Queen, proves to have Louis’ male issue within her womb.’

  ‘King Henry will require careful reassurance that she is well looked after, given that your master has a powerful reason for her not to be with child at this time,’ Thomas pointed out as tactfully as he could. ‘If it transpire that she is carrying a potential rival to your master’s claim to the throne, then the temptation would be even greater to arrange for some sort of tragic accident to befall her.’

  The Ambassador looked horror stricken by the mere suggestion, and so far as Thomas could tell his response was genuine.

  ‘You insult my master deeply with such an allegation. I hope you will not put such an unworthy thought into the mind of your master.’

  ‘Who is her protector at this time?’ Thomas asked, resolving that such an unworthy thought would be the very first thing he would put into Hal’s mind.

  ‘My master has undertaken that honourable task, along with certain leading ladies of the French Court. The Lady Mary will lack for nothing in the way of comfort or personal safety, I can assure you. But if it be the case that she is not with child, then the question arises as to what shall become of her.’

  ‘Hence the reason for your visit today,’ Thomas pointed out cynically. ‘What would your master wish done with her?’

  ‘Leaving aside the question of the return of her very generous dowry,’ the Ambassador replied with a stern face, ‘it is clearly in the best interests of our alliance with England that she be perhaps married to another French nobleman of suitable royal blood.’

  ‘From what you were advising me earlier, they are currently in short supply,’ Thomas sneered back. ‘You must realise that the Princess Mary is the most eligible lady in the whole of Europe, and it is in England’s interests that she be married into a royal house, not a minor French dukedom.’

  ‘She was once betrothed to Charles of Castile, your own Queen’s nephew, was she not?’ the Ambassador enquired, but Thomas was ahead of him.

  ‘And no doubt your master is fearful that she will become so again?’ he enquired drily.

  ‘Certainly,’ Gilles replied, ‘it would do nothing for the peace between our two nations were that to happen. The Houses of Valois and Habsburg have long vied for dominance in Europe, and for England to become allied with the Holy Roman Empire would bode ill for my master’s ambitions in Italy.’

  ‘If Francis becomes king, will he continue to threaten the Pope?’ Thomas enquired, mentally drafting his letter to the Emperor offering to bring England under the Imperial banner in return for a Cardinal’s hat.

  ‘Despite the evil winds of Lollardism that seem to be sweeping our nation, my master is a good Catholic, and would not threaten his Holiness in any way.’

  ‘And you, Monsieur l’Ambassador?’ Thomas enquired, fixing the man with his sterne
st raised ecclesiastical eyebrow, ‘what of your beliefs? You did not kiss my ring of office when it was offered to you – do you subscribe to these heresies? Is that why you seek a continued alliance with England, that we may assist you in besieging his Holiness in his own citadel?’

  ‘You misjudge me, my lord. I did not kiss the ring because I come to you in a secular capacity, and not because of your exalted rank within the Mother Church.’

  ‘You come to me because of your belief that I can sway King Henry,’ Thomas replied with a sly grin. ‘I do not deny that his Majesty on occasion follows my counsels, but there can be no guarantee.’

  ‘Even so,’ Gilles smiled back conspiratorially, ‘my master would gratefully see your hand in the matter should King Henry consent to the Lady Mary remarrying within his kingdom.’

  ‘A kingdom that he does not yet possess,’ Thomas reminded him. ‘Au revoir, Monsieur l’Ambassador.’

  Before Thomas could take his customary morning barge upriver to parley with Henry, an urgent summons travelled in the opposite direction, and Thomas found himself bowing before a very different Queen Katherine from the one he had last spoken with.

  ‘Tomaz,’ she smiled as she gestured for him to take a seat beside her in the window alcove, dismissing all of her ladies bar one. Thomas made a mental note that Bess Blount had not been among those in her presence when he first entered, as he smilingly took the offered seat.

  ‘I will shortly be meeting with his Majesty,’ Thomas advised her. She smiled back.

  ‘As you do every day, my lord Archbishop. But you have already had one audience today, have you not?’

  ‘Madame?’ Thomas enquired with what he hoped was an ingenuous look.

  ‘Spare me the mierda, Tomaz. The French Ambassador was at York Place before you had finished your second Mass. Do you say one to atone for each of your sinfully sired children?’

  Thomas needed to change the subject quickly, and this was hardly the time to explain that his children, along with their mother Joan Larke, had been left behind at Bridewell, safely out of temptation’s way .

  “King Louis is indeed dead, Madame.’

  ‘It is “Katherine” to you, Thomas.’

  ‘Either way, King Louis is dead, and may I assume that the cause of my summons is to discuss the future fate of your sister in law?’

  Katherine smiled like someone who had just won one of the games of chess that she was fond of playing with her ladies, and sometimes those male courtiers who hung around her maids of honour.

  ‘You judge aright, Tomaz. You have been afforded a golden opportunity to make amends for the slight you gave to my nephew Charles.’

  ‘That was your husband’s decision, Katherine.’

  Katherine uttered a muted oath in her native Spanish with which not even Thomas was familiar as she rose from her seat and turned to look down on Thomas, who half rose in deference, and was sharply ordered to sit down again.

  ‘Let there be no doubt, my lord Archbishop, that I will brook no more slights upon my nephew of Castile, who – may I remind you – is also shortly to become the king of Germany, and most likely Holy Roman Emperor in due course, following the anticipated death of his grandfather Maximilian.’

  ‘Katherine, you must obviously appreciate that I am not the King. Even less am I the brother of the Princess Mary. Hal must be allowed to make such decisions for himself.’

  ‘Tomaz,’ Katherine challenged him with a sly smile, ‘can you place one hand on your heart and the other on that rosary that hangs from your wrist like a limp weed, and swear to me before God that you will not seek to influence my husband in any way regarding the fate of my sister in law?’

  Thomas bowed his head, hoping to avoid taking a vow he was not inclined to fulfil.

  ‘Katherine, I cannot swear an oath not to give his Highness such goodly advice as he seeks from me, nor is it a worthy action on your part to seek to make me do so. I must entreat you not to put me in such a vexatious position.’

  Katherine turned her back on him and headed across the Audience Chamber towards the door of her private chapel.

  ‘You are free to withdraw from the presence, my lord Archbishop,’ she advised him over her shoulder.

  Outside, Thomas was attempting to formulate a line of advice that would satisfy both the Queen and the French Ambassador, while easing Henry’s conscience and, at the same time, promoting Thomas’s own ambition to wear a Cardinal’s hat, when he almost collided with the Earl of Surrey who emerged in front of him from the alcove in which he had been lurking.

  ‘Thomas, I will not ask if you have heard the news, since it is all over the Palace, and I have already had a letter from my niece Anne, who is currently residing with her father, my brother in law Thomas Boleyn, in Paris. She and her sister Mary have been banished from Queen Mary’s service, and they are both in need of a place here at Court.’

  It gave Thomas considerable satisfaction to be the one being asked for intercession with the King by the man who had dumped him in an Ipswich puddle in the years before each of them had risen in public life. He opted to prolong Thomas Howard’s anxiety.

  ‘I do not choose the Queen’s ladies, Thomas. Since your brother in law, and the father of the Boleyn girls, is now appointed Ambassador to France, you surely do not fear for their safety?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Surrey replied with a dismissive sneer. ‘Do not fence with me, my lord Archbishop, since I am an expert dueller. My concern is that the Princess Mary should not be allowed her head in the matter of a choice of second husband.’

  He was as subtle as a boar fighting off the royal hounds, and Thomas was enjoying himself immensely at the man’s expense.

  ‘It has been long known where her heart lies, regardless of what her head deems appropriate,’ Thomas replied with a smirk. ‘If it were left to her, she would be the Duchess of Suffolk, which I imagine would not be to the liking of your father Norfolk, since it would take Charles Brandon even closer to the King’s ear. Is it your wish that I urge the King against such an eventuality? Do you now fear the power that comes with being the King’s brother in law?’

  This was a particularly cruel jibe, but one that Thomas had no hesitation in delivering, given the many boyhood cruelties to which he had been subjected by Thomas Howard. Thomas’s first wife, Anne of York and one of King Henry’s several sisters, had died some years previously, and Howard’s second wife, although the granddaughter of the powerful Percy of Northumberland, was in no position to guarantee him the King’s ear.

  Thomas Howard forced himself to smile back at his old adversary through gritted teeth.

  ‘My concern is simply that the Princess Mary be brought safely back to England, where she may re-marry under the wise guidance of her brother the King, and no doubt his closest counsellors, among whom you are numbered, according to my father.’

  ‘It was, as I recall,’ Thomas reminisced, ‘you yourself who escorted her to Dover on her journey to France. Do you seek to be the person who escorts her in the reverse direction? With your two nieces in close attendance to impress upon her the chivalry and courage of her escort?’

  ‘Just make sure it isn’t Brandon,’ Thomas spat back as he turned to leave, ‘else she may return in no condition to be further engaged as a royal chess piece.’

  Thomas sought admission to the royal presence with a smile. He had just been presented with two further opportunities to repay the dirty hose in an Ipswich puddle.

  Anne Boleyn had not been the only one writing letters, and Henry was biting his lip with anxiety as Thomas was admitted. He thrust the vellum at Thomas as he poured himself another wine, and in his distracted state omitted, for once, to invite Thomas to join him.

  ‘It seems that Francis of France has already been in my sister’s ear,’ Henry complained. ‘Read that, Thomas.’

  Francis had indeed been in the ear of the hapless Mary, recently widowed and virtually under house arrest in a stately house in Paris originally converted from a
Roman bathhouse into a town residence for visiting abbots of the Holy Order that gave it its name. Everyone was watching her like a prize exhibit in an animal house for signs that she was pregnant with royal progeny, and she had even been denied the comforting presence of her own ladies, who had been replaced by stern French matrons who eyed her still obvious youthful beauty with jealous glares of disdain. But far worse were the almost daily visits from Duke Francis himself, who would almost certainly have proposed marriage to her himself, were he not already married.

  Instead, he seemed determined to marry her off to someone else before she had even shed her widow’s weeds. First he had suggested a French Duke, and when she had politely declined to meet with any of them, even while heavily chaperoned, he had changed his manner towards her and begun to terrify her with insinuations that she was to be traded off by her devious brother to Charles of Spain, whose portrait depicted him as one of the ugliest youths in Europe, with the prominent, virtually deformed, lower jaw that was a bi-product of the inbreeding that had been energetically pursued by his ancestors.

  Mary was at her wits end when one afternoon, in a moment of desperation, she blurted out to Francis that for many years her heart had been secretly vouchsafed to Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and Francis quickly adjusted his strategy. Above all, he did not want this valuable matrimonial prize used by her brother King Henry of England to strengthen his alliance with France’s traditional enemies the Habsburgs, and perhaps this naive and trusting young widow could be persuaded to seal her own fate.

  She had begun to sob with despair, and Francis waved his hand behind his back for one of the attending ladies to hand him a pleuvoi, which he passed to Mary with every indication of sympathy and understanding.

  ‘Madame, I am a great respecter of female emotion, and it grieves me to see a beautiful lady such as yourself so distressed from une affaire de coeur. I would deem it an honour were you to allow me to assist you in being reunited with he who has captured your affections so completely. May I write to my Ambassador with instructions to seek your brother’s permission for your safe return to England in the company of he in whom he most trusts?’