The Scarlet Peacock

by Field, David

  The obvious place, to Thomas, at least, was his country house in Hertfordshire known as ‘The More’. It had come to Thomas as part of his ‘possession’ of St Albans Abbey, and was large enough to host a treaty conference in the peace and anonymity of the countryside just north of London that could be reached easily by horse in half a day. The house was largely of the red brick favoured by Thomas for his reconstruction of Hampton Court, and it boasted a massive ‘long gallery’ over two hundred and fifty feet in length, in which were assembled, in late August of that year, not only a coterie of diplomats proudly headed by Jean-Joachim on a return visit, but also the Regent of France during the exile of King Francis – his very able mother Louise of Savoy. She was particularly entranced to be allocated, as her lady in waiting, the serious-minded, restrained, ever accommodating and fluent French speaking Anne Boleyn, accompanied by her father Thomas, the former Ambassador to Paris with whom Louise was very familiar, and who she trusted implicitly.

  Henry himself was present for the evening social events in the week or so during which the serious business was conducted by day, leaving the gallant King to escort the Lady Anne onto the dance floor as the Court musicians specially imported from Westminster blew and plucked their way through several evenings of high merriment, made the more possible by the absence of the Queen, who studiedly snubbed any opportunity to mix socially with the woman she regarded as the mother of Charles’s sworn enemy.

  The lively brain of Thomas Cromwell was fully engaged framing into treaty language the good-natured mutual exchange of promises that flowed with the banquet wine. These were surreptitiously noted down at the time of their making by Stephen Gardiner, in his capacity at Thomas’s Secretary, and in the certain knowledge that he at least would remain sufficiently sober for the task.

  The eventual treaty terms were, on balance, favourable to England, since Louise’s only concern was to acquire England’s intercession with Charles for the release of Francis. This was promised, in return for France’s undertaking never to allow a return to Scotland of the skulking Duke of Albany, who had been acting as Regent for the young James V, son of Margaret Tudor, Henry’s sister, by her marriage to the late James IV. Margaret herself had taken, as her second husband, the Earl of Angus, and the resulting dispute over custody of the heir apparent had led to a renewal of the ‘Auld Alliance’ between Scotland and France that had the potential to completely outflank England on both its northern and southern borders.

  There were other concessions on both sides, including the long-awaited return of the remainder of Mary Brandon’s dowry from the brief period during which she had been the Queen of France, but there was little remaining doubt that England was now committed to negotiating with Charles for the release of Francis, and it only required the approval of Council for Thomas or his deputy to cross the Channel to begin the process.

  Thomas had expected at least a token resistance from the Norfolk faction, but thought little of it when it was simply nodded through, Norfolk himself suggesting that Thomas should ensure that he took a sufficient retinue with him to ensure both his safety and the dignity of England. When asked where his ultimate destination would be, Thomas answered with a grin, ‘Wherever I may find Charles and nip his beard with the sharpness of my argument that he does his image in Europe no favours by acting as jailer to a brother monarch.’

  ‘Will you visit Rome while you are in Italy?’ Henry asked Thomas as they strolled from the meeting in muted conversation.

  ‘I had in mind sending Gardiner to parley with his Holiness,’ Thomas advised him. ‘You remember Stephen from our time at The More? The boring clergyman with the face of a tormented badger, and a line in conversation that would send a stone statue running for sanctuary.’

  Henry chuckled.

  ‘I would have you speak to the Pope yourself, Thomas, in order to persuade him of the continuing risk to my soul of lying with my brother’s wife. I have ceased to do that, of course, as no doubt your spies have reported back to you, but I would be free to marry elsewhere, in order that the realm may be secured by the birth of a legitimate male heir. God forbid that it falls to the Princess Mary, who never seems to raise her thoughts above her psalter.’

  ‘I had not forgotten, Hal,’ Thomas reassured him, ‘and you may rest assured that all my future discourse with Clement shall be with a view to impressing upon him the peril in which England stands.’

  When Thomas finally left for the Continent, it was with a retinue that, for him, was modest. The brothers Wakely bearing his two crosses, George Cavendish as his personal attendant, two English cooks to preserve his increasingly delicate stomach against foreign dishes heavily spiced to mask the fact that their constituents were rancid, a confessor, several grooms and an assortment of pages. Harry Percy was not among them, to his intense relief, but Thomas had charged him with the important duty of listening carefully to the tittle-tattle of the Queen’s chambers, and committing all to memory. Finally, and against his instinct, he opted to set off with Stephen Gardiner by his side, rather than Thomas Cromwell, who would be required to remain in England to monitor the success of what he had ultimately labelled the ‘Amicable Grant.’

  The first interview on the list would have to be with Charles of Spain, Thomas reasoned. He was, in any case, in no hurry to visit Rome, in case his Cardinal Legate status reminded Pope Clement that he was in need of secular guidance as well as the spiritual grace that came with being surrounded by priests in his Vatican bubble. The latest intelligence that Thomas gathered as he journeyed sedately down through Champagne on his way to Italy via the Swiss Alps was that Charles was in Tuscany, planning to march south. Three weeks later, on the outskirts of Arezzo, his relatively humble progress was halted by a column of soldiers wearing the livery of Bourbon and speaking in a rough German tongue that not even Thomas could interpret. He waved his hands in the air, and shouted in Spanish that he had urgent business with the Holy Roman Emperor, and was escorted inside the ancient town walls, where he was instructed to dismount from his horse and await further commands. He did so grumpily, complaining to Stephen Gardiner that the Emperor’s hospitality seemed somewhat lacking of late.

  Inside the Fortezza Medicea, Charles was advised that strangers in priestly robes had approached from the north seeking audience with him.

  ‘Emissaries from the Pope? But surely, they would have come from the south?’ Charles mused out loud. His Captain of the Imperial Guard was anxious to please, and equally anxious not to displease by admitting those who were not welcome.

  ‘In truth, your Excellency, they would appear to be led by a man of God. He wears the robes of a Cardinal, and he is preceded by two tall priests, each of whom holds a holy cross high in the air.’

  Charles smiled.

  ‘Describe this holy man further.’

  ‘He is very fat, of somewhat above average height, and he cursed in English when told that he would have to await your pleasure.’

  ‘It is as I thought,’ Charles smirked to himself. ‘Show him in.’

  ‘Have you come with an apology, that you do not advise your king to invade France at my request?’ Charles demanded as Thomas was offered a seat, and a page stepped forward with a cloth with which he could mop his heavily perspiring brow under the red cap that was rarely off his head, even in the heat of a Continental summer.

  ‘No more than I seek your apology for setting your former tutor onto the Papal throne, where he remained less than two years before you then promoted the Medici,’ Thomas growled.

  ‘As I explained to you in London,’ Charles smiled triumphantly, ‘these things can never be guaranteed. And now you come with further tidings of the will of King Henry - what have you persuaded him to do this time?’

  ‘He seeks the release of King Francis from your captivity.’

  ‘Does he have the ransom available? You clearly did not bring it with you, since your saddlebags have been searched, and yielded nought of any value other than changes of garments and pra
yer books.’

  ‘King Henry does not propose to pay any ransom, my lord, but urges you, as a man of compassion and a fellow monarch, to show the hand of mercy to one defeated in battle.’

  Charles gazed at Thomas in curiosity.

  ‘I am a little nonplussed that your king did not take the opportunity to take back those lands in France that have long been claimed by England. Has he not the finance to wage further war?’

  ‘His war chest was certainly heavily depleted by the cost of having twenty thousand men under the Earl of Suffolk staring at the north gate of Paris while you came on your Italian holiday,’ Thomas growled sarcastically. Charles burst out laughing.

  ‘Tell your king that I shall release Francis when he makes it worth my while to do so, and not when the King of England sends an ageing priest to urge me to do it. You and your party may rest here ere you return home with that message.

  ‘We plan to travel on to Rome, your Excellency. I have business with his Holiness.’

  ‘So do I, my lord Archbishop. So do I,’ Charles replied with an enigmatic smile.

  Five days later, Thomas knelt before the Pope, kissed the Papal ring and was raised to his feet by the pontiff, who offered him a seat next to him in the Stanza di Eliodoro. As Thomas gazed in admiration at the recently completed fresco, he was aware of workmen moving in and out of the chamber, carrying small items of furniture, and the occasional figurine, out through the magnificent double doors. Pope Clement saw him looking, and shook his head sadly. ‘We are moving to a place of greater safety, my son. In these times, one cannot be too careful, and the contents of the Vatican are valuable beyond reckoning.’

  ‘Safety from whom, Holiness?’ Thomas enquired.

  ‘Who else? Charles of Spain, whose title of Holy Roman Emperor does not persuade me that he has no plans to empty Rome, as he emptied Milan and Pavia. As for me, my life will be expendable enough, since Charles has it within his remit to appoint my successor ere my blood has cooled in my catafalque.’

  Thomas was genuinely horrified.

  ‘My master the King shall learn of your plight, Holiness. The will of God cannot be held ransom to the ambitions of a mere monarch!’

  ‘A mere monarch like your King Henry?’ Clement answered with a wry smile. ‘He is much the same as all the others whose power comes from the strength of their army and the size of their war chests. Why would he assist me, if it suit his purpose to be allied with the Empire?’

  ‘He does not so desire, magister, and in fact I have but lately come from Charles, who refuses to have anything further to do with Henry of England. But there is a matter on which Henry would seek your indulgence – literally – and it may be that in return therefor he might be persuaded to declare war on Charles, should he threaten either your person or your holy office.’

  ‘This matter has been raised with me previously, has it not? He wishes to be absolved from his marriage to the Infanta of Aragon?’

  ‘Indeed he does, your Holiness. There seems little prospect of any male issue, and in the absence of same his realm is in the same peril as that which would seem to currently assail you.’

  Clement shook his head sadly.

  ‘I cannot assist in the matter, Thomas, for two reasons. The first is, as we were just discussing, that I am under threat from the queen’s own nephew, who would hardly be likely to spare the Holy See, or my own unworthy person, were I to be seen to give my blessing to the ejection of his aunt from the throne of England. The second is more spiritual; the marriage of Henry and Katherine took place with Papal dispensation from my predecessor. Were I now to revoke that dispensation, it could only be on the ground that it was wrong in the first place, thereby admitting Papal fallibility. Would you take that step in my place?’

  ‘We cannot be sure of the true meaning of Leviticus on the matter,’ Thomas argued, to which Clement gave an ironic snort.

  ‘Nor can I be sure of the true meaning of the Emperor as he points his army south, and until that meaning is clear, and I receive from you a better case than I have so far received for the dissolution of a union blessed by Rome, you must return empty-handed. And now I must prepare myself for the evening Mass that the people of Rome seem to find so comforting in these troubled times. You may, of course, take advantage of our fine hospitium during your stay, and your entourage will find many fine inns in the surrounding streets. So until tomorrow, pax vobiscum, mio figlio.’

  The ringed hand was placed over Thomas’s disappointed head in the act of the departing blessing, and he rose from his knees and bowed out of the chamber deep in thought. As he passed into the warm afternoon sun of the cortile, Gardiner was waiting for him, an anxious look on his serious face, and a scroll in his hand, which he thrust towards Thomas as he scuttled towards him.

  ‘This arrived by fast horse from Master Cromwell not ten minutes since. The seal remains unbroken, as you can see.’

  His heart pulsing harder with dread, Thomas broke the seal and read what for Thomas Cromwell was a very short communication indeed.

  Master,

  I urge you to return to England at your earliest. The nation is in uproar, and the King is blaming you.

  CHAPTER 13

  The insolence of office

  As the humble procession wound its way down from the crest of Southwark Hill, the entire old town, with its roofs and spires, was laid out before them in all its clutter, and another wave of stomach acid hit Thomas’s throat. There had been something else, too, since he had left the vessel at Dover – a burning pain just below his breastbone, as if something inside him had been left out too long in the sun. They had stopped for refreshment at a farm in Kent, and something had urged Thomas to take a pitcher of milk fresh from the cowshed, and for a while it had eased the torture. But now, as he saw the city becoming more detailed with every yard that they trotted north, and he reminded himself that his first priority must be to seek a royal audience, the pain resumed and Thomas prayed to God to take it away.

  As they approached the southern end of London Bridge, they became aware of a large group of armed men in the royal livery, with the Tudor Rose prominently displayed on their tunic fronts. The Wakely brothers were ahead of him, the crosses held proudly in the air, as two of the soldiers appeared to exchange a few words, and one of them urged his horse gently forward in order to meet them. He passed between Roger and Giles Wakely and raised his hand to his helm in a respectful salute as he addressed Thomas.

  ‘My Lord Chancellor?’ he enquired.

  ‘I am he,’ Thomas replied apprehensively.

  ‘Captain Ames, of the Gentlemen Yeomanry. My orders are that you and your party are to be escorted to the Tower.’

  Thomas’s heart lurched, and more acid hit his throat.

  ‘Will his Majesty not grant me audience before imprisoning me?’

  Captain Ames smiled reassuringly.

  ‘You are not consigned to the Tower as a prisoner, my lord, but for your own safety.’

  ‘Why should a senior man of God require military protection?’ Thomas Gardiner enquired from Thomas’s left. The soldier grinned.

  ‘You have obviously been out of the city for some time. The merchants are in rebellion, and the mob has seized various of the shops and warehouses along the north bank of the river. I am to ensure that you pass over London Bridge and into the Tower via Thames Street without injury or insult to your person. Those orders come directly from the King, or so I was told.’

  ‘How did you know that we would be returning early from our mission across the Channel?’ Thomas enquired.

  ‘Of that I have no idea,’ the Captain admitted, ‘but we have been positioned here for several days, awaiting your arrival. Yesterday we were visited by Master Cromwell, who was most solicitous that we treat you with all kindness. He remained with us for much of the day, then had to return to his duties at the Exchequer.’

  ‘Dear, loyal Thomas,’ his namesake muttered with a faint smile, before looking back firmly at the Yeoman Cap
tain.

  ‘Very well, Captain, you must of course carry out your orders. To the Tower it is.’

  Thomas was recognised before they even reached the northern stanchion of London Bridge on their progress over the oily waters of the river. Shouts went up, and obscenities were hurled at him. By the time they turned solemnly right into Thames Street that was not all that was being hurled at him, and there was only one moment of light relief when Stephen Gardiner’s left cheek stopped a rotten tomato aimed at Thomas to his right. The front rank of Yeomen horsemen used their mounts to force a way through the ever thickening crowd, but by the time that they reached the Western Postern of the ancient Tower they were all but surrounded, and several foot soldiers were required to leave their posts at the gate in order to threaten the yelling mob with their halberds.

  Thomas dismounted shakily, and was hurried into the White Tower. Once inside he was relieved of his travelling cape and ushered into a large downstairs room that he remembered from the days immediately after the death of the old king. Seated in its centre, with only a few royal grooms standing around him, was the present king, dark of countenance and clearly agitated at being delayed from other business. He glared at Thomas as he jerked his head in a sign that he was to take the seat next to him, and he was, by custom, the first to speak.

  ‘Well, Thomas?’

  ‘Well what, Hal? What means this unruly rabble outside?’

  ‘They are calling for your head, my lord Chancellor. As well as mine, in their wilder moments. Your new tax has excited much disquiet among the city merchants and those who gain their livelihoods by them. It has also been necessary to send Norfolk north-east, in order to offer the peasants of your home country the choice between resuming their lawful trades or being hung for treason.’

  ‘I meant only the best, your Majesty,’ Thomas assured him meekly, aware of the haughty sneers of the Grooms of the Chamber who stood around Henry, all of them high-born and therefore most highly peeved by the ‘Amicable Grant’ that in their case was less than amicable.