The House of Tudor

by Alison Plowden

  That winter was spent in hectic preparation for the forthcoming campaign and in working out a new strategy. Henry had now acquired another ally in the person of the Emperor Maximilian who, after a good deal of dickering about, had finally declared himself ready to join the anti-French league in return, naturally, for a handsome subsidy; and it was agreed that while Ferdinand, also subsidized to the tune of a hundred thousand English crowns, crossed the Pyrenees to conquer the duchy of Guienne for his daughter’s husband, Henry and Max would make a joint assault on King Louis from the north. It was not until April 1513 that it came out that the King of Aragon had once again defaulted on his obligations by arranging a year’s truce with the enemy. This was treachery of the most blatant kind, but according to Ferdinand it had all been due to a most unfortunate misunderstanding -entirely the fault of his fool of an ambassador in London. Next year he would be only too pleased to help but just at the moment he was not at all well, in fact he had been practically at death’s door and his confessor had urged him to make peace with his enemies for the sake of his soul.

  Henry was understandably disappointed and aggrieved but Catherine, always loyal to her father and to Spain, was at hand to help smooth over any unpleasantness. In any case, the King was determined to go ahead with his own plans for a landing in Northern France. The Emperor, at least, was still loyal, though, as he mournfully explained, his financial difficulties were such that he would not, after all, be in a position to provide the troop contingents he had promised. However, the King of England could have all the German and Burgundian mercenaries he cared to pay for, while Max himself would consider it an honour to fight under Henry’s banner and would charge only a mere trifle, say a hundred crowns a day, just to cover his expenses.

  By late spring everything was ready, but before Henry could feel free to leave the country there was a piece of unfinished business to be dealt with and on 4 May Edmund de la Pole was brought out of the Tower to his execution. When Philip of Burgundy had surrendered the White Rose seven years before, Henry VII had guaranteed the prisoner’s life and had honoured his promise. His son was not so squeamish and information that Richard, the only remaining de la Pole still unaccounted for, was serving with the French army had sealed Edmund’s fate.

  There was another danger threatening the King’s absence, and one a good deal more serious than the unhappy White Rose. Relations with Scotland had become increasingly strained during recent months and it seemed only too probable that, in spite of the treaty between the two countries, in spite of the fact that he was married to the King of England’s sister, James IV would follow traditional practice by leading his army across the Border as soon as the English were otherwise engaged. Henry left the seventy-year-old Earl of Surrey with orders to guard the North, but otherwise he paid little attention to the rumbling noises coming out of Scotland. Nothing was going to deflect him now from his long looked-forward-to adventure and the fulfilment of his burning ambition to emulate and, if possible, excel the rugged deeds of his ancestors.

  The King set out from Greenwich on 15 June accompanied by the Queen, who was pregnant again, and a personal entourage which included a duke, two bishops and a score of noblemen, as well as minstrels, heralds, trumpeters, choristers, clerks and six hundred archers of the guard in new green and white liveries. The royal baggage-train contained suits of armour for every occasion, an enormous carved bed and enough gold-embroidered tents to accommodate the population of a small town. Henry never did anything by halves. This unwieldy, gorgeously dressed cavalcade made its way by easy stages to Dover, where the King created his wife Governor of the Realm and Captain General of the home forces before setting sail for Calais to join the main body of the army. Such a sight had not been seen since the days of the Hundred Years’ War and the bosoms of those gentlemen of England with enough sense to stay at home swelled with vicarious pride.

  Henry had a perfectly splendid time in France and duly astonished everyone by his courage and endurance in the face of the enemy. It is true that the enemy proved disappointingly elusive and it was bad luck that the King should have missed the best bit of action - a scrambling cavalry skirmish near Guinegate, later dignified as The Battle of the Spurs - but on the whole it was a very nice little war. Henry, firing a cannon with his own hands, dubbing knights on the field of battle and riding round the camp at night in full armour, enjoyed himself so much that he quite failed to notice that the two fortified frontier towns of Therouanne and Tournai which, on Maximilian’s advice, the allied army besieged and captured, were of strategic value only to Maximilian - forming as they did two awkward salients jutting into Hapsburg territory. But the Emperor was gratifyingly deferential towards his young commander and the King spent a charming month in Lille being royally entertained by the Hapsburg family.

  While Henry was playing soldiers in Picardy, events in England were taking their expected course. King James had discovered that his country’s ancient friendship with France carried more weight than any treaty with England and Catherine, left in charge with only a skeleton staff of councillors to help her, was soon ‘horribly busy’ organizing the defence of the northern counties and sewing badges and standards for the hastily mobilized home guard. She still found time, though, to worry about her husband, to send him supplies of clean shirts, to beg him not to ‘adventure himself too rashly, and to be sure and remember to change his clothes if he got wet or overheated. Henry, of course, was far too busy to write letters but Catherine received regular bulletins from his Almoner, Master Thomas Wolsey, and assured him in return that the King need not worry about the Scots. She and his subjects would deal with them gladly and ‘take it for a pastime’.

  By the end of August a formidable Scottish army had crossed the Tweed and on the afternoon of Friday 9 September came face to face with the Earl of Surrey’s forces in the wild Border country at Flodden, a few miles south-east of Coldstream. The result, after some three hours of bloody fighting, was a shattering defeat for the Scots. James himself was killed ‘within a spear’s length’ of the English commander and with him died nearly a third of his army and the flower of the Scottish aristocracy.

  In real terms, of course, the victory at Flodden, which crippled Scotland for a generation, was worth more than a dozen French towns - a fact which did not escape experienced observers of the political scene - but Catherine was careful not to crow. Writing to Henry on 16 September and sending him a piece of the Scottish King’s coat, she tactfully attributed ‘the great victory that our Lord hath sent your subjects in your absence’ entirely to the Lord, and, since Henry always took the deity’s personal interest in his affairs very much for granted, he had no hesitation in accepting the credit.

  The campaigning season in France was coming to an end and on 20 October Henry, suddenly impatient to be home, slipped away from Tournai with a light escort. Three days later he was taking the Queen by surprise at Richmond, and husband and wife were reunited in ‘such a loving meeting that every creature rejoiced’. The King was in high spirits and full of plans for next year’s conquests. Before leaving Lille he had signed another treaty with Spain and the Hapsburgs binding the allies to make a three-pronged invasion of France in the summer of 1514, and had also settled that his sister Mary should marry Max’s grandson, Charles of Castile, by the fifteenth of May. The only shadow lying across that triumphant autumn was the ending of the Queen’s third pregnancy in a miscarriage.

  The year 1514 marked an important stage in the development of young Henry Tudor. At any rate it marked his emergence from a fantasy world of knights in shining armour re-fighting the Hundred Years’ War and brought him face to face with the realities of international diplomacy. The King owed this somewhat overdue awakening to Ferdinand of Aragon who had spent the winter quietly preparing to sell his son-in-law down the river for the third time. The plan, beneath its elaborate camouflage of verbiage, was simple enough. The King of France, having been suitably softened up by the Treaty of Lille and by the
implacable hostility and growing military might of England, was offered a bargain: if he would relinquish his claims to Milan and Genoa, then Ferdinand and Max would be delighted to live like brothers with him for the rest of their days and would, naturally, come to his aid in the event of an English invasion!

  But dealing with the guileless Henry seems to have made Ferdinand overconfident and he failed to take account of the fact that the King of France was also a poker player. Louis had no intention of submitting to a Spanish protection racket. On the other hand, he was perfectly prepared to pay any reasonable price for English neutrality. Accordingly he adopted the classic technique of stringing the King of Aragon along until that enterprising individual had been drawn into exposing his hand for all to see. Louis, of course, was hoping to catch England on the rebound and his expectations proved fully justified. Henry might still be inexperienced, but he was nobody’s fool. By the spring of 1514 his opinion of Ferdinand was much the same as his father’s had been, if not more so, and his one idea was to strike back.

  This was the moment Louis had been waiting for and he went smoothly into action, using as intermediary the Duke of Longueville, who had been taken prisoner at the Battle of the Spurs and was now most conveniently residing at the English Court. In his present mood Henry was reluctant to trust anybody, but when the French offered peace on very gentlemanly terms, he was ready to listen. When Louis himself offered marriage to the Princess Mary, it opened up a prospect of so exquisite a revenge on his former allies that it was scarcely to be resisted.

  This abrupt reversal of English foreign policy was made easier by the fact that Louis had now made his peace with Rome and that there was now a new and pacifically inclined Pope, anxious to see the Christian princes compose their differences. In any case, Henry’s conscience was clear. He alone of the members of the Holy League had kept his word. ‘I do not see any faith in the world save in me only’, he told the Venetian ambassador, ‘and therefore God Almighty, who knows this, prospers my affairs.’

  There was quite a flurry of diplomatic activity between London and Paris during July and August as the peace treaty and the marriage contract were signed. The King and Thomas Wolsey, now rapidly becoming the King’s right-hand man, could congratulate themselves on a very satisfactory outcome. Mary Tudor was less enthusiastic. Not that she had any reason to regret Charles of Castile, an unappealing pasty-faced boy of fourteen; but Louis, a widower in his fifties and unkindly described by some as ‘old, feeble and pocky’, could scarcely be said to offer a much more alluring prospect to a high-spirited nineteen-year-old who was generally conceded to be an exceptionally beautiful girl.

  In the five years since her father’s death Mary had experienced a degree of fun and freedom most unusual for an unmarried princess. But the King was very fond of his young sister. He liked her company and saw no reason why she should not enjoy herself Mary shared his passion for parties and dancing and dressing-up and played a vigorous part in the hectic social life of the Court. The dangers inherent in this situation were obvious enough - it was not for nothing that princesses were normally shipped off to their husbands the moment they reached puberty. Mary was a warm-blooded and highly desirable young woman surrounded by all the gayest, best-looking and best-born young men in the kingdom - inevitably she had formed an attachment of her own, the object of her affections being Henry’s closest friend, Charles Brandon, newly created Duke of Suffolk.

  Charles Brandon owed his start in life to the fact that his father had been Henry VII’s standard-bearer, killed at Bosworth by King Richard himself. The orphan obviously had a strong claim on the Tudor family, and he had been brought into the royal household when he was about seven years old to be a companion for Prince Arthur. Later he had served Prince Henry in the same capacity and the two boys had grown up together. Charles was a tall, handsome, athletic youth, like Henry an enthusiastic sportsman, tireless in the hunting field and a skilful and courageous performer in the jousts. A cheerful, good-natured extrovert, without very much in the way of intellectual equipment, he stood in no danger of out-shining his master whom he followed about like a large, faithful dog. Henry found him excellent company, lavished favours on him and treated him as an honorary member of the family. Mary, of course, had known him since childhood and, by the summer of 1514, what had most probably begun as a little girl’s hero-worship for one of her brother’s lordly friends was ripening into something deeper.

  There was no scandal - not a whisper of gossip linking the princess’s name with the Duke of Suffolk reached the outside world - but inside the family circle the affair seems to have been an open secret. Indeed, Mary herself had confided in her brother, telling him frankly that she loved Charles Brandon and was only prepared to marry the ‘aged and sickly’ King of France on condition that, as soon as she was free again, Henry would allow her to make her choice as her own heart and mind should be best pleased. ‘And upon that your good comfort and faithful promise’, she wrote later, ‘I assented to the said marriage; else I would never have granted to, as at the same time I showed unto you more at large.’

  Whether this compromise was Mary’s own idea, or whether it had been hammered out in a family conference we have no means of knowing. Nor do we know how seriously Henry took it. But he was particularly anxious that nothing should interfere with the smooth running of the new alliance. Mary was no longer a child and it would make things very awkward with the French if she turned difficult now. In the circumstances, he was ready to promise anything she wanted - anything to avoid tears and scenes and keep her happy until she was safely across the Channel.

  The proxy marriage was celebrated at Greenwich on 13 August in the presence of the King and Queen and all the dignitaries of the Court. The Archbishop of Canterbury officiated and the Duke of Longueville acted as Louis’ proxy. As soon as the solemn vows had been exchanged per verba de praesenti and the ring had been placed on the fourth finger of her right hand, Mary retired to put on an elaborate ‘nightgown’. She and Longueville then lay down side by side and he touched her with his naked leg. After this rather curious piece of play-acting – intended to symbolize intercourse – the Archbishop pronounced the marriage consummated and Mary went off to change again, into a gown of chequered purple satin and cloth of gold worn over a grey satin petticoat. There was the usual great banquet with the usual display of expensive ‘subtleties’ and afterwards the floor was cleared for dancing. According to the Venetian ambassador, who was present by special invitation, ‘the musical accompaniment was provided by a flute, a harp, a violetta and a certain small fife which produced a very harmonious effect’. The King and several other English lords danced in their doublets, and everyone was so gay and the music was so catchy that the ambassador felt distinctly tempted to throw off” his own gown and join in. Prudently, though, he remembered his age and his dignity and abstained.

  Wedding presents and letters of congratulation were now flowing in from all over Europe - Louis sent his bride a magnificent diamond and pearl known as ‘The Mirror of Naples’, valued by the London jewellers at sixty thousand crowns - and Mary was kept so busy during her last few weeks at home, receiving deputations, attending receptions and entertainments given in her honour, having fittings for her trousseau and undergoing a crash course in French that she had very little time for repining. At any rate, she was presenting a resolutely cheerful face to the world and one Italian observer remarked cattily that the princess did not appear to mind that the King of France was a gouty old man and she ‘a young and beautiful damsel’, so great was her satisfaction at becoming Queen of France.

  Everything was French that year. There was even talk that the King was thinking of divorcing his Spanish wife, who could not give him an heir, and marrying a French princess. But by the late summer of 1514 Catherine was once more visibly pregnant. New linen and curtains were being ordered for her lying-in and Henry, joyfully trumpeting the news abroad, had invited King Louis to stand godfather to the new arrival
- none of which sounds as if he was contemplating divorce.

  From across the Channel came reports of Louis’ eager impatience to see his bride. In spite of his age and his gout, he was said to ‘yearn hourly for her presence’ and according to the Earl of Worcester, who had gone over to France to act as Mary’s proxy at the betrothal ceremonies, he had ‘a marvellous mind to content and please the Queen’. It seemed the French king had shown Worcester ‘the goodliest and richest sight of jewels’ he had ever seen, telling him they were all for the Queen but that she should not have them all at once, ‘for he would have at many and divers times kisses and thanks for them’. Worcester, much impressed by this lover-like attitude, told Thomas Wolsey he had no doubt that, by the grace of God, Mary would have a good life with her husband.

  By mid-September everything was ready for her journey. There was a final outburst of entertaining and Mary herself gave a farewell reception to which all the foreign merchants in London were invited. Wearing a French gown of woven gold with the Mirror of Naples flashing on her bosom, the new Queen of France was very affable and gracious to her guests, giving her hand to everyone. She was obviously in her best looks, one witness going so far as to describe her as ‘a nymph from heaven’, but even allowing for a certain amount of over-enthusiasm there is no doubt that Mary Tudor was quite outstanding. Of slightly above average height, slender and graceful, she had a clear glowing complexion and a glorious mane of red-gold hair. Equally important, she had all the infectious gaiety and outgoing charm of manner which made her brother so attractive.