by David Field
‘And Katherine herself? She is a gracious hostess, and a girl of considerable piety and learning.’
‘Then she is hardly a suitable match for Hal,’ Henry muttered, as he leaned forward towards his wine cup, then began to cough.
‘This winter chill has been upon you since well before Christmas,’ Margaret observed, concern in her voice. ‘Have you consulted your physician?’
‘That damned fool is only fit for sticking leeches on your arm,’ Henry replied between coughs. ‘His only remedy for the soreness in my legs and feet is to foreswear wine and red meat,’ he added, as he carved himself a generous slice from the venison in the centre of the table.
His mother tutted. ‘And you clearly ignore even that advice, although I am bound to comment that you seem thinner of late.’
‘Only because others around me are getting fat at my expense,’ Henry growled, ‘yourself excepted, of course.’
During the second month of their enforced stay in England, the entire Court having re-established itself back at Richmond, Philip of Burgundy requested an audience with Henry. He was received in the Privy Chamber, and was a little surprised to find a priest sitting quietly in the corner.
‘May I introduce Father Thomas Wolsey, my royal chaplain?’ Henry offered, as he rose uncertainly to his feet with the aid of a stick that now remained constantly at the side of any chair he was occupying. ‘He is recently returned from a pilgrimage to Spain.’
‘My wife’s father is well?’ Philip enquired coldly.
Wolsey smiled unctuously. ‘Most well. He sends his best regards, and looks forward to welcoming his daughter back to her home.’
‘That is why I must speak with you, Henry,’ Philip said, as he turned back from addressing Wolsey. ‘When is my ship ready?’
‘You wish to leave us so soon?’ Henry replied with a cold smile. ‘In truth, the vessel will be seaworthy within a week, but we must take this opportunity to adjust our trade agreement.’
‘Agreement?’ Philip echoed.
‘The Intercursus Magnus, which was signed some years ago with your father,’ Henry reminded him. ‘It is a treaty that has served England well, but now we find that — with conditions such as they are in Europe — it works to our disadvantage.’
‘I know no treaty,’ Philip insisted.
‘That is why I had Wolsey attend us,’ Henry explained. ‘He has a copy of it with him, and being a man of the cloth he will be able to assist us through it. Thomas, if you would be so good as to hand His Majesty your copy?’
Wolsey rose from his chair in the corner, walked across the embroidered carpet that hid the wooden joists of the upper chamber, and handed Philip a large vellum roll.
Philip looked down at it disconsolately. ‘It is in a language I know not.’
‘Legal Latin,’ Wolsey advised him with an ingratiating smile that was almost a smirk. ‘I can translate if you wish.’
Philip shook his head, then looked suspiciously back at Henry. ‘How is it not good for England?’
‘Wolsey will explain,’ Henry answered.
For the next ten minutes, Wolsey smoothly revealed the intricacies of foreign exchange rates, the fluctuating nature of customs duties according to national need, the vagaries of the European cloth market, and those aspects of the original agreement that had recently proved unfavourable to England. All of which would have been a magnificent tour de force if delivered to a class of students at Oxford, but was almost meaningless to Philip with his imperfect grasp of English. He shook his head several times, then looked helplessly at Henry.
‘And if I sign a new piece of paper — one that pleases you more — you will release my ship?’
‘It is not being impounded,’ Henry assured him. ‘But certainly, if we had no further unfinished business to delay your departure, I could have you and your party safely escorted back to Portsmouth by the end of this week.’
‘When can I be given this paper to sign? It will take time to write, yes?’
Henry could barely contain the triumphant smirk that threatened to take command of his face. ‘For your convenience, Wolsey has drafted a copy of our new proposal. Please hand it to him, Thomas.’
As Philip was shown out of the chamber, Henry began to laugh out loud, then a fit of coughing overtook him, and as Wolsey returned to the chamber, his own self-satisfied grin became a look of concern as he rushed to where Henry sat slumped, gasping for breath, and offered to summon a physician.
‘Damn the physician, Wolsey! It will pass — and if it does not, then you may pray for my soul.’
The new agreement that Philip had been all but forced to sign — whose terms were so unfavourable to Flemish merchants that it was labelled the Intercursus Malus — was never formally adopted by The Netherlands, but Henry had made his point, and had bought off Ferdinand of Aragon for a few more months by humiliating Philip in the eyes of Europe. Not content with that, Wolsey had secretly made Henry aware that while Philip was pursuing his ambitions in Spain, he had left behind his sister Margaret to rule the Low Countries in his absence. The Archduchess Margaret was a woman in her mid-twenties, not unbecoming in appearance, who was twice widowed, was the daughter of Emperor Maximilian, and most recently the widow of the Duke of Savoy. Before Philip and Joanna were allowed to set sail for their much-delayed return to Castile, the opening round of negotiations had begun for a possible marriage between Margaret and Henry, which came to nothing after Philip died in September of 1506, only three months after his arrival in Castile.
Undaunted, Henry could now see another way of acquiring Castilian allies while at the same time maintaining a fruitful alliance with Ferdinand of Aragon. Although barely able to walk more than a hundred yards without being halted by either a shortage of breath or pains in his lower extremities, Henry still clearly thought of himself as an attractive bridegroom, if only because of his English crown, and he put his latest idea to Foxe and Wolsey as they sat together in his privy chamber in November of that year.
Wolsey and Foxe exchanged uncomfortable glances, and each urged the other, with eye gestures, to explain. Eventually it was Foxe who spoke.
‘Thomas was most recently in Castile, Your Majesty, representing you at Philip’s funeral.’
‘Well, Thomas?’ Henry demanded. ‘Why should I not marry Joanna of Castile? From memory, she is quite pleasant on the eye.’
Wolsey coughed politely and looked down at the floor. ‘She is mad, Your Majesty.’
‘How — mad?’ Henry shouted. ‘She was here at Court not a year since, and seemed well in command of her wits.’
‘Indeed, Your Majesty,’ Wolsey conceded, ‘but even while I was in the Low Countries, long ere she was at Court here, there were tales of her wild rages, and her fits of ungovernable temper when she believed her husband Philip to have been cavorting with other women.’
‘So she is spirited, and insists on marital fidelity — what of it?’
There was another embarrassed silence, and this time Foxe broke it.
‘Her husband died, as you know, Your Majesty, some two months ago, yet there are reports that she is progressing through Castile with his body still in its casket, and insists, from time to time, on opening it to kiss him goodnight.’
Henry shuddered, and dry-retched in an action that brought on more coughing. When it subsided, he looked at both men intensely.
‘Is there hope that she will recover from this obsession?’
‘I am no physician, Your Majesty,’ Foxe replied tactfully, ‘but obviously, were she given another person upon whom to shower her devotion — someone living, that is...’
‘A good point,’ Henry confirmed. ‘And presumably, while she may have a sickness of the head, this would not affect the part between her legs, and she may still bear children?’
‘I am no physician, Your Majesty,’ Foxe repeated, while Wolsey suppressed a snigger, and tried to look embarrassed at the coarseness of the conversation.
The next two years were a f
lurry of diplomatic activity on both sides of the Channel, with every European monarch seeking to out-negotiate the others by means of marriage treaties. Henry kept up his overtures for the hand of Joanna of Castile while not having fully abandoned his marriage plans for Margaret of Savoy, to whom he made approaches via her father, the Emperor Maximilian. He also kept the pressure on Ferdinand by offering Princess Mary in marriage to Charles, son of the late Philip of Castile, and still in his minority. If it occurred to Henry that by marrying Joanna while marrying Mary off to her son, he would become Mary’s father-in-law in addition to being her natural father, it did not seem to dampen his enthusiasm for such schemes, which kept Wolsey in the Channel more often than some professional fishermen.
Seemingly unfatigued, Henry also, for a brief while, toyed with the concept of marrying off Prince Henry to a princess of Angouleme, if only to show Ferdinand that he was not the only one who could arrange French marriages. He also let it be believed that Wolsey was secretly engaged in discussions with Emperor Maximilian regarding how the latter might best usurp the Castilian throne in the name of his grandson Charles. It wasn’t true, but most people believed it.
When Ferdinand finally realised that it was all about the money, he buckled in and instructed his Ambassador to England to hand over the remainder of Katherine’s dowry, without any further discussion regarding the repayment of the first instalment. While most monarchs would have graciously accepted this very public admission of defeat, accompanied by a very substantial financial olive branch, Henry opted to rub Ferdinand’s nose in it by insisting that the whole of the balance be paid in coin, rather than plate and jewellery, and that Ferdinand ratify the treaty under which it was proposed that Princess Mary would marry Charles, heir-apparent to the very Castile that Ferdinand had been desperately trying to retain.
However, all this energetic diplomacy — that ensured that Wolsey was rarely either required or available to hear the weekly royal confession, and had long since delegated daily Mass duties to his own personal confessor, Thomas Larke — had taken its toll on a King who was almost out of control, and had little awareness of how internal matters were being handled.
XV
On the second Tuesday of March, 1509, the Grooms of the Privy Chamber were the first to notice that something was not quite right. Henry had not, as he usually did, limped from his chamber at daylight, demanding his breakfast. Of late, that breakfast had been scanty enough, since the King seemed to have lost the robust appetite of his younger years and was growing thinner by the week. But he would still appear at the door of his Privy Chamber demanding wine and a little bread, and when he failed to do so that morning, the Groom of the Stool knocked gently, and then harder, on the bedchamber door. When there was still no reply, he cautiously poked his head round the door and peered in.
Henry appeared to still be asleep, except that instead of the customary hearty snoring that was something of a joke among the Grooms of the Chamber, he sounded to be whimpering, while at the same time choking. The groom tiptoed cautiously towards the bed, then recoiled in horror when he spotted the copious amounts of blood on the white pillow. Horrified, he scuttled from the chamber and called for the Royal Physician.
Henry opened his eyes in time to see the physician fiddling in his bag. He attempted to raise himself on one elbow, then began coughing and spewing blood in all directions.
‘No leeches,’ he commanded in a rasping voice that sounded more like a death rattle. ‘I have lost enough blood these past few weeks, and I cannot seem to stem this shivering. What ails me, for God’s sake?’
The physician sat on the side of the bed, opened Henry’s mouth and looked in. There was a dense white growth of some sort deep in his throat, and the physician instinctively drew back as he gave his confident diagnosis.
‘Your Majesty is suffering from what we physicians call “phthysis”. Some call it “scrofula”, and it is easily passed from person to person. In certain countries of Europe, some monarchs are attributed with the power to cure it in others, simply by laying hands on the afflicted person.’
‘So I may cure myself of it?’
The physician shook his head gravely. ‘Unfortunately, Your Majesty, I have not heard of such a case. But we may build Your Majesty’s constitution back up with suitable medications, and the shivering caused by the fever may be assuaged with more bedcovers. I will order all this immediately.’
‘How many have died of this sickness?’ Henry asked fearfully.
‘Everyone, in my experience,’ the physician answered truthfully. ‘Phthysis is a common cause of death, and is no respecter of rank, rich or poor. We can only make Your Majesty more comfortable while the disease takes its course.’
Henry groaned, and sank back on the new, clean, pillow that the physician had ordered from the groom. The next time he opened his eyes, Wolsey was seated by the bed, clutching a bible and praying.
‘Shall I go to Hell, Thomas?’ Henry enquired fearfully.
‘Most assuredly not, Your Majesty,’ Wolsey advised him. ‘I have never known a man who gave so much to charity, or to God. Apart from your magnificent new chapel, there is your hospital at Savoy, your alms houses in Shoreditch, your many endowments to monastic houses, the new college at Cambridge...’
‘Enough,’ Henry commanded with a raised hand, before breaking into a fresh bout of coughing. Wolsey turned his face with a shudder as more blood and pus soiled the royal pillow.
When he had finished coughing, Henry turned his head to look once more at his faithful cleric.
‘Since I can hardly sin further while I lie here, would now be a good time for you to hear my last confession?’ he asked.
Wolsey shook his head. ‘It would not be your last, Your Majesty, since your physician assures me that your final days do not yet approach. However, you must prepare yourself for that journey that we must all one day take.’
‘No-one must know that I am laid low,’ Henry insisted. ‘A wounded monarch is a weak monarch, and there are many princes of Europe who would seek to profit by my malady. The affairs of State must continue, and Foxe must lead the Council as if this were but a temporary late winter chill.’
‘It shall be done, Your Majesty,’ Wolsey assured him. ‘In fact, he and I have already begun to organise matters in a way we know would be of satisfaction to you, and there is no cause for Your Majesty to concern yourself in that regard.’
‘I am glad I found you, Thomas,’ Henry smiled. ‘No doubt my mother will insist on organising the realm when I am gone, but may I ask that you look further after the interests of the Prince Henry, as well as tutoring him in your own excellent way? He is but a youth of seventeen, and little comprehends what awaits him when he succeeds to the throne. He will be in sore need of wisdom such as yours.’
‘It will be a pleasure, Your Majesty, and you may rest assured that I would wish nothing more than to serve Henry VIII as well as I hope I have served his father. Now, your physician has ordered that you do not expose yourself to any anxiety or great passion, but that you rest. I shall report to you from time to time on affairs of State.’
‘Thank you, Thomas,’ Henry smiled up at him, then turned his head to submit to another bout of retching and wheezing. Wolsey crossed himself as he moved swiftly towards the chamber door, and invoked a blessing from the saints. Not for Henry, but for himself.
March turned into April, and while the crocuses and daffodils in the gardens of the royal palaces gaily announced the coming of a new summer, there was an increasing winter chill in the royal bedchamber that Henry had not left for six weeks. He grew steadily weaker, despite every remedy that a team of physicians tried, sometimes arguing among themselves in their time-honoured tradition. Wolsey came and went, but by the end of the second week of April he realised that either Henry was not able to take in what he was being told, or was too weak to respond with further instructions. The King had been shriven, and it was only a matter of days. Then it became a matter of hours.
> Late in the afternoon of 21st April, there were over a dozen around the royal death bed, some of them physicians, some of them senior officers of State, and some of them family. After a tearful Princess Mary had been led from the room by her stern-faced grandmother, this left only Prince Henry, who stood looking fearfully down at his father, and for the first time in his life staring mortality in the face. He looked across at Wolsey, who gestured with his eyes that they should withdraw, and as they stood together in the corridor outside, Wolsey placed a brotherly hand on Prince Henry’s shoulder and muttered something in Latin that sounded to Henry like an absolution of some sort. Then Wolsey looked kindly into the young prince’s eyes.
‘Your father has but hours left in this world, Hal, but some time ago he earnestly requested that I look after your interests, and that of the nation that you will soon rule. I do so gladly, and with a heart humbled to have been granted such an honour and privilege.’
‘You may dispense with the honeyed words, Thomas,’ Prince Henry assured him. ‘I am well aware of how well you served my father, and I hope — as no doubt do you — that you will continue to serve me. What would you advise at this time?’
Wolsey smiled encouragingly, and jerked his head towards the chamber door.
‘When your father’s soul passes, I will endeavour to persuade those in the chamber to delay news of his passing for several days. This will buy you enough time to secure your own position.’
‘There are none with a better claim to the throne than mine, surely?’
‘Indeed not, Hal,’ Wolsey assured him, ‘but of late your father’s rule has proved unpopular. There is much resentment of those financial policies that have delivered you a Chamber far richer than it once was, and there is a risk of a mob uprising when one Tudor succeeds another, unless the people can be convinced that yours will be a different reign.’