by David Field
‘She is correct, Your Majesty,’ added a physician, who had crept into the chamber behind her. ‘Then, when you have regained your strength, we may begin to extract the bad humours.’
‘You place a single leech on my arm, and I will have your head,’ Henry promised him with a weak smirk. His mother looked behind her and ordered the physician from the bedchamber in a tone of voice that Henry knew only too well, and he chuckled as the bundle of medical robes scuttled out through the chamber doors like a crow disturbed by a bowshot. ‘Since you are here anyway, Mother, and in return for my drinking this dead cow like a good little boy, I have a great favour to ask of you.’
‘That will rather depend upon what it is,’ Margaret replied guardedly, ‘although may I say how I have prayed hard for your recovery, and how joyously this will be greeted by your subjects?’
‘Not those who pay taxes,’ Henry grinned. ‘But what I would ask of you is that you take over the upbringing of Prince Henry.’
Margaret’s face set into a stony frown. ‘I must admit that he was ever my favourite, but thanks to your slackness he seems not to have what it takes to become King. Unlike his father, who learned quickly.’
‘Learned quickly to do what he was told, you mean?’ Henry teased his mother, then gave her the benefit of one of those beaming smiles that she always found hard to withstand. ‘Now that Elizabeth has gone, I must be both mother and father to the children who remain. But I must also attend to matters of State. I am asking you — as the royal grandmother — to do for another young Henry what you did for me. Without your guidance, I would never have become King — you and Uncle Jasper, that is. Hal must be kept closely confined to the Palace, he must be given the best tutors in the land, and he must be politely but firmly shown that kingship is not all about hunting and attempting to climb onto warhorses that are twice his height from the ground.’
Margaret frowned. ‘Now that you are back to your old self, I had rather hoped to retire again to Collyweston. I am also much engaged, but for me it is my university college endowments.’
‘Which is precisely why I wish you to engage the best tutors that may be found within the realm, and possibly from Europe,’ Henry explained. ‘Hal must be prepared in all aspects of kingship, and particularly those which pertain to learning and the written arts. I hear much from Foxe of scholars such as John Colet and Erasmus of Rotterdam, for example.’
Margaret’s nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘I, too, have heard of Erasmus, but there are those at Cambridge who think his writings heretical. Would it be wise to expose young Hal to such thought?’
‘Why not?’ Henry argued. ‘If he is to be King, he must learn to distinguish good advice from bad advice. I would also have you seek out a young man named Thomas More, who was formerly in the employ of Bishop Morton, but who may now, they tell me, have taken holy orders. His was ever sound advice, which Morton sometimes sought to pretend was his own. I would have Hal exposed to minds such as his.’
‘It shall be as you wish,’ Margaret conceded, ‘and I must admit that it will be nice to have the care of a grandson, to replace the son who now seems capable of ruling a nation without his mother’s assistance.’
‘Without your assistance when I most needed it, Mother, I would not now be ruling a nation, and it is precisely that service that I would wish you to render to your grandson.’
‘So I must delay my return to Collyweston?’
‘Not at all. In fact, when we progress Margaret north to take up her new crown, I would wish to spend the night there. It is only a day’s ride from Westminster, and it may be that this is as far as I may venture. If so, then I shall arrange for Surrey to accompany her to the border, where King James has agreed to meet her train. There should perhaps be a banquet to commemorate her departure north — a State occasion in a palace other than Westminster — and it would do Henry good to act as your joint host on that occasion. He may also learn much from you on how such occasions are best organised. May I leave all these things with you?’
‘Of course you may,’ Margaret assured him. ‘There is life in the old she-devil yet, and much that I can do to bring an errant grandson to heel, as I once brought his father.’
‘Have a care, Mother,’ Henry smiled as he leaned up to kiss her goodbye, ‘or you may be thought to speak treason.’
‘The only treason lies in disobeying one’s mother — or one’s grandmother,’ Margaret smiled back.
As if being closely supervised by one’s grandmother were not bad enough, Prince Henry also suffered the indignity of being advised by his father, in the middle of June, that he was now formally betrothed to Katherine of Aragon, by virtue of a new treaty between England and Spain. ‘It could have been worse,’ Henry told him. ‘If Scotland were not ruled by a young king to whom I was able to marry off your sister, you might have been spoken for north of the border — they tell me that Scottish ladies have as much hair on their legs as their menfolk.’
At the end of June, the royal progress set out with much blowing of herald trumpets and many rich hangings around the litter that carried the young Queen Margaret out of London along the old Roman road north. At the head of the stately procession rode King Henry, with Bishop Foxe by his side, and a sizeable contingent of liveried men at arms from the Yeomen of the Royal Guard. Then came Margaret’s litter, with Catherine Gordon riding alongside it on a grey palfrey, chatting away constantly to her mistress, all the baggage for her long-awaited return to her native land stowed with the rich gowns and other accoutrements that befitted a queen, and with which Margaret had been gifted by her indulgent father.
That night, young Prince Henry took great delight in acting as master of ceremonies for the farewell banquet, showing off his prowess as a dancer, and joining the musicians to demonstrate his skills with the lute. He also drank a little more than his father would have liked, and as they stood beside each other at the entrance gate to Collyweston Palace with grandmother Margaret and a handful of armed attendants, waving until Princess Margaret’s litter moved out of sight around a corner of tall yew hedge, Prince Henry was looking a little paler than normal. He was already as tall as his father, but had taken more of his mother’s colouring, and as he removed his bonnet to wipe the sweat from his brow in the late June sun, revealing his red-gold hair, Henry looked sideways with disapproval.
‘That rich French wine is best taken with an equal part of water.’
‘I am sure that was already done by that rogue who Grandmother employs as a Steward,’ the young prince replied with a grimace, ‘but I fear that the roast pig was underdone. I shot it myself, did you know?’
‘Your grandmother did advise me of the pride with which you cantered back to the kitchen door and cast an entire wild boar in front of a startled cook, certainly.’
Young Henry looked ahead, to where the last of the royal progress was disappearing behind the hedge line. ‘When Margaret is Queen of Scotland, and I am King of England, the nation will finally be at peace, will it not? Then I can spend more time in the hunt.’
Henry sighed. ‘If my reign is anything to judge by, there will never be peace, and your hunting will be confined to ferreting out traitors to your throne.’
XII
Henry sat alone in his privy chamber at Richmond, thinking about death. Not his own — although that was surely not long away — but the deaths of others upon whose wise counsel he had depended for so long, or who had played such a large part in his plans for the future. First had been Morton, whom he had never known to give bad counsel, or to display the slightest disloyalty. Then the death of Arthur, the heir-apparent whose marriage to Katherine would almost certainly have ensured the survival of the Tudor family on the throne.
This was followed by the saddest death of all — his own dear Queen, the love of his life, his distraction and relief from the tense affairs of State, the mother of his children, the companion of his bed, the only one who could lighten his blow upon those who displeased him. Shortly after her
death, Bray had finally succumbed to the ailment that had laid him low for his final year, and now Henry could not be entirely confident that the King’s financial affairs were being conducted solely for the benefit of the King.
If he had ever needed the comfort and wisdom of those who had departed this world, it was now. Yesterday, during one of his rare Council meetings, someone — it may have been Foxe, or was it Daubeney? — had pointed out that as matters stood, the only immediate prospect of an heir from an English royal lay north of the border, from where every day they expected news that Queen Margaret of Scotland was with child. When that happened, and if Prince Henry did not produce legitimate issue, or if he perished in one of those dangerous sports in which he seemed to take such strange delight, despite his grandmother’s rule of iron, then what? Would the heir to the Scottish throne then become the heir to the English Crown? Would England be tied in a ghastly family union with those barbarians with whom they had been skirmishing for centuries? As Henry had curtly pointed out to his Council, if he had not intended peace to prevail between the two centuries-old enemies, he would not have sent his oldest daughter north to seal that peace with her own body.
But it had set him thinking. It was only a matter of time before Prince Henry began siring bastards, that was obvious. But would he also buckle down and sire a future King of England? And what if Hal were to die? He was much more healthy and robust than Arthur had been at his age, but it was as if he diced with his own demise every day, riding, hunting — and now jousting. Hal’s death would leave only his young sister Mary, and any husband that might be chosen for her would obviously, by his own seed, sire the next English King, who would be only half a Tudor — and the wrong half at that. Henry himself had been obliged to argue his right to the throne through the female line, and he would not wish that on any grandson. And if Mary were to outlive any such husband, leaving an heir too young to ascend to the throne, would she be recognised as the sole monarch, or would she become a mere Queen Dowager, acting as Regent for that heir? If she were to marry into a powerful house such as France or Spain, would England become simply one of its outlying possessions, as Normandy, Anjou, Aquitaine, Brittany and Blois had once been to England?
He took another mouthful of wine, and considered his options. Prince Henry had grudgingly agreed to marry Katherine once he came of age, and the Pope had granted a dispensation after receiving sworn testimonies from Katherine and her Duenna that Katherine’s marriage to Arthur had never been consummated. In the meantime, there was already a dispute regarding her dowry.
The original agreement had been that half of the money would be paid upon her marriage to Arthur, and this had duly been handed over and converted into the new chapel at Westminster. The balance of the money was to be paid in two instalments, the second of which was in the form of plate and jewels that had travelled with Katherine, and was being held by the Spanish Ambassador in order to prevent the extravagant young princess spending it on herself and her entourage. Not only was the Ambassador — on strict instructions from King Ferdinand — refusing to part with a single gem or piece of plate, but he was now making repeated demands for the return of the money that Henry had already spent.
In the midst of all this sat Katherine herself, in a suite of rooms at Richmond rather than at the castle at Ludlow that contained such unhappy memories for her. She was entitled to ‘jointure’ payments as the Dowager Princess of Wales, which Henry had immediately diverted into his own Chamber account in order to reimburse himself the cost of the food, heating and other necessities of life that Katherine and her Spanish entourage consumed. As a result, she had no income of her own with which to clothe herself and her Ladies, whose increasingly threadbare clothing was becoming the scandal of Court on those rare occasions when Katherine and her ladies deigned to dine in the full Court — which she was reluctant to do, given the very public slights that she was given by Prince Henry, her rumoured next husband, who seemed to prefer the company of his favourite grooms further down the Great Hall.
In what seemed, in retrospect, to have been a madcap scheme, Henry had floated the idea that he himself might marry the young Spanish princess. The reaction had been predictable, his mother employing phrases such as ‘appalling’, ‘sickening’, ‘disgusting’ and ‘inappropriate’. But her reaction had been nothing to that of Katherine’s mother, the pious old Queen Isabella of Aquitaine, who had almost swooned at the suggestion, and had given stern instructions to her Ambassador to convey her opinion back to Henry word for word. The wily old diplomat had toned it down somewhat, so that it translated into English as ‘an abomination in the sight of God’, but the sentiment had not been lost, and the plan had been abandoned, even after Isabella herself had died, perhaps of apoplexy.
Henry was well aware that Katherine was urging her father Ferdinand to demand her return to Spain. Her letters were routinely opened, copied and resealed by spies within her rooms, as indeed was incoming correspondence intended for the Spanish Ambassador. The same was happening to English correspondence, and both sides of the intelligence war were well aware of what was going on; in consequence, the only written correspondence contained information that was intended for the other side to read, while genuinely secret instructions were carried by word of mouth.
‘My Lord Bishop, Your Majesty,’ the usher announced, and Foxe entered. Henry studied his face carefully for the tell-tale signs. On days when Foxe’s countenance lived up to his name, he was the bringer of good tidings — usually of his own achievements — but if he resembled a sick cow, it was bad news, and today the facial expression was pure bovine.
‘Disturbing news, Your Majesty,’ Foxe confirmed. He shook his head when Henry gestured towards the wine jug, and instead strode as purposefully as his ageing legs would permit to the chair that was reserved for favoured visitors to the Privy Chamber, and these days seemed only to be occupied by him. ‘Ferdinand of Aragon is seeking a bride at the French Court.’
‘To strengthen his grasp on Castile, presumably?’
‘Presumably, Your Majesty.’
The situation was complex, but Henry did not require any prompting to assess the implications. The growing power of Spain that had made Katherine of Aragon such a valuable marriage pawn was entirely dependent upon the uniting of the kingdoms of Aragon and Castile through the marriage of Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile, who had recently died. That union had produced three daughters, of whom Katherine was the second-born. Her older sister Joanna was married to Archduke Philip of Burgundy, heir to the Holy Roman Empire, and Joanna had become heir-apparent to Castile upon the death of her mother. Ferdinand was well known to be resistant to the prospect of half his kingdom falling to Burgundy, and was clearly seeking an alliance with Burgundy’s old enemy, France. The death of Queen Isabella had also rendered Katherine of Aragon less of a dynastic bargain, and, given Hal’s reluctance to marry her anyway, perhaps a new set of alliances would be more appropriate.
‘If Burgundy threatens to acquire half of Spain, Ferdinand will clearly need allies among Burgundy’s enemies,’ Henry observed, as he swirled his wine-cup, deep in thought. ‘England is clearly one of those allies, but given that our relationship is currently somewhat soured, it makes sense for him to be making overtures to France.’
‘Ferdinand certainly appears to have a gift for statecraft,’ Foxe observed unenthusiastically.
‘But not as great as mine,’ Henry announced with a smile. ‘Ferdinand is not the only King in Europe who is minus a wife, and we too have our reasons for wishing to oppose Burgundy.’
‘You are not proposing that you also bid for a French princess in marriage, Your Majesty?’
Henry shook his head. ‘There are none of whose existence I am aware, but they tell me that the Italian city states grow more powerful by the year. Perhaps we should think of outflanking both France and Burgundy at their southern borders.’
‘There is another good reason for opposing Burgundy, of course, Your Majesty,�
� Foxe pointed out.
Henry frowned. As usual, Foxe was right, but he didn’t need reminding.
The death of the Earl of Lincoln in support of Lambert Simnel at Stoke Field had not entirely suppressed the remaining Yorkist sentiments in England. If anything, the attainder of the de la Pole estates by Henry in retaliation had hardened the resolve of the remaining member of the family, Edmund de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk, who had been harbouring an ambition to claim the crown through the line of his long-dead father, who had been a brother-in-law of Edward IV. Like Perkin Warbeck, Suffolk had found support at the court of Emperor Maximilian, who was the father of Philip of Burgundy, and was always ready to stir up rebellion in England.
Suffolk presented no immediate threat to Henry, but Henry was eager to demonstrate that he would tolerate no more support for Yorkist pretenders from Burgundy, or anyone associated with it. If Ferdinand of Spain became allied by marriage to France against Burgundy, while Henry could secure an allegiance with an Italian state, before becoming joined at the hip with Ferdinand through the marriage of Katherine to Prince Henry, then between them they would form a power block against the Holy Roman Empire itself. The irony was that it would be an alliance of Catholic states supported by the Pope against the very Empire that was originally created in order to protect Rome.
Henry looked at Foxe enquiringly. ‘Do you have, among your retainers, a man of the cloth — a man ordained, but with diplomatic skill or simply wise learning — who might pose as one sent on a diplomatic mission to Rome, but who takes the time, while across the Channel, to make pilgrimage to some Spanish holy site, in order to ascertain the current strength of Ferdinand’s grip on Castile?’
Foxe smiled. ‘You must have been listening at the keyhole of my chambers, Your Majesty, for only yesterday I received a letter from a young man who was formerly a chaplain to the late Archbishop Deane, and who is seeking some preferment. He is currently employed in Calais, as confessor to its Governor, but finds the work tedious, and is anxious for something more challenging. His name is Thomas Wolsey, and I feel sure that he would welcome the opportunity, not only to visit Rome, but also the shrine at Santiago de Compostela, where it is said that the remains of St James the Apostle are buried in the cathedral. It is a popular pilgrimage for English Christians, and to get there by land one must cross Castile.’