The English chancellor was in the ascendant. In the fourteen years of his authority as lord chancellor he called only one parliament. When the Venetian ambassador first arrived in the kingdom, Wolsey used to declare to him that ‘His Majesty will do so and so’. The phrase then changed to ‘We shall do so and so’ until it finally became ‘I will do so and so’. Yet he was always aware of where the real power and authority lay; he remained in charge of affairs as long as he obeyed the king’s will. The achievement of the cardinal, with the Treaty of London, was also the triumph of his sovereign. The king’s honour was always the most important element in foreign calculations. Henry himself seemed pleased with the accomplishment. ‘We want all potentates to content themselves with their own territories,’ he told the Venetian ambassador, ‘and we are satisfied with this island of ours.’ He wrote some verses in this period that testify to his contentment.
The best ensue; the worst eschew;
My mind shall be
Virtue to use, vice refuse,
Thus shall I use me.
Yet he was considerably less contented when, in February 1519, the Holy Roman Emperor died and was succeeded in that title by his grandson Charles of Spain. At the age of nineteen Charles was now the nominal master of Austria, Poland, Switzerland, Germany and the Low Countries as well as Spain itself; he thus decided the fate of half of Europe.
The three young kings now engaged in elaborate ceremonies of peace that could also be construed as games of war. In the summer of 1520 Henry set sail for France in the Great Harry, with a retinue of 4,000, on his way to meet the king of France. He sailed in splendour, and the place of their encounter became known as the Field of Cloth of Gold. The Vale of Ardres, close to the English enclave of Calais, had been decorated with pavilions and palaces, towers and gateways, artificial lakes and bridges, statues and fountains that gushed forth beer and wine. Henry was arrayed in what was called ‘fine gold in bullion’, while Francis in turn was too dazzling to be looked upon. Masses were combined with jousts and feats and wrestling matches, with the celebrations lasting for seventeen days. The event was described as the eighth wonder of the world. A rich tapestry had come to life. The importance of treaties lay not in their content but in the manner of their making. They were expressions of power rather than of amity.
Yet there were secret dealings behind the arras. Even before Henry sailed to France, Charles of Spain had arrived at Dover, to be greeted by Henry himself. Charles was escorted with great ceremony to Canterbury, where he met his aunt Katherine of Aragon for the first time. Three days of dancing and feasting also included hours of negotiation. After meeting the French king at the Field of Cloth of Gold, Henry moved on to Calais, where he colluded once more with Charles. All their plans were against France. Henry himself wished once more to claim the French crown as part of his inalienable birthright.
On these same summer nights, when sovereigns slept in their pavilions of gold, the London watch was searching for ‘suspected persons’. They reported that a tailor and two servants played cards and dice until four in the morning, when the game was forcibly suspended and the players mentioned to the constable. In Southwark and Stepney, in pursuit of ‘vagabond and misdemeanoured persons’, the watch found many ‘masterless men’ living in ragged tenements. Ten Germans were taken up in Southwark. An ‘old drab and a young wench’ were found lying upon a dirty sheet in a cellar; on the upstairs floor Hugh Lewis and Alice Ball were ‘taken in bed together, not being man and wife’. Anne Southwick was questioned in the Rose tavern at Westminster on suspicion of being a whore. Carters were found sleeping against the walls of a tavern. Mowers and haymakers, makers of tile and brick, were duly noted as dwelling peaceably in the inns of the suburbs. Men and women went about their business, legal or otherwise. And so the summer passed.
4
The woes of marriage
Rumours of the king’s infidelities were always in the air. His liaison with Anne Stafford was followed by others, and in the autumn of 1514 he had begun an affair of five years with Elizabeth or Bessie Blount; their trysting place was a house called Jericho in Essex. His entourage was commanded to maintain a strict silence concerning his visits, and the grooms of the privy chamber were obliged ‘not to hearken or enquire where the king is or goeth’; they were forbidden to discuss ‘the king’s pastime’ or ‘his late or early going to bed’. The fruit of the union was born in 1519, and was named Henry FitzRoy or ‘Henry son of the king’; he would eventually become the duke of Richmond. Elizabeth Blount was then duly rewarded with a prestigious marriage, and retained a secure place in Henry’s affections.
Other young women were no doubt installed in Jericho for the king’s delectation, but the next one to be named by history is Mary Boleyn. She had been conveniently married to a gentleman of the king’s household, and under the cover of the court she became the king’s mistress in 1520. Now she is best known as the sister of the other Boleyn girl, but her relationship with Henry lasted for approximately five years. In 1523 he named one of the new royal ships the Mary Boleyn, and two years later he promoted her father to the peerage as Viscount Rochford.
By this time, however, the king had become enamoured of the younger daughter. The date of his first encounter with Anne Boleyn is not known precisely, but by 1523 she had already come to the attention of Thomas Wolsey. Her attachment to Henry Percy, heir to the earldom of Northumberland, was considered to be a step too far; Percy went back to the north, and Anne was expelled from court. Wolsey’s usher, George Cavendish, reports that she was so angry that ‘she smoked’ red-hot with rage. Only after this date, therefore, is it likely that she caught the eye of the king.
Yet he was soon enthralled by her. Her complexion was considered to be ‘rather dark’ but she had fine eyes and lustrous hair; her narrow oval face, high cheekbones and small breasts would be inherited by her eminent daughter. In the early portraits she appears to be pert and vivacious, but at a slightly later date there is evidence of wariness or watchfulness. So many disparate reports exist of her character that it is impossible to form a true judgement. There can be no doubt, however, that she was resourceful and quick-witted; she could not otherwise have survived the life of the court. She loved music and danced very well. It has often been suggested that by charm and persuasion she managed to avoid intercourse with the king until she was certain of becoming his wife, but it is equally likely that Henry himself wished to make sure of a formal union that would render any children legitimate.
All this was known or suspected by Katherine of Aragon, who asked Erasmus to write a treatise entitled De Servando Conjugio – ‘On Preserving Marriage’. She was aware of Henry FitzRoy, and was deeply offended when he was brought to court at precisely the time when it was clear that she could no longer bear children. Henry had in any case turned away from her. She was approaching the age of forty; all her early grace had faded, and the young king of France described her as ‘ugly and deformed’. As a consequence, perhaps, Henry no longer frequented her bed. Most importantly she had failed in her primary duty to bear a son and heir.
Certain doubts had already entered Henry’s mind. He had read the text in Leviticus that prohibited any man from marrying the widow of a dead brother. It declares that ‘thou shalt not uncover the nakedness of your brother’s wife; it is thy brother’s nakedness’, for which the penalty will be that of bearing no children. He had quoted Leviticus in his treatise against Luther, in which text he had also adverted to ‘the severe and inflexible justice of God’. What if his marriage flouted divine decree? In Leviticus itself God speaks: ‘I will even appoint over you terror, consumption, and the burning ague … and ye shall sow your seed in vain.’ God had perhaps denied him a royal heir as a punishment for his sin.