by Derek Wilson
It was not only the propertied and mercantile classes who associated the royal lawyers with repressive and intrusive behaviour. Just as Henry interfered with the shrieval election in London, so he imposed his will in ecclesiastical appointments. In 1504 he obliged the Austin canons of St Mary’s Priory, Walsingham to accept his nominee, William Lowth, as their new prior. His representatives informed the inmates that, according to ancient documents they had consulted, they required a royal congé d'élire (a licence telling them whom to elect), though they insisted that, as long as anyone could remember, the community had never had to seek the king’s permission before choosing their leader. Who were the men sent from Westminster to overbear the canons of distant Norfolk? Empson and Dudley. The new regime at Walsingham seems to have been quite disastrous. A visitation ten years later found that the priory was run by the prior’s mistress and her husband and that they and their cronies devoted their days to hunting and hawking and their nights to revelry.15 It is, at first sight, surprising to find the pious King Henry determined to foist on this house of prayer so unworthy a shepherd but, as with most of his activities, financial motive was never far below the surface. Walsingham, one of England’s primary centres of pilgrimage, had grown fat on the offerings of the devout and was made to pay for its alleged flouting of the royal prerogative.
Clearly, then, Edmund Dudley rapidly became a prominent feature of the unacceptable face of Tudor autocracy, an object of widespread loathing. But was he merely the all-too-prominent representative of a hated regime or had he done much to bring obloquy on himself? Was his a classic case of the ambitious man corrupted by power? Did he wield his authority with arrogance and a total disregard for the feelings of others? Somehow across the centuries we have to interpret his character and activities and set in perspective the complaints of those who held him responsible for their misfortunes.
For Edmund Dudley it was axiomatic that, ‘every man is naturally bound, not only most heartily to pray for the prosperous continuance of his liege sovereign lord and the increase of the commonwealth of his native country, but also to the uttermost of his power to do all things that might further or sound to the increase and help of the same.’16 Desire to be of service to the king was, naturally, bound up with ambition for prestige and wealth. Dudley profited handsomely from the position that talent and influence brought him but he was very far from being alone in that. Everyone who sought or gained employment in the Tudor court was doing so in order to feather his own nest and to establish the fortunes of his family. No less than his colleagues, Dudley could be charged with opportunism and profiting from the misfortunes of others but there is little concrete evidence of actual misdemeanour on his part. Rather was his wealth the result of careful husbandry and prudent speculation. He took his cut from government legal business and received grants from a grateful king. When the victims of Henry’s stratagems were obliged to sell lands in order to pay fines or repay loans summarily called in, Dudley was at the front of the queue to snap them up. He often sold on such acquisitions at a profit and not infrequently employed his spare capital in trading ventures. Moreover, Dudley was far from being the best-rewarded of Henry’s advisers. As we have seen, no titles or lucrative household appointments came his way. He entered and left the royal service as plain Mr Dudley, lawyer.
Because Edmund Dudley grew fat while other men grew lean it was inevitable that he would be suspected of sharp practice, maladministration and corruption. By the time Francis Bacon wrote his account of Henry’s reign over a century later the legend was well established that Empson and Dudley had indicted innocent men and made them pay to have the charges dropped; that they had interrogated people in private at their own homes and that they had manipulated jury decisions. However, no evidence exists for such wholesale breaches of the law. The most telling reason to reject the legend is that no charges of extortion or false imprisonment were ever brought against the two ministers. If witnesses were clamouring to voice their complaints and ready to back them up with sworn testimony it is scarcely credible that a strong case would not have been made against them. Subjects certainly had to be careful when accusing ministers of the Crown: criticism of the servant might be taken to imply criticism of the master. Even so, the silence of the records is deafening. Some supplicants did appeal directly to Dudley, even when he was no longer in a position to help them:
. . . an information was made against me, being justice of peace in my country, that I [had] let a man to bail and took sureties which were not sufficient, whereupon I was called before you and fined £20 to the king’s use. I pray you cause the king’s council to be moved that I may have my money again.
So ran one appeal in 1510. Dudley’s reply is revealing:
It is true I had this £20 and paid it to the king. I could make the fine no less. I think in my conscience you ought to have it again and I pray you to pray for me. If I were of power I would restore you myself.17
In other words, Dudley believed the levy, though lawful, was unjust and that the responsibility for it lay with the king. Had he ever been brought into court to face this and similar charges he could and undoubtedly would have made the same point – and that would have been embarrassing to Henry VII’s son.
It is important to keep in mind that Dudley’s activities were carried out under the close scrutiny of Henry VII. He would scarcely have dared to pervert royal justice for his own personal gain. Stretching the meaning of the law to the absolute limit in order to enrich the king was one thing; stepping beyond the law for his own gain was quite another. Moreover, Dudley, himself, was not exempt from the extension of the royal prerogative. In 1508, commissioners for concealed lands in Hampshire found that, seven years previously, the minister had entered on estates inherited from his mother without making due payment to the king. He was pardoned for the offence but the indictment brought home to him – if he needed any such enlightenment – that all his dealings had to be scrupulously open and above board. Caesar’s wife must be beyond reproach, either by Caesar’s critics or Caesar himself.
3
A Tree and its Fruit
. . . to enable a prince to form an opinion of his servant there is one test which never fails; when you see the servant thinking more of his own interests than of yours and seeking inwardly his own profit, such a man will never make a good servant, nor will you ever be able to trust him, because he who has the state of another in his hands ought never to think of himself, but always of his prince and never pay any attention to matters in which the prince is not concerned.1
Most politicians and senior administrators of all ages have not been self-avowedly amoral, and it is unthinking cynicism that insists ‘They're only in it for what they can get out of it.’ But it is equally true that most politicians and senior administrators of all ages have discovered that the job involves compromising principles. Idealism and realism are restless bedfellows. Faced with a determined king and a remit to make the Crown financially and politically secure, Dudley readily settled for the simple unwritten contract implicit in the inner circles of Tudor tyranny. The terms of that contract were clearly set out by Niccolo Machiavelli who had learned realpolitik in the seamy, ruthless world of the Italian Renaissance states. In return for unquestioning loyalty on the part of the servant,
. . . the prince ought to study him, honouring him, enriching him, doing him kindnesses, sharing with him the honours and cares; and at the same time let him see that he cannot stand alone, so that many honours may not make him desire more, many riches make him wish for more, and that many cares may make him dread changes.2
In other words, the successful autocrat will surround himself with talented yes-men whose loyalty he ensures by a judicious mixture of generosity and intimidation. Dudley knew nothing of power politics within the Italian states, but without being aware of it, he took Machiavelli’s paragon as his model and devoted himself entirely to his master’s interests. He unhesitatingly supported activities which, according to his own la
ter testimony, troubled his conscience and in doing so he lost friends and became a public symbol of oppression.
It is, of course, possible that he had a genuine respect for Henry VII and was committed, in general terms at least, to the policies of the regime. The transformations the first Tudor had wrought in the internal life and external reputation of England were impressive in the extreme. Stability, freedom from civil war, and improved conditions for local and international trade were the more obvious benefits of the despotism. And the few who were in a position to view the wider picture saw a king who had enlarged the nation’s prestige abroad without committing it to costly military adventures. Henry had taken an insignificant, strife-torn nation and allied it with the imperial Habsburgs and the rising power of Spain. The Intercursus Magnus with the Emperor Maximilian (1496) had forged strong commercial links between England and the rich, industrious Netherlands. The diplomatic advantages he had secured by the marriage of Arthur with the youngest daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella of Aragon and Castile had survived the prince’s untimely death. Not only did Catherine become betrothed to Henry’s younger son, but, after the death of Queen Elizabeth, the royal widower sent his agents to Spain to explore the possibilities of attracting a bride for himself and he did succeed in having his daughter, Mary, betrothed to the Emperor’s grandson (the future Emperor Charles V). Though nothing permanent came of these latter negotiations, they indicate that England had become a significant player in European politics.
Dudley spent most of his time in a court whose ruler was determined to cede nothing to contemporary princes in terms of lifestyle and munificence. While watching the pennies, the king knew the propaganda value of sumptuous display and was fully prepared to lash out when occasion demanded. The new palace he created for himself at Richmond was an impressive extravaganza of towers and cupolas in the French style (reminiscent of the slightly later Chambord) reflected in the river with a south-facing façade studded with windows which sparkled in the sunlight. It was no less splendid within. Visitors were impressed by the ‘pleasant dancing chambers . . . houses of pleasure to disport in at chess, tables, dice, cards, bylys [skittles or, possibly, an early form of billiards], bowling alleys, butts for archers and goodly tennis plays’.3 He considerably enlarged and beautified the palace at Greenwich and ensured that his earthly remains would be splendidly housed in the chapel he built at Westminster Abbey. Lavish celebrations with feasting, tourneys and pageants marked such important events as the betrothals of his children, but Henry was equally willing to spend money on spontaneous displays. On 7 January 1506, Maximilian’s heir, Philip of Burgundy, together with his wife and several courtiers, were obliged to seek refuge on the Dorset coast when their ship ran into a winter gale. Henry pounced on this fortuitous visit by such eminent guests. He had the royal party conveyed to Windsor and there and in other residences organized so many splendid entertainments that Philip and his party were not able to escape till 23 April. The king of England brought craftsmen and scholars from the cultural centres of Italy and, three years after Columbus had reported his momentous discovery to Ferdinand and Isabella, Henry authorized John Cabot to enter the race for a western route to the Orient.
Henry VII’s regime could not be described as ‘dazzling’ but it was certainly impressive and even some of the more substantial men who had suffered at his hands displayed a loyalty that was only partly based on self-preservation. However, inevitably, as the new century got into its stride, their thoughts turned to the future. The old king would not always be with them and what would happen then to the government of the realm and those most closely associated with the unpopular Tudor polity? In 1507 Henry entered his fifties and observers were already noting, ‘the king’s grace is but a weak and sickly man, not likely to be a long-lived man.’4 In that very year he suffered a severe bout of tonsillitis that his physicians expected to be fatal and thereafter he frequently had to take to his bed. It is inconceivable that Edmund Dudley was not among those who watched the king’s deterioration and took thought for the morrow.
Sixteenth-century English politics is dominated by two great figures, Henry VIII and Elizabeth I But their powerful personas conceal from us the essential fragility of the dynasty. Elizabeth came close to death at the hands of her half-sister and their father’s path to the throne was far from being a straight, well-lit highway. For almost a century the great families of the realm had been playing ‘catch’ with the crown of England and the draconian measures to which Henry VII had resorted are proof positive of his nervousness about the succession. He had many reasons to be anxious. Enemies among the nobility might have been curbed by the effective financial restraints he imposed upon them but they could be expected to grasp the first opportunity to escape Tudor tyranny. Henry had successfully seen off every challenge and the main surviving contender for the throne was, after 1506, safely locked up in the Tower (Henry had made a solemn pledge not to execute Edmund de la Pole but had instructed his son to do so as soon as he came to the throne) but the Yorkist family tree was flourishing with several healthy shoots. By contrast, Henry only had one living son and he was still a minor. The king’s spies kept him well informed of plots, murmurings and clandestine expressions of discontent, so that he would have known, for example, that malcontents gathered at Calais had seriously debated whether to throw their support behind the Earl of Suffolk or the Duke of Buckingham as soon as the present occupant of the throne was dead.
Henry’s priorities, after 1502, were to keep his son safe and to live long enough to hand over the crown to an heir who had attained his majority. If the king was careful of his own security he was positively paranoid about the prince’s. Arthur, his eldest son, had been allowed to set up his own court at Ludlow and to begin learning the business of government but the adolescent Henry was kept almost as a prisoner in his father’s palace. He could go nowhere without a guard, access to his person was strictly controlled and he was never allowed out in public. The youngster was permitted his favourite tiltyard exercises but only under the anxious eye of the king who watched from an upstairs window.
Henry VII was a bundle of ailments although it was probably tuberculosis that was gnawing away at his constitution and making him a prey to other afflictions. He recovered from his illness in the spring of 1507 but was laid low again within the year. Once more he rallied and it seemed that his iron will might sustain his failing body until June 1509, when the prince would attain his eighteenth birthday. Now the king turned increasingly to thoughts of religion. In the autumn of 1508 he made pilgrimages to both Canterbury and Walsingham. But his earnest prayers seemed to go unanswered and by the end of 1508 he was suffering increasingly from chest pains and shortage of breath. Now, the monarch who had subordinated moral considerations to the establishment of his own power base made fervent efforts to buy divine grace and public approval. He directed precious reserves of energy into efforts to have his predecessor, Henry VI, canonized. He set aside money for the completion of the murdered Lancastrian’s chapel at King’s College, Cambridge and planned to remove the ‘royal martyr’s’ remains from Windsor to Westminster. He made large donations to a variety of charities. Then, probably sometime in the early weeks of 1509, he ordered Edmund Dudley to go through his books and identify any men whom he might have treated unjustly so that he could make restitution. This flurry of activity was the action of a conventionally pious man who was about to meet his maker and render an account of his stewardship, but there was also in it an element of political calculation. By enshrining the legend of the saintly royal martyr he was creating a permanent reminder of his own Lancastrian credentials. By releasing from financial bondage some of those who were in his power he hoped to remove their cause for discontent. Henry knew how unpopular his policies were. That was a price he had been willing to pay for the establishment of strong central government but now he was about to hand the reins to an untried youth who would need the support of men of power and wealth. In his funeral oration Bishop Fi
sher revealed that, in his last days, Henry had discussed with his intimates the transformation that would come over his policies ‘'if it pleased God to send him life’, but it was political calculation as well as piety that demanded a significant reversal of policy.
Dudley obediently drew up a list of eighty-four persons, great and small, whom he adjudged to have genuine cause for grievance. It is an extraordinary document. An unwritten rule of all governments is that they should never admit to having been wrong but Dudley’s catalogue of unjust exactions is a swingeing indictment of Henry’s disregard for the rights of his subjects. Its items include massive bonds imposed on the nobility:
Item, the Earl of Northumberland was bound to the king in many great sums, howbeit the king’s mind was to have payment of £2,000 and of no more, as his grace showed me. Yet that was too much for ought that was known.
Senior clergy fared no better:
Item, one obligation of my Lord of London for £500 to be had at the king’s pleasure and recognizance of £300 to be paid at certain days. He was hardly dealt withall herein, for he said unto me, by his priesthood, the matter laid against him was not true.
The King’s rapacity had reached into every corner of the realm:
