Judge The Best

by G Lawrence

  “There has been an incident in France,” I said. “Reformers took to the streets, setting up placards which denounced the Catholic Mass as popery. The notices were an unguarded attack on the Catholic faith, and rumours have spread that reformers want nothing more than to burn all churches and murder all traditionalists in their beds. One was nailed to the King’s bedchamber door, and others have been found in Orleans, Tours, Blois and Rouen.” I sighed. “There have been arrests, and François has come to think this is part of a plot against him. It would seem the once-tolerant King who upheld the reforming beliefs of his sister is backsliding.” I paused as my brother’s forehead creased with consternation. “There is talk that François will forbid French printers from producing books supporting reform.”

  “He may, then, grant the Sorbonne licence to take what measures they wish,” said George, speaking of the University of Paris, the stronghold of conservatives in France. The Sorbonne was responsible for weeding out heresy and banning works thought to be heretical. It had run blindly into disfavour in years past, when it banned a work penned by François’ sister, Marguerite, called The Glass of the Sinful Soul, of which I owned a copy. It had been an embarrassing blunder, and the Sorbonne had paid dearly for censuring her work, but now, with François convinced that French reformists were plotting against him, the Sorbonne might be offered more power.

  Much as in England, there had been a rise in iconoclasm in France. Reformers stole into churches and destroyed statues and relics. Lutherans and Anabaptists, a sect of reformers who believed baptism was only valid when performed on adults, and only after confession of their faith, who were widely seen and persecuted as simple heretics, were on the march. In response, Catholic traditionalists were baying for blood. François was likely to grant the Sorbonne and his Parliament a free hand to deal with troublemakers, and he was rapidly speaking ill of anyone who supported reform.

  “England grows more isolated from Europe every day,” I said. “Many kings do not want to accept me as Queen, and Henry fears the forming rifts. If we lose France, I fear what may come.”

  “No foreign kings truly care for the religious policy of England,” said my brother. “They care for politics. At one time it is advantageous to be friends with one country and at another time, with another.”

  “All the same, Spain will never be our friend as long as I occupy the throne.” I tapped my fingers on the table in a haphazard manner. “The new ambassador from France is due to arrive soon,” I said. “I want you to meet him, and Henry has agreed. We must woo them, George. I fear this affair has set François against reform, and no matter how hard his sister works to restore his good opinion of it, this will be a problem for us. François is well aware of my sympathies and yours, and if he is against reform, that may lead him to be cool with us.”

  Little did I know how right I was.

  *

  The new French Ambassador, Philippe de Chabot de Brion, Admiral of France, took a long look about him and sniffed as though there were something offensive in the air. What that scent might be, I knew not, for there was nothing but perfume wafting from the skin of courtiers, and the smell of delicious food being prepared in the kitchens in honour of his visit.

  George had been sent to meet the ambassador, and every courtesy had been extended. Their journey from Dover to Greenwich had taken a few days, and the ambassador had been entertained in the houses of those who supported Henry and me. A huge train of gentlemen had accompanied the Admiral, along with three hundred and fifty horses, and my brother had had the responsibility of finding lodgings and stables for all guests each night. George had struggled with the logistics, even accepting help from Norfolk to complete his task. Not that you would have known this when watching them ride towards London. The arrival of the ambassador seemed like a well-oiled clock, ticking along in perfect working order. They were later than expected, as George had planned the route in stages to allow Brion to rest. But however meticulous my brother’s efforts had been, Brion did not seem overly impressed… with England, court, or anything else.

  Henry greeted him, and afterwards, Brion was taken to Bridewell Palace to be entertained by Norfolk and Suffolk, invited to dine later with Henry at court. Brion had come to speak of the postponed meeting with François, and we were keen to press forth Elizabeth as a bride for the Dauphin. But as the Ambassador settled into his apartments, he appeared to be in no rush to open negotiations.

  The affair of the placards had led not only to arrests, but burnings. François had banned all new books, and the most sacred relics of France had been taken from their churches and paraded about, some being borne by François’ sons under a canopy of golden cloth. François had led prayers for his country and encouraged his people to denounce all heretics. More burnings had marked the end of this outpouring of fanatical, one might say hysterical, devotion to the traditional faith.

  In truth, although many took François’ new stance as a reaction to the slight of the notice pinned to his own door, it was more political than personal. The placards had attacked his Church, his men and, by association, his rule. He could not allow his will and word to be so questioned.

  Despite this, I still kept faith that Brion would negotiate fairly. What I and Henry failed to see was just how reliant we were now on France. With Spain and Rome our enemies, France was our only friend. And they knew it.

  After two days, I was surprised to find Brion had sent no message of greeting to me. It was standard practice for new ambassadors to send a polite note to the Queen. Brion ignored this.

  “I am planning a banquet in his honour,” I said to Henry, affronted and not a little frightened by this obvious slight. Everyone was speaking of it. It was humiliating.

  “Brion is a man of action, not politics,” Henry said. “I will remind him of his duty.” He rose and kissed my brow. “Fear not, my love, I am sure this is but an oversight. Do not take offence and cause a rift.”

  “I am not the one causing a rift,” I pointed out. Why was I being blamed for Brion’s impolite actions? “Surely past ambassadors must have advised Brion about protocol? And even had they failed to, I met the Admiral in Calais. He was a model of politeness then, why should he not wish to resume our friendship now?”

  Henry had no answer for me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Greenwich Palace

  November – December 1534

  As the days wore on it became increasingly apparent that the French ambassador had no desire to see me. I held tennis matches and entertainments in his honour, but he often failed to attend, and when he did, did not stay long. This angered Henry, since he had taken the time to compete in matches against Weston and Norris. Brion did not request an audience with me, and at the first banquet I prepared in his honour, he spent his time talking to Norfolk and Suffolk, ignoring George and my father.

  It was clear to me that the Admiral was courting my enemies, but Henry accused me of being paranoid. “He prefers the company of men to women,” my husband said. “It is not unusual in soldiers.”

  “Are my father and brother women, then?” I asked, making Henry chuckle. I shook my head, but I was glad for his smile. There had not been enough merriment between us of late. “I do not think that is the reason, Henry.”

  “François is our good friend,” he said. “Perhaps he just advised his ambassador to be aloof, due to the troubles of the past. It is but a bargaining tool, sweetheart, so when he turns the smile of friendship upon us, we will welcome it all the more.”

  “I see.” I did not think he was correct.

  Another reason for my growing suspicion was that Brion made swift and unlikely friends with Chapuys. Even the hapless hare was astonished. Brion, in seeking out Chapuys, was demonstrating that François considered friendship with Spain more valuable than England.

  My worst suspicions were confirmed when Henry came to me after a meeting with Brion. As soon as Henry entered I knew something was wrong. Anger made him look old as joy made him
young. That night, he was aged.

  “Brion proposes marrying Lady Mary to the Dauphin,” he said, throwing himself into a chair upholstered with blue buckram.

  My heart reeled. “What do you mean?”

  Henry snorted. “I said the exact same words to Brion,” he said. “I had to remind him that my eldest daughter is a bastard.”

  “He had forgotten?”

  Henry shook his head. “Brion says he was sent with a clear brief by François. The marriage proposed between my daughter and the Dauphin when they were children is the one the French want resumed. Brion says it would be made on the understanding that Mary is legitimate.”

  “But she is not.” My voice rose with rage.

  “I know that, Anne,” said Henry, his tone equally fierce. “And said as much, but that is what they want in return for alliance.”

  “But… that would mean the undoing of the Act of Succession, and the ruin of Elizabeth and me!” I cried, my tone brittle and disjointed. “You did not agree?”

  Henry frowned. “What do you take me for?” Not waiting for an answer, he went on. “I proposed marriage between Elizabeth and the Duc de Angouleme instead, but Brion did not agree.”

  “Why François’ third son?” I demanded, aghast that Henry would sell our daughter for a lesser prize. “Why not the Dauphin?”

  “Because clearly the French do not wish to recognise Elizabeth at this time.” Henry ran his hands through his short-cropped hair. “I think this slight is made to make a point. François has not forgiven us for marrying swiftly and causing him embarrassment with Rome.”

  “So he would try to force Mary ahead of our daughter in the succession?” I shook my head. “Who do the French think they are to attempt to influence English politics? If the Bishop of Rome is not allowed such authority, the French certainly are not!” I gazed at him with troubled eyes. I could see a glimmer of hesitation and I feared it. “They seek to dictate the laws of England, my lord,” I said, hoping to rile Henry’s temper.

  “They do,” he said, although he sounded calmer than I, which frightened me. “And they will not be allowed such liberties. Our daughter is the only Princess of England. They will recognise that or there will be no alliance.”

  No matter Henry’s assurances, I was shaken. News of the talks leaked into court, and soon all were aware that France wanted Mary, not Elizabeth. Chapuys was reported to be parading about court with a great, smug grin on his face, and Norfolk said openly he thought Mary was indeed the better match, “given her age,” he hastened to add, but he fooled no one.

  François had claimed to be my friend, but he knew that any child of mine would promote reform in England, and he did not want that. Returning Mary to the succession would restore traditional Catholicism along with her, and wedding her to a prince of France would allow him to control her, rather than the Emperor. As talks went on, Brion threatened that if Henry did not agree to their terms, François would wed his heir to the Emperor’s daughter instead, leaving England alone in Europe.

  I could not have been more mortified or afraid. The French were openly demonstrating that they had no love for me, and did not recognise me as Queen, or my daughter as Princess.

  France had betrayed me.

  It is hard to explain the myriad of emotions that came to me with that realisation… the homesickness, the yearning, the sorrow… France had been the seat of my youth, the place where I had blossomed from a child into a woman. I had learned much at Mechelen, but the years I had spent there were fewer than those in France. My voice still sang with a foreign lilt when I spoke, and I preferred to read and converse in French when able to. France had burrowed deep into my heart, and never had it left me. To find that the country I loved so dear was now opposed to me was a brutal, horrible shock. It was as though someone had informed me that memories of my childhood were false, and in telling me the true tale, had stripped away an intrinsic part of my identity.

  The place I kept safe for France in my heart was shaken. It became brittle. I could feel parts of it sloughing away; a dune of sand slowly eaten by the desert winds, blowing its particles through the arid wasteland, fading gradually into nothing.

  I could not turn to Spain, the other great power of Europe, and with me as Queen, Katherine’s usurper, neither could England. I had never thought that François, no matter the enticement, would turn so blatantly on me. This was a public, ineffable, damning strike against me and my daughter. Had François sailed to England and slapped me about the face, I could not have been more traumatized or insulted.

  England and I were in the same position; becoming gradually isolated. George was often busy, and Mary and Jane were banished. I had my friends, and my ladies, but Margaret, now a married woman, was frequently pregnant and away from court, and my other ladies, no matter how I loved them, were separated from me by virtue of my title. There were few I could confide in. I had to put on a brave face, and pretend I was untouched by these negotiations. Nothing could have been further from the truth and everyone knew it. The parrot was heard saying to Elizabeth Grey, the Dowager Countess of Kildare, that of course the French wanted Mary, for she was the King’s true daughter, and a virtuous, beautiful woman. The Dowager agreed. She was Henry’s first cousin and in league with my foes. The Poles, Courtenays and Carewes joined in, saying that Mary should be restored to the succession.

  And Henry did nothing to contradict them. I began to wonder if he thought as they did.

  We went ahead with all the plans for the visit. The feast to celebrate the end of the talks was due to go ahead in a few days’ time. I would have to sit beside Brion, this odious monster who denied my daughter’s rights and existence in the succession, and pretend we were friends.

  I would have to keep a careful hand on my temper, for if I met him in the mood I was presently in, I believed I might murder the man.

  *

  Henry believed Brion could be swayed by smothering him with hospitality. I was not so sure. The detestable ambassador had finally deigned to call on me twice, and although he was all cool politeness, it was obvious he did not relish my company. He said afterwards, to Chapuys, that he had only visited me because Henry had asked him to. Henry flatly refused to talk of marriage for Mary, but the message was clear. Friendship with France was no longer reliant on me or my efforts. I was superfluous at best, and at worst, standing in the way.

  Like Henry, Cromwell attempted to charm the ambassador. When Cromwell presented a gift to Brion, the ambassador thanked him, but mourned later to Chapuys that whilst Henry had shown him many pretty sights on his trip, he had not seen the prettiest of all: the Lady Mary. “I would I had seen the most singular and valuable gem in all his kingdom,” Brion loudly declaimed, going on to flatter Mary to Chapuys, saying that France was her servant.

  Henry and I had many arguments. I shouted that Mary should be married off to a minor nobleman, to show her bastard birth. He screamed back that even if she was a bastard, she was still of royal blood, and could not be disposed of so lightly.

  Each time he left me, I heard the tinkling steps and breathy giggles of the parrot as she was whisked along the dark corridors to his chambers. Her laugh rang out like my death knell in the corridors of court.

  I had never felt so alone.

  As plans went on to entertain the loathsome French Ambassador, Cromwell and Henry arrived in my chambers. “More is being placed in harder confinement,” Henry said, kissing me. “Thomas thought you should know before my command become public.”

  I smiled at Cromwell. He understood where Henry always failed to, that when anything ill was done to Fisher and More I would be held accountable.

  “More has upset you more?” I asked. “His name is so apt, do you not think?”

  Henry grunted, taking wine from Frances de Vere and drinking almost the whole goblet in one huge mouthful. A dribble of red wine escaped and trickled into his short beard. I had to try hard not to curl my lip in revulsion.

  “More has been abusin
g his privileges,” he said, drawing the back of his hand over his wine-stained lips. “I was generous enough to permit his daughter and wife to visit him, as well as allowing him to exercise in the grounds, but it would seem More has been made too comfortable. He has been using his time to write inflammatory tracts.”

  I looked to Cromwell, who nodded. I wondered if this was the rope of which he had spoken. Should I have said something? Told Henry that the security about More had been left lax on purpose, to allow him to incriminate himself further? Perhaps I should have, but at the time I thought More was getting a just reward for his bloody work. And no one had made him write these tracts, whatever they were. Cromwell had simply granted him the liberty to think he could do so without harm. A slim distinction between right and wrong it was, perhaps, but when our enemies plunge themselves into danger, often we do not discriminate between good and evil.

  “We allowed him writing materials,” Cromwell said. “But, Majesty, rather than use them to write to the King and admit his guilt, More has been exchanging letters with Fisher, and writing new works. Some of these have been smuggled into London, where they have been printed and distributed.”