In the Queen’s Great Chamber at Greenwich on 5 October, Katherine was asked, as protocol required, whether she approved this match for the toddler Mary, seated in front of her. ‘With great pleasure we give our royal word,’ she said doughtily. Perhaps she found comfort in reflecting that any actual marriage would not take place for many years and that slips between cup and lip were a virtual certainty.
The French representatives – led by none other than the same Bonnivet who featured in Marguerite of Navarre’s writings – were received with great honour. Wolsey, two days before the official ceremony, entertained them at York House, to a ‘most sumptuous supper, the like of which, I fancy, was never given by Cleopatra or Caligula’, wrote the Venetian envoy Giustinian, ‘the whole banqueting hall being so decorated with huge vases of gold and silver that I fancied myself in the tower of Croesus’. George Cavendish, Wolsey’s gentleman usher and biographer, noted that the aim was ‘to make the French such triumphant cheer that they might not only wonder at it here but make a glorious report in their country’. As twelve masked gentlemen and twelve masked ladies began to dance after the feast, two were revealed as Henry and his sister Mary; a neat allegory since this was also the King of England partnering the dowager Queen of France. Katherine of Aragon, with the excuse of another visible pregnancy, had gone to bed early.
A meeting was to be arranged in 1519 between the kings of England and France. (It would be postponed until 1520.) But meanwhile Katherine had high hopes; as even the Venetian ambassador wrote, ‘God grant she may give birth to a son’. She and Henry had spent the summer balancing the differing demands of her health: to stay away from London while the sweating sickness was there and yet during (as Henry wrote) ‘her dangerous times’, to move her as little as possible. Alas, the high hopes were not to be. In November 1518 Katherine was delivered of a daughter, who was either stillborn or lived only very briefly.
Katherine of Aragon’s distress was the greater for another eventuality. In the summer of 1519, Henry VIII at last got his healthy boy. But the mother of his son was not Katherine but his mistress Elizabeth (‘Bessie’) Blount. The king acknowledged the boy and named him Henry Fitzroy. It was proof, if any were needed, in a century that assumed the woman’s ‘fault’, that it was not the king but the queen who could not produce a boy. But it also perhaps gave Henry an option other than the succession of his daughter Mary, should the vexations of gender prove more worrying than those of illegitimacy.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the English Channel, in the great European power tussle and in another kind of succession struggle, a new factor had come into play.
The battle to become the next Holy Roman Emperor was no new thing. To avoid a prolonged interregnum, a certain amount of discreet campaigning for the next emperor went on before the death of the last. Another Habsburg to follow Maximilian was the likeliest candidate but there was technically no reason to assume this was certain. Early in her son’s reign Louise of Savoy was in touch with her kinsman, the Elector of Bavaria, urging François’s candidacy.
The question was vital. Charles feared incursions into his hereditary German states and even into the Netherlands, if François I won the imperial crown. More pressingly yet, François wrote that ‘seeing the greatness of the kingdoms and lordships he [Charles] possesses, he might, in time, do me inestimable harm’. If Charles gained control of Germany, as well as Spain, Austria and the Netherlands, France would be almost completely surrounded on every landward side.
The race was about to get off the starting block. On 12 January 1519 Emperor Maximilian fell ill and died, ordering his attendants not to shed tears over so natural and inevitable an event, and desiring to be buried next to Mary of Burgundy. His daughter Margaret’s personal grief was expressed, as so often in her life, by a long poem. Maximilian had been, she wrote, her Caesar, her only lord and father ‘mon seul seigneur et pere’. But Margaret was busy. The battle for Maximilian’s title (and the attempt to influence the seven electors) suddenly gained heat and intensity.
Through the summer of 1518 Margaret of Austria was engaged in a new campaign, this time with the Fugger banking family. Even Charles himself was shocked at how much his aunt was spending on his campaign: more than a million gold guilders, on top of the half a million Maximilian, in his lifetime, had thrown into his grandson’s cause. (The merchants of Antwerp, prudently, were forbidden at the same time to lend money to any foreign power.) Charles had, as Margaret allegorically put it:
written to us that the horse on which he wishes to come and see us is very dear. We know well that it is dear; but as matters stand, if he does not wish to have it, there is a buyer ready to take it and since he has broken it in, it seems a pity he should give it up, whatever it costs him.
François I (claiming he was motivated not by personal ambition but by a desire to lead Christendom against the Turks) was also openly determined to gain the imperial crown ‘soit par amour, soit par argent, soit par force’ (‘by love, by money, or by force’). Troops had to be recruited and border towns reinforced; one of Margaret’s own ambassadors said that the baseness of the intrigues made the very bribers blush for shame. To counter France’s attempts to the do the thing by amour, or sheer popularity, Margaret exchanged letters with the electors, distributed presents among their relatives and their staffs and sent out her secretary, Marnix, with promises and warnings. The imperial contest cast its shadow over everything in these months, even the response of the religious establishment to a new cloud on the horizon.
The 31st of October 1517 was celebrated afterwards as ‘Reformation Day’; the day on which the German monk, Martin Luther, reputedly nailed a copy of his Ninety-five Theses, or points for disputation, to the church door in Wittenberg. Whether or not that is literally true, his rebuke to the church practice of indulgences gave voice to a widespread chorus of complaint.*
But at this point Luther’s own beliefs were considerably less radical than those that would later come to define ‘reform’. He appeared, for example, still to believe in purgatory, to accept that good works and penance could contribute to man’s salvation, and the first reaction of the Vatican was to instruct the German Augustinian order, to which Luther belonged, to sort out among themselves this routine and not unreasonable call for reform.
In general terms the papacy, with the Turkish threat looming in the east of Europe, had plenty on its plate. Specifically, the pope’s remonstrances of Luther were softened by his need not to antagonise Luther’s protector, Frederick ‘the Wise’ of Saxony. The month of the Imperial election, June 1519, would prove to be the one in which Luther arrived at the University of Leipzig for the public debate that saw him pushed into a position that set him at odds with the whole Western church. But at the time, the Imperial election seemed the more exciting contest.
It was, to say the least, unconvincing for François to declare that there was no personal conflict between him and Charles; that the imperial crown was a mistress for whom they were both contesting and they could rival one another for her hand in all friendliness and chivalry. But there is an intriguing suggestion that the positions of the women – Margaret of Austria and Louise of Savoy – were less entrenched than those of the men for whom they campaigned. Both were painfully aware of the costs of the election.
François’s friend Fleuranges reported an encounter between an ally of Louise’s and the Spanish ambassador Naturelli, discussing the possibility of finding a third-party candidate acceptable to both sides. One who (as the Spanish ambassador put it) ‘would not be profitable to one or the other but to the whole of Christendom and the unity of Germany’. Perhaps that was a quixotic thought but both women seem to have hailed with interest the idea of their young men ceasing to lock horns, feeling that an understanding was better than an overwhelmingly costly victory. Naturelli wrote to Margaret of Austria: ‘I put before Madame [Louise] all the arguments which you wrote to me.’ But it was to no avail. Even Henry VIII entered the lists, although he would
, humiliatingly, in the end get not one vote.
François’s campaign was in the hands of his old crony Bonnivet, who ran the gamut of electioneering antics. When the election began in Frankfurt in June he donned a disguise to try to smuggle himself in, because, while the election was running, foreigners were banned from the city. His campaign was conspicuous for its lack of success, however. The pope (whose hands alone could ultimately crown an emperor) had originally promised to support François but changed his mind. Charles was elected unanimously as ‘Charles V’, thanks less, perhaps, to his stronger family roots in the area than to the fact that, begged by the electors to protect them against France, he had a huge army of mercenaries surrounding the city.
Louise of Savoy recorded the event in her journal with stoicism, referring to the will of Christ. But she knew France was now dangerously close to being encircled by Habsburg territory, while the campaign had cost a fortune to both sides.
In October the Venetian Giustinian reported home that Louise of Savoy and her son ‘were more unpopular all over France than words could express’. Louise ‘is supposed to have invested much capital throughout the country and is intent on hoarding, for the purpose, it is said, of aiding the King in the event of any sudden need’. Bonnivet (possibly suffering from syphilis) wisely took himself for a cure before reappearing at the French court. His standing as one of François’s cronies – as well as leading negotiator and fixer – was too well established for him to be permanently damaged. But it was the end of François’s first heyday.
In the Netherlands, Margaret of Austria ordered bonfires, feasts and prayers to celebrate the fact that, ‘inspired by the Holy Ghost’, the electors had chosen her nephew. Unanimously. As for that nephew himself, he gave credit where credit was due. On 1 July, in Barcelona, in view of her ‘great, inestimable and praiseworthy services’, he signed letters naming his ‘very dear lady and aunt’ as regent and governess of the Low Countries, to be obeyed as he would himself. The world would see that Margaret of Austria had won.
There was, however, another great international competition in store.
* The belief was that an indulgence gave the Christian the right to purchase – literally purchase, for money – the reduction of the time a soul would spend in Purgatory. The cost of the new building of St Peter’s Basilica in Rome was the cue for a papal bull proclaiming the issue of a new indulgence in 1515.
13
The Field of Cloth of Gold
Calais, 1520
What was the ‘Field of Cloth of Gold’? A celebration of Anglo-French amity (the official theory)? A chance for two of the young titans of Europe to compete face to face under an unconvincing mask of friendship? François I sought to ensure English neutrality in any war between himself and Charles V; Henry VIII was enjoying being courted by both sides. All of the above, perhaps. But one thing is for sure; it was the party of the century, which meant that the ladies had a role to play.
Henry would come to his proposed meeting with the French king accompanied by his wife Katherine of Aragon and by his sister Mary Tudor, the former Queen of France. François would bring his wife, Claude, of course, but also his mother Louise of Savoy and his sister Marguerite. It is a safe supposition that Anne Boleyn was present. Not only were linguists at a premium but her parents were certainly there, as was her sister and perhaps her brother George.
It is no surprise that the Boleyns were present in force. So was anybody who was anybody. The English train comprised almost six thousand people and more than three thousand horses. Although no comparable figures survive for the French party, every effort was made to ensure that the two kings and the two countries held equal status in every way.
Katherine of Aragon’s preparations started early; she was under pressure to make an impressive display. Henry’s ambassador in France wrote anxiously that:
Queen Claude, with the King’s mother, make all the search possible to bring at the assembly the fairest ladies and demoiselles that may be found . . . I hope at the least, Sir, that the Queen’s Grace shall bring such in her band, that the visage of England, which hath always had the praise, shall not at this time lose the same.
How might that go down with the Spanish Katherine, who despite her ‘very beautiful complexion’ was dubbed ‘not handsome’ in the cold clear eyes of European diplomacy? But Katherine of Aragon had also been working in another way; working with her nephew and her former sister-in-law Margaret of Austria to provide a framework for the Field of Cloth of Gold that would present Henry with a very different European possibility. She dreamed of an alliance with the new emperor Charles, instead of with France. As the Venetian ambassador noted, she had already ‘as a Spaniard’ been gratified by her nephew’s success in the imperial election.
The French king’s mother was all too aware of Katherine’s influence. Henry and François had made a pact, months earlier, not to shave their beards before they met. Henry broke the pact, ‘by the queen’s desire’, Thomas Boleyn assured Louise of Savoy, perhaps only meaning to suggest that this was not serious; the queen had, after all, made Henry ‘great instance’ about getting rid of his beard on various earlier occasions. But Louise of Savoy took it differently. ‘Is not the queen’s grace aunt to the king of Spain [Charles]?’, Louise pointedly asked Thomas Boleyn. She seemed to accept Boleyn’s reassurances, affirming politely that ‘their love is not in the beards but in the hearts’.
But later she asked another English ambassador whether Katherine of Aragon had ‘any great devotion to the assembly’; the Field of Cloth of Gold. The ambassador could only reply, lamely, that Katherine had ‘none other joy and comfort in this world’ than to promote anything at all which might stand with her husband’s pleasure.
In fact, reports said Katherine of Aragon was making no secret of her disapproval of the planned meeting, and finding a receptive audience for her complaints among the traditionally Francophobe English. ‘There is no doubt that the French interview is against the will of the queen and of all the nobles’, Charles was told. It was, however, dear to the heart of Wolsey, who was now (in the words of one Italian observer) ‘the man who rules both the king and the entire kingdom’. But in a sense the international situation played into Katherine’s hands. Henry’s position as the counterbalance between France and the Holy Roman Empire – the man who could make the shape of Europe – was too good not to enjoy.
As Charles V expressed a burning desire to meet his ‘uncle’ Henry (and his aunt Katherine), Charles’s other aunt, Margaret of Austria, arranged a high-powered delegation to England, including several of her closest men, who arrived at the start of April, pointing out that Henry could be the first European monarch Charles would meet since his elevation to the imperial role. It was in Katherine of Aragon’s room that, in a meeting with Henry and Wolsey, England decided to agree. Henry’s anxious assurances to his wife suggest the strength of Katherine’s part in the decision.
Shortly afterwards, Henry VIII’s ambassador in France was asking that the meeting with François I be delayed for a week. François refused, saying Henry should be at Calais no later than 4 June, on the reasonable plea that his wife Claude would be in the seventh month of her fifth pregnancy. But the meeting with Charles almost did fall through on the grounds of time, as his journey from Spain to England was delayed by contrary winds. As Charles wrote to Katherine from Coruna:
We have been told of the effort and will that you have put into arranging these meetings. But as the sea is so changeable that men cannot always do what they want . . . we beg you, if there is some delay, that, as you have already done, you try to make our brother and uncle, the king of England, wait for as long as is possible.
Charles V finally arrived on English shores on 26 May, the day after Henry and Katherine arrived in Canterbury on their way to the south coast, the day on which they should have sailed the other way. But, galloping to Dover Castle to greet his guest, Henry kept his whole mighty cavalcade waiting for four more days. Charles w
as greeted by the archbishop in Canterbury Cathedral, then taken to the archbishop’s palace next door, where a tense Katherine was waiting, royally dressed. She broke into tears after she embraced him, the representative of her family. His huge retinue, including two hundred ladies dressed in the Spanish fashion, an evocative sight for Katherine of Aragon, were entertained for three days in Canterbury; three days of banqueting, dancing and games of courtly love in which the Spanish noblemen excelled. (One went so far as to swoon at one lady’s beauty and had to be carried out of the room by his hands and feet.) As the two trains, English and Spanish, left Canterbury for the south coast, the meeting had been a rehearsal of what lay ahead at the other, the Anglo-French, party.
Katherine and Henry set sail from Dover on 31 May and, after a brief few hours’ crossing, landed at Calais. The encounter was to take place on the plain, the Val d’Or, between the English citadel of Guisnes and the French town of Ardres, so that each king could sleep in his own territory. Four days later they set off for Guisnes. The first meeting of the two kings was scheduled for 7 June, the feast of Corpus Christi.
An extraordinary sight greeted their eyes; one that had been months in the preparation. England had sent more than six thousand workmen, two thousand of them to work on Henry’s temporary palace, a trompe l’oeil fantasia whose solid foundations and dazzling array of newfangled glass windows were topped off by canvas painted to look like brick. It was a combination of utter luxury and practicality. Or parsimony. As one observer noted, the whole thing could be dismantled and taken home again for reuse for no more than the cost of its transport. But there were statues of Cupid and of Bacchus, from which flowed claret cup and malmsey, with silver cups for the drinking. (None were stolen, it was remarked by contemporaries.)
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