Henry VIII (54 page)

After Richmond died, Henry departed with Jane on his long-planned visit to inspect the defences at Dover, visiting Rochester, Sittingbourne, and Canterbury on the way. They stayed a week at Dover Castle, where Galyon Hone had just inserted stained-glass windows bearing “the Queen's badge” at a cost of £200 (£6,000).
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Chapuys noticed that the King was depressed, not only because of his bereavement, but also because Jane was not yet pregnant.

The King and Queen spent the rest of the summer hunting, enjoying “good sport.” On 9 August, they killed twenty stags.
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Henry's spirits revived as he immersed himself in plans for Jane's coronation,
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which was to be either at Michaelmas
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or at the end of October.
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Chapuys was told that the King intended “to perform wonders.”
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Henry had already spent £300 (£9,000) and selected the furnishings he would provide for Jane's sojourn in the Tower before her state entry into London, and his carpenters were hard at work preparing Westminster Hall for the coronation banquet. Then plague broke out in London, and the ceremony was postponed indefinitely. The court moved to Windsor for safety.

In October, the Lady Mary returned to court,
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where she was accorded precedence as “the first after the Queen, and sits at table opposite her, a little lower down, after having first given the napkin for washing to the King and Queen.”
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The latter would take Mary by the hand and walk with her as an equal, refusing to go first through a doorway. Jane persuaded Henry to assign Mary lodgings at Hampton Court (in the Base Court), Greenwich, and various lesser houses,
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but Mary did not live permanently at court, although she was to spend more time there in the next few years than at any time in her youth. Otherwise, she resided at Hunsdon, Tittenhanger, or Hertford, and was occasionally visited by her half-sister Elizabeth, of whom she was dotingly fond.

The trauma of her parents' “divorce” and her forced submission, and her frustrated desire for a husband and children, had made Mary increasingly neurotic and prone to vague but debilitating illnesses and menstrual irregularities. Her bastardy stood in the way of a grand foreign marriage, yet there was little likelihood that her father would allow her to marry a commoner, and Mary now faced the fact that while the King lived, she would be “only the Lady Mary, the unhappiest lady in Christendom.”
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Nevertheless, she could not but rejoice at the reversal in her fortunes. Whereas she had hitherto had to make over old gowns, she was now provided with the sumptuous clothes in which she delighted. She had money to dispense on charitable donations and rewards and gifts to those who had done her kindnesses. She could indulge her pleasure in hunting, gambling, dancing, and music. And Jane, her woman fool with the shaven head, made her laugh.
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Mary was still an innocent where men were concerned. When Henry was told she knew “no foul or unclean speech, he would not believe it” and arranged for Sir Francis Bryan to test her virtue by using a sexual swearword while dancing with her during a masque. Both men were astonished when Mary, who had never heard it, failed to react
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—a measure of how cynical the courtiers had become with regard to the virtue of women.

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, now nineteen, was a rising man. With his erudite talent, his expansive personality, his talent in the lists, and his aristocratic bearing, he was held by the King in high affection and esteem. Yet Surrey's character was marred by fatal flaws: overbearing arrogance, instability, a hot temper, and an ungovernable wild streak. He had little political sense and no business acumen, being profligate with money. He had an inflated view of the Howards' importance and status, and his actions were dictated by family pride. Through his mother's Stafford blood, he had inherited Buckingham's claim to the throne, and behaved, and was often deferred to, as if he were a prince of the blood. He commissioned more portraits of himself from Holbein than any other sitter; in a full-length portrait painted probably by William Scrots in about 1546–1551 and now at Arundel Castle, Surrey appears with a shield blatantly displaying the royal arms of England.
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The King was for years unusually tolerant of his vagaries, for Surrey had been much beloved by Richmond, and it appears that in some ways Henry's thwarted paternal feelings found an outlet in this “foolish proud boy.”
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Surrey had travelled in Italy, seen the glories of the Renaissance at first hand, and learned the techniques of Italian and French poetry, which he would later put to good use. He also returned to England “French in his living,”
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like his cousin Anne Boleyn, who in many ways he resembled.

Like her, he had a talent for making enemies. He hated the Seymours, who he regarded as lowborn upstarts, but was not above paying passionate addresses to Lord Beauchamp's wife, Anne Stanhope. His audacity caused much ill feeling, especially since his feelings were not returned and he had no choice but to withdraw, writing of his renunciation in a poem. By then, the damage had been done, and Seymour's anger and jealousy, together with Surrey's disdain and enmity, would fuel a bitter and lasting feud, sowing the seeds of a bitter harvest.

50

“The Most Joyful News”

The great rebellion known as the Pilgrimage of Grace, a reaction to the King's religious policies, broke out in October 1537 in Lincolnshire and the north, where the old ideas remained more entrenched among the gentry, to whom the court was a distant place. This was the most serious threat to his authority that Henry had yet faced, and he prepared to lead an army against the rebels. At Greenwich, the tiltyard was converted into a workshop, where his armourers were set to repairing his rusted old armour that had been in storage at the Crowned Key Inn in Southwark. However, as the rebellion spread, the King realised that he did not have sufficient forces to deal with it, and decided to play for time. He sent north an army under the command of Norfolk and Suffolk, with instructions to use conciliatory measures. The coronation of the Queen was again postponed.

Fortunately, most lords rallied to the support of the Crown, demonstrating that the Reformation and the Dissolution had become largely populist movements. In December, a truce was reached, with Norfolk, in the King's name, agreeing to all the rebels' demands, among them a request that the Queen be crowned at York, and dangling before them a royal pardon which Henry did not intend to put into effect.

Henry had remained at Windsor. Among his attendants was an upcoming young secretary, Thomas Wriothesley, who had entered the royal service in 1530 as a Clerk of the Signet. Wriothesley, now thirty-one, was a member of a distinguished family of heralds, whose father, William Wryth, York Herald, had changed his name, with a view to bettering himself, to Wriothesley (pronounced “Risley,” as his family relatives phonetically spelt it). Young Thomas had been taught law by Gardiner at Cambridge, but had left early to pursue a career at court, where he attracted the attention of Cromwell. His loyalties, however, would always lie with Gardiner. Wriothesley was able, enterprising, tenacious, and ruthless, yet insufferably overconfident and egotistic. Nevertheless Henry liked him, rewarded his diligence with substantial grants of monastic lands, sent him abroad several times as an ambassador, and affectionately nicknamed him “my pig.”

It was upon such men that the King relied at times of crisis. Until now, his advisers had urged him to deal gently with the rebels, but he had no intention of keeping his promises, although he lured Robert Aske, one of the leaders of the rebellion, to spend Christmas at court, there to be lulled into a sense of false security.

It was a bitter winter, so cold that the Thames froze. Henry and Jane, swathed in furs, rode on horseback through the gaily decorated streets of London to a service in St. Paul's Cathedral, then galloped across the ice-clad river to Greenwich, instead of travelling by barge,
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much to the delight of the crowds who came to see them. Christmas was kept with wonderful solemnity and splendour, marred only by news of the death of the Queen's father, Sir John Seymour, on 21 December at Wulfhall. Both the King's daughters were at court, and at New Year Mary received many expensive gifts from her father and stepmother, and from Cromwell.

Aske went back north convinced that his sovereign was on his side, but in January 1537, another rising broke out in Yorkshire. This time the King was prepared—and bent on vengeance. Martial law was imposed in the north, and Norfolk and Suffolk set about suppressing the rebels with grim ferocity.

The King's anger had been fuelled by news from Rome that his cousin Reginald Pole had not only accepted a cardinal's hat from the Pope but had also published a vicious tract
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condemning Henry, who had been generous to him in youth, as a heretic and adulterer. Worse still, the Pope had appointed Pole to coordinate a European offensive against Henry while he was occupied with the rebellion. This was treason of the worst kind, and all those linked by blood to Pole, who was out of reach of Henry's justice, suffered the consequences. Cromwell had warned the King that Lady Salisbury and her sons might unite with the Exeters and other conservatives against him, and that now seemed all too credible, despite Lady Salisbury's condemnation of her son's book. From now on, the Poles and the Courtenays were under suspicion. “The King, to be avenged of Reginald, will kill us all,” they predicted.
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God, it appeared, was on the King's side, for at the end of February Queen Jane revealed that she was at last to bear him a child. There was no more talk for the present of her coronation, for Henry wished to spare her any undue strain that might threaten her precious burden, and was happy to postpone the ceremony until after the birth.
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In March, the Queen stood sponsor at the christening of her brother Edward's daughter, who was named in her honour; Mary and Cromwell also attended. The following May, the baby's father, Lord Beauchamp, was admitted to the Privy Council.

That spring, the Pilgrimage of Grace was finally—and ruthlessly— suppressed. The King and many others took this success as a sign of divine approval. Two hundred rebels, including Aske, were executed, and Henry emerged stronger, more powerful, and more respected than ever before. Norfolk and Suffolk were restored to high favour, and other magnates, such as the Earls of Rutland and Shrewsbury and Sir John Russell, who had been especially proactive on the Crown's behalf, basked in the King's gratitude. Henry also dubbed forty-eight new knights. Hard on the heels of the rebellion, Cranmer published, on the King's instructions, a book outlining the doctrines of the Church of England. Entitled
The Institution of a Christian Man
but known as The Bishops' Book, it marked a return to more orthodox beliefs.
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Spring brought warm weather. Henry told Norfolk that he had intended to go north to overawe the subjects who had dared rebel against him, but confessed, “To be frank with you, which you must keep to yourself, a humour has fallen into our legs, and our physicians advise us not to go far in the heat of the year.”
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He was suffering from “a sore leg that no man would be glad of,”
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perhaps a recurrence of the ulcer or abscess that had first troubled him in 1528, which may have been triggered by his fall in January 1536. Now both legs were affected, one worse than the other, and from henceforth Henry would be subject to attacks of unbearable pain and suffer intermittent problems with mobility and consequent weight gain, which only exacerbated the problem. His condition would also have an incalculable effect on his increasingly irascible temper, for he found it hard to be incapacitated after leading such an active life, and drove himself when it would have been better to rest. But, as a ruler, he could not afford to be seen as losing his grasp.

The condition Henry suffered from was probably osteomyelitis—a septic infection of the bone resulting from an injury that caused splinters of bone to break away. When, from time to time, the splinters worked their way through the skin, there would be sudden swelling accompanied by agonising pain, relieved only by a discharge of pus and the removal of the bone shard. It could also have been a varicose ulcer, perhaps made worse by a fall, or thrombosed or infected varicose veins. It has recently been suggested that the King's sore legs were due to scurvy, contracted as a result of eating a diet too high in protein,
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but there is plenty of evidence that Henry liked fruit and vegetables.

This attack was severe enough to confine the King to his chambers: “he seldom goes abroad because his leg is something sore.”
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His physicians tried many remedies, including herbal baths, and Henry devised some of his own, but to little effect.
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For such a fastidious man, the condition was distasteful and humiliating. It is said that his fool, Will Somers, was the only person who could keep his spirits up when his leg was paining him, which would account for the close friendship between these two very different men. During the King's period of seclusion, there was much speculation at court as to the severity of his illness. Lord Montague privately observed: “He will die one day, suddenly. His leg will kill him, and then we shall have jolly stirrings!”
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Henry's low spirits were evident when a French merchant brought to court the latest velvet bonnets, lace trimmings, and other luxuries from Paris. Henry refused to see him, saying he was “too old to wear such things.” He later changed his mind and bought a rich collar, a hat, some fur, some linen, and a mirror.
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In fact, he would continue to adorn himself magnificently, and set fashion trends, until the end of his life.

When Henry recovered, he took Jane on a short pilgrimage—his last—through Kent, visiting Rochester, Sittingbourne, and Canterbury, where they made offerings at the shrine of St. Thomas Becket, which would be destroyed the following year. After a brief visit to Dover, the royal couple made their leisurely way to Hampton Court.

While in Kent, they may have taken the opportunity to visit three former archiepiscopal residences that the King acquired from Cranmer that year, having decided that the Archbishop, who owned sixteen houses, had too much property in Kent. Charing Palace had been built around 1300, and a stone gatehouse and hall survived from that time, but Archbishop Morton had converted the other buildings into a brick courtyard house at the end of the fifteenth century.
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Knole, which the King liked for its “sound, perfect and wholesome situation,”
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had been built as a private residence by Archbishop Thomas Bourchier in 1456–1460, and on his death in 1486 had passed to the See of Canterbury. Henry enlarged the house and park, building the battlemented west front with its gatehouse, King's Tower, and octagonal chimney stacks, and constructing or extending the Green Court
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to house his retinue. He also installed plasterwork ceilings, marble chimneypieces, and carved panelling, examples of which survive.

Otford, which Henry disliked because it was low-lying and “rheumatic,” was acquired as a satellite house for Knole, of which Henry said, “If I should make abode here, as I do surely mind to do now and then, I will live at Knole, and most of my house shall live at Otford.”
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History, however, does not record that Henry spent very much time at Knole at all. Otford, despite its situation, was one of the most splendid palaces in England. Warham had rebuilt much of the original moated manor house— reputedly erected by Thomas Becket in the twelfth century—around 1514–1518, retaining only the hall and chapel. His new palace was vast— the brick outer court measured 270 feet by 238 feet—and ornamented with gilded carvings; it was surrounded by beautiful gardens with topiary, herbs, rare fruits, and high hedges. The King had on several occasions been entertained there. He now ordered some rebuilding,
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but made only one recorded visit thereafter.

In 1537, the King offered one William Reed the suppressed priory of Tandridge in exchange for the manor of Oatlands at Weybridge, Surrey, which he later incorporated into the Honour of Hampton Court.
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During the next eight years, the King was to spend £16,500 (nearly £5 million) on constructing a large palace around the core of the old moated house; it was built of brick and stone around three courts, one of them irregularly shaped with an octagonal tower, and the royal lodgings were gabled rather than crenellated. Outside there were terraced gardens with fountains, a pleasance, and a deer park. The fruit trees for the orchards, like the stone of the fabric, came from nearby Chertsey Abbey.
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The royal lodgings were hung with fine French tapestries, the floors laid with Turkey carpets, and the furniture upholstered in velvet and cloth of gold. Oatlands, which covered ten acres, was designated a greater house, and Henry regularly used it as a hunting lodge.
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In 1537, to mark the renewal of his hopes for an heir, the King commissioned Holbein to paint a vast mural of the Tudor dynasty in the privy chamber at Whitehall Palace. This magnificent work—which measured perhaps twelve feet by nine feet—depicted the full-length, almost life-size figures of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York standing on marble steps draped with a Turkey carpet behind Henry VIII and Jane Seymour, in a splendid antique setting with a classical roundel, grotesque pillars and friezes, trompe l'oeil decoration, and shell-shaped niches, which perhaps reflected the architecture and décor of the privy chamber. The painting, which was by then deteriorating, was lost when the palace was destroyed by fire in 1698, but is known through two small copies commissioned by Charles II in 1667 from a mediocre Dutch artist, Remigius van Leemput.
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Holbein's full-size cartoon of the two Kings survives,
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however, although it shows Henry VIII facing sideways rather than forwards, as in the finished mural. The dominating figure of the King was so realistic and majestic that visitors approaching the throne below the mural claimed they felt “abashed and annihilitated”
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by its power. This was the definitive image of Henry VIII—feet firmly apart, hands on hips, gazing with steely authority at the viewer—from which many subsequent portraits derived, and was in fact the first English state portrait, launching a royal tradition that continues to this day. The deliberate dissemination of this image may well have been government policy, but the evidence suggests that after the Reformation there was a popular demand for portraits of the King.

At Hampton Court, work was continuing on the royal apartments. The so-called Wolsey Closet, reconstructed in Victorian times from surviving fragments of Tudor interiors, gives some idea of the décor in the privy lodgings, with a plain stone fireplace; oak linenfold panelling; a carved Renaissance frieze bearing mermaids, dolphins, urns, and Wolsey's motto; painted panels depicting Christ's Passion; and a chequered gilded ceiling studded with Tudor roses, sunbursts, and Prince of Wales feathers, which must date from after 1537.