Henry VIII (60 page)

Later writers, such as John Foxe and Nicholas Sander, would claim that Henry was easily led by these factions; Sander even went so far as to claim that they waited to approach him “in the evening, when he was comfortably filled with wine, or when he had gone to the stool, for then he used to be very pleasant.” Even though some historians still accept this view today, the evidence is largely against it. It is true that, while Henry played off rival factions against each other and manipulated individuals for his own ends, following a policy of divide and rule, his apparent mastery hid a degree of “irresolution and despondency,”
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but this was because he was unsure whom he could trust. He also suspected that Lutheran ideas were taking hold in the minds of some of those around him, under the cloak of an interest in reform. There was also the problem of an age difference: many men now in power at court were of a younger generation, ambitious and aggressive,
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and although Henry liked to surround himself with youth and bask in its reflected glamour, the age gap was too wide to be easily breached.

On the other hand, neither faction could ever be sure of the King, who in 1540 was burning both Catholics, for supporting the Pope, and Protestants, for heresy. Although there was a clear logic in this, many took it to mean that Henry was unsure of his religious position, and sought to influence him, with only varying degrees of success, since he was ever watchful for courtiers who tried to blind his “eyes with mists” or manipulate him “for their own profits.”
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Nor, according to Chapuys, was it usual for councillors to enter into “secret communication” with each other, for it was something they “were not accustomed to do, even in matters of no importance or suspicions.”
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In the main, Henry remained firmly in control of affairs until his death, and his authority was absolute and final. Jealous of his prerogative, he kept his own counsel and would allow no man or faction to rule him. Rival parties did manage to sway him on occasion by exploiting his suspicious nature and poisoning his mind against their enemies, which was what had brought about the falls of Anne Boleyn and Cromwell, but in each case they had presented convincing evidence. They even encouraged him to marry their own candidates, although he allowed none of his last four wives to wield any political influence. As will be seen, more often than not, Henry knew what they were up to, and sometimes turned the tables on them.

During these latter years, the King was more politically active, powerful, and despotic than at any previous time, and kept a firm grip on administrative matters, scrutinising state documents, dispatches, letters, accounts, service records, and check rolls, and making numerous notes in the margins and changes where necessary: his secretaries were instructed to leave two-and-a-half-inch margins and one inch between lines to enable him to do so.
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Each Sunday evening, Henry was given a list of the matters to be discussed by the Council in the coming week, and always drew up the agenda himself. Every Friday, his Principal Secretary would write a summary of the meetings, which was presented on Saturday for Henry's decisions or approval. If a decision was needed more urgently, the Lord Chancellor would seek audience of the King in the privy lodgings.
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Very little escaped Henry's notice—“there is not a single bruit anywhere which he does not hear among the first, even to little private matters, which princes care but little to hear.”
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Sir William Paget later revealed that, in diplomatic reports, he was always careful to include “matters of no great importance,” since he felt it “meet that His Majesty should know all.”
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Henry's encyclopaedic memory, which could retain details of every grant made to numerous petitioners,
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stored up every snippet of information that might prove useful in the future. Thanks to his experience, his eye for detail, his erudition, and his sharp mind, he was able to dominate those who sought to influence him.

The summer of 1540 was very hot; no rain fell between June and October, and there was plague in London. In August, the King took his young bride on a honeymoon progress, an extended hunting trip through Surrey into Berkshire, where they stayed at Reading before moving north to Ewelme, Rycote, Notley, Buckingham—where the King held a Council meeting at the old Castle House, which dated from Saxon times—and Grafton, arriving on 29 August. A week later, the King began riding south towards Ampthill, where he stayed for a fortnight until 1 October. Here, Katherine's Vice Chamberlain, Sir Edward Baynton, disgraced himself by appearing drunk in the King's presence, which prompted Henry to issue a stern injunction to all household servants “concerning the sober and temperate order that His Highness would have them use in his chamber of presence and the Queen's.”
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While at Ampthill, Henry fell sick with a tertian fever—probably malaria—and his legs became infected. His doctors expressed great concern, but he suddenly rallied. Then it was on to Dunstable, for another Council meeting, and the More, and so back to Windsor on 22 October. Prior to the King's arrival, persons who had been in contact with the plague were made to leave the town, and although they were promised compensation by the Privy Council, payment was long deferred.

During this progress, the King had some traders who had followed the court put in the pillory for overcharging for food. Henry was equally wrathful, on his return, to hear gossip that his niece, Lady Margaret Douglas, had become involved in yet another clandestine affair, this time with the Queen's brother, Charles Howard. Upon finding out that it was true, he packed Margaret off to the recently dissolved Syon Abbey at Isleworth for “over much lightness,” and warned her that she would stay there until she had learned to “wholly apply herself to please the King's Highness.”
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Margaret remained at Syon for a year, and would only be released to make way for a far more important prisoner.

56

“Is Not the Queen Abed Yet?”

After the progress, the King seemed a new man. At Woking in December, he rose between 5 and 6 A.M., attended mass at 7 A.M., and rode out early to hunt, returning at 10 A.M. for dinner. In the afternoon, he attended to business. He told Marillac that he felt better in the country than when he stayed all winter in London, and that his leg was much better. The ambassador was of the opinion that he had adopted his “new rule of living” in order to lose weight.
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Henry's desire for increasing privacy, which was exacerbated by increasing ill health, was becoming an obsession and leading to significant changes within the inward lodgings. Recently it had resulted in many of the functions of the presence chamber and council chamber being shifted to the privy chamber, which meant that the presence chamber was used only on rare state occasions, and that the privy chamber was now frequently crowded and no longer a place to which the King could withdraw into seclusion with his favoured intimates. By 1540, access to the privy chamber was no longer the prize it had once been, because the King was extending his inward lodgings to accommodate his need for privacy and spending more time in them, allowing only Gentlemen and Grooms of the Chamber to serve him.
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Those who were permitted beyond the privy chamber door were privileged indeed. By the end of his reign, a new subdepartment was emerging, the Bedchamber, upon which the King's private life now increasingly centred.

Henry's so-called secret lodgings were aptly named, for access to them was so restricted that very little information about them survives. The plans which survive for the works carried out at Hampton Court, Whitehall, and Greenwich show a network of small rooms beyond the King's bedchamber, with some leading off his privy gallery. It is clear that at some lesser houses there was only one such room. The evidence for secret lodgings for the Queen and Prince Edward is sparse, but suggests that their apartments were extended in line with the King's.

At Hampton Court, the new secret lodgings led off a ground-floor gallery on the east side of Cloister Green Court; the King's presence and privy chambers remained on the first floor of the south side, while the Queen's apartments were extended on the north side. Eventually the first floor of the connecting east range was converted into a private suite with bedchambers and reception rooms for the royal couple to share. At Whitehall, the new secret lodgings were off the privy gallery, which was from henceforth out of bounds to courtiers.
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The King might remain in his secret lodgings for days on end; when he was ill, no one would be any the wiser or doubt that he was retaining his grip on affairs. He had also ceased to be as accessible to petitioners, insisting that “they should no longer molest his person with any suit” and send all claims in future in writing to the Privy Council.
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By 1540, Whitehall was badly in need of refurbishment. The tiltyard and gardens were overgrown, the Queen's apartments needed redecoration, and the tapestries and hangings were either moth-eaten or “foul and greasy.”
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After his marriage to Katherine Howard, Henry embarked upon a programme of improvements, building a new east front along the riverside, a privy lodging above for the Lady Mary, a banqueting house, the “preaching place,” and the King Street Gate at the palace's southern approach. He also laid out an orchard and a great garden, and refurnished the palace with spoils of Acts of Attainder, among them purple velvet counterpanes and bed-hangings from Beddington Park, the former home of Sir Nicholas Carew, and embroidered cushions from the house of Lord Montague. Many of Wolsey's furnishings were still in use. An elaborate design attributed to Holbein for a massive, richly carved classical chimneypiece with antique and heraldic details,
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once thought to have been built at Bridewell Palace or Nonsuch, was probably commissioned for Whitehall, given its estimated scale—fourteen feet high and nine feet six inches wide—which suggests that it was destined for a great outward chamber; its Tuscan and Ionic pillars have similarities to those in the Whitehall family group painting. Nicholas Bellin of Modena is known to have worked on the banqueting house, preaching place, and gardens at Whitehall, and to have built chimneypieces there based on those in Francis I's gallery at Fontainebleau.
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By the time of the King's death, although the works he had begun were unfinished, the Whitehall Palace site would extend over twenty-six acres as a result of further compulsory purchases of property from local residents and the reclamation of 12,600 square yards of the Thames foreshore.
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At Hampton Court, in 1540, Henry VIII set up the famous astronomical clock, which was designed by Nicolaus Kratzer and made by a Frenchman, Nicolas Oursian, Deviser of the King's Horologies.
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It shows not only the hours but the month, the date, the number of days since the beginning of the year, the phases of the moon, the movement of the constellations in the Zodiac, and the time of high water at London Bridge—useful in the days when most courtiers travelled to London by barge. The clock also shows the Sun revolving around the Earth, a mediaeval theory that was yet to be debunked by Copernicus and Galileo. In an age not renowned for precision in timepieces, visitors were astounded by this remarkable piece of technology.

In 1540, John Ponet, a fellow of Queen's College, Cambridge, and future Bishop of Winchester, presented the King with a marvellous sundial he had himself designed, which showed “not only the hour of the day, but also the day of the month, the sign of the moon, the ebbing and flowing of the sea, with divers other things as strange.”
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This, too, was installed at Hampton Court.

Henry acquired only one new property in 1540, and that was the ancient castle at Westenhanger, near Folkestone in Kent, which he got by exchange with Sir Thomas Poynings. The castle had long been famed for its romantic association with Rosamund de Clifford, the mistress of Henry II. Henry VIII used it only rarely, although he kept it in repair and built a new lodging for his daughter Mary.
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The Christmas revels of 1540, held at Hampton Court, were exceptionally magnificent. At New Year, the King lavished gifts on his young wife, among them two pendants containing 26 “fair table diamonds,” another with 27 diamonds, 158 “fair pearls,” a rope of 200 large pearls, and 26 clusters of pearls.
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On 3 January, Anne of Cleves arrived at court, bringing with her two superb horses caparisoned in purple velvet for the King and Queen. There was no rancour between her and her successor or her former husband: the King greeted her with a fraternal kiss, and the Queen welcomed her warmly, as Anne knelt respectfully before her. That evening, after they had supped together and the King had retired to bed, Anne and Katherine “danced and drank together.” The next day, when Anne dined with the King and Queen, there was a great deal of “conversation, amusement and mirth.” Henry presented Katherine with a ring and two lapdogs, then looked on with approval as she gave them to Anne. That night, Katherine and Anne danced together again.
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In January 1541, the conservative faction pounced on three respected courtiers who had been closely associated with Cromwell, whose activities they had been doggedly investigating. Sir Thomas Wyatt, who had been away on a diplomatic mission to the Low Countries in 1540, was arrested, bound, and borne off to the Tower along with Ralph Sadler and Sir John Wallop, himself a conservative. The King had been persuaded that all three held subversive religious views—Wyatt was said to be a Lutheran, while Wallop had praised the Pope—and that they had all been guilty of treasonable misconduct while serving on embassies abroad. There seems to have been little basis to the charges, and in March, after the Queen had interceded for them, all three were freed, Wyatt on condition that he take back his first wife, Elizabeth Brooke. Soon, they were restored to favour, although Wyatt never fully regained the King's trust. Sadler, however, was knighted later that year and admitted to the Privy Council.

Another courtier who incurred the royal displeasure was a Serjeant Porter, Sir Edmund Knyvet, who in February 1541 assaulted and injured Thomas Clere, one of Surrey's retainers, during a fight in the royal tennis court at Greenwich. Knyvet had been brought by the Knight Marshal before the Court of the Verge in the great hall of the palace, where the White Sticks sentenced him to lose his right hand and forfeit his lands and possessions for having drawn blood within the verge of the court.

On the day the sentence was to be carried out, a grim pageant of household officials gathered with awesome ceremony designed to impress upon the watching courtiers that breaching the King's peace within the precincts of his palace was a very serious crime indeed. The Serjeant Surgeon, who was to amputate the hand, arrived with his instruments, followed by the Serjeant of the Woodyard with a mallet and block and the King's Master Cook with a sharp knife. It would be the duty of the Serjeant of the Larder to position this on the prisoner's wrist. After the sentence had been carried out, the wound would be seared with irons provided by the Serjeant Farrier and heated by a Yeoman of the Scullery in a firepan, while a Yeoman of the Chandlery would be ready with sear-cloths with which to dress the stump, assisted by a Yeoman of the Ewery, who had with him a basin, ewer, and towels. For some obscure reason, the Serjeant of the Poultry arrived with a live cockerel “which shall have his head smitten off on the same block with the same knife.” Finally, the Serjeant of the Cellar brought wine, ale, and beer to be served to those who had come to view the gruesome spectacle.

When all were assembled, the Knight Marshal brought in Knyvet, who confessed his crime and threw himself on the royal mercy, begging that someone go and ask the King if he might lose his left hand rather than his right, “for if my right hand be spared, I may hereafter do much good service to His Grace.” The proceedings were halted while a messenger sped off to the privy lodgings, then returned with the joyful news that the King had been so impressed by Knyvet's loyalty and courage that he had graciously pardoned him. Knyvet, who was “more frightened than hurt,”
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was restored to his former post and held it till his death five years later. In 1542, Parliament passed “an Act for Murder and Malicious Bloodshed within the Court,” making the sentence of amputation mandatory, although noblemen who drew blood while chastising their servants were exempt.
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Masques were staged at Hampton Court on 21 and 22 February, but the King did not attend. To his “great alarm,” the ulcer on his leg had suddenly become “clogged,” leaving him feverish and black in the face, and his doctors feared for his life. The surgeons had to drain off fluid to relieve the swelling, but this was a painful process, and Henry's temper suffered accordingly. He snapped irritably at everyone, grew morose and depressed, and “formed a sinister opinion of some of his chief men,” declaring bitterly that “he had an unhappy people to govern.” He accused many of his councillors of being lying timeservers and flatterers who looked only to their own profit, adding that he knew what they were plotting, “and if God lent him health, he would take care that their projects should not succeed.” He mourned the loss of Cromwell, having perceived that his councillors, “upon light pretext, by false accusations, had made him put to death the most faithful servant he ever had.” His misery was so great that he would not even listen to music, and remained shut away in his lodgings. Court life ground to a standstill, and so many members of the household were sent home that the court “resembled more a private family than a King's train.” For over ten days, Henry even refused to let the Queen visit him in his pitiable state, and this gave rise to gossip that there was a rift between them.
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By Easter, which fell on 19 March, Henry's leg was better and his depression beginning to lift. On 22 March, he was at Rochester, inspecting the work on the converted priory and no doubt expressing his dissatisfaction, since less than a year later the great hall that had been fashioned from the monks' refectory was rebuilt as two great chambers. The King moved on via Otford and Knole—his only recorded visits after he acquired these houses—to Penshurst. On his return to court, he appears to have had good cause for rejoicing, for on 10 April, Marillac reported: “the Queen is thought to be with child, which would be a very great joy to this King, who, it seems, believes it and intends, if it be found true, to have her crowned at Whitsuntide. The young lords and gentlemen of this court are practising daily for the jousts and tournaments to be then made.”
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Even hopes of an heir did not mitigate Henry's savage reaction to news of a minor rebellion in Yorkshire, which gave him the excuse he needed to eliminate yet another of his Plantagenet relatives. Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, still languished in the Tower under sentence of death, but despite her great age—she was sixty-eight—and the fact that she had nothing to do with the rebellion, the King ordered her execution. The headsman was inept, and the Countess was butchered in the most slovenly fashion.
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One Londoner wrote: “I do not hear that any of the royal race are left, except a nephew of Cardinal [Pole] and the son of the Marquess of Exeter. They are both children, and in prison and condemned.”
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Even Henry VIII did not stoop to executing children, and the boys remained in the Tower.

Either Katherine had had a false alarm, or her pregnancy ended in a miscarriage. By the end of June, as preparations went ahead for the long-deferred progress to the north, the King was displeased with her, “avoiding as much as possible her company” and seeking his pleasures elsewhere, while the Queen kept to her lodgings. Marillac still believed her to be pregnant and, having learned that Henry was taking with him to the north his richest clothing and the most sumptuous tapestries and plate from Whitehall, surmised that Katherine was to be crowned at York, since the citizens were eagerly anticipating the birth of a duke of York, the title customarily given to the second son of the monarch.
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