Henry VIII (66 page)

In 1545, so as not to weary the ailing King with routine business, a “dry stamp” bearing his signature was brought into use, in order to validate official documents.
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The stamp left an imprint of the royal signature, which was inked in by persons authorised to forge it, namely Sir Anthony Denny, Sir William Herbert, Sir William Paget, Sir John Gates, and William Clerk, all trusted members of the Privy Chamber. Only three of these men were permitted to use the stamp at any one time, while the other two were designated to act as witnesses. Initially, the King himself kept the stamp, but he later gave the stamp, in its black bag, to Gates for safekeeping.
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62

“Painful Service”

On 1 January 1546, the antiquary John Leland presented Henry VIII with “A New Year's Gift”—a written summary of his researches into the treasures of England's religious houses and the antiquities of England. “I have conserved many good authors,” he wrote in his dedication, “the which otherwise had been like to have perished; of the which, part remain in the most magnificent libraries of your royal palaces.” Henry had already rewarded Leland with ecclesiastical offices, but Leland preferred to stay in London and preserve his links with the court while writing up his notes. Sadly, his mind gave way under the strain of his work and he became insane. Death came mercifully quickly the following year.
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Another of Henry's New Year's gifts was the Lady Elizabeth's elegant translation into Latin, French, and Italian of Katherine Parr's
Prayers and Meditations
.

That January, the King appointed Cranmer to head an ecclesiastical commission to examine the validity of certain church ceremonies, himself recommending that several time-hallowed rituals be abolished as superstitious and smacking of papistry, among them the ringing of bells on the Eve of All Souls and “the greater abuse of creeping to the Cross on Good Friday.” However, after Gardiner wrote a long letter to Henry protesting about the changes, the King changed his mind. When Sir Anthony Denny presented the final list to him for signing, Henry declined to do so. “I am now otherwise resolved,” he said.
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To the end, he would uphold his own brand of orthodoxy.

In 1546, thanks to the influence of Katherine Parr and John Cheke, Henry VIII finally gave his attention to the universities, which had suffered during the Reformation. At Oxford, he refounded Wolsey's Cardinal College and renamed it Christ Church. The college, which was to teach theology, Greek, and Hebrew, was more richly endowed than any of its rivals, and its chapel was to serve as a cathedral for the newly founded See of Oxford. The first Dean was Dr. Richard Cox, Prince Edward's tutor, and the King himself was to act as Visitor. At Cambridge, Henry founded and endowed Trinity College, replacing three mediaeval colleges, Michaelhouse, King's Hall, and the Physwick Hostel. Henry's statue may still be seen above the entrance gate to Trinity College. Back in 1540, he had endowed five regius professorships at Cambridge in Greek, Hebrew, civil law, divinity, and medicine.

Henry's courtiers, who had been covetous of university land since the Dissolution, “gaped after” the extent of the landed endowments that he gave to his colleges, but he rebuked them, saying, “I tell you, Sirs, that I judge no land in England better bestowed than that which is given to our universities, for by their maintenance our realm shall be well-governed when we be dead and rotten.”
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Early in 1546, Surrey, acting with his usual rashness, lost fourteen of his captains and several English standards to the French in a skirmish at St. Etienne outside Boulogne. In a wrathful mood, Henry summoned him home and replaced him, to his bitter and loudly expressed chagrin, with his enemy, Hertford. Paget urged Surrey to seek a lesser post, in which he might redeem his honour, but the hot-headed Earl ignored this wise advice, and plotted instead how wreak vengeance on Hertford.
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In February, the King was again laid low with a fever, which confined him to his apartments for three weeks. By 10 March he was out of bed and losing money at cards to Lisle and others.
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Soon afterwards, making light of his weakness, he announced that he intended shortly to visit the furthest parts of his realm, and when he met with envoys from Charles V on 22 March, he said that, although his leg was still a little painful, his strong constitution had aided his recovery. His face, however, bore the hallmarks of suffering, and the envoys concluded that his illness had been worse than he pretended.
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The Queen spent these weeks nursing her husband; she may also have been writing her new devotional work, a 120-page book entitled
The Lamentations of a Sinner
, in which she depicted the King as Moses, leading his people out of “captivity and bondage.” Henry, she asserted, had shown her a holier way of existence and delivered her from “the ignorance of her blind life.” In placing the emphasis on personal faith, the Queen was edging dangerously close to the Protestant ethos, which may be why the book was never printed during Henry's lifetime. Eventually published in 1548, it was to become Katherine's most famous work.

Katherine's enemies in the conservative faction had long suspected her of heresy. Above all, they resented and feared her influence with the King and the Prince of Wales. It was now becoming clear that Henry would not live to see Edward attain his majority, and the rival factions were girding their loins for a power struggle over the regency. Gardiner, Wriothesley, and their Catholic followers were determined to purge the court of heresy, and were even prepared to eliminate the Queen, just as Cromwell had got rid of Anne Boleyn when she became a threat to his position. In the case of Katherine Parr, the conservatives had no doubt that evidence of heresy could be found, if they were watchful.

Matters played into their hands. During Lent, Norfolk's younger son, Lord Thomas Howard, took exception to the orthodox themes of the sermons preached by the royal chaplains, and openly criticised them “in the Queen's chamber and elsewhere in the court.” Hauled before the Privy Council, he was given a severe reprimand.
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In May, a fashionable court preacher, Dr. Edward Crome, who was also a leading member of a secret Protestant circle based in London, was arrested for heresy. Under interrogation, he revealed the names of his associates, among whom were several courtiers and a Lincolnshire woman, Anne Askew. Anne, a self-confessed Protestant, had connections at court and was acquainted with some of the Queen's ladies, and the conservatives were convinced that she could give them useful evidence about Katherine Parr. When Anne refused to talk, she was put on the rack, and when she bravely maintained her silence and the Lieutenant of the Tower refused to torture her further, Lord Chancellor Wriothesley and Sir Richard Rich themselves turned the wheel, but to no avail. Anne was returned to prison, her body broken but her integrity intact.

Dr. Crome had named several members of the Privy Chamber, and in June, Gardiner had them all arrested, namely Surrey's friend, the poet Sir George Blagge; a page, Master Wourley; a Sewer, John Lassels, who had been instrumental in bringing about Katherine Howard's fall; and one William Morice. The King was “sore offended” when he learned that Blagge had been arrested without his knowledge and sentenced to burn for heresy, for he had a great affection for the young fool, whom he had nicknamed his “pig.” Summoning Wriothesley forthwith, he berated him “for coming so near him, even to his Privy Chamber” and made him draw up a pardon there and then. When he next saw Blagge, Henry cried, “Ah, my pig! Are you safe again?”

“Yes, Sire,” answered Blagge, “and if Your Majesty had not been better than your bishops, your pig had been roasted ere this time!”
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The conservatives next attempted to accuse Sir Anthony and Lady Denny of heresy, but without success. The Queen was another matter.

Early in July, Henry was again in low spirits. On the fourth, “although dressed to go to mass, he did not go, nor did he go into his gardens, as his habit is in the summer.”
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Two days later, he moved from Greenwich to Whitehall, then fell “ill with colic.”
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Since the conservatives were now in the ascendant, he had with him Gardiner, Wriothesley, Norfolk, Paulet, Petre, and Sir Anthony Browne.

According to the Elizabethan writer John Foxe, who is the only source for what is said to have happened next, the Queen angered Henry one day by becoming too opinionated while they were debating a theological matter. When Katherine had gone, Henry grumbled to Gardiner that it was “nothing much to my comfort in mine old days to be taught by my wife.” Gardiner sympathised, then took a great risk and ventured to suggest that the Queen might be harbouring views of which Henry would not approve. The King gave him permission to investigate further; the books in Katherine's closet were examined, and her ladies questioned. They gave away nothing, so Wriothesley obtained Henry's signature on a warrant for Katherine's arrest, in order for her to be questioned also. Fortuitiously, the warrant fell from the pocket of a councillor's gown, and was found by a member of the Queen's household, who took it straight to her. Horrified at what it portended, Katherine took to her bed and began screaming in panic. In his apartments, the King heard her hysterical cries, and sent his physician, Dr. Wendy, to discover what was wrong. When Katherine told him, he urged her to compose herself and dress, then go to the King and plead for forgiveness.

Katherine took his advice. She told Henry that, if she had dared dispute with one whom Nature had so patently formed for superiority, it was only to divert him in his illness. “Is that so, sweetheart?” asked a mollified Henry. “Then we are perfect friends again.”

The next day, as the King and Queen sat together in the privy garden, Lord Chancellor Wriothesley arrived with a detachment of guards to arrest the Queen. Henry rose angrily, soundly berated him, and beat him about the head, shouting, “Arrant knave! Beast! Fool!” The Chancellor made a hasty and somewhat undignified exit.
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Foxe's tale sounds contrived, yet it was characteristic of Henry to behave in this way, testing the loyalty of those around him and playing them off against one another, much as he had done in the past with Cranmer and Gardiner.

Katherine Parr was safe, but Anne Askew and John Lassels were not so lucky. On 16 July, they were burned at Smithfield.

The collapse of the plot against the Queen, and the return to court of Hertford in June, signalled the end of the conservatives' brief period of ascendancy, and also brought to a halt the witch-hunt for heretics. Soon afterwards, Hertford formed a powerful alliance with Lord Lisle. Their ultimate aim was to secure control of the government after the King's death, and to this end they took care to lean “neither on one side or the other” of the religious divide.
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Both owed their power to their military achievements, while Hertford was in a strong position as the uncle of the future King. Supported by the influential and efficient Paget, who until the summer had appeared to favour the conservative faction,
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they formed a formidable coalition.

Norfolk, careful of his own interests and aware that his influence was dwindling, swallowed his pride and attempted to ally himself with the Seymour faction. But having obtained the King's approval for a marriage between Norfolk's daughter Mary, Richmond's widow, and Sir Thomas Seymour, the Duke met with furious opposition from his son, Surrey, who also refused to countenance a match between one of his daughters and Hertford's son. Nor was Mary Howard in favour of the marriage proposed for her. However, Surrey believed he could use it to his family's advantage, and told Mary that, when the King sent for her to congratulate her on her betrothal, she should use her feminine wiles on him, become his mistress, and wield as much influence upon him “as Madame d'Etampes doth about the French King.” Mary was outraged and cried that she would “cut her own throat” rather than “consent to such a villainy.”
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At this, she and her brother fell out—a rift that was to have tragic consequences.

Because of his failing health, the King now spent most of his time in the privacy of his secret lodgings, “and used seldom, being not well at ease, to stir out of his chamber,” unless it was to walk in his privy gardens. His temper was more volatile than ever; his legs gave him so much pain “that he became exceedingly perverse and intractable”
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and was inclined to lash out on the slightest provocation. Apart from his Gentlemen and Chamber servants, the only persons admitted to see him were the Queen, selected councillors “by special commandment,” and, on occasion, foreign ambassadors. Henry did not want the world, or the courtiers who waited outside in the presence chamber, to think he was losing his grasp on affairs.

But speculation about his health was rife, while those close to him wondered how many more physical crises he could survive. Yet he would not give in, “was loath to hear any mention of death,”
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and behaved as if he still had many years ahead of him, ignoring the pain in his legs and bravely driving himself to lead as normal a life as possible. Addressing the problem of mobility, he had two invalid “chairs called trams” made for him, “for the King's Majesty to sit in to be carried to and fro in his galleries and chambers at Whitehall.” One was covered in quilted tawny velvet, the other in gold velvet and silk, and both had embroidered footrests and shafts like sedan chairs. They were kept with the King's maps and pictures in his “secret study,” which now became known as the “chairhouse.”
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According to Hall, “the King was now overgrown with corpulency and fatness, so that he became more and more unwieldy. He could not go up or down stairs unless he was raised up or let down by an engine.” Norfolk also claimed that Henry “could not go up and down the stairs, and was let up and down by a device,”
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and although there is no record of any mechanical pulley, hoist, or lift in any of his palaces, this does not mean that such a contraption did not exist.

It was clear to his advisers that the King could not last long, and the power struggle for the regency intensified, with each faction competing for supremacy. According to van der Delft, self-interest and fear held men together.
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The conflict was bitter, and the mounting tension such that heated quarrels were liable to break out on the slightest pretext. Nor would the matter be resolved until blood had been shed.