Weir A. Henry VIII: The King and His Court

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century poets Thomas Nashe and Michael Drayton, while visiting the Lady Mary at Hunsdon in 1536,

he had met a young maid of honour, Lady Elizabeth FitzGerald, the penniless ten-year-old daughter of

the late Earl of Kildare. Surrey immediately conceived a romantic yet platonic affection for this child,

and immortalised her in a sonnet as “Fair Geraldine,” in imitation of Petrarch’s love poems to Laura.

The courtiers were intrigued by this odd affair, but even more amused when they learned that the

hotheaded young Earl had been imprisoned at Windsor for punching Lord Beauchamp in the face

within the verge of the court. Beauchamp had provoked the attack by suggesting that Surrey was

sympathetic to Aske and his rebels; thanks to the intervention of Cromwell, and the fact that the Earl

was known to be loyal, the King was inclined to be sympathetic. Surrey remained in confinement for

only two weeks, and spent the time writing verses, among them the poignant poem recalling his years

at Windsor with Richmond.

Lady Lisle, who had been unsuccessful the previous year, was still desperately trying to get her

daughters, Anne and Katherine Basset, accepted in the Queen’s household. To this end, she assiduously

dispatched braces of the quails Jane craved from Calais.

While eating some at dinner one day, the

Queen told the Lisles’ agent, John Husee, that she would take one of Lady Lisle’s girls as a maid of

honour, but wished to see them both before deciding which. They were to travel from Calais and

present themselves, suitably dressed, at court. The girl chosen must be “sober, sad, wise and discreet,

and lowly above all things, and be obedient, and governed and ruled by my Lady Rutland and my Lady

Sussex, and serve God and be virtuous, and be sober of tongue.”

The Queen ceremonially took to her chamber at Hampton Court on 16 September. To minimise the risk

of plague, Henry moved with his riding household to Esher, where he would await news of the birth.

From there, he issued orders for a Garter stall to be prepared at Windsor for the expected prince.

On 17 September, Lady Lisle’s daughters arrived, and Jane chose the younger, Anne Basset, who had

been educated in France and was highly accomplished. She was “a pretty young creature,” “fair, well-

made, and behaveth her self so well that everybody praiseth her that seeth her.” The Queen had her

sworn in, and commanded her mother to provide her with a new wardrobe—no French hoods or low

necklines—and a maid. Anne was to become a popular figure at court, highly regarded by the King,

and never lost her good reputation.

The Queen’s labour was long and hard, but at the end of it, at 2 A.M. on 12 October 1537, she gave

birth to the long-awaited Prince. The King was jubilant, weeping with joy as he held his son for the

first time,

and the country erupted in celebration. Hugh Latimer wrote, “We all hungered for a prince

so long there was so much rejoicing as at the birth of John the Baptist.” Te Deum was again sung in St.

Paul’s, a two-thousand-gun salute resounded from the Tower, church bells pealed out, bonfires were lit,

free wine was distributed in London, and there were processions, street parties, and civic banquets.

Meanwhile, royal messengers sped off to all parts of the realm with “the most joyful news that has

come to England these many years.”

The kingdom had an heir, and the Tudor dynasty was assured.

The spectre of civil war, which had threatened for so many decades, retreated into oblivion.

The Prince was to be christened in the new chapel royal at Hampton Court. In 1535–1536, the King had

converted Wolsey’s old chapel into a lavish Perpendicular masterpiece with Renaissance details and

installed a beautiful oak fan-vaulted ceiling, carved by Richard Ridge and another master craftsman,

Henry Corren,

and painted blue and gold, with drop pendants, piping putti, and the King’s motto,

“Dieu et mon Droit,” on the arches. There were new stained glass windows, carved choir stalls and

benches, paintings, tapestries, a black-and-white-chequered floor, and an organ. Pews for the King and

Queen were set in a gallery above the main body of the chapel, which had crystal windows and was

approached through two richly appointed “holyday closets” with battened and gilded ceilings.

The

arms of the King and Queen were set in stone plaques either side of the chapel door, where they may be

seen today.

The Prince was brought here on the evening of Sunday, 15 October, in a magnificent torchlit

procession, led by knights, ushers, squires, and household officers, followed by bishops, abbots, and

the clergy of the Chapel Royal, the entire Privy Council, foreign ambassadors, and many lords, among

them the Earl of Wiltshire. Then came the Lady Elizabeth, just four, borne in the arms of Lord

Beauchamp and carrying her brother’s richly embroidered white baptismal robe and the chrysom oil.

The Prince followed, on a cushion held by the Marchioness of Exeter, with Norfolk supporting his head

and Suffolk his feet, all walking under a canopy of cloth of gold supported by four Gentlemen of the

Privy Chamber. The Prince’s long velvet train was carried by the Earl of Arundel, who was followed by

the baby’s nurse, Sybil Penn, and the midwife who had delivered him. The Lady Mary, who was to be

the Prince’s godmother, walked behind, attended by many ladies. Although there were four hundred

people present, numbers had been restricted for fear of plague.

In the chapel royal, at midnight, Archbishop Cranmer baptised the Prince with the name Edward, after

St. Edward the Confessor, in the silver-gilt font which had been set up on a dais draped with cloth of

gold. Nearby was a cubicle formed of tapestries, in which were set a basin of perfumed water and a

charcoal brazier, so that the infant should not catch cold when he was undressed. Suffolk, Norfolk, and

Cranmer were godfathers. Garter King of Arms then cried: “God, of His almighty and infinite grace,

give and grant good life and long to the right high, right excellent and noble Prince Edward, Duke of

Cornwall and Earl of Chester, most dear and entirely beloved son to our most dread and gracious lord,

King Henry VIII!”

After the final Te Deum, the procession re-formed and, to the sound of trumpets, the Prince was borne

back to the Queen’s apartments, where his parents were waiting to receive him and their guests. The

Queen, wearing a mantle of crimson velvet furred with ermine, was lying on a rich pallet bed, propped

up on cushions of crimson damask and cloth of gold, with the King sitting beside her. After Jane had

given her son her blessing, the King took him in his arms and, weeping for joy, blessed him in the name

of God, the Virgin Mary, and St. George. The young Duchess of Suffolk then took the baby back to his

nursery, and refreshments were served: hippocras and wafers for the nobility, bread and wine for the

rest. Henry then gave alms to be distributed among the poor who had gathered at the palace gates. It

was nearly morning before the guests kissed the hands of the King and Queen and departed.

Three days later, on 18 October, Prince Edward was proclaimed Prince of Wales,

although he would

never be formally created as such. On the same day, several lords were ennobled. The Prince’s uncle,

Lord Beauchamp, whose future prominence and influence were now assured, was created Earl of

Hertford, and Sir William Fitzwilliam was promoted to Earl of Southampton. He had been appointed

Lord High Admiral in place of Richmond in 1536; a portrait of him holding his staff of office, painted

by Holbein in 1542, hung in his house at Cowdray, near Mid-hurst, Sussex.

The King also knighted several courtiers, notably Thomas Seymour, Hertford’s younger brother, an

ambitious but dangerous hothead, who had until recently been in the service of Sir Francis Bryan.

Henry now promoted him to the Privy Chamber, and used him on several diplomatic missions.

Seymour was a lusty man, in great favour with the ladies, but shallow and unscrupulous, and ever

jealous of his elder brother, in whose shadow he was doomed to live.

Thomas Wyatt was also knighted, and was given the dissolved abbey of Boxley, Kent, which he made

his country seat. In 1537, his marriage to Elizabeth Brooke was finally dissolved, and he married Jane

Haute, a distant connection of the King’s grandmother, Elizabeth Wydeville, queen of Edward IV.

Despite his aversion for court life, Wyatt now made a career of diplomacy, and from 1537 to 1539

served as ambassador to Charles V.

Another rising courtier who was dubbed knight was William Parr, son of Sir Thomas Parr, a former

Comptroller of the Household, and brother of the future Queen Katherine. Born in 1513, he had been

educated at Cambridge; then, thanks to the influence of his uncle, William, Lord Parr of Horton, who

made suit to Cromwell, he was admitted to the Privy Chamber. Both Cromwell and Norfolk

recommended him for a knighthood. In 1526, Parr had married Anne, heiress of the last Bourchier Earl

of Essex, whose title and vast estates Parr was to inherit.

A close ally of the Seymours, Parr was an

amiable man with a “florid fancy and wit.”

He loved music and poetry, and aspired to be a soldier, but

never showed much aptitude for a military career.

In the royal household, Sir William Paulet was now made Treasurer, while Sir John Russell was

appointed Comptroller in his place.

Before her son was many days old, Queen Jane contracted puerperal fever, probably as a result of

unhygienic obstetric methods employed during her confinement. Her attendants swathed her in furs and

gave her the rich foods she asked for,

but her condition grew worse, and on 24 October she died. The

King was at Hampton Court at the time, having postponed a hunting trip to Esher to be at her side.

After her death, he immediately left for Whitehall, and shut himself away to mourn in private.

Kings

did not customarily attend the obsequies of their spouses.

Henry had observed only perfunctory mourning for his two previous wives, and since full-scale court

mourning for a queen had not been decreed since the death of Elizabeth of York in 1503, Norfolk, who

was in charge of the Queen’s obsequies because the King was “too broken” to order them, was obliged

to ask Garter Herald to study precedents. The wearing of mourning garments was governed by

sumptuary laws and complex household ordinances, many of them laid down by Lady Margaret

Beaufort, who specified the length of trains; the size of hoods, which must not cover the face; and the

width of mourning barbs, which could only be worn over the chin by ladies of noble estate.

Mourning

was issued to everyone in the royal household by the Great Wardrobe, in materials appropriate to the

degree of the wearer. Kings wore purple or white mourning; everyone else wore black.

Jane Seymour’s solemn obsequies lasted for three weeks. Because long periods usually elapsed

between the death and burial of a royal personage, the corpse was always embalmed. In 1503, the body

of Elizabeth of York had been treated with certain chemicals, wrapped in seventy-five yards of waxed

and spiced Holland cloth, then sealed in a lead coffin draped with a black velvet pall with a white

damask cross.

Queen Jane’s body was dressed in gold tissue and laid out in her presence chamber, with a crown on

her head and rings on her fingers. The Lady Mary, who was chief mourner, and the ladies of the

Queen’s household took turns to keep perpetual vigil on their knees beside the bier, which was

surrounded by twenty-one wax tapers, while dirges were sung and masses offered for the soul of the

departed. The body remained in the presence chamber for a week before it was embalmed, coffined,

and moved to the chapel royal, which had been hung with black cloth and decorated with rich images.

Around the hearse were banners depicting the Queen’s noble lineage. A herald required all present, “of

their charity,” to pray for their late mistress’s soul. Priests watched over the corpse by night, Mary

Tudor and the ladies by day.

Regal funerals, like every other aspect of royal life, were occasions for magnificent display, designed to

impress upon observers, through ceremonial processions, pageantry, heraldry, and pomp, the high

status of the deceased, which was also reflected in elaborate tombs. It was customary for a wax effigy

of the dead king or queen, complete with crown and sceptre, to be placed on the bier; such an effigy

was carried at Jane Seymour’s funeral.

On 8 November, “in presence of many pensive hearts,” the body of the Queen was taken in a solemn

procession to Windsor “with all the pomp and majesty that could be”; on 12 November it was buried in

a vault in the choir of St. George’s Chapel. Norfolk ordered twelve thousand masses to be said in

London churches for her soul,

while the King arranged for twelve to be said privately. Henry planned

to raise a splendid tomb to his wife’s memory, bearing an effigy of Jane sweetly sleeping, surrounded

by marble figures of children with baskets of the flowers she had loved so much,

but it was never

built.

The Queen’s household, which, since her death, had been subject to the rule of the Lady Mary, was

disbanded soon afterwards,

and her official jewels returned to the Jewel House; her personal jewellery

was given to her family or distributed among her ladies. Mary herself returned to Hunsdon later in

November, and for the next two years would be an infrequent visitor to court, since there was no queen

to act as her chaperone.

Court mourning was decreed for a period of three months, until the day after Candlemas Day, 3

February 1538, when the King and everybody else appeared again in normal clothes.

After the

funeral, Henry emerged from seclusion and was reported to be “in good health and merry as a widower

may be.”

Already, he was considering taking another wife.

“The Very Pearl of the Realm”

In November 1537, Cromwell began searching for a foreign bride for the King, having persuaded a

grieving Henry to “frame his mind” to a fourth marriage. Given that the hazards of infancy could carry

off the Prince at any time, it was prudent to safeguard the succession by remarrying and providing other

sons.

Since his birth, Edward had remained at court in the care of his dry nurse, Sybil Penn, and a wet-nurse,

Mother Jack. In March 1538, the King established a household for his son at Hampton Court, which

cost £6,500 (nearly £2 million) to administer in the first year. Suffolk’s cousin, Sir William Sidney,

brother-in-law of Sybil Penn and a member of the Privy Chamber, was appointed Chamberlain to the

Prince. The redoubtable Lady Margaret Bryan transferred from the Lady Elizabeth’s household to act

as Lady Mistress; she was replaced by Katherine Champernowne,

who took charge of Elizabeth’s

elementary education. Lady Bryan was now responsible for the “nurture and education”

of the Prince.

She was assisted by Sybil Penn, who remained on the staff after the wet-nurse’s services were

dispensed with in October 1538. Dr. Butts was Edward’s physician. In 1539, Dr. Richard Coxe, a

renowned Cambridge scholar, was appointed his Almoner.

The apartments created for Prince Edward at Hampton Court were in the north range of Chapel Court

and were linked by a gallery to the now-deserted Queen’s apartments; they had a similar layout to those

of the King. In the presence chamber was the magnificent cradle of estate in which the heir to England

was shown off to privileged visitors, who approached via a processional stair and a heavily guarded

watching chamber. The privy chamber served as a day nursery. In the bedchamber, or “rocking

chamber,” was the cradle in which the Prince actually slept, protected from the sun by a canopy,

while

next door was a bathroom, and a garderobe which may still be seen. The Prince had his own privy

kitchen, where his food was prepared.

Henry’s increasing paranoia is evident in the strict ordinances he imposed on the Prince’s household,

which were designed to eliminate all risks to his son’s health and safety. It was not only the myriad

illnesses to which Tudor babies were prone to succumb that Henry feared, but also poison or the

assassin’s dagger. Even dukes had to obtain a written authority from the King before approaching the

Prince’s cradle. No member of his household was to speak with persons suspected of having been in

contact with the plague, nor were they permitted to visit London without permission during the summer

months, for fear they might themselves act as carriers. Any servant who did fall ill was to leave the

household at once. The Prince’s Chamberlain was to supervise the robing of his charge, his daily bath,

the preparation of his food, and the washing of his clothes. All Edward’s food was tasted for poison.

The walls and floors of the rooms, galleries, passages, and courtyards in and around the Prince’s

apartments had to be swept and scrubbed with soap thrice daily. Members of his household were to

observe stringent standards of personal hygiene, everything that might be handled by the baby had to

be washed before he came into contact with it, and no food or dirty utensils were to be left lying

around. There were no pages in Edward’s household because the King held that boys were careless and

clumsy; dogs and beggars were also rigorously excluded.

Henry would have preferred to have his precious son under his eye at court, but the crowded court was

an often unsanitary place where infection might breed, and it was felt that the purer country air would

be a far healthier environment. The Prince’s establishment was therefore moved from Hampton Court

to Havering in November 1538, and thence to Hundson the following year. While he was there, the

Privy Council were invited to inspect his progress; Lord Audley declared he had never seen so goodly a

child for his age, “for he shooteth out in length and waxeth firm and stiff, and can steadfastly stand.”

Later, Edward settled for a time at Ashridge, near Berkhamsted. The King also created lodgings for him

next to his own at Greenwich, and at Enfield, Tittenhanger, and Hatfield.

No accommodation was

prepared for him at Whitehall, probably because St. James’s Palace had been designated his London

residence; parts of it were still referred to as “the Prince’s lodging” in Elizabethan times.

The King doted on his son, and visited him whenever he could. In May 1538, Edward was brought to

him at the hunting lodge at Royston. Henry played with him and cuddled him “in his arms a long

space,” then held him up at a window so that the crowds outside could see him.

A delightful cameo of

the King and the infant Prince survives as testimony to Henry’s joy in his son.

Lady Bryan sent

regular reports on Edward’s progress to Cromwell. Chapuys thought the Prince “one of the prettiest

children that could be seen anywhere.”

He was strong, healthy, adventurous, and given to normal

temper tantrums. There was nothing to suggest that this precious child would not live beyond his

sixteenth year.

Although the court was in mourning over the Christmas of 1537, which was spent quietly at

Greenwich,

an account survives of the gift-giving ceremony on New Year’s Day. When John Husee

presented himself in the presence chamber to deliver Lord Lisle’s offerings, he found the King leaning

against a cupboard as the courtiers came forward in turn to give their presents to him. Beside Henry

stood Cromwell and Hertford, and behind were two Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber, Sir William

Kingston and Sir John Russell. At the other end of the cupboard stood Bryan Tuke, Henry’s Secretary,

recording the gifts on a scroll.

When he saw Husee, Cromwell beamed. “Here cometh my Lord Lisle’s man,” he said. Husee did not

catch Henry’s reply, but the King looked pleased, smiled warmly as the gift was presented, and seemed

to take longer than usual to express his thanks, inquiring about the health and activities of Lord and

Lady Lisle. All the King’s gifts were displayed on trestle tables; they included a clock fashioned like a

book (from Suffolk), pictures, velvet purses full of coins, carpets, coffers, dog collars, embroidered

shirts, hawks’ hoods, a gold trencher, six cheeses from Suffolk, and even a marmoset.

Henry had sometimes made use of the stately episcopal palace at Hatfield, Hertfordshire, and in 1538 it

finally came into his possession. Built of red brick around a large courtyard by John Morton, Bishop of

Ely (and future Archbishop of Canterbury) in the 1480s, it was essentially a mediaeval house with

towers, buttresses, gables, and twisted chimneys. In 1538, the King visited Hatfield to escape the

plague in London, nervously complaining to Sir Nicholas Carew, his Master of Horse, that his head

hurt. However, the country air had a beneficial effect, and he was soon in a merry mood.

Henry kept

Hatfield in good repair, using it chiefly as a nursery palace for his children, and it will be forever

associated with his daughter Elizabeth, who in 1558 received the news of her accession in the park.

The King acquired two other houses at this time: Henham Hall, a newly built courtyard house in

Suffolk, which came to him through an exchange with the Duke of Suffolk;

and a former Austin friary

at Newcastle that came to be known as the King’s Manor, which Henry never visited but retained for

the use of the Council of the North.

Henry was about to embark on the most innovative and adventurous building project of his reign: a

purpose-built palace incorporating the very latest trends in architectural design, which would rival

Francis I’s great palace of Chambord on the Loire. Plans were drawn up for such a house to be built at

Waltham-in-the-Forest,

but were soon abandoned. Instead, the King acquired the village and church

of Cuddington, near Ewell, Surrey, and razed them to the ground. In their place arose the most amazing

palace ever to be constructed in England. Because no one had yet seen anything like it, it was called

Nonsuch.

Nonsuch was essentially a small hunting lodge and private pleasure house, built around two courts. It

was designed by James Nedcham, Surveyor of the King’s Works. Some of the building materials came

from the suppressed Merton Priory. The outer court was constructed in the conventional Tudor style,

with turrets and battlements, but the inner court was flanked by two large, octagonal, pinnacled towers;

they, and the outer walls of the court, were decorated with gilded plasterwork panels carved with

elaborate Renaissance reliefs. Figures of Roman emperors adorned the gateway that led from the outer

court to the inner, while a massive statue of the King enthroned dominated the inner court, where the

royal apartments were situated. The lower walls of this courtyard were of stone, but the upper sections

were of plaster and covered with “a variety of pictures and other antique forms of excellent

workmanship” in mezzo-relievo stucco bordered by guilloche carving in slate, mounted on timber

battens.

They illustrated heroic tales from history and mythology, and were chosen to reflect the noble

virtues of the King. The artists responsible were Nicholas Bellin of Modena, William Cure of

Amsterdam, and Giles Goring.

We know relatively little about the interior of the palace. Much of it was decorated by Nicholas Bellin,

who had worked with Francesco Primaticcio at Fontainebleau before entering Henry’s service in 1537,

at a salary of £20 (£6,000) plus 20s (£300) for clothing. There was no great hall, just a dining hall large

enough to seat the King’s riding household, and the usual ranges of first-floor inward and outward

chambers, each with twelve rooms. The royal lodgings were accessed by “generous winding steps,

magnificently built.”

French Renaissance influence seems to have predominated; Bellin built huge

stucco chimneypieces, like those that dominated the chambers of Francis I. In the privy chamber, there

was a fountain in the form of a silver serpent caught in the paws of a lion.

Other artists known to have worked at Nonsuch were the Florentine Bartholemew Penni, a portrait

painter who had also produced narrative paintings for the King, and Antonio Toto, who had executed

frescoes at Hampton Court. Toto is believed to have painted the wooden and canvas wall panels now at

Loseley House near Guildford, which may have come from Nonsuch. They bear grotesque motifs,

trompe l’oeil designs, mythological figures, classical urns, putti, the King’s portcullis badge and motto,

the Prince of Wales’s feathers, and the cipher and badge—a maiden issuing from a Tudor rose—of

Katherine Parr, which dates them to 1543 at the earliest. Also at Loseley is a marble table carved with a

Tudor rose and a Scottish thistle, thought to have been made for Henry VIII at the time he was hoping

to marry Prince Edward to the young Mary, Queen of Scots, and to have come from Nonsuch. Portraits

of Henry, Katherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, and Mary I, said to have been found in the cellars of the

old palace, now hang in Nonsuch Mansion, a Georgian house in Nonsuch Park, which also boasts

another relic of the palace, a stone plaque dated 1543, which adorns its porch wall. A fragment of glass

bearing the arms of Henry VIII and Jane Seymour, probably from Nonsuch, is now in the Victoria and

Albert Museum.

The palace stood in a two-thousand-acre park stocked with a thousand deer. To the southwest was a

two-storey timber banqueting house, which had a viewing platform on the roof from which the King

could watch hunts in the park. A little way off there was another, smaller banqueting house. The

gardens of Nonsuch, laid out by French experts, became famous for their groves, fountains, rockeries,

stone carvings, marble pillars, aviaries, trellised walks, orchards, and vines, and there was a maze in the

privy garden.

Work on Nonsuch began in April 1538, with 520 labourers and craftsmen working round the clock and

camping out in tents, but their task was complicated and demanding. The inner court was virtually

complete by 1541, but the outer court was still unfinished at the time of Henry’s death. By then, he had

outlaid £24,536 (about £7.5 million) on the project.

Not for nothing was Nonsuch called “the very pearl of the realm.” One Jacobean observer wrote:

“Here, Henry VIII, in his magnificence, erected a structure so beautiful, so elegant and so splendid that,

in whatever direction the admirer of florid architecture turns his eyes, he will say that it easily bears off

the prize. So great is the emulation of ancient Roman art, such are its paintings, its gilding and its

decoration, that you would say that it is the sky spangled with stars.”

“A Sort of Knaves”

In April 1538, the ever-simmering tensions at court erupted into violence. One of Lord Hertford’s

retainers killed a man in a duel within the verge of the court, then fled to sanctuary in Westminster

Abbey. In another incident, a courtier was found murdered, while soon afterwards a brawl between the

servants of the Earl of Southampton ended with one being brutally slain. Then Sir Gavin Carew and

one of his men picked a fight with a Serjeant of the Household and his Yeoman, which left the Yeoman

dead and the Serjeant badly wounded. Cromwell’s own henchmen then weighed in against Carew, who

was arrested, and the quarrel spread among the servants of the various lords of the Council, leading to a

riot involving forty gentlemen and their retainers.

There is no record of what happened next, and no

one is known to have been punished.

This may have been due to a more urgent crisis intervening. In May 1538, the King fell desperately ill.

The abscess or ulcer on his leg closed up and “the humours which had no outlet were like to have

stifled him.” It appears that a blood clot from his diseased leg broke loose and caused a blockage in a

lung, rendering him black in the face and speechless with pain. For twelve days, he was “in great

danger” and his courtiers, expecting him to die, began to debate whether their allegiance would lie with

the infant Edward or the adult Mary. Then the King suddenly rallied, and by the end of the month was

well again.

From now on, however, his physicians would endeavour to prevent the suppurating wound

in his leg from closing.

It was now more imperative than ever that the King remarry, and soon. Various brides were under

consideration: it was thought that some of the highborn ladies of France might prove suitable, but

Henry, who was proving particularly choosy, was taking no chances, and demanded that seven or eight

of them be brought to Calais for his inspection. On the instructions of an outraged King Francis, the

French ambassador, Gaspard de Coligny, Sieur de Castillon, replied, “It is not the custom in France to

send damsels of noble and princely families to be passed in review as if they were hackneys for sale.”

Why could not His Majesty send envoys to report on their appearance and demeanour?

“By God!” retorted Henry, “I trust no one but myself. The thing touches me too near. I wish to see them

and know them some time before deciding.”

Castillon impudently responded, “Then maybe Your Grace would like to mount them one after the

other, and keep the one you find to be the best broken in. Is that the way the Knights of the Round

Table treated women in your country in times past?” The King had the grace to look ashamed: “he

laughed and blushed at the same time,” then quickly changed the subject.

Henry liked Castillon’s racy humour. In recommending Louise de Guise, the ambassador said, “Take

her, she is still a maid, and you will be able to shape the passage to your measure.” The King laughed

heartily, clapping Castillon on the shoulder.

Another candidate for the consort’s throne was Charles V’s niece, the beautiful Christina of Denmark,

who had married Francesco Sforza, Duke of Milan, but been left a widow at only sixteen. She was said

to have resembled Madge Shelton in looks, and Holbein was dispatched to Brussels to paint her

portrait.

The King was entranced, and began to act the ardent swain, ordering his musicians to play

love songs deep into the night and having masques staged constantly at court, but his potential bride

was somewhat less enthusiastic, despite being informed by Thomas Wriothesley that his master was “a

most gentle gentleman, his nature so benign and pleasant that I think till this day no man hath heard

many angry words pass his mouth.” If she had two heads, Christina declared, one of them would be at

His Majesty’s disposal.

In July, Henry departed on his usual hunting progress, making a detour to the south coast “to visit his

ports and havens.”

Upon his return in the autumn, he staged an unprecedented public debate in the

great hall of Whitehall Palace with a radical Lutheran, John Lambert, who had been arrested for heresy.

Eager spectators crowded along the tiers of scaffolding that had been specially erected along the walls

so that all might hear their sovereign defend the doctrines of his Church. The King, dressed entirely in

white silk, was seated under his canopy of estate, flanked on one side by purple-clad bishops and on the

other by lords, judges, and the Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber, as Lambert was brought before him,

under guard. He spoke genially enough to the prisoner, saying, “Ho, good fellow, what is thy name?”

Lambert told him it was John Nicholson, but that he was known as Lambert. The King, his “brows bent

unto severity,” replied, “I would not trust you, having two names, although you were my brother.”

When Lambert tried to flatter him, he interrupted, “I did not come hither to hear mine own praises!”

and asked Lambert if he believed in the doctrine of transubstantiation. Lambert, after some

prevarication, stated, “I deny it.” Henry warned him he would be condemned to the stake if he persisted

in this opinion, but remained arguing with him for five hours in an attempt to save him. In the end,

seeing it was futile, he asked, “Wilt thou live or die? Thou hast yet free choice.” Lambert would not

recant, so the King, rising, told him, “That being the case, you must die, for I will not be a patron unto

heretics.” Six days later Lambert was burned over a slow fire at Smithfield.

Ever since Reginald Pole’s attack on the King in 1536, the members of his family had been watched.

Cromwell, who viewed these reactionary scions of the House of Plantagenet as an ever-present threat to

the new order and his own position, had now accumulated a formidable amount of evidence against

them, sufficient to convince an already suspicious King that his life and throne were under threat. Some

of the most damaging information came from Lord Montague’s brother, Geoffrey Pole, who turned

King’s evidence to save his own skin. There is little doubt that there was a conspiracy of sorts, and that

its members were exceptionally incompetent and indiscreet, but it seems unlikely that they were as

malicious and as organised as they were made out to be.

In November 1538, Cromwell struck, bringing down the entire White Rose faction, all of whom were

closely related to the King. Exeter was sent to the Tower on a charge of compassing Henry’s death and

plotting to usurp the throne; Lady Exeter was arrested with her husband for carrying on a treasonable

correspondence with Chapuys; Cardinal Pole’s brother, Lord Montague; their mother, Lady Salisbury;

and Sir Edward Neville, the King’s former jousting companion and an enemy of Cromwell, were also

imprisoned for conspiring with Exeter. Most had been in regular contact with Cardinal Pole. Even the

innocent young sons of Exeter and Montague were confined in the Tower.

The King was fond of Neville, and had warned him against associating with Montague, but he was

angered when he learned that Neville had been overheard making disparaging remarks about the Privy

Chamber. “God’s blood!” Neville had said, “I am made a fool amongst them, but I laugh and make

merry to drive forth the time. The King keepeth a sort of knaves here, that we dare neither look nor

speak, and if I were able, I would rather live any life in the world than tarry in the Privy Chamber.”

This, apparently, was enough to convince Henry of Neville’s disloyalty.

On 9 December, Exeter, Montague, and Sir Edward Neville were beheaded. Lady Exeter would later be

pardoned, but her son, Edward Courtenay, and young Henry Pole remained in the Tower, along with

Lady Salisbury, who with the rest of her unfortunate family was attainted for treason by Parliament in

1539.

The Christmas of 1538 was observed quietly at Greenwich. Soon afterwards came the news that Pope

Paul III, shocked at the King’s treatment of his kinsmen, had ordered the Bull of Excommunication

drawn up by his predecessor in 1533 to be put into effect. This effectively isolated Henry from his

Roman Catholic neighbours in Europe, who were now called upon by the Pope to dethrone him.

Ominously, on 12 January 1539, those former enemies, Charles V and Francis I, signed the Treaty of

Toledo, agreeing to make no further alliances with England. Henry immediately took measures to resist

an invasion, strengthening defences and ordering musters up and down the land.

Cromwell now moved against other leading conservatives. His attempt to discredit Sir Anthony

Browne failed because the King refused to hear any ill of his former minion. But Cromwell succeeded

in ousting Sir Francis Bryan from his post as Chief Gentleman of the Privy Chamber, to Bryan’s great

distress, and having him replaced by his own candidate, Anthony Denny. The son of a London lawyer

who was related to the late William Carey,

Denny was a highly educated, serious-minded humanist

with a “sincere affection to God and His holy word.”

He lived in Aldgate, where Holbein, to whom he

would be a generous patron, was his neighbour; Holbein painted Denny in 1541.

Denny was

ambitious and self-seeking: although he had begun his court career in Bryan’s service, he did not flinch

at supplanting him. In time, he would make himself indispensable to his sovereign.

The biggest fish Cromwell netted was Sir Nicholas Carew, who had already fallen out of favour with

the King after a game of bowls, when Henry had made insulting remarks, only half in jest, to him, and

Carew had rashly responded in anger.

When Cromwell produced apparently treasonable letters written

by Carew at Beddington, the King was easily persuaded that he had been involved in the Exeter

conspiracy.

Sir Nicholas was arrested on 14 February and executed on 3 March. Chapuys was of the opinion that it

was his devotion to the Lady Mary, rather than any treasonable intent, that had brought about his fall,

but it appears that the King coveted his estates in Surrey, where he was in the process of creating a vast

hunting domain. Beddington Park also came to Henry on Carew’s death.

In March, Sir Anthony Browne was appointed Master of the Horse in place of Carew. Sir William

Paulet, a privy councillor whose influence was rapidly increasing, was created Lord St. John of Basing,

while Sir John Russell, now an important member of the Privy Council and the Privy Chamber, was

created Lord Russell of Chenies. * * Regardless of the Pope’s censure, Henry VIII pressed on with

his Reformation. In the spring of 1539, after a heated debate between Cranmer and Cromwell, on one

side, and Norfolk and Gardiner on the other, Parliament passed the Act of Six Articles, enshrining the

doctrines of the Church of England in law. The King had realised that his subjects were “more inclined

to the old religion than the new opinions,” and the Act reflected this conservatism, boosting Henry’s

popularity, but although it was meant to put an end to debate, it found no favour with the radicals, who

referred to it as “the whip with six strings.” Two bishops even resigned.

Although the new Act prescribed the death penalty for anyone denying the sacraments, it did authorise

an English Bible to be chained in every parish church. For the first time in history, ordinary people

would be able to read and interpret the Scriptures for themselves, without fear of persecution—a new

freedom that was to have the most profound effects on every aspect of daily life. The first authorised

version was the Great Bible of 1539–1540, based on the translations by Coverdale and Tyndale. Its title

page, by an unknown artist, shows Henry VIII enthroned, handing down the Word of God to his

subjects, among whom Cranmer and Cromwell are prominent.

This powerful image of the King as the

fount of all secular and spiritual virtue and authority was the first example of mass-produced

propaganda in England.

Cromwell might have steered the kingdom through the Reformation and the turbulent politics of the

1530s, but by the summer of 1539 his work was almost completed and he was losing his ascendancy.

He had made many enemies along the way and incurred the jealousy and resentment of many at court

who coveted his power and sneered at his lowly birth, yet feared what he knew about them. Norfolk

and Gardiner had already tried to bring him down in Parliament; the people of England hated him; and

the King, dismayed at his support for religious radicals, was losing confidence in him. Cromwell’s only

true ally, aside from the fawning clients who looked to profit from his patronage, was Cranmer.

It was Cromwell who pressed the King to marry Anne of Cleves. He believed that, to counterbalance

England’s political isolation from the great European powers, an alliance with one of the Lutheran

German states would be wise. William, Duke of Cleves had two unmarried sisters, Anne and Amelia.

Anne, Cromwell had heard, excelled Christina of Denmark in beauty “as the golden sun did the silvery

moon.”

Envoys were duly dispatched to Düsseldorf, along with Hans Holbein, who had been

commissioned to paint the two princesses. His portrait of Amelia is lost, or unidentified, but that of

Anne is now in the Louvre. Holbein also painted a miniature of her, the only one of its period to

survive in its original ivory box, which was in the shape of a Tudor rose.

According to the English

envoy, Nicholas Wotton, Holbein “expressed their images very lively.”

The King liked what he saw,

and he instructed Cromwell to proceed with the marriage negotiations.

Henry was in jovial spirits that summer, and on 17 June he staged a river pageant at Whitehall with a

markedly antipapal theme. There was a mock battle between two barges, “one for the Bishop of Rome

and his cardinals, and the other for the King’s Grace,” which ended with the former being tipped into

the Thames. None were drowned, for the chosen actors could all swim and the King’s barge lay nearby

to pick them up. Henry and his courtiers watched the “triumph” from the leads above the privy stairs,