The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [61]
My new Lord Chancellor and I had much to discuss, in February of 1516. The Christmas festivities were over and done with. Archbishop Warham had gn his spiritual duties, and Wolsey had assumed the mantle of the highest political office in the realm, along with the highest ecclesiastical rank, as England’s only Cardinal.
Did he ever regret the lost Joan Lark and his sons? Or had the sacrifice been well worth it? It had taken only three years to go from the Lark’s Morning Inn to this, once the decision had been made. Tactfully, he never referred to it. He was a man of the present. The Welsh longing for unnamable things was not a part of his makeup. I envied him that.
“King Francis has proved himself,” he said bluntly, that raw February morning as we settled ourselves before his gigantic Italian work desk.
I knew what he meant. He meant that Queen Claude was pregnant. Francis had proved himself alarmingly, then, both as a warrior and as a getter of children. Within only a few months of his accession, he had taken the field, leading his troops into battle at Marignano in Italy, winning a stunning victory against the Papal forces. Francis meant for northern Italy to become French, and he was well on his way to achieving it.
“Perhaps it will die.” I cursed it, then.
“Nothing Francis does seems to die, or not thrive. Truly, he seems to have extraordinary luck on his side.” Wolsey was annoyed by this. One could counter stratagems, not luck.
“And all anyone talks of is his wretched court! His styles, his ballet de cour, his plans to build châteaux.”
“A novelty, Your Majesty.” Wolsey sniffed daintily at the silver pomander he had affected carrying. “He is the newest king in Europe. ‘Twill pass.”
“Ah, but he is not the newest King!” I produced the telling letter that had arrived only that morning, and handed it to Wolsey.
His eyes attacked it. “Ferdinand is dead.” He crossed himself, by rote. “Charles of Burgundy is King of Spain.”
“Yes. A sixteen-year-old Habsburg is now the newest—and youngest—King in Europe.”
“And that makes you the old fox among them.” Wolsey smiled. “We’re well rid of Ferdinand. He was useless to us; useless to everyone, in fact. A new king in Spain, a boy-king ... what possibilities this offers!”
“For manipulation?”
“How well we understand one another.”
“That is why you are where you are.” And let him understand that it was I who had put him there, not he himself. Without me, he could do nothing, was nothing. “Not all boy-kings can be manipulated. Age is not necessarily a measure of innocence.”
“I understand this one is unworldly, peculiar.”
“The truth is that he is unknown. As I myself was when first I came to the throne.”
“We will make it our business to know his nature, gather information. I have several connections in the Burgundian court, reliable witnesses ... if paid enough.”
In retrospect I cannot help but laugh at Wolsey’s primitive methods of spying; at the time they gns.
This treaty, of course, would be signed in London, under my auspices, with Wolsey himself acting as Papal legate.
The proposal was eagerly accepted by Pope Leo, and, using the bait of Tournai, we enticed the French into coming to England to sign the treaty. Not only would we unite in peace, but we would plan and execute a mighty Crusade against the Turk.
The world stood still while the legates, ambassadors, lords, and prelates of all Christendom—England, France, the Empire, the Papacy, Spain, Denmark, Scotland, Portugal, Hungary, the Italian states, the Swiss Confederation, and the Hanseatic towns—gathered in London and signed the treaty. Before the High Altar of St. Paul’s, a Pontifical Mass was celebrated by Wolsey, and a general peace within Christendom was proclaimed. Cardinal Wolsey, Lord Chancellor of England, Papal legate, was recognized as “the Architect of Universal Peace.” His face shone with triumphant glory.
There were a few private matters to be worked out between England and France. One