It was now nearly a year since the birth of the Princess Mary, and still the Queen had not conceived the hoped-for son. In the spring of 1517, she made another pilgrimage to Walsingham,29 accompanied by the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk. Katherine was becoming more devout with every passing year, and with the loss of each child had turned increasingly to her faith for solace. She had aged and grown stouter, although ambassadors still remarked upon her fine complexion. She no longer participated so enthusiastically at court revels, but often withdrew early, although she never shirked her duties on state occasions. Clearly, she and Henry were growing apart.
On what would come to be known as Evil May Day, the King rode from London with a train of courtiers to the woods at Kensington to bring in the May. But back in the City there were riots, as large gangs of apprentices joined in a concerted rising, attacked foreign merchants and craftsmen, and threatened to kill the Lord Mayor and his aldermen. There were several injuries, and many arrests; the ringleaders were executed, and on 22 May, four hundred others were brought before the King and his lords in Westminster Hall, wearing halters around their necks. In a beautifully stage-managed charade, Wolsey and Queen Katherine knelt and pleaded for their lives, whereupon Henry graciously pardoned them, at which all the apprentices threw their caps in the air for joy, and their mothers called down blessings on the King’s head.30 Some modern writers assert that Henry’s sisters also interceded for the apprentices, but Mary was then in Suffolk and Margaret had left for Scotland with her daughter on 18 May. Henry never saw Margaret again.
24
“Multitudes Are Dying around Us”
The spring of 1517 brought with it the outbreak of a severe epidemic of the sweating sickness, a terrifying disease that could kill with devastating speed. “One has a little pain in the head and heart; suddenly, a sweat breaks out, and a physician is useless, for whether you wrap yourself up much or little, in four hours—sometimes within two or three— you are despatched without languishing.”1 Apart from the violent sweats and shivering fits, the symptoms could include stomach pains, vertigo, a rash, headaches, and nervous prostration. Most casualties succumbed on the first day: a man could be “merry at dinner and dead at supper.” 2 But “once 24 hours are passed, all danger is at an end.” 3 Many cases seem to have been purely psychosomatic: one rumour might cause “a thousand cases of sweat,”4 and Chieragato observed that people “suffered more from fear than others did from the sweat itself.”5
Tudor medicine was a mixture of the received wisdom of the ancient Greeks, superstition, and old-fashioned common sense. Andrew Boorde recommended that sufferers be tucked up warmly in bed in a room with a roaring fire to sweat out the illness; other physicians recommended treacle and herbs, or exotic potions made from powdered sapphires or gold. The truth was, none of them had any real understanding of the sweating sickness, nor the slightest idea of what might cure it. The only thing they all agreed upon was that the patient should be kept awake and not allowed to lapse into a coma.
The sweating sickness had first appeared in England in 1485, when it was seen by some as a judgement of God upon Henry Tudor for usurping the throne; at that time, “scarcely one in a hundred escaped death.” 6 There had been another, less severe, outbreak in 1508. Europeans called the disease “the English sweat” because it was more prevalent in England than elsewhere. There were no cases after 1551, and today it is hard to be certain what the sweating sickness was. Some have speculated that it was a military fever—a particularly virulent form of prickly heat—others that it was a strain of influenza or typhus. Given the fact that bacteria can mutate, it was probably a viral infection which in time ceased to be fatal.
Plague in several forms, notably bubonic, was endemic in Tudor times. There were outbreaks most summers, some much worse than others, and the people who died were mainly the poor, who had not the means to escape the pest, as their betters could. Plague spread rapidly in hot, crowded, dirty cities, and London, which had about seventy thousand inhabitants crammed inside its walls, was invariably the worst-afflicted place. In 1513, three hundred to four hundred people a day died of plague in the capital. 7
Henry VIII was inordinately fearful of disease, and especially of any form of plague. He was “the most timid person in such matters you could meet with.”8 The mere words “sweating sickness” were “so terrible to His Highness’s ears that he dare in no wise approach unto the place where it is noised to have been.”9 No one who had been in contact with any infected person was allowed to enter his court.
In the spring of 1517, when the worst epidemic of the sweating sickness that England had yet experienced broke out in London, the King removed with the court to Richmond—where he was joined by the Suffolks—and thence to Greenwich. While there, he was invited by Giustinian to a banquet on board the Venetian flagship, which lay in the Thames, and accepted the invitation on condition that most of the crew, who might be be infected with plague, would stay away.
The ship’s main deck had been adorned with tapestries and silk hangings, and along each side were tables bearing a lavish buffet for the King and three hundred courtiers, who were rowed out to the ship in small boats. When Henry went on board, he was conducted to the poop deck, where he was offered wine, little sponge cakes, and other delicacies. He was full of praise for his hosts, and also for the sailors who performed daring acrobatic feats high up on the rigging, and was so impressed with the ship’s guns that he asked to return the next day to see them all fired. At the end of the banquet, everyone was allowed to take home the exquisite Venetian glasses in which their wine had been served.10
Henry was now revelling in the role of international peacemaker. Having temporarily given up any idea of winning victories against the French—he had told Giustinian he was content with what he had and wished only to govern his own subjects11—he set himself to maintaining the balance of power between Francis I and Maximilian. In early July, the King received Spanish ambassadors who had come to press for a defensive alliance with King Charles I of Spain, who had succeeded Ferdinand the previous year, and the Pope against the King of France. The envoys were escorted to Greenwich by a deputation of four hundred nobles, and shown every honour. At their first audience, the whole court “glittered with gold.” 12 The King regaled them with a programme of masses, pageants, and jousts, which culminated on 7 July with a splendid tournament in the new tiltyard complex in front of an audience of fifty thousand. Henry had wanted to take on all comers separately, but was persuaded that this would take too long, so, after giving a breathtaking display of horsemanship before his wife and his sister, he ran eight courses against Suffolk instead, “shivering their lances every time, to the great applause of the spectators.” 13
Among the other contestants who distinguished themselves in the four-hour contest, in which 506 spears were broken, were a group of young gentlemen of the Privy Chamber of whom the King had grown increasingly fond, and who wore outfits similar to his own. One was Nicholas Carew; it was on this occasion that he performed his feat with the tree trunk.14 The rest included Sir William Compton, Francis Bryan, Anthony Knyvet, and William Coffin. All were intelligent, articulate young men of gentle birth who were inclined to intemperate and often wild behaviour; they were known at court as “the King’s minions.” Wolsey resented this little clique because, although they held no political offices, they had the King’s ear, shared his leisure hours, and were therefore much too influential for comfort.
The tournament was followed by a banquet which lasted seven hours, after which Henry danced with the ladies until dawn broke.15 When the ambassadors left England, the King gave them rich gifts of horses and clothing.
By August, the plague had crept too near to Greenwich for comfort, so Henry sent home most members of his household and moved to Windsor, where he shut himself up with the Queen, Dr. Linacre, Dionysio Memmo, and only three of his favourite gentlemen (the latter group almost certainly included Compton and Carew). No one else was allowed to come
near him, not even foreign ambassadors, and all but the most necessary government business was held in suspension. Meanwhile, Wolsey, who had suffered four attacks of the sweat and survived, 16 had gone on pilgrimage to Walsingham to give thanks for his recovery.
Although the giests had been drawn up, Henry was forced to abandon all plans for a progress.17 In August 1517, More wrote to Erasmus: “Multitudes are dying around us. Almost everyone in Oxford, Cambridge or London has been ill lately.” At Windsor, “some of the royal pages who slept in His Majesty’s chamber” succumbed,18 and the King fled with his small entourage to “a remote and unusual habitation,” which has not been identified. Thereafter, he moved from house to house to escape the contagion, but not fast enough. Lord Grey, a German servant, and several of those who worked in the royal kitchens and stables caught the sweat and died, as did the King’s Latin secretary, Andrea Ammonio, three days after he had left court to seek refuge in the countryside. 19 Back in London, there was civil disorder due to the absence of both king and cardinal.20
By the autumn, only a skeleton staff were in attendance upon the King. As sickness was seen as a visitation from God and a punishment for sinfulness, Henry became more assiduous at his devotions, attending mass and receiving communion more frequently than usual.21 He kept fear at bay by hawking, making music with Memmo, or concocting his own remedy for the sweat; this was made up of sage, herb of grace, and elder leaves infused together.
Over the years, Henry devised more than thirty such remedies— medicines, plasters, lotions, and ointments—using a wide range of ingredients that included plants, raisins, linseed vinegar, rose water, worms, wines, ammonia, lead monoxide, ivory scrapings, crushed pearls, coral, marshmallows, “dragon’s” blood, and animal fat. His “cure” for bubonic plague consisted of an infusion of marigolds, sorrel, meadow plant, feverfew, rue, and snapdragon, sweetened with sugar. He also thought up plasters that would heal ulcers, swollen ankles, and sore legs; an unguent to cool inflammation and stop itching; and ointments “to make good digestion” or “to dry excoriations and comfort the member.”22 It is not known whether he made up these mixtures himself in a still room, or if he merely supervised the process.
That autumn, quacks and charlatans hovered on the fringes of the royal household, making a nuisance of themselves. One, a Spanish friar, claimed he had the power to order the seas and the weather. The King, dubious, agreed to see him, but sent him on his way with a flea in his ear after an interview lasting an hour.23
Henry placed his reliance on his prayers and his medical staff. Since the fifteenth century, there had been a strict division between scholarly physicians, who were often in holy orders and dealt in diagnosis; barber surgeons, who were much lower down the social scale and carried out surgery, pulled teeth, and let blood; and apothecaries, who made up prescribed remedies.
The King had six physicians, the best that could be found. The chief of them, Dr. Linacre, who was keen to further research into medical science, founded the Royal College of Physicians in 1518, becoming its first president, and later gave funds for two lectureships at Oxford and Cambridge. One of the first members of the Royal College of Physicians was Dr. John Chamber, another of Henry’s doctors, who had qualified at Padua and been physician to Henry VII; Holbein painted his portrait in 1542, when he was seventy-two. The King’s doctors all wore long furred gowns in the royal livery colours.
Henry VIII’s Sergeant Surgeon was Thomas Vicary, who in 1540 became first Master of the newly formed Guild of Barber Surgeons; he is shown kneeling with his fellows in Hans Holbein’s painting depicting the King granting the Guild its charter. Vicary, who received a life pension of £26.13s.4d (£8,000), wrote the first English manual on anatomy.24 Sometime before 1525, Henry presented him with an instrument case enamelled with the royal arms.25
The King had five apothecaries, and he placed much faith in their remedies, even when they made him sick.26 At various times, he was prescribed “pills of Rasis” to ward off plague, “fomentations for the piles,” eyebright for eyestrain, gargling mixtures for sore throats, and rhubarb pills, herbal poultices, and dragees for various other ailments.27 Medicines for the King’s use were kept with bandages and plasters in small coffers in the medical quarters of the palace service complex.
By December there were fewer cases of the sweat, but Henry “kept no solemn Christmas.”28 His provisions were low, and he had no wish to purchase goods that might be contaminated from markets in England. So he and his companions rode to Southampton, where they waited apprehensively for Flemish ships, which had been delayed by rough weather, to offload food supplies.29 Wolsey, meanwhile, had kept Christmas at Richmond, well supplied with oranges, which were thought to be antidotes to the plague.
For much of 1518, the King remained on his travels. He kept in touch with Wolsey by special messengers, who took letters and messages from one to the other every seven hours.30 In January, Henry returned briefly to Greenwich. While he was there, Wolsey, who was determined to combat the influence of the minions—whom he suspected with good reason of working against him—and who had recently thwarted William Coffin’s plans to marry a rich widow, found some unknown pretext for having Nicholas Carew sent away from court, replacing him with his own protégé, Richard Pace, a humanist and talented linguist who had studied at Oxford, Padua, Ferrara, and Bologna before serving as secretary to both Wolsey and Ruthall. However, the Cardinal was disconcerted to hear from Pace, almost immediately, that Carew was back “by commandment” of the King—“too soon, after mine opinion.”31
Pace remained as the King’s secretary, while discreetly looking after Wolsey’s interests. Henry was very impressed with him and appointed him at once to “the third seat on the Privy Council.”32 In 1519, Pace, who was a friend of Erasmus and More, succeeded Colet as Dean of St. Paul’s; three years later his Latin translation of Plutarch’s Moralia was published in Venice and became a best-seller. However, he had little leisure for study, for Henry kept him busy with correspondence or sent him on diplomatic missions abroad. Pace was a delightful man with a wonderful wit and intellect who was totally dedicated to his work. Henry looked on him as “his very self,” and it was said that, if Wolsey’s hopes of being elected Pope were fulfilled, Pace would be the one to take his place.33
From Greenwich, Henry went to Eltham, Farnham, Reading, and Wallingford. In March 1518, he was at Abingdon with the Suffolks; here he began to relax a little, since “no man cometh to tell him of the death of any person, as they were wont daily.”34 However, Wolsey advised him to restrict the numbers attending court at Easter, not only because of the plague, but also because he had heard rumours from abroad that some unnamed noblemen were plotting against the King. Pace wrote to Wolsey to say that “His Highness doth give unto Your Grace most hearty thanks for your letters touching great personages, and doth right well perceive thereby, and most lovingly accept, the special regard that Your Grace hath to the surety of His Grace’s person.”35
Taking the Cardinal’s advice, Henry ordered his privy councillors to stay away. His inherent suspicious streak was aroused, and it may have been at this time that he wrote the undated letter warning the Cardinal to “make good watch on the Duke of Suffolk, the Duke of Buckingham, my Lord of Northumberland, my Lord of Derby, my Lord of Wiltshire and on others which you think suspect.” The letter was intended for “none other but you or I.”36 No details of the supposed conspiracy are known, nor why the King had cause to doubt the loyalty of Suffolk. Northumberland had recently been in trouble for keeping too many liveried retainers, and Buckingham’s open resentment of being sidelined by Wolsey was notorious, but the rest seem to have been blameless. Nevertheless, Wolsey remained vigilant.
Henry was all for returning to London, but Katherine warned him against it.37 So, after the St. George’s Day celebrations, the depleted court moved to Woodstock Palace, eight miles north of Oxford. This large stone house decorated with heraldic emblems had been a favourite royal residence since the early
twelfth century. Henry VII had spent a great deal of money modernising Woodstock, while Henry VIII, who was attracted by the excellent hunting in the vicinity, kept it in repair and used it several times as a progress house. It could accommodate the whole court, and Henry could escape with his riding household to the greater privacy of Langley or Ewelme, which were not far off.38
Soon, however, there were reports of plague nearby, and the King and Queen hastened to Ewelme, where they were guests of the Suffolks, and thence to Bisham Priory in Berkshire, before moving south to Greenwich, Richmond, and Esher.
In August, Henry stayed with Buckingham at Penshurst Place, then went on a hunting progress, lodging with his riding household in the houses of noblemen. When he was reunited with the Queen at Woodstock, he was delighted to find her pregnant: “the Queen did meet with His Grace at his chamber door, and showed unto him for his welcome home her belly something great, declaring openly that she was quick with child.”39 With hopes of a male heir revived, and the plague having at last died out, the King now deemed it safe for the court to reassemble in its entirety in London.
25
“The Mother of the King’s Son”
In May, 1518, Wolsey had been appointed papal legate and given unprecedented authority over the Church in England, even surpassing that of the Archbishop of Canterbury, before whom he now took precedence. From henceforth, two crosses would be borne before him in procession, and it would be said that he was “the proudest prelate that ever breathed.”1 It now seemed as if the Cardinal’s dream of becoming pope might become reality, yet he would still need the backing of the King of France or the Emperor. In order to secure such support, he determined to play an international role. Nothing, it was said, would please him more than “to be called the arbiter of Christendom.”2