Chapter One
It is the little victories,
That bring us the big ones.
—Ignatius de Loyola (1491–1556)
1520
Beneath an unmerciful sun, the squire dropped the
flag with a
flourish. Riders kicked at glistening flanks; horses charged
forward
with little between them save the narrow wooden poles of
the lists. Hooves thundered upon the jousting field; the
pounding
boomed in the ears. Dirt clumps flew up into the air as if
tossed in
celebration. Weighted and encased in full armor, plumes on
helmets
bobbing with every gallop, the combatants raised their lances
with steely determination, eyes locked upon the impending
opponent
as they cradled their weapons in the crook between bicep and
chest.
Nobleman, courtier, commoner, and peasant jumped to
their
feet in the overflowing, banner-festooned stands, holding their
breath as the two kings bore down upon each other. The impact,
when it came, burst out like two worlds colliding. Lance met
armor, snapping with a riotous crash and a splintering of
wood, and
the air ruptured with gasps and cheers. Each competitor had
broken
his lance upon the other; yet both had kept their saddle. The
match was a draw, again.
François quit his black
steed with deft agility, tugging off the
cumbersome helmet with agitation. Beneath it, his thick
chestnut
hair lay matted with sweat to his face and jawbone.
“Well done, Your Majesty,” Montmorency called out as
he approached,
raising his voice above the unabated cheering. Beside
him, a slight man brandished a satisfied sneer as he
scissored his
short legs, hurrying to keep up.
With a sidelong look of annoyance, the young king of
France
scoffed, struggling to remove his gauntlets.
“Do not patronize me, Monty.” Finally relieved of
them, François
threw the thick, padded leather gloves to the ground, words
slithering out between grinding teeth. “Damn it all, I
cannot best
the man.”
“That is true,” Philippe de Chabot said as he picked
up the
gloves and slapped them together to dislodge the fresh mud.
“But
neither can he best you. There are worse ways to spend a day of
sport.”
In the bright sunlight, François squinted slanted
eyes at his
companions, his valued friends since childhood, his closest
advisers
since becoming king five years ago, and felt the heat of his
ire
cool. Perhaps there were other ways to triumph over this
adversary yet.
In Henry VIII, François found everything he detested
in a
king—a hedonist obsessed with the quest for power and plea-
sure—and yet a part of him strove to imitate this nemesis whom
he would never admit respecting, though respect Henry he did.
The faults François railed against in his archrival were
ones others
attributed to François himself. How disgusted he would be to
know it.
“Besides,” Chabot continued with a shrug of his small
shoulders,
“you are much better looking.”
Monty barked a laugh as François snickered, cuffing
Chabot in
the arm.
“You must pay your respects to your opponent.” The
gruff, aged
voice doused the conviviality of the young men. Chancellor
Duprat
approached, skinny legs waddling under a rotund body. “King
Henry awaits your hand, Sire.”
“Of course.” François accepted the intrusion and
instruction
without argument. Accompanied by his triumvirate of men, he
stalked across the rutted tourney field.
“Well ridden, Your Majesty,” he called as he
approached his
challenger, outstretched hand in the lead.
With a devilish smile upon his plump, freckled face,
Henry accepted
the hand thus offered. “And you, Your Highness.”
Cardinal Wolsey, rotund form looming in red cassock and
mozzetta, hovered by Henry’s side as always, as did the
dukes of
Suffolk and Norfolk.
These two rivals politely embraced, between them a
pull of
genuine affection, more potent after the last few days
together, yet
sharp with the edge of competition, like two loving brothers
forever
bent on besting the other.
“A worthy match indeed,” François conceded. “One
deserving
of a hearty toast.”
“More than one, I should think,” Henry agreed. “I
will see you
at table?”
“It will be my honor.” François accepted
the invitation with a
sweeping bow.
As the men separated and made to quit the field, the
crowd
erupted into another burst of applause, colorful banners
flourishing.
With magnanimity, each sovereign acknowledged the accolades
with a wave, a nod, and a smile as they quit the field.
A young man standing along the front rail took his
pretty wife
by the arm, hoisting his daughter higher in his grasp, and
began to
lead them through the departing congested throng. “Come, mes
amours, I must prepare to attend the king at table.”
“Of course, my dear,” replied the delicate woman at
his side,
skin flushed from a day in the sun.
The toddler in her father’s arms put her head down
onto his
strong shoulder, blond curls falling on her face as her eyes
grew
heavy, then closed. Exhausted from the excitement of the long
day, she would sleep peacefully tonight.
The royal combatants retired from the tourney field,
entourages
in tow, each to his own opulent encampment. These men of power
and privilege endured no discomforts; though ensconced in
makeshift,
temporary lodgings, each camp contrived astounding
accommodations
for this auspicious meeting.
Months in the making, the summit was unlike any
conducted
before. Leaders who had been overlooked waited with equal
amounts of wonder and fear, because any accord between France
and England could only spell trouble. The possibility of
orchestrating
a great peace enticed the English king. The opportunity to
bring another to his cause against his rivalry with Charles
V of
Spain, newly appointed Holy Roman Emperor—chosen by the
new pope over François himself—had inveigled the French king
forth. A grand meeting, an opportunity to talk; diplomacy
and deal
making decorated by a grand festival. And yet the
undercurrent of
competition between the two young and brash chevaliers, the
constant
quibbling for any modicum of superiority over the other, no
matter how miniscule, permeated every facet of this
audacious assembly.
In the shallow Val d’Or at the very edge of English-occupied
France, near Calais, halfway between the castle ruins of Guînes
and Ardres, they had met on an early June afternoon.
Henry would have a castle no matter where he laid his
head. In
the shadow of the Château de Guînes, the Palace of Illusions
had
been erected with sections brought from England already
assembled.
Covering an area of more than two acres, it was a convoluted
construction of wood and earth covered with a painted canvas to
resemble stone and formed with turrets, parapets, and windows.
Within its vast rectangular interior lay a courtyard
boasting two
magnificent fountains fed by three pipes—one for water, one for
hippocras, and one for wine.
In a meadow on the outskirts of Ardres, the French
had pitched
their tents, almost four hundred of them, some as large as
any castle’s
great hall. Many of the nobles in attendance had forfeited all
property, selling their fields, their mills, their forests
to attend the
event with appropriate honor. Surmounted by pennants of golden
apples and emblazoned with their owners’ coats of arms, the
tents
of velvet and cloth of gold spread out across the
countryside like
wild flowers. The field shimmered as if the gold grew from its
earth. But no pavilion rivaled the splendor of François’s tent.
Taller than any other and sixty feet on a side, two
ship masts
lashed together supported the mammoth cloth of gold. Blue
velvet
lined the interior, decorated with fleurs-de-lis and gold
embroideries
from Cyprus.
Beyond splendid, yet the kings’
accommodations paled in comparison
to the events conducted over the course of the summit.
Banquets, dances, and mummings filled the nights; a
feat of
arms—jousting at the tilt, an open field tournament, a foot
combat
at the barriers with puncheon spears, swords, and two-handed
swords—filled the days. The kings were the most rowdy and
jubilant
attendants of all. In their company were their nobles, their
friends, and their women. François had brought his mother; his
wife, Queen Claude; and his mistress, the Comtesse de
Chateaubriant.
Regal and silent by Henry VIII’s side, stood Catherine of
Aragon, with countless fair maidens waiting to warm his bed. As
the kings made merry, their ambassadors and delegates made
diplomacy, Wolsey speaking foremost for England, while the
Queen
Mother, Louise de Savoy, spoke for France. Many words passed
between these two equally keen minds, but little of lasting
consequence
was said.
Henry rubbed at his midsection, a replete, resounding
belch
coaxed forth from the embroidered brocade–covered protuberance.
Attendants scurried around him, cleaning the remnants of
the evening’s festivities like ants upon an abandoned picnic
ground.
He watched them from his elevated perch on the velvet
chair in
the corner of the vast room; watched, but cared little about
their
performance. The last of the guests had retreated in the early
hours of the morning, leaving the king in the company of his
most
reliant confidants.
“Have we found out who the young women are?” Henry spoke
to his men, but his unfocused, bloodshot eyes never strayed
from
the buzzing workers before him, mesmerized, in his hazy stupor,
by their tedious, repetitive movements.
The bearded Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, stepped
forward,
if a bit unsteadily, wine sloshing in a tightly gripped
chalice.
“They are Thomas Boleyn’s daughters, my lord, Mary and . . .
and
Anne.”
Henry pulled himself up from his slump and whipped round, all
at once full of eager attention. “Certainly not?”
“ ’Tis true, Your Highness, they have been in the French
queen’s company for some years and are quite soon preparing to
return to our homeland.”
With sensual, languid movements at odds with his rugged
physique, the king reclined once more. “Be sure to send them a
personal invitation to court.”
“Of course, Your Highness. As you wish,” Suffolk assured him,
but not without a roll of his eyes and a salacious smile at
the small
group of men gathered in duty and imbibing.
“Are we done here, Wolsey? I tire of these games.” Sounding
like nothing so much as a spoiled, petulant child, Henry’s
bulbous
bottom lip stuck out in a pout.
“I believe we have done all we can here, Your Majesty,” the
cardinal
said with neither enthusiasm nor disappointment. “You have
done well to sign the treaty.”
Henry snarled at him. To make peace with the posturing
François rankled; the hand that wielded the quill itched.
“You will see great results from this, I assure you,”
Wolsey pacified.
It was the slightest of changes, but the king’s pout
reformed, a
devilish grin blossoming in its stead. In that moment, Henry
found
the joy of the situation in which he found himself: As the
lesser of
the three world powers, both France and Spain courted him. A
master manipulator, he intended to exploit the state of
affairs for
all it was worth.
“Send a message then, would you, Wolsey? Tell the emperor I
would like to talk. He should know of the ostentatious
display we
have witnessed here. A man with so much to prove as our
François,
putting on such a show, must have something to hide.”
“Of course, Majesty, but per—”
When the hand of his king flicked in his face, the cardinal’s
thoughts froze on his tongue. Henry leaned forward, resting his
free hand upon one knee, eyes fixed upon the young man rushing
toward him. The pale, snaggletoothed youth approached his
sovereign,
lips forming words aching to launch from his mouth.
Henry’s quieting hand flicked from Wolsey to the approaching
squire, who clamped his mouth shut, eyes bulging in fear at the
abrupt command.
“Cease and desist.” The king’s booming voice pummeled the
air. “You are all relieved. Make for your beds.”
Every manservant and chambermaid dropped whatever lay in
their hands, and took themselves off without thought or
question.
The small gathering of courtiers drew closer to the king,
put on
guard at once by the abrupt change in his tone and demeanor.
“Speak,” Henry barked the instant the last servant had quit
the
chamber.
With a twitch and an Adam’s apple–bobbing swallow,
the young
man made his report.
“Your fears have been confirmed, Your Highness. The man in
question has indeed been seen in clandestine conversations with
members of the French contingent.”
“Bastard!” spat the king, pounding a fist on the arm of the
chair
and spewing upon the floor, as if the word and gesture were not
enough to rid him of his venomous rage.
The messenger quaked in his worn leather boots, bulging insect
eyes once more protruding from his long face. Only Suffolk
remembered
him.
“You may leave us, good sir. You have done well.
Have no fear.”
With a calming hand upon the youngster’s shoulder, the duke
turned him toward the door, helping him away with a firm yet
gentle
nudge. Turning back, Suffolk met with the king’s blazing stare.
“You know what to do?” Henry moved not a bit, his voice low
and quiet, yet his rage was there for any to see did they
know what
to look for.
Suffolk’s full lips thinned in a grimace, but he bowed, spun on
his heel with determination, and left; not a one questioned his
compliance with whatever the king demanded of him.
The screams of human and animal mixed in a grotesque
chorus,
filling the predawn hours with their horror and revulsion. The
monstrous flames rose into the black sky, roaring like
cannon blasts
in the day’s most hushed hours. Men, women, and children fled
from the orangey blaze in fright while soldier and guard ran
toward
it. But it was too powerful, too repulsive, and it was
impossible to
break through to its heart, to penetrate the barrier and
save those
trapped within. They stood at the aperture of the tent now
fully
ablaze in the apex of the English camp, waiting to catch
those fortunate
enough to escape from the fiery cataclysm.
The pandemonium swirled about the inferno like the oxygen
that fed it so splendidly. For within every neighboring
tent, the
brilliance of the flame appeared alive upon the walls, the
nexus of
its glow indistinguishable through the pale canvas. In
terror they
ran out of their tents, into the fray; haphazard, undirected
commotion.
No matter how removed from danger, they ran and screamed,
the sickening scent of burning flesh fueling their fear.