V

O heresy, thou walkest a-wrye,

Abrode to gadde or raunge;

Like false brethren, deceave children,

This Churche nowe for to chaunge:

Her praier by night to banish quight,

With new inventions straunge.

On April 17, 1521, a thickset young monk with the coarse features of a peasant stood before the German Diet at Worms. The emperor, Charles V, was present, along with the leading figures in the German church and state. The young monk, Martin Luther, was confident yet overawed by the assembly. For he had been summoned to Worms in hopes that he might take back the heresies he taught—that the pope was only a fallible man, and that salvation did not come through the seven sacraments of the church.

The pope, who saw Luther as just another heretic, had excommunicated him, but in the empire he was already a popular hero. His writings were eagerly received by Germans of all classes who resented the political and economic stranglehold of Rome and saw in his teachings a rallying point for rebellion. North of the Alps, Luther was a dangerous man. Rather than force him into open revolt by publishing the papal bull of excommunication the emperor summoned him to Worms. Here he was shown a pile of his books. Would he stand by everything he had written, he was asked, even where it went against the age-old teachings of the church? How could he be certain that he was right and all those who had gone before him were wrong?

Luther appeared to falter under the pressure of his examiners and the solemn weight of the occasion. He asked for time to prepare his reply. He went back to the freezing attic that was the only lodging he had been able to find in the city and pondered whether he might have overstated his views. The next day he returned to face the Diet, convinced that he could alter none of what he had written. If he did not yield, the officials warned him, the only possible outcome would be bitter division and civil war throughout the German lands. But Luther was adamant. He had to follow scripture and his conscience, and no one else. Charles V left the room, unconvinced. Luther was outlawed, and left Worms in fear of his life. In the following year the first in a wave of bloody revolts that would devastate German society in the 1520s was under way.

On the day the Diet of Worms ended Henry VIII’s secretary Richard Pace found the king in his chamber reading one of Luther’s works. It was his new treatise On the Babylonian Captivity of the Church, in which he argued that there ought to be only two sacraments, the Lord’s Supper and baptism, and not the seven defined by Rome. The treatise provided Henry with just the focus he needed for a project he had long had in mind. Since 1515 he had been at work on and off on a theological treatise of his own. Now he would turn it into an assault on Luther. The grateful pope would, he hoped, reward him by giving him another clause to add to his official title. A medieval pope had conferred on the line of French kings the title “Most Christian.” Henry wanted a similar designation for himself and his heirs.

As a preliminary to his personal assault against Lutheran doctrines Henry and Wolsey planned a formal denunciation. The king was not able to preside in person—a tertian fever confined him to his bed—but the cardinal conducted the proceedings with impressive solemnity. He sat under a golden canopy on a platform in the churchyard of St. Paul’s, and his magnificence was awesome—worthy of the pope himself, in the view of one eyewitness. The proceedings were opened by John Fisher, bishop of Rochester, who spoke for some two hours to the assembled clergy, lay lords and commoners, praising Wolsey and announcing that Henry was at work on a theological refutation of Luther’s heresies. Wolsey then rose to promulgate the papal bull excommunicating Luther and cursed him and all his followers. To dramatize the condemnation he ordered quantities of Lutheran writings heaped up in the churchyard and set on fire, and the smoke from the burning books and pamphlets rose over the platform as he spoke.¹

The elaborate denunciation of Luther was prompted, at least in part, by the embarrassing accuracy of his criticisms. The English church, like the German, was a highly imperfect vehicle of belief. Some clerics were pious and self-sacrificing, but many others disgraced their offices. They wore bright-colored clothing and silver girdles like laymen; they curled their hair like courtiers; wealthy bishops trapped their horses with costly furs and wore gold buttons and lacings on their caps. To meet a priest was, in the words of one church critic, “to behold a peacock that spreadeth his tail when he danceth before the hen.” And while many parish priests were so poor they could barely feed themselves, some among the higher clergy were extravagantly wealthy. Ruthal, bishop of Durham and Wolsey’s chief factotum, carried about with him an inventory of his extensive lands and treasure, and Wolsey, easily the richest ecclesiastic in England, had a personal income larger than the king’s.

Wolsey’s wealth came from another clerical vice condemned by Luther: pluralism. By church law every cleric could hold only one parish, deanery, diocese or archdiocese. In 1521, Wolsey held at least two such benefices—the archbishopric of York and the bishopric of Bath and Wells—and in addition he enjoyed the income from the bishopric of Worcester whose bishop, an Italian, was out of the country. Beyond his own numerous offices Wolsey gained most of the profits from the church livings bestowed on his bastard son Thomas Wynter. While he was still a schoolboy Wynter became dean of Wells; later he was made provost of Beverly, archdeacon of both York and Richmond, and chancellor of Salisbury, holding in all a group of livings earning some twenty-seven hundred pounds a year.²

Cardinal Wolsey was fast becoming a symbol of the worldly power and wealth concentrated in the English church. In the king’s name he claimed authority over every other noble or cleric in the land, and did not hesitate to bully and rough up foreign dignitaries if they threatened England’s interests. He caused a scandal in 1516 by seizing the papal nuncio Chieregato, taking him into a private chamber and “laying hands on him,” demanding to know whether Chieregato was conspiring with the French and Venetians. In “fierce and rude language,” Wolsey made it clear that unless the nuncio confessed freely, he would be put to the rack, and in fact he was not allowed to leave the kingdom until his house had been ransacked and all his papers and ciphers seized and read.³ On another occasion Wolsey summoned Giustinian and threatened him in the strongest possible language against sending dispatches abroad without his personal consent, “under pain of the indignation of the king.” As he spoke Wolsey became more and more beside himself, until in his frustration he began to gnaw at the cane he was holding in his hand and scrape it roughly against his teeth.⁴

If Wolsey did no more than threaten, other clerics were not above criminal intrigues. In 1514 Cardinal Bainbridge, archbishop of York, was poisoned at Rome by a self-proclaimed agent of the bishop of Worcester. Conclusive proof of the bishop’s guilt was lacking, but it was thought the matter was hushed up because Wolsey succeeded to Bainbridge’s see and later Worcester helped Wolsey to become cardinal.⁵

Clearly the English church was marred by abuses, vice and worldliness, but the idea of a fundamental change of religious sentiment was as foreign to the English as it was welcome to Luther’s eager supporters in Germany. If the Lutherans were ridiculing the veneration of relics, the English were still taking to the roads in spring and summer on pilgrimages to the shrines of St. Cuthbert at Durham, the two Hughs at Lincoln, the Saxon St. Etheldreda at Ely, St. Joseph of Arimathea at the holy shrine of Glastonbury and, most beloved of all, the jewel-encrusted tomb of St. Thomas Becket at Canterbury. If Lutheran doctrine condemned the sale of indulgences—papal pardons which claimed to shorten the sinner’s time in purgatory—the English were still moved to buy them for themselves and their dead relatives. Thomas More conjured a piteous image of the torment of souls in purgatory, condemned by God’s inexorable judgment to writhe in fire hotter than any earthly flame, “sleepless, restless, burning and broiling in the dark fire one long night of many days,” and torn by “cruel, doomed sprites, odious, envious and hateful.” To ease this unthinkable anguish English men and women were glad to pay for indulgences that promised them a year, or five hundred years, or, as in one formula from Salisbury, 32,755 years of pardon. The love of saints, the fear of punishment for sin, the place of the church feasts in the timeless cycle of the agricultural year—these and not theological disputes were for the majority of the English the unchallenged substance of belief in the 1520s.

The general indifference of his subjects to the new doctrines from Germany put no damper on King Henry’s enthusiasm for his new project. He rushed ahead with his treatise during May and June of 1521, calling it the Assertion of the Seven Sacraments and adding to the copy being prepared for the pope a verse of dedication in his own handwriting. By August the Assertion was completed, and twenty-eight copies were sent to the English ambassador in Rome, John Clerk, who took them to Pope Leo. The pope was immediately taken with his own copy, which was bound in cloth of gold, and urged Clerk to stay while he read the first five pages or so, nodding his head in approval as he read. Looking up from his reading he remarked on Henry’s “wit and clerkly conveyance,” and paid him the high compliment of comparing his work favorably to that of men who devoted their entire lives to learning. Leo’s eyesight was almost too dim to make out Henry’s dedicatory verse, but once it was pointed out to him he read it again and again, and praised it and the king in the most grateful terms,⁶

Leo presented the Assertion later at a private consistory, and on the following day he announced his intention to give Henry his coveted title Defender of the Faith. The pope requested copies of the royal book for his cardinals as if he expected it to be used against Luther, but in fact the twenty-eight presentation copies were allowed to gather dust in his library, and a year later Clerk noticed them there, still unread.⁷ Other clerics welcomed Henry’s efforts with extravagant praise, however, calling the Assertion a “golden book” and its author an “angelic rather than a human spirit.” Outside Rome Henry’s treatise was read, and translated from Latin into German and English. Certainly it did not hurt the papal cause to have such a celebrity as the king of England declare himself in opposition to Luther at a time when most humanists were reluctant to denounce him and the German knights were rebelling in his name. One of Luther’s opponents exclaimed that Henry’s work was “multiplied into many thousands,” and “rilled the whole Christian world with joy and admiration”; another was ready to turn over to him the whole field of learning. “If kings are of this strength,” he wrote, “farewell to us philosophers.”

Of course there were those who claimed that Henry could not have written his book without help; some said More or Erasmus or, as Luther believed, Erasmus’ enemy Edward Lee was the true author. Modern scholars are equally reluctant to give the king credit for the Assertion, although at least one cites the mediocrity of the treatise as proof of its royal authorship. By his own admission Henry disliked putting pen to paper, but he may have dictated the treatise to a secretary. And if he had help in choosing and organizing his arguments, still the impetus to write it and the persistence to complete it were his. Henry disliked allowing others to take recognition he could earn for himself, and he rarely took credit for other men’s feats. In all probability the Assertion of the Seven Sacraments was largely the king’s own book.

Certainly the abuse heaped on the reformer in the treatise was worthy of Henry. He called Luther a “venomous serpent, a pernicious plague, an infernal wolf ... an infectious soul, a detestable trumpeter of pride, calumnies and schism, having an execrable mind, a filthy tongue, and a detestable touch.”⁸ To Luther, “Squire Harry” was nothing but “a damnable rottenness and worm,” and he showed no deference to royalty in his rude response to the Assertion. Henry and Luther proved themselves masters of invective, if not of theological argument, but after their first exchange the king left it to others to defend his side of the controversy. Under a pseudonym Thomas More took up the battle against “Lousy Luther,” and Henry shifted his assault on the reformer from the religious to the diplomatic realm.

It was no coincidence that Luther’s chief enemy, after the pope, was the man Henry and Wolsey were courting most assiduously, the Emperor Charles V. When Henry wrote to Charles execrating Luther as “this weed, this dilapidated, sick and evilminded sheep,” his abuse was intended to echo Charles’ own view and to convey England’s readiness to support the emperor in his fight against the Lutheran rebels. Charles was Katherine’s nephew, the son of her mad sister Joanna. He was Henry’s nephew by marriage, and in recent years Henry had been taking full advantage of his avuncular role to court an imperial alliance, inviting Charles to England and entertaining him lavishly. In features and temperament Charles fell far short of the handsome, chivalric image of monarchy dear to Henry’s heart, but his wealth and power more than made up for these shortcomings.

Charles was an ill-favored man whose narrow blue eyes, lusterless white skin and enormous, disfiguring jaw and chin lent him a vaguely im-becilic air. He had bad teeth and a fragile digestion, and his lifelong habit of gross overeating gave him an expression indicative of perpetual indigestion. He looked best on horseback, where the severe plainness of his dress passed for understated magnificence and his face took on a heroic stubbornness. In the saddle he was convincing as the ruler of European lands significantly larger than those of France and nearly five times those of England. The extent of his subjects and wealth in the New World was only beginning to be estimated, but even leaving them out of account he controlled the financial center of Europe and his fleets and armies made him master of the continent. It was already apparent that Charles lacked brilliance and flair, but he was conscientious and shrewd. His bursts of activity were interrupted by long periods of listless depression during which no state business was conducted and courtiers and ambassadors wondered whether the emperor might slip into a permanent melacholy of the kind that imprisoned the wits of his mother. But then energy would return to his limbs and voice, and to the “greedy eyes” the Venetian envoy saw in his disconcerting face, and the emperor would again confront the task of administering his far-flung empire.

In the fall of 1521 Charles’ energies were directed toward war with France, and Henry was supporting the imperial side of the conflict. Francis had returned to his preoccupation with surpassing Henry—now he was building a ship larger than Henry’s thousand-ton warship the Great Harry—and Wolsey was engaged in drawn-out negotiations of a betrothal between the young emperor and Mary. (The French betrothal had been set aside.) There was no doubt in Henry’s mind that the emperor’s forces would defeat the French, but the war news was not encouraging. Letters from France informed the king that the French were sweeping into the territories of the emperor, burning everything in their path and cutting off the fingers of little children as a warning of worse cruelties to come.⁹

In the midst of the fighting Charles visited England a second time, in June of 1522. London was prepared for his arrival as if for a royal coronation, with buildings along his route of entry newly painted and decorated with hangings, and pageants staged in several quarters of the city. Charles was greeted by the Lord Mayor and aldermen, and by a Latin oration from Thomas More. All the clergy of Middlesex were assembled to cense him as he rode past, and the members of every occupation and company stood together in their liveries. Two giants welcomed Charles and Henry to London, addressing them as “Henry defender of the faith, Charles defender of the church,” but most of the pageants made no allusion to religion and instead elaborated the themes of the English Order of the Garter and the imperial Order of the Golden Fleece, and the genealogical links between the two rulers. One representation was made in the shape of the island of England, surrounded with rocks and silver waves, and with its mountains and woods full of beasts and fish, trees and flowers. When the emperor passed this pageant the animals began to move, the fish to jump and the mechanical birds to sing, and two armed figures made to resemble Charles and Henry threw away their swords and embraced. At that moment “an image of the father of heaven all in burned gold” appeared above the island, under a banner proclaiming, “Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called the children of God.”¹⁰

During Charles’ visit the two kings played tennis and rode together, and the English knights jousted against the emperor’s attendants, the prince of Orange and the marquis of Brandenburg. Henry and Charles took the lists themselves in a gorgeous tournament, wearing horse bards of russet velvet depicting “knights on horseback riding upon mountains of gold.” A play was presented in the great hall at Windsor, mocking Francis and celebrating the English and imperial enterprise against him. An untamed horse representing France ran wild across the stage until the king and emperor, in the person of Amity, sent their messengers Prudence and Policy to tame the horse and their envoy Force to bridle him once and for all.¹¹

There were banquets as well during the emperor’s visit, and exchanges of compliments and effusive camaraderie, but this royal meeting was of the utmost seriousness. Despite his youth Charles was a mature ruler on a diplomatic mission of the gravest import. He knew exactly what he hoped to gain in England and what he was willing to give in return. Preliminary meetings had raised and settled most of the major points of dispute months before, and there was agreement on the central issues of the betrothal and the English declaration against France that would follow it. The betrothal contract had been hammered out with some difficulty. Charles’ negotiators first insisted that Mary be delivered to them as soon as she reached the age of seven, so that she could be trained as a lady of the imperial court for some years before her marriage. Wolsey refused, fearing that the princess might in some way be “repudiated, violated or disparaged” once she arrived in Brussels. Next Wolsey’s request for dower lands in Flanders and Spain to the value of 20,000 marks was refused as excessively large, and he in turn refused an imperial request that England declare against France at once, without waiting for the betrothal to be sworn. Finally compromises were worked out on all these points: Mary would not go to Brussels until she was twelve, her dower lands would total ten thousand pounds in value, and the English declaration would be deferred until the time of Charles’ personal visit. Mary’s dowry of eighty thousand pounds was reluctantly accepted, though the imperial negotiators pointed out that it was less than the king of Portugal was offering to give with his daughter.¹²

Some months after these negotiations the Spanish ambassador came to Richmond, and while he was there Katherine insisted that he see the emperor’s future bride. Mary was dressed beautifully and brought before him to dance. She danced a slow dance first, “and twirled so prettily that no woman could do better,” and then began the leaping steps of the galliard, “acquitting herself marvellously well.” She played the virginal for the ambassador too, and showed such poise and skill that he marveled at her ability and wrote that she might be envied by a woman of twenty. He pronounced her pretty and, surprisingly, tall for her age—probably implying that she was taller than Spanish girls of six.¹³

After several weeks of visits and entertainments Charles, Henry and Wolsey closeted themselves to finalize the alliance. Plans were made for the invasion of France and the division of French lands between the two sovereigns afterward. On June 16 war was declared against France. At Windsor the matrimonial treaty was signed, and when Mary kissed Charles goodbye as he left to make his way to the Channel for the return crossing to Brussels it was no longer as his cousin but as his affianced bride. In six years they would marry, and the princess would become Empress Mary, co-ruler of half the known world.

Over the next four years this awesome prospect dominated Mary’s life. She was to be transformed, as rapidly as possible, into a young Spanish lady. To begin with, she was to be dressed “according to the fashion and manner of those parts.” Cloth was sent to the imperial court to be cut into gowns under the supervision of Margaret, regent of Flanders. Margaret was “to devise for the making thereof after such manner as best shall please her,” then return the garments to England.¹⁴ Mary spoke her mother’s Spanish; now she was to be trained in Spanish customs and politeness as well. It was strongly urged that Mary be sent to Spain, at least for a time, but Henry would not part with her. Katherine could teach her all that she needed to know, he insisted, and after the marriage Charles could educate her as he wished.

The letters Charles sent to the English court during these years rarely mentioned Mary; from the emperor’s point of view the betrothal was only a minor detail of a diplomatic alliance. He did ask for news of “my best sweetheart the princess, the future empress” in a letter to Wolsey in 1523, but doubtless she remained very much in the background of his thoughts.¹⁵ As for Mary, she seems to have had a strong romantic feeling for Charles—or at any rate for the idea of a husband—and it seems clear that the women around her encouraged her to imitate the behavior and to express the emotions of a lover. When she was nine Mary sent Charles an emerald ring, together with the solemn message “that her grace hath devised this token for a better knowledge to be had (when God shall send them grace to be together) whether his majesty doth keep constant and continent to her, as with God’s grace she will to him.” The ambassadors who were to deliver the emerald were instructed to add that Mary’s love for Charles was so passionate that it was showing itself in jealousy, “one of the greatest signs and tokens of love.” Sending the emerald may or may not have been Mary’s own idea, but it was certainly the kind of thing that Katherine and her ladies encouraged. It was a gesture of playful courtesy, the act of a medieval princess testing the fidelity of her knight. Regardless of its origin, there is every reason to believe that Mary, who in later life took matters of the heart very seriously indeed, meant the gesture sincerely and cared very much about her future husband’s fidelity.

Charles, who was anything but continent and was by this time considering marrying someone else, made the chivalrous reply the situation called for. He inquired politely about Mary’s health, education and looks, and then, smiling, stuck the emerald ring on his little finger and ordered the ambassadors to say that “he would wear it for the sake of the princess.”