Philippa Gregory: The Constant Princess

“He was taught nothing of warfare,” she said. “He has not had to study other battles. He knows nothing about observing the lie of the land and positioning a force. He knows nothing about supplies and keeping an army on the move. His father taught him nothing.”

“His father knew next to nothing,” the earl said quietly, for her ears only. “His first battle was Bosworth and he won that partly by luck and partly by the allies his mother put in the field for him. He was courageous enough, but no general.”

“But why did he not ensure that Henry was taught the art of warfare?” asked Ferdinand’s daughter, who had been raised in a camp and seen a campaign plan before she had learned how to sew.

“Who would have thought he would need to know?” the old earl asked her. “We all thought it would be Arthur.”

She made sure that her face did not betray the sudden pang of grief at the unexpected mention of his name. “Of course,” she said. “Of course you did. I forgot. Of course you did.”

“Now, he would have been a great commander. He was interested in the waging of war. He read. He studied. He talked to his father, he pestered me. He was well aware of the danger of the Scots, he had a great sense of how to command men. He used to ask me about the land on the border, where the castles were placed, how the land fell. He could have led an army against the Scots with some hopes of success. Young Henry will be a great king when he has learned tactics, but Arthur knew it all. It was in his blood.”

Katherine did not even allow herself the pleasure of speaking of him. “Perhaps,” was all she said. “But in the meantime, what can we do to limit the raids of the Scots? Should the border lords be reinforced?”

“Yes, but it is a long border, and hard to keep. King James does not fear an English army led by the king. He does not fear the border lords.”

“Why does he not fear us?”

He shrugged, too much of a courtier to say any betraying word. “Well, James is an old warrior; he has been spoiling for a fight for two generations now.”

“Who could make James fear us and keep him in Scotland while we reinforce the border and get ready for war? What would make James delay and buy us time?”

“Nothing,” he declared, shaking his head. “There is no one who could hold back James if he is set on war. Except perhaps only the Pope, if he would rule? But who could persuade His Holiness to intervene between two Christian monarchs quarreling over a pirate’s raid and a patch of land? And the Pope has his own worries with the French advancing. And besides, a complaint from us would only bring a rebuttal from Scotland. Why would His Holiness intervene for us?”

“I don’t know,” said Katherine. “I don’t know what would make the Pope take our side. If only he knew of our need! If only he would use his power to defend us!”

Richard Bainbridge, Cardinal Archbishop of York, happens to be at Rome and is a good friend of mine. I write to him that very night, a friendly letter as between one acquaintance to another far from home, telling him of the news from London, the weather, the prospects for the harvest and the price of wool. Then I tell him of the enmity of the Scottish king, of his sinful pride, of his wicked licensing of attacks on our shipping and—worst of all—his constant invasions of our northern lands. I tell him that I am so afraid that the king will be forced to defend his lands in the north that he will not be able to come to the aid of the Holy Father in his quarrel with the French king. It would be such a tragedy, I write, if the Pope was left exposed to attack and we could not come to his aid because of the wickedness of the Scots. We plan to join my father’s alliance and defend the Pope; but we can hardly muster for the Pope if there is no safety at home. If I have my way, nothing should distract my husband from his alliance with my father, with the emperor and with the Pope, but what can I, a poor woman, do? A poor woman whose own defenseless border is under constant threat?

What could be more natural than that Richard, my brother in Christ, should go with my letter in his hand to His Holiness the Pope and say how disturbed I am by the threat to my peace from King James of Scotland, and how the whole alliance to save the Eternal City is threatened by this bad neighborliness?

The Pope, reading my letter to Richard, reads it aright and writes at once to King James and threatens to excommunicate him if he does not respect the peace and the justly agreed borders of another Christian king. He is shocked that James should trouble the peace of Christendom. He takes his behavior very seriously and grave penalties could result. King James, forced to accede to the Pope’s wishes, forced to apologize for his incursions, writes a bitter letter to Henry saying that Henry had no right to approach the Pope alone, that it had been a quarrel between the two of them and there is no need to go running behind his back to the Holy Father.

“I don’t know what he is talking about,” Henry complained to Katherine, finding her in the garden playing at catch with her ladies-in-waiting. He was too disturbed to run into the game as he usually did and snatch the ball from the air, bowl it hard at the nearest girl, and shout with joy. He was too worried even to play with them. “What is he saying? I have never appealed to the Pope. I did not report him. I am no talebearer!”

“No, you are not, and so you can tell him,” Katherine said serenely, slipping her hand in his arm and walking away from the women.

“I shall tell him. I said nothing to the Pope, and I can prove it.”

“I may have mentioned my concerns to the archbishop and he may have passed them on,” Katherine said casually. “But you can hardly be blamed if your wife tells her spiritual advisor that she is anxious.”

“Exactly,” Henry said. “I shall tell him so. And you should not be worried for a moment.”

“Yes. And the main thing is that James knows he cannot attack us with impunity, His Holiness has made a ruling.”

Henry hesitated. “You did not mean Bainbridge to tell the Pope, did you?”

She peeped a little smile at him. “Of course,” she said. “But it still is not you who has complained of James to the Pope.”

His grip tightened around her waist. “You are a redoubtable enemy. I hope we are never on opposing sides. I should be sure to lose.”

“We never will be,” she said sweetly. “For I will never be anything but your loyal and faithful wife and queen.”

“I can raise an army in a moment, you know,” Henry reminded her. “There is no need for you to fear James. There is no need for you even to pretend to fear. I could be the hammer of the Scots. I could do it as well as anyone, you know.”

“Yes, of course you can. And, thank God, now you don’t need to do so.”

AUTUMN 1511

Edward Howard brought the Scots privateers back to London in chains and was greeted as an English hero. His popularity made Henry—always alert to the acclaim of the people—quite envious. He spoke more and more often of a war against the Scots, and the Privy Council, though fearful of the cost of war and privately doubtful of Henry’s military abilities, could not deny that Scotland was an ever-present threat to the peace and security of England.

It was the queen who diverted Henry from his envy of Edward Howard and the queen who continually reminded him that his first taste of warfare should surely be in the grand fields of Europe and not in some half-hidden hills in the borders. When Henry of England rode out it should be against the French king, in alliance with the two other greatest kings of Christendom. Henry, inspired from childhood with tales of Crécy and Agincourt, was easy to seduce with thoughts of glory against France.