The Scarlet Peacock Read online

  ‘Off your knees, Thomas,’ he ordered. ‘I have need of your counsel – and that of the beautiful Spanish Ambassador here.’

  Katherine preened herself proudly, and looked adoringly into Henry’s eyes while Thomas regathered his dignity and stood to one side, indicating for Henry to take the seat next to Katherine. The wine was served, and the king drank deeply before belching discreetly and looking up at Thomas, who was standing before him with the English Grammar text in his hand. Henry sniffed loudly as his eyes alighted on the book.

  ‘Gone are the days when you would tutor me, Thomas, although I am well pleased with the progress of my dear lady queen in her mastery of our deceptive language. Today I require both your counsels on the latest request from my esteemed father-in-law King Ferdinand.’

  ‘Sire?’ Thomas enquired, while Katherine beamed back at both of them and answered the question.

  ‘There is to be a new alliance between the most powerful nations in Europe against Louis of France. It is to be led by the Pope himself, and will therefore be called ‘The Holy League’. Pope Julius has succeeded in persuading the Emperor Maximilian to commit his troops, and he in turn, being related by marriage to my father, has caused him to bring Spanish soldiers to his banner. My father would also wish another close relative – my dear husband Henry, his son in law – to add to the mighty force that can thereby be sent to silence Louis, and end his ambitions in Italy.’

  ‘I could not have explained it better myself, my sweet,’ Henry said admiringly as he kissed the Queen’s cheek, then looked up at Thomas.

  ‘What say you, Thomas? Should we commit?’

  Thomas was well aware that Henry’s greatest dream was to conquer France, not only proving himself to be the great warrior that he believed himself to be, but also to retrieve those lands won by his hero, and distant Lancaster ancestor, Henry V, before they were lost again by his dim-witted son Henry VI. Thomas would also have placed a large wager on Katherine being in favour of the proposal, since it came from her father, to whom she owed everything from her dark days in virtual exile following the death of Prince Arthur.

  On the other hand, the English tradition established by Henry’s father Henry Tudor had been one of negotiation and treaty. Not only did this preserve English lives, but it cost less money, and there was always the risk of armed uprising at home if the nobles and leading merchants felt themselves over-taxed to support wars that were none of their making. This policy of conducting foreign affairs by treaty had been developed by the most senior ongoing member of the King’s Council, Richard Foxe, who was also Thomas’s benefactor, and was now being enthusiastically supported by the current Archbishop of Canterbury and Chancellor of England, William Warham. Against them was the Earl of Surrey, a middle-aged battle veteran and the father of Thomas’s nemesis Thomas Howard.

  Thomas was deep in thought when Henry, as usual, cut in to place his wishes beyond misunderstanding.

  ‘I would that we proceed, Thomas, and I wish you to make that happen. To that end, I wish you at long last to take up your seat at the Council table in your capacity as my Almoner. With yourself and Surrey on my side, Warham and Foxe can stare at the ceiling and bewail what might have been, but we shall restore England to its former glory, and I shall lead our victorious knights through the streets of Paris with Louis on a halter.’

  ‘That would gladden my father’s heart,’ Katherine chimed in with a loving smile in Henry’s direction. ‘He has long suffered the threat of the arrogant House of Valois against his kingdom, and that of my sister of Castile on whose behalf my father also speaks. Would it not also place my dear husband among the leading, and most devout, princes of Europe, to fight under a banner blessed by the Pope himself?’

  The reference to the Pope reminded Thomas that there were others apart from Henry from whom he sought preferment. To please Pope Julius II would perhaps be a step towards the scarlet robe of a Cardinal of the Church of Rome that he most craved, and he would at the same time be keeping well in with Henry, who might be a useful voice in the Pope’s ear at the appropriate moment. All the favourable indicators were towards a war with France in the name of St Peter, and who was Thomas to ignore the omens?

  ‘It shall be as you wish, Hal,’ Thomas agreed. Henry clapped his hands in delight.

  ‘Most excellent! The Council meets tomorrow, at ten of the forenoon, in the Star Chamber. I shall require you to lend the weight of God to my argument, should Warham continue prattling on about “Thou shalt not kill”. Be prepared to take on the head of your Church should it threaten to become a battle of the scriptures. And now you may leave us – I am sure that my dear wife and queen has suffered enough tutoring for one day.’

  Thomas bowed from the presence and made his way downriver to Blackfriars Steps, where a groom was waiting with his donkey. A few minutes later he entered his new house in Bridewell, where all was bustle and shouting as carriers and servants placed the last of the furniture in place in the great hall, or struggled up the narrow stairwell to one or more of the upper chambers. Seated nervously at a trestle table was his returned chaplain, Thomas Larke, and beside him sat a comely young woman. She was sturdily built, with a more than ample bosom and long light auburn hair that flowed down to her shoulders from where she had earlier removed her cap, which sat on the trestle in front of her. The overall impression she gave was that she was a milkmaid or a farmer’s wife, and she gave Thomas an open beaming smile as Thomas Larke rose swiftly to his feet and welcomed his master home.

  ‘We are but lately returned from the old house at Putney,’ Larke advised him. ‘I must apologise for having tarried so long in the resolution of my father’s affairs that I was unaware that you had already moved here. It is a much bigger house, and will perforce require more servants.’

  His master smiled indulgently as he looked pointedly at the girl who was still fixing him with a knowing grin. ‘I have few sins to confess during your absence, Thomas, so fear not on that score. But unless I misjudge the situation, you may have a sin of your own to confess to me – is she your wife?’

  Thomas laughed. ‘In truth, master, she is my sister, Joan. My father’s death has placed her in an awkward situation. The inn which my late father owned has been sold, and will henceforth be managed and staffed by the family of the new owner. This leaves Joan with no position, a maid of but twenty-two years of age with no protector, no employment and no roof over her head. If she is not to fall prey to evil or malignancy, she must perforce be offered some new station, and I was hoping that one might be found for her here, under my protection. She has considerable experience in the service of wine, since she worked for my father, and she is also a most admirable cook, besides being a skilled seamstress. Perhaps, since you have of late complained regarding the state of your garments when they are returned from the laundry of the holy sisters of Fulham, you might …’

  Thomas stemmed the flow of words with a hand gesture and a smile, as he beamed back at the eager smiling face of Joan Larke.

  ‘No more, Thomas. It shall be as you wish. As you observe, we have need of more servants. Present your sister to the steward, in order that he may best employ her.’

  The next morning, with some trepidation, Thomas made the wherry trip to Westminster, where he was admitted to the Star Chamber to find that while he was early, he was not the first. The Earl of Surrey was staring at the ceiling, deep in thought, as Thomas bowed slightly and took a seat across the table from him. Surrey considered Thomas’s glowing, scrubbed countenance for a moment, before breaking the silence. ‘My son Thomas wishes his best regards passed on to you.’

  Thomas nodded his acknowledgement, then raised an eyebrow. ‘How did he know I would be here?’

  ‘How do you think? His Highness advised me late yesterday. He also advised me that we can rely upon you to talk some sense into Foxe and Warham.’

  ‘Will his Highness be here to argue his cause?’

  Surrey smiled. ‘That will depend upon whether or no
t there is a hunt somewhere within a day’s ride of London. Or whether or not someone wishes to lose to him at tennis. But did it not occur to you that you are expected to sway the others?’

  ‘His Highness certainly indicated how he would wish to decision to go, but even so …’

  Surrey leaned across the table and lowered his voice. ‘Be in no doubt, Thomas, that the King wishes war on France, and has done these many months. The Holy League is his best opportunity, and we will not long remain in favour if we cannot sway the Council to his will.’

  As he spoke, the chamber door opened and Foxe entered, deep in conversation with Archbishop Warham. Thomas rose from his seat and approached the Archbishop, then bowed in order to kiss the ring of office on the outstretched hand. Warham looked down his nose slightly at Thomas, then took his place next to Foxe, who raised a quizzical eyebrow in Thomas’s direction, but remained silent.

  A few moments later, the king bustled in, dressed for the hunt, and the expression on his face left no-one in any doubt that he did not intend to remain for long. He opened the proceedings by expressing his desire to deal first with the request from Ferdinand of Spain that England commit an army to the Holy League against Louis of France, and asked for the initial views of those around the table. There was an ominous silence, broken by Foxe.

  ‘Since everyone else in Europe seems committed to keeping Louis out of Italy, why should we join in?’

  ‘Because,’ Henry enthused, ‘France has ever been our enemy, and we have this God-given opportunity to further secure not only our possessions in Calais, but also our other Channel ports.’

  In the silence that followed, Warham took a long breath and added his dour opinion.

  ‘A Pope-given opportunity, certainly, but I feel sure that your Majesty’s Almoner, in his capacity as Dean of Lincoln, would agree with me that this is no automatic guarantee that God has placed His seal on the proposal. It is, if anything, a Pope-given opportunity to tax the people in order to raise an army.’

  ‘We cannot, at this difficult time, tax the people further,’ Foxe agreed. ‘My memory goes back to the days in which the merchants of London were driven to the point of rebellion by being over-taxed.’

  ‘Over-taxed by Dudley and Empson, to line their own pockets,’ Thomas observed as his first contribution around the Council table. ‘This would be a tax to preserve our nation against any threat from France for all time coming, which in turn would discourage the Scots, who I am advised are currently sharpening their axes in anticipation of foraging south of the Tweed.’

  ‘His Majesty’s Almoner has obviously forgotten that we are at perpetual peace with the Scots,’ Foxe replied with a smirk, ‘which is all the remarkable for the fact that it was Wolsey himself who negotiated that treaty, at my request. Were his efforts so feeble that even the fact that the King’s sister is married to the King of Scotland cannot prevent them from harassing our northern borders?’

  ‘If we ally with Spain and the Empire, could we not then call upon their assistance, should we be attacked ourselves?’ Thomas countered. ‘As for the cost of fielding an army, in my role as Almoner I can confirm that there is sufficient in the royal Treasury to finance such a venture, without need to seek further tax revenue through Parliament.’

  ‘Ferdinand of Spain is most desirous that we join with him,’ Henry added, ‘and this would not be a good time to lose favour with such a powerful ruler.’

  ‘He will surely look favourably upon the birth of yet another grandchild,’ Warham added sarcastically, earning himself a foul look from Henry that caused him to drop his gaze to the table. He was playing with fire, since Queen Katherine had lost their first child when it was born prematurely, and spent half her waking life on her knees praying for the safe delivery of the latest in her womb. Thomas saw his chance to attack the Archbishop and get away with it.

  ‘I am somewhat nonplussed that the Archbishop is not more enthusiastic to do the bidding of the Pope,’ he announced unctuously. ‘After all, victory must be ours, if the expedition has the blessing of Rome.’

  ‘Tell that to those who died in the many attempts to reconquer Jerusalem under the banners of several ignominiously defeated Crusades,’ Warham snarled back. He looked up suddenly and pierced Thomas with a stare that was intended to be intimidating.

  ‘And I would remind the Dean of Lincoln that it is his place to respect the view of the leader of his Church.’

  Thomas was prepared for this, and smiled back defiantly.

  ‘The Archbishop is certainly primus inter pares – first among equals – in the summoning of convocations of the English branch of the Church of Rome. But the direct authority governing those who are not under holy orders in Canterbury itself comes from the Pope himself, through – in my case – the Bishop of Lincoln. While I have not had the opportunity to enquire of my lord of Lincoln, I must bow my head to the will of the Holy Father himself – whatever Canterbury may say.’

  Henry sniggered, and Warham shot Thomas a look that would have been fatal if accompanied by a real dagger. Foxe, an ordained bishop himself, opted to intervene before the squabble became even more personal.

  ‘In my capacity as one of those referred to by the Almoner as under the direct authority of Rome, we should remind ourselves that “Thou shalt not kill”.’

  ‘But as the Archbishop just reminded us,’ Thomas chirped back, ‘we appear to be absolved in advance if we kill those whose actions threaten the Church, such as the Mohammedans who overran the Holy City. Louis of France is bent on overrunning the cities of Italy one by one. One of those is Rome itself – is my lord Archbishop proposing that we do nothing to protect the direct descendent of St. Peter from physical attack?’

  ‘He has a point there, William,’ Henry smirked back at the Archbishop, who glowered silently back at Thomas, while Foxe leaned back in his chair and looked sideways at Surrey.

  ‘My lord of Surrey, you have not favoured us yet with your opinion. As a military man, would you deem it wise to stick our nose into the honey pot while the bees are still buzzing in residence around it?’

  Surrey smiled condescendingly, as one would towards a child seeking to have the mysteries of the cosmos explained to it.

  ‘There is such a thing as safety in numbers,’ he advised the remaining members of the Council. ‘This would be the best opportunity since the glorious days of the fifth King Henry to gain back territories in France that have lawfully belonged to England since the age of the first Plantagenet. With the might of the Holy Roman Empire engaged in the fighting in Italy, while Ferdinand of Spain marches eastwards from his strongholds, we may march south from Calais and be at the walls of Paris within three days’ march. Once Paris falls, France is ours.’

  ‘And the cost in human lives?’ Warham muttered.

  ‘There would be less loss under this arrangement than were we to attack France on our own,’ Surrey assured him.

  ‘How many men would you require?’ Foxe enquired doubtfully, as he saw the debate swinging in Henry’s desired direction.

  ‘Ten thousand at most, should we be joined with Spain, with the Imperial forces to our south,’ Surrey replied. ‘Wolsey can no doubt advise how much this would cost in financial terms.’

  ‘We can afford it,’ Wolsey insisted, his fingers crossed under the table.

  ‘Shall we put this to the vote?’ Henry suggested, eager to be away before the full heat of the day.

  As predicted, it was three votes to two, the King having only an equal vote with the remainder of his Council, but with Surrey and Wolsey in his camp. Henry then made his excuses and left, leaving the other four to plod routinely through matters as mundane as the execution arrangements for Dudley and Empson.

  Thomas was elated at having assisted Henry to get his own way at his very first Council meeting, although he was hoping upon hope that he could confirm, when required to do so, that Henry had the resources to equip an invasion force of ten thousand fully armed soldiers. After a hearty supper
, and the best part of a jug of the Beaujolais that a hopeful Governor of Calais had sent over when first advised that Henry intended to throw Wolsey into the debate regarding the bolstering of England’s defences across the Channel, Thomas went early to bed.

  He was dozing fitfully when the door to his bedchamber opened, and Joan Larke slid into the room carrying a pile of undergarments intended for Thomas’s clothing chest. She stood for a moment, highlighted by the still flickering nightlights without which Thomas was unable to sleep, then when she realised that his eyes had opened, she explained her business.

  ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, master, but these clothes needs to be put away. I washed them after I sewed them. Yer can’t have enough clean underclothes, I always say.’

  Thomas grunted an acknowledgement, and waved his hand for her to get on with it. Undeterred, she approached the bed and stood in full view of Thomas’s head as it lay sideways on his pillow.

  ‘If it weren’t fer yer lordship’s kindness, I’d have no underclothes of my own. Then how would I look – like this, perhaps?’

  She unclasped her gown from the back of her neck and let it slip to the floor. She was naked underneath, and Thomas looked for the first time on a pair of full young breasts heaving with suppressed lust, and a forest of light brown pubic hair nestled between two ample thighs that quivered with anticipation. He raised his head from his pillow and stared stupidly at the sight before him, as Joan reached down, pulled back the bedcovers, slid in beside him and smeared his face with hot wet kisses as she stripped off his nightshirt.

  She placed his hand on her left breast and pleaded with him to squeeze, which he did like a man in a trance. Joan’s breathing became hoarser and hoarser as she took his hand and guided it into the damp bush between her thighs until it found her cleft. Then with an agonised groan she heaved him on top of her, grabbed his rock-hard penis and forced it into her as she began a rocking motion backwards and forwards. Following her lead, and needing no further encouragement, Thomas rammed in and out of the rapidly moistening pit until he gave a groan of his own and climaxed inside her.