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  The weather turned at last. The sails of the Emperor’s ships were spotted off Dover on the evening of 26 May. Rather than continue to Sandwich, as originally planned, the Emperor headed straight in to Dover to make land as soon as possible.

  It was a momentous occasion. No Holy Roman Emperor had ever set foot in England before. Cardinal Wolsey had been sent to Dover to greet him on behalf of the King. The Cardinal arranged to be rowed out from the harbour as the Emperor’s ships lay becalmed just outside the port.

  ‘Send a message to the King,’ he told an aide, before he set out. ‘You’ll find him in Canterbury. Tell him the Emperor has arrived. We’ll put him up at the castle tonight and take care of him until His Majesty gets here.’

  Henry VIII hurried to Dover as soon as he got the message. His formal introduction to the Holy Roman Emperor took place at the castle next morning. The Emperor came down the staircase to greet his host and the two monarchs exchanged courtesies while their staff looked on discreetly. They were all relieved that the Emperor had arrived in time to catch Henry while he was still in Kent.

  It was a family occasion, as much as anything else. Henry’s wife, Queen Catherine of Aragon, was the Emperor’s aunt, the sister of his mother. The Emperor was looking forward to meeting her for the first time.

  ‘The Queen is expecting you at Canterbury,’ Henry told him warmly. ‘She’s looking forward to it too. We’ve got all sorts of entertainments lined up for you, now that you’re here at last.’

  A long cavalcade took the Canterbury road. The Holy Roman Emperor never went anywhere without a large retinue. He had brought hundreds of people with him from Spain, including two hundred Spanish ladies dressed in the latest Spanish fashions. They all joined the procession and settled down for the journey to the cathedral city.

  The people of Canterbury watched with approval as Henry and his famous companion made their way to the cathedral. Cardinal Wolsey rode behind the two monarchs as they went in through the new Christ Church gate. The great stone archway had recently been built to allow a proper wheeled entrance into the cathedral precincts.

  The new gate was further along the street from the old one. It had a postern for pedestrians beside the main carriage gate, two brick storeys above, and twin towers on either side that made it look like a giant H for Henry. The eighth monarch of that name was rather proud of it.

  ‘Took years to build,’ he told the Emperor. ‘They’re still putting the finishing touches to it at the top. It’s very solid, though. Going to last a long time, this gate.’

  They went into the precincts. The Archbishop welcomed them at the west door of the cathedral and escorted them inside. Their swords of state were carried solemnly in front of them amid a sprinkling of incense and holy water as they walked in procession up the nave for Whitsun mass in the choir.

  After the service, the Archbishop took them to the Martyrdom, where Henry and his guest knelt down to pray at the site of St Thomas’s murder. Then they straightened up and went to see the saint’s shrine beyond the high altar.

  Monks stood ready to show them St Thomas’s hair shirt, his broken skull and other holy relics. King Henry and the Emperor Charles kissed each item in turn, as was expected of them. When they had finished, Henry pointed out all the jewels at the shrine, in particular the Régale de France, which had pride of place at the right of the altar.

  ‘A gift from the French king of the time,’ he told the Emperor. ‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly is.’ The Emperor was impressed. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘Neither have I. St Thomas is very lucky to have a ruby like that.’

  The Archbishop’s palace lay beside the west door of the cathedral, where they had come in. Queen Catherine was waiting there to meet her nephew after they had finished in church. The Archbishop led the way as they retraced their steps down the nave and went outside again. The door of the palace stood open to receive them.

  The porch was lined with good-looking ladies from the English court. Among them was Mary Boleyn, the Queen’s newly appointed maid-of-honour. The young woman was a highly decorative addition to the Queen’s household, in King Henry’s opinion. He gave her the suspicion of a wink as he escorted his guest into the palace.

  The women all smiled and curtseyed as the Emperor passed. Inside, twenty young pages in gold brocade and crimson satin lined a long corridor leading to a marble staircase at the end. Queen Catherine stood at the top of the stairs, waiting to meet her nephew.

  She wore pearls and a robe of gold cloth lined with ermine. She was all smiles as the Emperor came up the stairs to embrace her. Queen Catherine of Aragon was famous in England for her charm and sweet nature. Her nephew took to her at once.

  There were tears as well as smiles as they went in to lunch. Catherine was an emotional woman. Without a son of her own, she was delighted to have such an impressive nephew coming to visit her. She only wished that her own child had been born a boy that her husband could cherish, instead of a daughter.

  The lunch was private for the family, a chance for the Emperor and his hosts to get to know each other. King Henry threw a more public party for him that night, a splendid banquet at the palace with music and dancing that lasted until dawn. The arrangements had been supervised by Thomas More, the King’s secretary.

  ‘Put on a big splash,’ Henry told his wife, as she decided which pearls and diamonds to wear for the occasion. ‘Your nephew will expect the best. We want him to know that we favour him over every other monarch in Europe.’

  ‘As you wish, my lord.’ Catherine wore her grandest jewels and most sumptuous gown for the party. She sat with her nephew after the banquet, watching from the sidelines as everyone else took to the dance floor. One of the Spanish guests, a nobleman with a taste for the theatrical, became so smitten with the Englishwoman he was dancing with that he pretended to faint for love and had to be carried out of the room by his arms and legs.

  King Henry was less smitten with the Spanish ladies, who weren’t very pretty. They certainly couldn’t compare with Mary Boleyn, batting her eyelashes at him from across the room. Henry plunged in nevertheless and joined the dancing with the rest. It was already getting light as the party broke up at last and they all went to bed.

  There were more revels next day. It wasn’t until the Tuesday afternoon that the two monarchs got together at the palace to discuss the reason for the Emperor’s visit. He wanted England on his side in the coming war between France and the Holy Roman Empire.

  ‘You should join forces with the empire,’ he told Henry. ‘You don’t want to be an ally of the French. England would be much better off with us.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ Henry was non-committal. ‘I think we’d be wiser to remain neutral, if there’s going to be a war.’

  ‘England and France aren’t natural allies. When have your two realms ever been on the same side in a war?’

  But Henry was not to be moved. He was on his way to France for a meeting with the French king. He wasn’t going to commit his country to anything until he had heard both sides of the argument.

  ‘I leave England in a couple of days,’ he told the Emperor. ‘I’m going to meet the French king in a field.’

  ‘A field?’

  ‘Somewhere near Calais. They’re already putting the tents up for it. Using a lot of cloth of gold, from what Cardinal Wolsey tells me.’

  Wolsey was the man for the Emperor to talk to, if he wanted to win Henry round. The sly cardinal was the power behind the throne, the man responsible for all of Henry’s best ideas. The Emperor decided to have a word with him in private, as soon as he got the chance. Wolsey would see the advantages of an alliance with the empire, even if Henry couldn’t.

  The Emperor’s chance came as he was leaving for Sandwich at the end of his visit. His ships were waiting there to take him to the Netherlands. Wolsey was to accompany him to the port and see him off. They would be able to talk in private on the road.
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  The Emperor said goodbye to his aunt before leaving. Queen Catherine was very sorry to see him go. So was King Henry, in his way. He accompanied the Emperor for the first five miles along the Sandwich road before turning off towards Dover, where he himself was going.

  ‘We’ll meet again,’ Henry told him, as they parted at the turning. ‘After I’ve talked to the French king, I’ll come and see you in Flanders and tell you all about it. Or you can meet me in Calais, whichever you prefer.’

  ‘I shall look forward to it,’ said the Emperor.

  He continued towards Sandwich, while Henry took the Dover road. The King was barely out of sight before Cardinal Wolsey was summoned forward to ride beside the Emperor. Spurring his horse, Wolsey did as he was told.

  The Cardinal was a biddable man, said to be in the pay of the French. It was rumoured that he had been heavily bribed by the French king to make Henry do whatever France wanted. But two could play at that game. The Emperor had a proposal to put to the King of England’s chief adviser.

  ‘Well now, Cardinal. I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘You have been a good servant to your king these past few years. A good servant to the Church as well. On behalf of the Holy Roman Empire therefore, and after the good time I had in Canterbury, I think we ought to do something for you as a token of our appreciation.’

  ‘That’s very nice of you.’ Wolsey wondered what was coming.

  ‘The bishopric at Badajoz is vacant at the moment. There’s an interest in the Palencia diocese coming up as well. I wonder if you’d be interested in them?’

  ‘In Spain?’

  ‘There are no actual duties. You don’t have to go there. But there’s a very good annual pension.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Five thousand ducats for Badajoz, two for Palencia. As a token of our appreciation for all your good work.’

  Seven thousand ducats a year. Wolsey was impressed. ‘And I don’t have to do anything for it?’ he asked.

  The Emperor shook his head. ‘It’s a reward for everything you’ve done in the past.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much. I’m delighted to accept.’

  ‘There’s something else we need to discuss as well.’ The Emperor had saved the best for last. ‘It’s about the Pope.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Leo can’t last for ever. There’ll be a vacancy when he dies.’

  ‘Yes?’ Wolsey’s ears pricked up.

  ‘The cardinals will have to choose a new Holy Father when the time comes. It’ll be decided by a majority vote.’

  Wolsey was aware of it.

  ‘There are fourteen cardinals in the Holy Roman Empire,’ the emperor told him. ‘That’s a substantial number, quite enough to swing the vote. I think the empire’s cardinals could all be persuaded to elect you as the next Pope, if I asked them to.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘If I asked them to.’

  ‘As the next Pope?’

  ‘You’re a good man, Wolsey. We need someone we can trust in Rome.’

  Wolsey didn’t know what to say. He was an ambitious man, but he hadn’t been expecting this.

  ‘I think we understand each other,’ the Emperor told him. ‘You look after our interests with uncle Henry and we’ll look after yours in Rome. It’s time the English had another Pope.’

  They rode on to Sandwich. On the other road, Henry continued towards Dover. He and Queen Catherine were due to sail from there to Calais for their summit conference with the French king.

  It was going to be a magnificent occasion, something to be remembered for years to come. Henry was taking more than five thousand people to the field of cloth of gold with him, and half as many horses. Those who weren’t already in France all had to be ferried across the Channel and brought safely in to Calais. It was no mean undertaking, even in good weather.

  The preparations for departure were well under way as Henry arrived at the castle. The harbour was packed with shipping and the town was full of people waiting to accompany him to France. The Great Harry, his thousand-ton flagship, was magnificently fitted out with guns and cloth of gold sails for the voyage. The French had nothing like it in their navy.

  Henry stayed the night at the castle with Queen Catherine. He was hardly up next morning when Thomas More popped his head in.

  ‘The Cardinal is back. He’s just got in from Sandwich.’

  Cardinal Wolsey had ridden to Dover after seeing the Emperor off to the Netherlands. He reported to the King at once.

  ‘All went well,’ he told his monarch. ‘The Emperor is looking forward to meeting you again in July. He was very pleased with his visit to Canterbury.’

  ‘So he should be, after all the effort we put in.’

  ‘We had an interesting talk on the way to Sandwich. I think we should work very closely with the Emperor in the future.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to work with the French?’

  ‘Them as well. But we must be careful never to do anything that might alienate the Emperor or his interests.’

  ‘I’m surprised at you, Wolsey. You’ve always been very keen on the French.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘You certainly have. You’re probably the only man in England who thinks an alliance with France is a good idea.’

  ‘Oh well. We all make mistakes. I think we should be good friends with the Emperor from now on.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The Looting of Thomas Becket’s Shrine

  The break with Rome had come, and now the cathedral faced further indignity. By order of King Henry VIII, men were on their way to Canterbury to destroy the shrine of St Thomas and scatter it to the winds. One of the holiest sites in Christendom was about to come to an abrupt and very distressing end.

  The warning signs had been there for some time. The national mood was changing under King Henry. Plenty of people still believed in the old religious ways and remained faithful to them. Others deplored the worship of statues, the purchase of fake relics and the sale of bogus pardons. They argued that what had once been honest piety was now simply a money-making racket for the church.

  King Henry’s men arrived in September 1538. They were led by Dr Richard Layton, a priest and lawyer. Layton was one of the Royal Commissioners for the Destruction of Shrines.

  ‘Straight to the cathedral,’ he told his men, as they arrived. ‘You’ll find St Thomas’s shrine behind the altar. Go there at once, before the monks know what’s happening, and put it under guard. Don’t let anybody stand in your way.’

  Layton was a determined man. He had worked for Cardinal Wolsey at the beginning of his career, and later for Thomas Cromwell. He had been a relentless inquisitor at the trials of Anne Boleyn and Sir Thomas More. He was making a good living out of destroying the country’s shrines. Layton always made sure he got his cut before the rest of the valuables were taken to the Tower of London for safekeeping.

  His men headed for the cathedral. The building had changed in recent years. It had a new central tower now, constructed to house the cathedral bells. Bell Harry stood an astonishing 250 feet tall and loomed majestically over the city. It was an extraordinary sight in the sunlight, but wasted on Layton’s men as they pushed into the cathedral and proceeded at once to St Thomas’s shrine.

  No one dared to stop them. Against the rules, Layton’s men had brought their weapons with them into the cathedral. The monks could only watch helplessly as a force of armed men climbed the steps from the nave and hurried past the altar towards the shrine at the east end of the cathedral.

  ‘There it is,’ one of them yelled. ‘There’s St Thomas’s tomb. That’s where the traitor lies.’

  The men quickly surrounded it. The monks on duty fled. So did the pilgrims who had been patiently awaiting their turn with the saint. Nobody offered any resistance as Layton’s men shoved them aside and seized control of the shrine.

  St Thomas’s tomb was still the most extraordinary sight in the ca
thedral. A golden angel now pointed dramatically towards the Régale de France, Louis VII’s great ruby. The innumerable pearls, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds and amethysts surrounding the great jewel were as lustrous as ever.

  The gold at the tomb weighed 4,999 ¾ ounces, according to the weigh book. The gilt weighed almost as much and the plain silver far more. St Thomas’s was easily the most opulent shrine in the kingdom.

  The holy relics had multiplied as well. There were more than four hundred sacred relics now, everything from skulls, jaws, teeth, hands, fingers and old bones to an arm of St George, still with the flesh on it, that was available for pilgrims to kiss, if they could afford it. There were filthy old bits of rag that might once have belonged to a saint and phials of St Thomas’s blood that looked suspiciously like red ochre mixed with water. Dr Layton and his fellow Royal Commissioners had no compunction in shutting the whole circus down at once.

  ‘Tear it all to bits,’ Layton ordered. ‘Everything. All the relics. I want to see the whole lot broken up and destroyed before we’ve finished.’

  ‘Even St Thomas’s bones?’

  ‘Especially his bones. Pile them up with everything else. We’ll make a bonfire of the lot, right next to the tomb.’

  ‘They’ll call it sacrilege in Rome.’

  ‘They can call it what they want. We’re not answerable to the Pope anymore. We have our own church now.’

  Layton’s men went to work. If any of them remained Roman Catholic in their hearts, they showed no sign of it as they began to dismantle the shrine. Pikemen stood guard as the rest wielded their tools. Their first task was to disconnect the iron chest containing Becket’s bones and take it down from the top of the shrine.

  It took them a considerable time to lever the chest out of its compartment. The chest was carefully handed down to the people waiting below. Several men struggled under its weight as they carried the saint’s jewel-encrusted coffin away from the shrine and laid it down on the flagstones nearby. Layton’s goldsmith was waiting for it.