A 16th-century mix of Glastonbury, Davos and the Games
The meeting of kings at the Field of Cloth of Gold, writes Dan Jones, was the greatest show on Earth
In July 1519, a 28-year-old Henry VIII made a solemn vow to give up shaving. In France, a thrusting young king called Francis I had recently taken the throne. Henry was eager that they meet. So he swore a great oath: until he came face-to-face with Francis, he would not cut his beard. It was a chivalric gesture that could have been lifted from Arthurian legend. And it inspired in Francis a macho response. He, too, would refuse the razor until he met the English king. The challenge to their respective diplomats was laid down. Get the monarchs together as soon as possible.
The next year Henry had his way. On a purpose-built tournament t ground between Guînes and Ardres – neutral territory close to English-held Calais – he and Francis met in a glittering summit known as the Field of Cloth of Gold. Both brought tens of thousands of noble attendants, counsellors and hangers-on. The men and their followers tilted in the jousts. The two kings went head to head in a wrestling match. (Francis dumped Henry on his backside, and won.)
The ostensible purpose of the Field of Cloth of Gold was to celebrate a “universal peace” that cardinal Thomas Wolsey, Henry’s chief minister, had negotiated in 1518: a deal that aimed to unite Christian Europe and pave the way for a crusade against the Turks. But really, it was a festival of flex. Two dazzling Renaissance princes faced off to shake their tail-feathers, advertising their magnificence in peace as well as war. For Henry in particular, this was a chance to pitch England as a European power-broker for the first time since the days of his grandfather, Edward IV.
Today at Hampton Court Palace there hangs a famous painting of the Field of Cloth of Gold, commissioned in the second half of Henry’s reign to commemorate glories past. Part of the Royal Collection, it is on permanent display at the palace, but this summer it serves as the centrepiece of Gold and Glory, an exhibition which (belatedly) marks the Field of Cloth of Gold’s 5 500th anniversary. Big, loud a and unsubtle as Henry h himself, the painting is t three and a half metres w wide, and around half a as tall, the work of several, anonymous hands. It is a cartoonish tableau, which shows Henry on horseback among a vast train of courtiers. They have crossed the Channel and are processing from the coast towards an enormous temporary palace decorated with Tudor roses. Further on lie huge, striped, gilded and liveried pavilions and the jousting lists. A Game of Thrones- like dragon flies overhead: documents in the exhibition tell us this was a giant man-made kite, which puffed smoke from its nostrils.
Everywhere in the scene, bodies swarm: soldiers and bishops, horses and hunting dogs, gentlemen and rogues. Ambassadors mutter in one another’s ears. Royal councillors in fur-lined cloaks puff out their chests. Red-doubleted guards in frilly pants strut around with long, sharp pikes. Two figures – Henry and Francis, perhaps – grapple in a gilded marquee. But this is not an entirely sanitised scene. A fountain in the foreground chugs out wine. One old geezer is filling his jug from it. Two others, already drunk, are brawling on the ground. A fourth, positively tired and emotional, is puking his guts up around the side of Henry’s palace.
Of course, this is not documentary evidence of the Field of Cloth of Gold.
It is nostalgic royal propaganda, designed to present English involvement in as exciting a light as possible. Yet it gives us a taste of what this bonanza must have looked like. In modern terms, the Field of Cloth of Gold was a combination of Davos, Glastonbury and the Commonwealth Games. The money spent was dizzying: Henry’s palace alone, partially prefabricated in England, was bigger than the contemporary Hampton Court. Its oak-framed walls were 10 metres high. It had fine glass windows, two floors of apartments joined by secret passages and a 100 metre-long banquet hall. It cost thousands – millions in today’s money. And was in use for less than three weeks. Here was diplomacy with no expense spared.
This painting is only one part of a well-assembled show, laid out in Wolsey’s old rooms at Hampton Court, which puts the Field of Cloth of Gold into context. One exhibit illustrates just how delicate – and surreal – Tudor diplomacy could be. In a letter of November 1519, addressed to Wolsey from the ambassador to France, Thomas Boleyn, we learn that Henry reneged on his oath and shaved. Francis found out and was peeved; Boleyn had been berated by Francis’s mother, the formidable Louise of Savoy. Forced to think on his feet, Boleyn says he explained that Henry’s then-wife Catherine of Aragon preferred her man baldchinned. Well, harrumphed Louise, “love is not in their beards but in their hearts”. Crisis averted.
Other items have been selected to bring us similarly close to the personalities involved. A letter from Francis to Wolsey is signed with the French king’s loopy, childlike autograph. A jousting scorecard records the winners of bouts – it is the 16th-century equivalent of a World Cup wallchart. Other rooms yield similarly striking artefacts, including lavish, gold-embroidered religious vestments stitched during the reign of Henry VII. These were likely worn at the closing Mass at the Field of Cloth of Gold, when English and French choirs competed to sing the most triumphantly.
But the show-stopper is a tapestry panel, perhaps commissioned by Francis’s chamberlain, which shows the French king watching a wrestling match while musicians play on. This is in the hands of American private collectors, and has never been displayed in public before. It’s the must-see item in a tribute to what was, 500 years ago, the greatest show on Earth.
Henry VIII’s palace for the event cost millions, and was in use for less than three weeks