Chapter XII: Imperial Struggles of Francis I and Henry II (1)

Francis I, his government and his times, commence the era of
modern France, and bring clearly to view the causes of her
greatnesses and her weaknesses.--GUIZOT.[b]

CRITICAL SURVEY OF FRANCIS I AND HIS PERIOD

[Sidenote: [1515-1559 A.D.]]

The accession of Francis I to the crown of France, January 1st, 1515, on the death of Louis XII, may be considered as signalising the passage from the Middle Ages to modern times and from ancient barbarism to civilisation. The transformations of great masses of men amongst whom new ideas and new passions are seen to germinate, are never sudden; centuries have prepared them in silence, and an attentive eye may have discerned, in the preceding age, the authors of the age which is about to open; but their action on the people has an element of the unexpected, because the men whose minds have been formed in principles and sentiments scarcely avowed by themselves, and scarcely understood by their contemporaries, all at once perceive that they form the majority, that they are understood, that they will be followed; and they burst as it were upon the country which had not noticed them. Thus simultaneously with the reign of the young monarch there began a decided taste for arts and letters which signalised itself by the most glorious monuments; a new zest for the pleasures of society, for wit, and for gallantry which corrupted morals while it perhaps gave more elegance to manners; an esteem for learning, a zeal for study which reflected a special glory on the French magistracy in whom dignity of character soon joined itself to knowledge; and finally an independence of opinions which, while admitting men to judge what they had adored, led some to new systems of philosophy and others to the reform of religion. France, hitherto poor in writers, began to turn her attention to herself, to study herself; her follies and vices, like her virtues and learning, left their traces; and there came into being the double series of courtly and philosophic writers, of the friends of disorder and those of wisdom--a series which was not afterwards interrupted until the fall of the throne of Louis XVI.

The new sovereign, Francis d’Angoulême, duke of Valois, who gave the signal for this revolution, was not however of sufficient force to produce it. He was a son of Charles d’Angoulême, cousin german of Louis XII, and as he had been born at Cognac on the 12th of September, 1494, he was only twenty years and a few months old. His education had been begun by Marshal de Gié, whom Louis XII had replaced in 1506 by Arthur Gouffier, sire de Boisy; this last had been through all the Italian campaigns, and he had acquired in that country a taste for arts and polite literature which was scarcely ever to be met with amongst other men of noble rank. He perceived that a certain glory might be attached to the study of letters, he even accustomed his pupil to show some deference to men of learning and to seek their conversation; but if Boisy himself took pleasure in reading, it was in vain that he endeavoured to inspire the prince he was training with the desire to read any books other than the romances of chivalry. It was from them that Francis I derived his sole instruction; he modelled himself on the heroes of the Round Table and of the palace of Charlemagne, not on those of history; he desired to shine as an Amadis rather than as a sovereign; and the height of his figure, the beauty of his face, his skill in arms and in all physical exercises, his bravery which he had already had occasion to exhibit, and finally his love of pleasure which his young comrades esteemed in him more than his moral qualities, marked him out for the admiration of those who, like himself, knew the world only through the medium of romances. “He was as fair a prince,” said Bayard’s _Loyal Serviteur_,[c] “as ever was in the world; never had there been a king in France who so rejoiced the noblesse.”[d]

A BRILLIANT CAMPAIGN IN ITALY

[Sidenote: [1515-1516 A.D.]]

After the coronation, which was celebrated at Rheims with great pomp, and the festivities of the royal entrance in Paris, the preparations for the expedition into Italy begun by Louis XII were resumed without delay. France possessed nothing beyond the Alps since the fort at the Lantern or Fanal at Genoa had capitulated. Everyone expected to see the French retake the Milanese; but Francis I anticipated the general expectation--he wished that conquest to mark the first year of his reign.

Two things were necessary: to hinder a coalition of the great powers, and to find allies. The coalition had been dissolved in the year previous; in order that it should not be formed again two treaties were signed, with England and with the Netherlands. Henry VIII, always displeased with the way in which the other kings had abandoned him, consented to renew the alliance he had sworn with Louis XII in 1514. The young prince of Castile, Charles of Austria, freed from guardianship, took the direct government of the Netherlands, and prepared to cross into Spain; he was the first to try to regain the friendship of France, in order to secure the Belgian frontier. It was agreed that he should be affianced to Madame Renée, the second daughter of Louis XII, who had a large dowry, and that he might defer for five years the homage he owed to the crown in his character of count of Flanders. On the part of Francis I, the concessions were important but remote and eventual: the advantage was immediate. France, safe-guarded in the north on its most vulnerable frontier, and having nothing to fear from England nor the Netherlands, might proceed boldly.

France had wished to gain the court of Rome. Leo X had never ceased seeking reconciliation with France. His brother, Giuliano de’ Medici, had married a sister of Louise of Savoy in 1514. Several ambassadors were sent to him, among others the celebrated humanist, Guillaume Budé. But the pope desired peace in Italy and the grandeur of his family. A new French campaign would derange his plans, and for some months he had done everything possible to dissuade the French from such an enterprise. He refused to bind himself in any way, even that of simple neutrality.

There still remained Ferdinand the Catholic, Maximilian, and the Swiss. The king of Aragon was old and in failing health. His death was shortly expected, and he was known to be little in favour of taking the management of a new league. It was he who, by his withdrawal, had caused the failure of that of 1513. Meanwhile, fearing to lose the alliance of the Swiss, and wishing to hinder the return of the French into the peninsula, he refused to prorogue the truce of the preceding year, and signed a defensive alliance with Maximilian and the thirteen cantons. The emperor always had need of Spanish troops to continue his war against Venice; he objected all the more to the troubling of the empire by France by her levies of lansquenets. But his hostility was as harmless as his friendship was useless. As for the Swiss, finding them rejecting all offers and manifesting unqualified unreasonableness, the plan to conciliate them was abandoned. The alliance with the Venetians was always assured. Francis I renewed the treaty signed at Blois by Louis XII with the republic.

After these diplomatic precautions it was necessary to renew and strengthen the army. The gendarmerie was increased from 2,500 lances to 4,000. A national infantry was added to it, also more numerous than that of preceding years, 6,000 Basques and Dauphinois, 10,000 French adventurers, Picardians, Gascons or Bretons, and 3,000 pioneers or engineers. Part of these troops were formed by Pedro Navarro, prisoner of the French since the battle of Ravenna. The celebrated Spanish captain, not having obtained from Ferdinand the Catholic the payment of his ransom, consented to enter into the service of Francis I. The foreign infantry was composed of 26,000 lansquenets under the command of the duke of Gelderland. The artillery, more important than ever, comprised 72 large cannon, and 500 mounted pieces.[f]

Thus equipped, Francis crossed the Alps and entered upon that campaign which culminated in the brilliant victory over the Swiss army at Marignano, a full description of which has been given in our history of Italy.[67][a]

It is related that, after the battle, Francis wished to be knighted and that he chose Bayard to give him the blow with the sword; a thing never before seen, as it was supposed that kings had no need of being knighted, as they were knights by birth.[f]

The victory of Francis resulted in his regaining possession of the whole of the Milanese, with the addition of Parma and Piacenza. He also signed two treaties, on November 7th, 1515, at Geneva, and November 29th, 1516, at Friburg, which established a perpetual alliance between himself and the Swiss.

_The Concordat_

In the course of an interview between himself and Leo X at Bologna, Francis took the important step of abolishing the Pragmatic Sanction and signed the Concordat, which gave the king the right of nomination to bishoprics and other ecclesiastical privileges. “Then it was that Francis I and his chancellor loudly proclaimed the maxims of absolute power; in the church, the Pragmatic Sanction was abolished; and in the state, Francis I during thirty-two years did not once convoke the states-general and laboured only to set up the sovereign right of his own will.”[h]

The first article of the Concordat, destined to replace the Pragmatic Sanction, transferred to the king the right to appoint the bishops, abbots, and priors, the pope reserving for himself the veto, in cases where the elect did not fulfil canonical conditions; by the second article, the pope renounced the rights of reversion and expectative, the reversion of livings during the life of the incumbents; but he did not renounce in any way the annats, the most exorbitant of papal exactions, and the silence of the Concordat on this subject implied their re-establishment. The rights of collators of livings were subsequently recognised and limited, and it was decreed that collators could accord only to graduates “_ès universités_” the livings which became vacant during the months of January, April, July, October. Every collator, having from ten to fifty livings at his disposal, was obliged to resign one to the discretion of the pope--or two if he had more than fifty. It was ordained that ecclesiastical trials should be judged in the realm, either by ordinary judges or by commissioners of the pope in reserved cases. The Concordat kept a significant silence on the rights and periodicity of the councils. A tithe on the clergy was accorded to the king, in recognition of the re-establishment of annats, but on condition that the pope and the Medici should receive their part. The abolition of the Pragmatic was then proclaimed in the Lateran Council, a servile assembly which did nothing but register the wishes of the pope, which abjured the principles of the councils of Constance and Bâle, and dissolved itself obscurely shortly afterwards, without the perception by Europe, so to speak, of its closing.

[Sidenote: [1516-1520 A.D.]]

The Concordat was an act of boldness on the part of royalty; which ceded only on a question of money (and reduced that concession when it came to practice). It was an immense stride in the direction of despotism: after the political order it seized upon the religious order; after having usurped the right of the Estates in the fixation of taxes, it usurped the right of the church in the election of its chiefs. In fact during the whole extent of the Middle Ages, the temporal power frequently troubled the liberty of elections, sometimes by force, more often by recommendations equivalent to commands. The ecclesiastical bodies were rarely in full enjoyment of their liberty, and the ancient participation of the people, and even of the lower clergy, at the election of the bishops had been reduced to a purposeless acclamation. But in the end the law remained, the best kings having recognised it, the Pragmatic had revivified it, and after the great reaction directed by the councils of the fifteenth century against the papacy, the chapters and convents proceeded more freely at elections than at any period of the preceding centuries. It was this state of things which Francis I and Leo X violently overturned in their division of what did not belong to them by a bizarre exchange where, as Mézeray says, the pope, the spiritual head, took the temporal power unto himself, giving the spiritual power to a temporal prince.[k]

This displacement of the Pragmatic Sanction by the Concordat is justly regarded as one of the most momentous events in French history. The effect of the new order of things upon the immorality of the upper clergy can hardly be overestimated. The Concordat remained in force until the Revolution, and much of French scepticism and philosophical criticism may be ascribed to its influence.

STRIFE BETWEEN FRANCIS I AND CHARLES V

The reign of Francis I thus opened brilliantly. That first victory was to have no complete parallel during a long reign; but it served to establish the reputation of Francis as a warrior, and to cast a glamour about his name that no subsequent defeats could quite obscure. We are now to see the victor of Marignano enter upon a struggle with that crafty monarch Charles I of Spain,[68] who, when the emperor Maximilian died, was elected to succeed him, and who came to the imperial throne as Charles V. The life-long rivalry with this most powerful monarch of the century furnishes the keynote to the reign of Francis I. Francis had himself been an eager candidate for the imperial crown.[a] His mortification was great when his rival was chosen by the electors. He dreamed of nothing but revenge, and fancied that an alliance with Henry VIII of England would help him to gain his object. A meeting was consequently arranged between the two kings, and took place on June 7th, 1520. So gorgeous were the garments of the kings and the trappings of their horses, that their courtiers in trying to rival them “bore thither,” the contemporary writer Du Bellay[g] graphically tells us, “their mills, their forests, and their meadows, on their backs.”

_Meeting of Henry VIII and Francis I on the Field of the Cloth of Gold_

[Sidenote: [1520 A.D.]]

Nothing equalled in splendour this meeting between the two kings and the two courts in the camp so well named “The Cloth of Gold.” It was a struggle upon both sides for pre-eminence in magnificence. It would seem as if they sought more to dazzle than to please, and etiquette, being prejudicial to cordiality, was set aside.

Both arrived on the same day, June 1st, 1520, the one at Calais, the other at Ardres. Henry VIII and Francis I exchanged visits through the most important personages of their courts and councils. Six days passed in the necessary negotiations for their meeting. All was at last arranged with a care so distrustful and minute as to suggest a mutual fear of treason. It was arranged that, leaving the castle of Guines, whither he expected to go on June 5th, Henry VIII should advance towards Francis I, who, on his side, would leave the castle of Ardres, and advance towards Henry VIII.

On Wednesday, June 7th, the kings of France and of England, mounted upon great chargers, clothed the one in cloth of gold, the other in cloth of silver, covered with pearls, diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, their heads covered by velvet caps resplendent with precious stones, from which floated magnificent white plumes, set out at the same time and at the same pace. Their constables preceded them, bare sword in hand, and the lords of their court, most gorgeously apparelled, followed in their train. Each of them was followed by a bodyguard of four hundred archers or men-at-arms. Thus escorted they descended the two hills which led into the pleasant plain of the Valdoré, where a pavilion had been erected to receive them. Their appearance was more that of two knights marching to battle than two princes going to a diplomatic interview.

The escort halted at a certain point, from whence they kept watch, so that the English archers should not approach too closely to the king of France, nor the men-at-arms of the French army to the king of England. At a short distance from each other, Henry and Francis spurred their horses, reining them in with all the grace of the experienced cavalier, when they found themselves side by side. Saluting one another in kingly fashion they then dismounted and entered the pavilion arm in arm. Cardinal Wolsey and Admiral Bonnivet, who, since the death of his brother the grand-master, Arthur de Boisy, had been the favourite of Francis I and managed his affairs, preceded them.

Francis I showed great cordiality to Henry VIII, and, giving utterance to the thought always present with him, proffered him his assistance in the hope of gaining his. “Dear brother and cousin,” said he, “I have taken much trouble to see you. You understand, I hope, that I am ready to help you with the kingdoms and lordships which are under my authority.” Henry VIII, evading any pledge, relieved himself from the obligation of helping Francis I, by not accepting the assistance offered. He contented himself with assurances of his friendship, which he still made conditional. “I have not in view your kingdoms or your lordships,” answered Henry VIII, “but loyalty and the instant execution of promises contained in the treaty drawn up between us. If you keep these, my eyes have never beheld a prince who could win more the affection of my heart.”

They then examined the treaty which had been drawn up that evening, and by which, conforming to the agreement of the 4th of October, 1518, the dauphin of France was to marry the only daughter of the king of England, and Francis I was to pay an annual sum of 100,000 francs, which is equivalent to more than 2,000,000 francs of modern money, until the celebration of the wedding, which was yet far distant. Whilst reading the introduction to the treaty, in which, according to diplomatic etiquette, the title of king of France was added to that of king of England and of Ireland, Henry VIII said with tact: “I will omit it. In your presence it is not correct.” But if he omitted it in reading, he left it in the treaty, and a little later was ambitious to make it real by invading France and wishing to reign there. After some discussion, following the custom of that time the sovereigns took wine together, and admired the nobles of their courts, whom they presented to one another and who were embraced, those of France by the king of England, those of England by the king of France. As the meetings, so the fêtes were regulated and carried through in a very ceremonious manner, with precautions that excluded intimacy, and requirements which betrayed jealousy. When Francis I went to dine with Queen Catherine at Guines, Henry VIII came to dine with Queen Claude at Ardres. The two kings held hostages for one another, and behaved in many ways as if they were in the presence of enemies. This suspicious attitude, these timid steps, were as little suited to the political views as to the trusting character of Francis I.

Wishing one day to break down this ceremonious and distrustful barrier, he arose earlier in the morning than was customary, and taking with him two gentlemen and a page, and wrapped merely in a Spanish cape, he left Ardres to go and surprise the king of England in Guines. Two hundred archers and the governors were upon the drawbridge when he arrived. At the sight of the king of France, come at such a time, so meagrely attended, putting himself thus in their hands, they were aghast. Francis I crossed their ranks with a frank and laughing countenance, and, as if he wished to take the fortress by storm, summoned them gaily to surrender to him. The king of England still slept. Francis I went straight to his room, knocked at the door, awoke Henry VIII, who, on seeing him, was even more astounded than his archers had been, and said frankly, with as much cordiality as tact: “My brother, you have done me the best turn that one man ever did to another, and showed me what confidence I ought to have in you. From this moment I am your prisoner, and pledge you my faith.” He took at the same time a beautiful collar from his neck and begged the king of France to wear it that day for love of his prisoner. Francis I went still further in his demonstrations. He had a bracelet double the value of the collar. Putting this upon Henry’s arm he asked him to wear it for love of him, and he added that he wished for that day to be valet to his prisoner. The king of France as a matter of fact handed the king of England’s shirt to him. The next day Henry VIII, imitating the confidence of Francis I, went to Ardres slightly attended, and there took place a fresh exchange of presents and courtesies between them.

This attempt to rival each other in friendship was followed by a rivalry of skill in the tournaments and games that the two kings held at their courts. Spacious lists, which ended in strong enclosures for the guards of each prince and which adjoined elegant stands erected for the queens and the ladies-in-waiting, had been prepared in a high and uncovered place. There for eight days were held jousts in which the most skilful men-at-arms of France and England took part on foot and on horseback, with lance and sword. The two kings who directed them displayed therein without contention, the one his brilliant dexterity, the other his athletic strength. Francis I, who excelled in horsemanship, broke his lances with an accomplished skill. Henry VIII, whose impetuosity could not be resisted, struck his antagonist’s helmet so violently that he unseated him, and prevented him from fulfilling his other engagements.

King Henry, who was one of the best bowmen in the kingdom, made himself remarkable by the strength with which he drew the string and the swiftness with which he struck his mark; he would also have liked to show his superiority in wrestling with Francis I. The English wrestlers had defeated the French wrestlers because through negligence the latter had not brought with them the Bretons, who are unsurpassed in this sort of game. In the evening Henry VIII, hoping to complete the victory of his men by an easy triumph, came close to Francis I and said to him roughly, “Brother, I want to wrestle with you.” At the same time he grasped him with his powerful hands and tried to throw him; but Francis I, who was a well-trained wrestler and more lithe, twisted his leg around his assailant, so that the latter lost his balance and rolled on the ground. Henry arose, crimson with confusion and anger, and wished to begin again. Only the fact that dinner was ready and that the queens intervened prevented this dangerous test, which was more likely to make bad friends of the two kings by wounding their vanity, than the recent intimacies of their long interview were likely to cement their friendship. After twenty-five days passed together in the midst of festivals and pleasures, Francis I and Henry VIII separated, apparently in cordial friendship.

_Francis I and Charles V at War_

[Sidenote: [1520-1522 A.D.]]

Francis I was not certain of the armed co-operation of Henry VIII, but he believed he had secured his interested and, from thenceforward, faithful friendship. He had bought it by a large annual payment which was simply a subsidy in disguise. He flattered himself that if the king of England failed to declare himself on his side in the war about to begin, at all events he would not espouse the cause of the emperor, his enemy.[h]

But this interview was nothing more than play-acting, as Francis soon realised when he learned that Henry on his way back to England had paid a visit to Charles V, who was close friends with Wolsey. Furious at this duplicity and at learning that Henry VIII had agreed to arbitrate on Charles’ behalf in all quarrels between him and France, Francis cast about for a pretext for war, and soon found occasions in the Low Countries, Navarre, and Italy. In April, 1521, he despatched Marshal de Lautrec to defend the Milanese against the Spaniards.[a]

The government of the conquered province had been such as to render the French yoke odious to the Milanese. The cause lay in the intrigues and corruption of the court. As soon as the government has grown despotic, we are instantly compelled to look for the causes of events in the scandalous chronicle of harlotry. It has been related that Anne, queen of Louis XII, had assembled around her the daughters of the French nobility; and a court was thus gradually formed, no longer composed solely of warriors and statesmen, but of the gay and idle also of both sexes. This sudden freedom had an ill effect upon public morals. The principles and habits of courtiers were not prepared for the increased temptation. The grossness of the age did not yet admit of that true and pure enjoyment of female society which modern cultivation allows. Francis, when he was suddenly released from Amboise, and found himself possessed of all power, and endowed with all attraction, in the midst of an assemblage of beauty, gave a loose rein to his passions. His wife, Claude, daughter of the late king, never had the command of his affections; and the court of Francis soon arrived at that state of dissoluteness which we find recorded in the pages of Brantôme, and from which we shrink in incredulity and disgust.

Françoise de Foix was one of those highborn maidens whom Anne of Brittany had reared near her person. That queen had given her in marriage to the count de Châteaubriant, who retained her at his remote château, far from the fascinations of a court. Francis, however, insisted on the presence of the beauty. The countess de Châteaubriant was summoned to the capital, and soon became the avowed and chosen mistress of her sovereign. Her brother Lautrec was made governor of Milan.[i] In spite of Lautrec’s efforts Milan fell into the enemy’s hands, and on April 27th, 1522, he lost a battle which robbed Francis of all his power in Lombardy. This was the battle of Bicocca, in which Prospero Colonna, occupying an entrenched position, repulsed the French and inflicted upon them a decisive defeat.[a]

_Defection of the Duke de Bourbon_

The rage of Francis against his unsuccessful general was extreme. He refused to see him. The duchess d’Angoulême exasperated the king’s animosity by her censures; while Madame de Châteaubriant dared not intercede for her brother. At length the constable procured Lautrec admission to the king, who covered him with reproaches. “It is not I who am to blame,” said Lautrec; “the gendarmerie have served eighteen months without pay; and the wilfulness of the Swiss, both in fighting against my wish and then abandoning me, was owing to my inability to pay them.”

“And the 400,000 crowns?” said the king. “Were never received,” was the answer. Francis summoned his treasurer, Semblançay, and asked him sternly how it came that the promised sum had not yet reached Lautrec. The treasurer replied that the duchess d’Angoulême had made him pay it to her. The king then rushed to the apartments of his mother. “It is to your avarice then, madam, that I owe the loss of the Milanese?” The duchess could not deny the receipt of the sum, but she alleged having received it on her private account. The excuse did not satisfy the monarch, and Semblançay kept his station. The vengeance of the queen-mother henceforth unremittingly followed the unfortunate treasurer. Heads of accusation can never be wanting against a man intrusted with the finances of a kingdom; and five years after, Semblançay, an honest and irreproachable minister, fell a victim to the intrigues and iniquity of the monarch’s mother, and died as a malefactor on the common gibbet.

Whilst Francis met with these reverses, which were the natural consequences of the blunders and recklessness of his administration, the emperor Charles was carefully securing every friend, and improving every advantage. The new pope, Adrian, was his creature: Wolsey’s resentment, on being disappointed of the tiara, was soothed for a time; and Henry VIII was induced not only to break with France, but to send thither an army under the duke of Suffolk, which, however, achieved nothing remarkable. The Venetian Republic, also, the last of the Italian powers that inclined to France, was estranged from his friendship, and joined the alliance against him. Not content with making every foreign potentate his foe, the French monarch had at the same time the imprudence to alienate the most powerful of his subjects. Trivulzio, we have seen, expired beneath his neglect. Charles, duke de Bourbon, and constable of the kingdom, was now driven by injustice to league with the enemies of his country. The last duke de Bourbon had left a daughter, Suzanne. The title, and a certain portion of the heritage, went by law to the male heir; but as a considerable part would be inherited by Suzanne, the paternal care of Louis XII arranged a marriage between Charles, the existing duke, and Suzanne de Bourbon, thus preserving unbroken the heritage and title of that illustrious family. The duke was of a handsome person, and on the death of his duchess, Suzanne, without issue, the duchess d’Angoulême made advances to fill her place. This she was the more forward in doing, as, being descended in the female line from a previous duke de Bourbon, she considered herself to have claims on that part of the property which might descend to a female. The constable, however, was blind to her advances, backed by this tacit menace. And the slighted duchess instantly put forward her claim to the Bourbonnais as appertaining by right to her.

Bourbon had previously received affronts from the king, who disliked his cold temper and reserved demeanour. The duke was grave and dignified, fond of war and business, and averse to join in the follies of a court. It appears, too, that Francis amused himself at the duke’s expense; and the latter bore raillery with so little good humour as to be called the “prince of small endurance.” Whatever was the cause, they certainly disliked each other; and Francis manifested this feeling first by recalling Bourbon from the government of Milan, and afterwards by giving the command of the vanguard in one of the northern campaigns to the duke of Alençon, although that post of honour was the constable’s right.

[Sidenote: [1522-1524 A.D.]]

Bearing all this in mind, when his hitherto unquestioned right to the Bourbonnais was called in question, the duke instantly apprehended that a league to destroy him had been planned by the king and his mother. Duprat, the chancellor, was but a creature of the latter; and to hope for justice in the event of trial was absurd. Bourbon was, therefore, driven to look abroad for a refuge or for vengeance. The emperor’s emissary was at hand, proffering him that prince’s sister in marriage, and many advantages, if he would join the emperor’s party, and raise a civil war in France against its monarch. Bourbon hesitated long, but finally acceded to the proposals of Charles. Francis in the meantime had been roused from the lap of pleasure by the league of all Europe against him. He was at Lyons, on the way to Italy at the head of an army, when Bourbon was about to take the fatal step. Francis tried to soothe him: he showed his confidence by appointing him lieutenant-general of the kingdom; and assured him that whatever might be the result of this unfortunate process, he would not see him despoiled. The object of Francis seems to have been the gratification of his mother, and the driving of Bourbon to a marriage with her. This failed, however, like every act of the monarch’s policy. The constable determined to join the emperor. But Francis was now near, accompanied with forces; and as circumstances had awakened his suspicions, he called on the constable to accompany him to Italy. Bourbon feigned sickness, and took to his couch, as a pretext for delay; till at length, seeing that it would be dangerous to trifle any longer with the impatient Francis, the constable dispersed his suite and fled, followed by a single attendant, into the dominions of the emperor. Francis gained by this desertion, as he confiscated the wide domains of Bourbon. Charles acquired what he least wanted--a general, and an unfortunate claimant.

_A Disastrous Campaign in Italy: The Battle of Pavia_

Bonnivet, the personal enemy of Bourbon, was now intrusted with the command of the French army. He marched without opposition into the Milanese, and might have taken the capital had he pushed on to its gates. Having by irresolution lost it, he retreated to winter quarters behind the Ticino. The operations of the English in Picardy, of the imperials in Champagne, and of the Spaniards near the Pyrenees, were equally insignificant. The spring of 1524 brought on an action, if the attack of one point can be called such, which proved decisive for the time. Bonnivet advanced rashly beyond the Ticino. The imperials, commanded by four able generals, Lannoy, Pescara, Bourbon, and Sforza, succeeded in almost cutting off his retreat. They at the same time refused Bonnivet’s offer to engage. They hoped to weaken him by famine. The Swiss first murmured against the distress occasioned by want of precaution. They deserted across the river; and Bonnivet, thus abandoned, was obliged to make a precipitate and perilous retreat. A bridge was hastily flung across the Sesia, near Romagnano; and Bonnivet, with his best knights and gendarmerie, undertook to defend the passage of the rest of the army. The imperials, led on by Bourbon, made a furious attack. Bonnivet was wounded, and he gave his place to Bayard, who, never intrusted with a high command, was always chosen for that of a forlorn hope. The brave Vandenesse was soon killed; and Bayard himself received a gunshot wound. The gallant chevalier, feeling his wound mortal, caused himself to be placed in a sitting posture beneath a tree, his face to the enemy, and his sword fixed in guise of a cross before him. The constable De Bourbon, who led the imperials, soon came up to the dying Bayard, and expressed his compassion. “Weep not for me,” said the chevalier, “but for thyself. I die in performing my duty; thou art betraying thine.”

[Sidenote: [1524-1525 A.D.]]

Francis, in the meantime, alarmed by the invasion, had assembled an army. He burned to employ it, and avenge the late affront. He marched upon Milan, whose population was spiritless and broken by the plague, and took it without resistance. It was then mooted whether Lodi or Pavia should be besieged. The latter, imprudently, as it is said, was preferred. The siege of Pavia was formed about the middle of October. Antonio de Leyva, an experienced officer, supported by veteran troops, commanded in the town. By the month of January, 1525, the French had made no progress; and the impatient Francis despatched a considerable portion of his army for the invasion of Naples, hearing that the country was drained of troops. This was a gross blunder, which Pescara observing, he forbore to send any force to oppose the expedition. He knew that the fate of Italy would be decided before Pavia.[i]

During the night of the 23rd of February the emperor’s generals harassed the royal camp by a lively cannonade and a series of feigned attacks, while the main body of their troops was approaching in silence the walls of the park. Masons undermined and tore down a considerable portion of the wall, and through the breach thus effected the imperial advance-guard, under the young marquis del Guasto, cousin to Pescara, closely followed by the remaining troops, rushed into the park. In the light of the breaking day the French saw the imperial columns defile rapidly by the king’s quarters and set out in the direction of Pavia. The hostile troops were obliged to cross a wide clearing that was raked by the shot of the artillery posted along the king’s entrenchments, and so terrible was the fire opened out upon them by the veteran Galiot de Genouillac that, says Martin du Bellay,[j] “one after the other great breaches were made in the enemy’s battalions, and there was nothing to be seen but flying arms and heads.” Their ranks thinned by this frightful cannonade, the imperials began running in single file towards a valley, where they hoped to be out of range of the royal batteries.

When Francis I saw this movement he believed the enemy to be in full flight and his own victory assured; it had, moreover, been reported to him that the division under Alençon and Chabot had routed a Spanish battalion in the park and captured several cannon. Rallying his gendarmerie, he rushed forth from the camp in pursuit of the flying enemy, thus masking his own batteries and reducing them to silence at the very moment when they might have been the most destructive; the remainder of the army followed the king.

Bourbon and Pescara, transported with joy, hastily formed their line of battle, while Del Guasto rushed up with his advance-guard, reinforced by Antonio de Leyva, and the flower of the garrison of Pavia, which the guard left in charge of the camp had been unable to hold back. The division of the duke of Alençon formed the left wing of the French army and was separated by a large body of Swiss troops from the king, who commanded the centre; between the king and the right wing commanded by La Palisse were placed four or five thousand lansquenets, the remnant of the old bands of Gelderland and Westphalia who were used to fighting under French banners against the house of Austria, and to being placed under the ban of the empire by Charles V. The shock of the meeting between these two armies, inconsiderable as to numbers but composed of the bravest fighting-men in Europe, was terrific. Fallen upon by the lansquenets of Charles de Bourbon and left without assistance by the Swiss, the king’s lansquenets were overwhelmed by force of numbers and crushed between two battalions of the enemy. Nearly all these brave men perished, as did also their two chiefs, the duke of Suffolk (the White Rose) and Francis de Lorraine, brother of the duke de Lorraine and of Count Claude de Guise. Bourbon and his victorious infantry next turned against the French right wing which was engaged in a hot contest with a Spanish-Italian cavalry corps. The right wing, after many great but useless exploits, shared the fate that befell the French lansquenets, and it was on this field that the veteran Chabannes de la Palisse ended his glorious career. His horse having been killed under him, he was about to surrender his sword to the Neapolitan captain Castaldo, when a Spaniard, envious of Castaldo’s good fortune, killed the illustrious prisoner by a shot from his arquebuse.

No less furiously did the combat rage in the centre where the king, at the head of his gendarmerie, overpowered an Italian squadron under the command of the marquis de Saint Angelo, a descendant of the great Scanderbeg; it is said that the king slew this nobleman, as well as several other knights, with his own hand. The squadron of the Franc-Comtois suffered overthrow in its turn; the Spanish cavalry would have had a similar fate had not Pescara devised a manœuvre which was as successful as it was terrible in its effects. This was to mingle with his horsemen fifteen hundred or two thousand Basque musketeers whose agility enabled them to slip into the ranks of the French to choose their victims, and who by their deadly fire checked the advance of the gendarmerie and threw all the squadrons into confusion. The richest coats of mail, the most gallantly plumed helmets were the marks selected in preference by these sharpshooters, and one after the other the famous leaders who had raised French arms to glory during the last thirty years were seen to fall--Louis de la Trémouille, Louis d’Ars, teacher and friend of Bayard, the grand equerry San Severino, the bastard of Savoy, and the marshal De Foix-Lescun, all were killed or mortally wounded. The king and those immediately about him continued to fight desperately, a furious charge having brought Pescara to the earth and put to flight Lannoy. Victory might still have been on the side of the French had Alençon and the Swiss done their full duty; but the duke, on learning of the confusion into which the right wing had been thrown, fled precipitately, carrying with him almost all the gendarmerie and the left wing, while the Swiss, left uncovered by the desertion of Alençon and menaced on their left flank by the imperial cavalry, turned their backs in their turn, instead of repulsing the enemy’s attack and flying to the succour of the king, and set out in confusion on the road to Milan. This battle should have served as a terrible lesson to the kings of France, who were in the habit of buying the services of mercenaries at a high price rather than place arms in the hands of their own subjects.

All the stress and burden of the battle now fell upon the king and the valiant body of nobles who pressed about him; Bourbon, Castaldo, Del Guasto, De Leyva, and the viceroy Lannoy had successively joined Pescara, and there remained to the French gendarmerie but to sell their lives as dearly as possible. Diesbach, the Swiss general, and Admiral Bonnivet decided not to survive--the one, the ignominious retreat which was to tarnish the fame of the league, and the other the sad “misadventure” for which he himself had been mainly responsible. They both flung themselves upon the pikes of Bourbon’s lansquenets and at once found death. Bonnivet, the favourite of Madame d’Angoulême as well as of the king, had taken the most active part in the persecution of the constable, and Bourbon was now seeking him all over the field of battle. When he finally perceived his enemy’s mutilated corpse, “Unhappy man!” he exclaimed with sadness, “you are the cause of France’s ruin and my own!”

The French gendarmerie at last succumbed to the superior numbers of the enemy; they were broken, dispersed, and cut to pieces. Francis I, wounded in the leg and in the face, defended himself bravely for some time longer, but his horse, on being dealt a fatal blow, fell and bore him to the earth, where he would have been despatched by the soldiers who struggled to reach him had not Pompérant, the companion of the constable’s flight, recognised the king and rushed to his rescue. Pompérant proposed to the king to pledge his faith to Bourbon, but Francis indignantly refused; then Pompérant sent for Lannoy, viceroy of Naples, who bent his knee to receive the bloody sword of the king, and proffered his in exchange.

Eight thousand French and auxiliaries had met death; and all the leaders--the king of Navarre (Henry d’Albret), the count of Saint-Pol, Fleuranges, Montmorency, Brion--who were not stretched upon the battle-field, shared the captivity of Francis I. The king begged his captors not to take him back to Pavia where he would be a “spectacle and a laughing-stock to those upon whom he had formerly inflicted fear, evil, and fatigue.” He was conducted to the tent of the marquis del Guasto, where his wounds were properly attended to. In the evening Charles de Bourbon presented himself with every mark of respect before the monarch upon whom he had taken so cruel a vengeance. Both, according to the accounts most worthy of credence, displayed great self-control and admirably concealed feelings, of triumph on the one hand, of grief and humiliation on the other; the king’s only departure from this reserve was in the reception he gave Pescara, which was warm compared to his attitude towards Bourbon. Francis I had at least one consolation in his misfortune, the one that would most appeal to a nature such as his: the imperial soldiers had been so struck by his prowess in the field that they divided his effects as relics among themselves, and evinced so strongly their desire to see him that the viceroy of Naples experienced some alarm. The German mercenaries, without taking into account the immense booty they had gained, demanded more imperatively than before the battle their arrears of pay, and Lannoy feared that they would seek to seize the king as surety, perhaps even go over to the royal side. He averted this danger by sending Francis I to Pizzighettone under the guard of a Spanish captain of whose fidelity he was sure, and by extorting heavy contributions from the pope and the smaller Italian states, in order that the soldiery might be induced to wait in patience.

[Sidenote: [1525-1526 A.D.]]

It was in the imperial camp near Pavia, on the eve of departure for Pizzighettone that Francis I wrote to his mother the celebrated letter that tradition has greatly altered by giving it this laconic form: “Madame, all is lost save honour.” The true text is as follows: “Madame, To let you know the full extent of my misfortune I have but to say, of all things there remain to me only honour and my life; and that this news may be of a little comfort to you in your adversity I have prayed them to let me write you this letter, which prayer they have readily accorded; I also beg of you to allow yourself to come to no harm but to make use of your accustomed prudence, for I have hope that in the end God will not abandon me. I recommend to you my children and your grandchildren, and pray you to let pass the bearer of this to Spain and back, for it is his mission to see the emperor to inform him of the treatment I receive.”[k]

_Francis Captive in Spain: The Treaty of Madrid_

Although Francis had hoped to overcome his conqueror, he did not fear to humiliate himself before him. This rôle of captive and suppliant was so new to him that he rather overdid it and rather bore in mind his present fortunes, which might change, than his kingly dignity which he should never lose. Thus, in three letters written by him to Charles, three times he affected to call himself his slave.

“Having no other comfort in my misfortune than the hope of your goodness, by which, if it please you, use me, the fruits of your own victory, with all fairness. I have firm hope that your virtue will not constrain me to do anything dishonouring, and I beg you to let your heart decide what you will do with me. Wherefore may it please you to have the kindly pity to assure the safety which is due the king of France as prisoner, then will you render me friendly and not despairing, you will make an acquisition instead of a useless prisoner, and have a king forever your slave. So I end my humble petitions which have no other end to expect but that you will style me, instead of a prisoner, your good brother and friend Francis.”

But when Francis heard the rigorous conditions, when he saw he had in vain humiliated himself before his enemy, death appeared less horrible than captivity for him, and ruin and shame for France. “Tell your master,” he cried, “that I would rather die than submit to his terms. My kingdom is still intact, and for my deliverance I neither can nor will harm it. If the emperor desires treaties, let him speak another language.” The opportunity was propitious for Lannoy, and he well knew how to use it. “Your majesty,” said he, “had made a better bargain with the emperor by treating directly with him. Go yourself to Spain and put yourself in the hands of my master. He will be touched by this proof of confidence and will certainly not abuse the rights victory has given him.” Francis allowed himself to be taken in the trap, and judging his enemy by himself the chivalrous monarch resolved to put himself at the discretion of Charles V. He had sent from Marseilles six of his galleys to aid in the transport of troops which were to serve him as escort, and forbade his admirals to alarm the imperial crews during the crossing. He embarked at Genoa May 7th, 1526, and Lannoy was clever enough to persuade Bourbon and Pescara that he was conducting his prisoner to Naples.

Charles V was unaware of Lannoy’s project; it was a pleasant surprise, then, to learn that the king of France, whom he had thought in Italy, was on Spanish soil. He immediately had him transferred to his castle at Madrid, leaving it himself for fear of meeting him. Francis, always liable to be deceived, had counted on prompt deliverance. While waiting, he had imagined himself treated by his conquerors as a guest and not as a prisoner. But seeing he had been tricked by Lannoy, guessing the astuteness of Charles behind that of his minister, he immediately fell ill of grief. Soon his life was in danger. The people of Madrid, moved with sympathy for this knightly king, more fitted than Charles V to reign over Spain, hastened in crowds to the churches to ask God to cure him. Charles, who calculated everything, even his pity, realised that if he allowed his prisoner to die he would lose a possible ransom. He then decided to pay him a visit, and, lavish of fine words, succeeded in raising Francis’ courage. But his object gained and the sick man saved, Charles forgot all his promises, refused to see his prisoner again, and reinsisted on the hard terms of release.[l]

France in the meantime, though stunned and disordered by the first news of the disaster of Pavia, was recovering its composure and force. The duchess of Angoulême was regent; the count de Vendôme, cousin of the constable De Bourbon, did not take advantage of his being first prince of the blood to embroil the kingdom. The parliament, indeed, displeased with the imperious character of the king, and angered on account of the Concordat and other causes, gave the regent some trouble. But new allies flocked to France in her distress. The Italian states were all ready to combine against the emperor, whose power they now dreaded. Henry VIII of England instantly flung his support into the scale of the discomfited Francis, and concluded a treaty with the regent, stipulating that the kingdom should on no account be dismembered. Large numbers of the people of Alsace had taken advantage of the opportunity to rise and invade France, excited by that religious zeal which scorns restraint. The count of Guise mustered some forces, fell upon them in time, and cut them to pieces. It was for this service that Francis afterwards created the county of Guise into a duchy-peerage--an honour heretofore granted solely to princes of the blood. The parliament made great opposition to this novelty; but the king was resolute in his friendship, and Guise became one of the high noblesse of France, a duke and peer.

Negotiations for the liberation of the king proceeded, with little prospect of success, at Madrid. Bourbon had betaken himself thither; his presence and his claims were no small source of difficulties. The emperor had promised him his sister Leonora, queen-dowager of Portugal, in marriage; but as Francis, to disappoint Bourbon, offered to marry this princess himself, the constable was obliged to forego the honour. The marquis Pescara dying at this time, the emperor offered the command of his Italian armies to Bourbon, who was urged to accept of it, and was thus got rid of. Still the terms offered to Francis were so harsh that he could not accede to them. His sister, the duchess of Alençon, had come to tend him in his illness and captivity. She was now about to return; and Francis put into her hand his absolute resignation of the kingdom, that he might be considered as dead, and no further efforts be made for his liberation. This alarmed the emperor, who became willing to relax in some degree. Still his demands were so exorbitant and unreasonable that Francis at length consented to extricate himself by a breach of faith, and to swear to a treaty the stipulations of which he was determined not to perform.