by Tim Rayborn
Charles himself met a gruesome end, living by the sword and all that, at the Battle of Nancy in January 1477. Things went badly for his forces, and his body was found, riddled with lances, a few days after the battle. His head had been cleaved almost in half by a halberd (an axe on a long pole). Busnois had it easy by comparison.
Gilles Joye (1424/25–1483)
A Rose by any other name …
A bit like Antoine, Gilles was a composer and (eventually) a priest who seemed drawn toward behavior that was a little less than priestly. Hired as a singer in Bruges from 1449, he seems to have gotten in trouble on more than one occasion, gaining a reputation for involvement in street brawls. Who knows? Maybe Busnois beat him up once and he decided to get even. Since these kinds of fights were often the result of too much alcohol, and he was reprimanded for drinking too much, we can assume that he was very fond of his wine or beer. When his local chapter abolished the celebration of the Feast of Fools (a Christmas-time festival of silliness, reverse identities, subversion of the rules, and general blowing off of steam—see the goliards in the previous chapter), he protested by refusing to sing.
In addition to swearing too much, he was also rather fond of ladies peddling the world’s oldest profession and is said to have favored one in particular, Rosabelle, whose reputation was well known. He even lodged with her for a time. Prostitution in those days was condemned by the Church, but tolerated by towns and cities as long as it was relegated to certain locations and everything was transacted on the sly.
As a result, he seems to have missed, probably due to fatigue or hangovers, a number of important singing events where he was expected to attend and participate. It may be significant that only his secular songs survive, one of which contains these naughty words:
What you do covertly concerning “let us multiply”
As long as it is done secretly, is easily excused
In the sight of the Most High.
And then, let us do it, my girls, and enjoy,
It is nothing but good sport …
He may also have set two masses to a popular tune, O Rosa bella, which would be a perfect inside joke, given the name of his favorite courtesan.
For whatever reason, these offenses weren’t held against him in the long run. He was made a priest and eventually a canon of St. Donatian in Bruges in 1459. Whether he continued to see Rosabelle to play “priest and confessor” is unknown.
Henry VIII, King of England (1491–1547)
My kingdom for a song?
Ah, dear old Henry, known to history as a bloated, corpulent, gouty, miserable old tyrant with a passion for turkey legs and beheading wives. And those were his good points! In fact, Henry was very athletic and fit for a good portion of his life, only becoming much less so after a broken leg that curtailed his activities. He only had two of his wives executed (“only”), and one of those, Catherine Howard, certainly was guilty of flagrant adultery—not that she deserved to die for it, of course.
Henry was a very complex man, and numerous biographies have been written about him. The king who married six times, tore apart the religious life of England, ravaged its medieval heritage, and changed English history forever was also a great lover of music, an instrument collector, and a skilled composer in his own right, in addition to being a patron to many fine musicians. By the end of his life, he employed nearly sixty musicians of various kinds.
In his youth, he was admired throughout Europe as the model of the Renaissance Prince, and this included a passion for music. He was noted for his skill on the lute, harpsichord, and organ and also played recorder, sometimes practicing for hours a day. His collection of musical instruments grew, encompassing everything from keyboards (organs, harpsichords, and their variations), plucked strings (lutes and harps), and bowed strings (early violins and fiddles, viols, rebecs) to soft wind instruments (recorders and flutes) and loud wind instruments (shawms, horns, trombones, and bagpipes), scattered around various palaces and official residences.
There are thirty-four extant pieces of music attributed to Henry, found in what is, conveniently enough, titled the Henry VIII Manuscript. They are quite good and include instrumental as well as vocal works. If these are all by Henry, then he did indeed possess the considerable skill that his sycophants proclaimed he did. Confirming attributions of pieces to specific composers can sometimes be a tricky subject because music was often attributed to famous people just to increase sales—sixteenth-century marketing through name-dropping.
There is a legend, for example, that Henry wrote the immortal tune “Greensleeves” while pining for Anne Boleyn, who would eventually become his second wife (and the first to be executed). The words “Alas my love, you do me wrong, to cast me off discourteously” were once believed to have been his response to being spurned. Sadly, there’s no evidence for his authorship. Some musicologists have even pointed out that the style of the song dates to a later part of the sixteenth century, meaning that it was likely written by that most famous and gifted of female composers: Anonymous.
Henry’s musical activities began to fade into the background in his later life, as being a tyrant took center stage (a full-time job, that), but he maintained a keen appreciation for the musical arts until the end.
David Rizzio (or Riccio) (ca. 1533–1566)
Sticking the knife in and turning it
Rizzio was an Italian courtier and the son of a music teacher; he progressed through the ranks over time to become a favorite of Mary, Queen of Scots. He was said to be ugly, but possessed great musical talent and a beautiful singing voice.
He made his way to Scotland in 1561 via a diplomatic mission from the Marquess of Moretto. The Scottish Court had no real use for the poor fellow, and he was dismissed, but being the clever man he was, he got in good with Mary’s musicians. Rizzio’s friend, Sir John Melvil, noted that Queen Mary “had three valets, who sang three parts, and she wanted a person to sing a bass, or fourth part.”
Well, hey, what a lucky coincidence! Rizzio just happened to be hanging around, and his voice impressed the queen. His musical skill became legendary in later years. In the eighteenth century he was credited with composing a large number of songs in the Scots language, though these were actually folk songs with no connection to him. More likely, he sang fashionable part-songs in Italian and French, as would be found in any respectable Renaissance court. He was much more a musician than a composer.
The next few years were good for him, and he grew wealthy under royal patronage, even attaining the coveted position of secretary for relations with France, an astonishing achievement that provoked much speculation. Rizzio’s rapid rise to power, fame, and fortune did not sit well with everyone, including the queen’s own husband, Henry, Lord Darnley—whom, ironically, Rizzio had encouraged Mary to wed. Darnley had aspirations to be the undisputed monarch of Scotland, even over Mary, the lawful queen. Meanwhile, rumors were spreading that Rizzio and Mary were having an affair, probably started by nobles who wanted to drive a bigger wedge between Darnley and Mary.
Incensed by the alleged adultery, Darnley decided to take drastic action. Aligning himself with a group of friends that included Protestants (Scotland at the time was still firmly Roman Catholic in its outlook and laws), they entered the Palace of Holyroodhouse in Edinburgh on March 9, 1566, and demanded that she turn Rizzio over to them. Rizzio, ever the gallant courtier, bravely hid behind her, and she refused. When she was then held at gunpoint, she relented, and Rizzio was given over to the conspirators. It was said that he was stabbed fifty-six times, then thrown down the main staircase of the palace, looted for finery and jewels, and buried within a few hours.
Queen Mary later ordered that he be reburied in the sepulcher of the Kings of Scotland. This was a bad move, politically speaking, for Rizzio had no right to be interred there, and it confirmed for many that the two had been having a most improper relationship. Even Henry IV of France is said to have hinted that Mary (who was quite pregnant at the time of the
murder) might have been carrying Rizzio’s child. Indeed, after the boy was born (he would grow up to be King James I of England, of the famous Bible version), Henry remarked that he hoped the child was not “David the fiddler’s son.”
Mary was able to escape from the palace soon after, convincing Darnley to abandon the conspirators; the two fled on horseback. She rallied her supporters and returned a little over a week later to rout those conspirators and send them fleeing for sanctuary in England. Rizzio was given his elaborate state funeral afterward.
As for Darnley, while he was able to obtain an official pardon for his actions, she never trusted him again, and he would be dead within a year. Early on the morning of February 10, 1567, his body and that of his servant were found outside in the gardens of Kirk o’ Field, Edinburgh, where he had been staying; he was only twenty-two years old. He was wearing just a nightshirt, which may mean that he had been trying to get away quickly. A gunpowder explosion had rocked the house earlier that night. It may well be that Darnley was fleeing from an assassination attempt and didn’t make it too far. Some accounts relate that he and his servant had been strangled, the explosion being used as a cover to do it, but they may have died from the explosion itself. Suspects included the Earl of Bothwell (who would later force Queen Mary into marriage) and even the queen herself.
The violent death of one unfortunate musician set in motion a chain of events that would end in 1587 with Mary’s own execution by Queen Elizabeth I for conspiring against the English crown. That in turn inspired Philip II of Spain to launch his Armada against England in 1588, which was thrashed by the English and the elements, humbling Spain and opening the way for England to become a major power in Europe and the New World.
Do North Americans speak English today due to the fate of one little Italian singer? One can but wonder.
Thomas Morley (1557/58–1602)
I spy with my little eye
Morley was one of the many Elizabethan composers who flourished at the end of Queen Elizabeth I’s reign. This was also the age that saw the rise of poets like Philip Sydney and playwrights such as Christopher Marlowe (himself murdered horribly with a dagger through the eye) and William Shakespeare (you might have heard of him). Indeed, Morley may have been a friend of Shakespeare’s, providing the music to Shakespeare’s song “It was a Lover and His Lass,” from As You Like It. While it’s possible, we don’t know for certain if his setting was ever performed during the play in Shakespeare’s time.
Born in Norwich at the beginning of Elizabeth’s reign, he was the son of a brewer. He showed great aptitude for music, eventually studying for his bachelor’s degree (the title was quite a big deal back then) at Oxford. He was appointed as organist of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, made a Gentleman of the Queen’s Royal Chapel, and even obtained a monopoly on the printing of music near the end of his life. He is often credited with introducing, or at least popularizing, the madrigal in England—the genre had originated in Italy. His most famous contribution was The Triumphs of Oriana, a 1601 collection of madrigals composed in honor of Queen Elizabeth I. It includes works by Morley and more than twenty other composers.
He also had a more secretive side. It seems that Morley, like other musicians and poets of the time (including Marlowe), was employed by the government for acts of espionage. Elizabeth’s England was a dangerous place, with spies and plots abounding. Many Catholics wanted the Protestant Queen to be assassinated, and her spies were engaged constantly in uncovering these plots, some real, some imagined (the whole issue with Mary Queen of Scots and her alleged plots against Elizabeth is a very good example). Artists and musicians were introduced into this paranoid world, as they traveled frequently to play at foreign courts and could be used as eyes and ears to gain information. They could also travel around England, staying in homes and keeping an open ear for any evidence of plots and treason.
Apparently, Morley once got caught out. In a letter dated October 3, 1591, from the double agent Charles Paget to Thomas Phellippes, secretary to Elizabeth’s spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham, we read (with all of those delicious sixteenth-century spellings):
Ther is one Morley that playeth on the organes in poules [St. Paul’s] that was with me in my house. He seemed here to be a good Catholicke and was reconsiled, but notwith-standing suspecting his behaviour I entercepted letters that Mr. Nowell [possibly the Dean of St Paul’s or Henry Nowell, a courtier] wrote to him Wherby I discovered enoughe to have hanged him. Nevertheles he shewing with teares great repentaunce, and asking on his knees forgiveness, I was content to let him goe.
Phellippes’s draft reply confirms Morley’s activity:
It is true that Morley the singing man employeth himself in that kind of service and hath browht diverse into danger.
It’s not quite clear what Morley was doing, beyond seeking to uncover Catholic plots. He certainly didn’t comport himself with any Bond-like bravery when he was found out. There are some suspicions that Morley himself may have been secretly Catholic (as was his teacher, the great William Byrd) but nevertheless loyal to Queen Elizabeth. In this case, he would have been a Catholic pretending to be a Protestant pretending to be a Catholic, acting against Catholic plots in the service of a Protestant queen. There’s one for Ian Fleming!
John Bull (1562/63–1628)
A master of the organ—his own, anyway
Bull was an exceptional keyboardist who wrote numerous virtuoso pieces for the virginal, a small English harpsichord. Like a number of other artistic talents of his time, he may have been Roman Catholic in his sympathies. He may also have served Queen Elizabeth I on espionage missions, like Morley, but it isn’t certain. In any case, trouble seemed to follow him. George Abbot, Archbishop of Canterbury, wrote of him in 1613, “the man hath more music than honesty,” an observation that seems to be fairly accurate. For all of his talent and skill, John Bull had a number of run-ins with the law that led to him fleeing from England.
He is on record as having been robbed in 1592, and for being quite poor. But his bigger problems came about because of his philandering ways and a breaking-and-entering charge. In 1597 he was elected as Public Reader in music at Gresham College, London, to be paid the amount of £50 a year, a nice sum in those days. One requirement was that such readers had to live in a certain Gresham House. Bull had a problem, in that the rooms assigned to him were still occupied by a previous tenant. Afraid of losing his appointment, he went with a mason and broke down brickwork to gain access to the portion of the house assigned to him. Needless to say, this didn’t go over well. Actions were filed against him in the Star Chamber, a court of law based at Westminster Palace, which sounds way more cool than it probably was, but the court’s decision is not preserved.
In 1607 he was discovered to have gotten a young woman, Elizabeth Walter, pregnant and was forced to marry her. He also had to resign from his duties at Gresham and seek employment elsewhere.
Eventually his various troubles forced him to leave England permanently in 1613, apparently quickly and in secret. It seems he was still knocking up young ladies and faced charges of adultery from George Abbot. He fled to Flanders and remained there for the rest of his life. Some details are provided by William Trumbull, who was the English envoy to the area:
Bull did not leave your Majesties service for any wrong done unto him, or for matter of religion, under which fained pretext he now sought to wrong the reputation of your Majesties justice, but did in that dishonest matter steal out of England through the guilt of a corrupt conscience, to escape the punishment, which notoriously he had deserved, and was designed to have been inflicted on him by the hand of justice, for his incontinence, fornication, adultery, and other grievous crimes.
Indeed, Abbot, who had questioned his honesty, also noted that Bull “is as famous for marring of virginity as he is for fingering of organs and virginals.” Oh, the possibilities for punning in that sentence!
It seems Bull claimed that he fled England due to religious pers
ecution; authorities had evidence of him being a Catholic and of his refusal to acknowledge King James I as the head of the English Church. Strangely, he neither confirmed nor denied the charges. In any case, he was never extradited back to England.
He may have learned a bit of a lesson and been less of a troublemaker in Antwerp, eventually finding new employment as a musician and organist and living out his days in relative peace. Or at least he kept his philandering better hidden.
Carlo Gesualdo (1566–1613)
Sticking the knife in and turning it II
Gesualdo is famous for two things: writing very odd music and being the most famous composer-murderer in history. He was the Prince of Venosa and Count of Conza, and a gifted composer and lute player. He seems to have suffered from depression, and this affliction may have been reflected in many of his works.
Gesualdo married his first cousin, Donna Maria d’Avalos, in 1586. She was also of noble birth, being the daughter of the Marquis of Pescara. Their marriage was presumably not all that happy, for in less than two years, she was having an affair with Fabrizio Carafa, Duke of Andria; with a name like “Fabrizio,” he must have been the Fabio of his time! Or maybe Gesualdo just sucked as a husband.
In any case, they successfully kept their affair secret from Gesualdo for some time, even though, as is often the case in these things, many others around them seemed to know about it. Unfortunately for the lovers, the proverbial chickens came home to roost in October 1590 at the Palazzo San Severo in Naples.
