by Anne Stevens
“Well done, Eustace,” Cromwell tells him. “You have healed a rift today, and your master will be proud of you.”
“You did this to me,” Chapuys says, sharply. “You led me to the block, like a lamb to the slaughter.”
“Not I, sir,” Cromwell says. “I came to give you support. The lady, as far as I knew, was at Westminster. Still, what harm is done? You have been introduced to Anne Boleyn. That does not mean you support her cause, or are turning into a protestant, does it?”
“No, it does not,” Chapuys replies. “Though the emperor will see it differently.”
“Not when he receives your next report.” Cromwell is already thinking how best to turn the little setback into an advantage for both Chapuys, and himself. “In it, you will be able to tell him that you have infiltrated the Boleyn camp, and hope to pick up much vital information therein.”
“The tittle tattle of ladies,” says Chapuys.
“Not so,” his friend tells him. “There will be certain facts, unknown outside their circle. For instance, you can hint at George Boleyn’s obvious dislike for his wife. Jane, the Lady Rochford complains to me that her husband never fulfils his duties as a married man, and enjoys more peculiar pleasures.”
“What?” Chapuys cannot believe his ears. “George Boleyn is a … Quel est la mot? … Sodamite?”
“Hush now, “ Cromwell says. They are still strolling about the gallery. “Hint, my friend. Tell your master a little, then let the story run its course. After that, we might find out something about the Boleyn father. Perhaps he is a drunkard, or a wife beater? No, I know what it will be; I wager he is defrauding the king.”
“My God, what are you saying?”
“Nothing out loud, Eustace,” Cromwell says. “There are things that might need saying, but not by me. If the source of the gossip cannot be found… well, your position is secure, and we are all blameless.”
“I see. You are a rogue, Thomas,” Chapuys says. “Now, what do I do?”
“Wait for the dancing to start, then approach La Boleyn, and bring up the subject of Paris. She loves the damned place, and will enjoy talking to someone who knows the city well. In this way, she might reveal something interesting to you.”
“Why do you help me so?”
“Is not friendship enough of a reason?” Cromwell asks.
“We are both too wise to think that, my friend.” Chapuys strolls away, and starts to chat with one of the king’s physicians, who accepts small tokens of friendship, in return for information.
The Doctor, Thomas Wendy, is just thirty years old, and the youngest of the king’s medical men. As one of the court’s four royal physicians, he is able to give an accurate insight as to Henry’s current temperament, and state of health.
“You are well, Master Chapuys?” Wendy asks.
“I hope so, Doctor,” Chapuys replies. “How is the king?”
“You do not ask me to divulge medical information about my patient, I trust?”
“Of course not,” Chapuys says. “I enquire in only a general way, as one friend to another.” Later, the ambassadors servant will pass a small purse to the doctors assistant, and honour will be satisfied.
“In that case, I can say that the king is… disquieted,” Doctor Wendy tells him. “I fear his current abstinence from the pleasures of the flesh is to blame.”
“The king needs a woman.” Chapuys understands. “Perhaps if he was to be encouraged to … exercise himself in further directions?”
“I am sure that would suit you very well, my dear Master Chapuys,” Doctor Wendy replies. He is not fond of the Boleyn clan either, and wishes that, should the king divorce, he does look further a field. Aside from taking Chapuys’ presents, the good doctor is also receiving a small stipend from Cromwell, and agrees with him, that a nice German princess would be a perfect match. A few healthy Lutheran baby boys will lift the king’s spirits beyond measure, and rid his mind of French raised sluts.
“Is that you, Thomas?” Henry calls. “Come here to me, Master Cromwell, I would have a word in your ear.” The Privy Councillor obeys, smiling, and bowing.
“Yes, sire?”
“How goes my … matter?” Henry drops his voice, so that Anne does not hear. If it is good news, he will have the pleasure of telling her, and if it is bad, she best not know. Cromwell understands, and with a quiet ‘may I’ he steps closer to the king than it is normally fit to do.
“Excellent news,” he whispers.
“Of the king’s great matter?” The king’s fool, Sexton, known as Patch, steps between the two men, and clutches his own private parts. “For it is truly great, Master Blacksmith.”
“Away with you, Patch,” the king says, but he is smiling at both the jest, and the compliment about his manhood. “Forgive my jester, Thomas, for he is a natural fool, and cannot make his tongue work with his brain.”
“Fool am I?” Patch says, leering at the king. “I have free food, clean laundry, new shoes, and good ale, when ever I desire. Why sire, ‘tis only the lack of a strumpet as makes us different!”
The king is going red in the face, as he perceives that it is now he who is the butt of this particular jest. Things look as though they might go ill with the simple minded jester, when Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, takes him by the elbow, and pulls him away.
“Come, Master Patch, the ladies want to see you caper, and drool,” he says. It is a wide held belief that those afflicted with a naturally simple mind, are endowed in other ways. Thus several of the court ladies have ventured into the fool’s bed, where they discovered the truth of the old story, much to Patch’s delight. “Who knows, perhaps one of them might dance with you?”
“I tire of that fool. Sometimes, I curse the day Cardinal Wolsey gave him to me. Damn, but I miss the man. Did I ever tell you how I was going to forgive him, Thomas?”
“Most gracious, sire. My report?”
“Oh, yes. Do go on.”
“My people are reported well on the way. Wyatt and his company should be landing in Genoa soon. From there, they travel to Venice, and pay our respects to the Doge.”
“He will fall in with our desires?” the king asks. “You seem so … certain of it.”
“I knew Andrea Gritti, over twenty years ago, sire,” Cromwell explains. “He is favourably disposed towards me, and wishes nothing but friendship with Your Majesty.” In truth, The current Doge of Venice owes everything to Thomas Cromwell. As a very young man, the Englishman travelled to Italy, in search of adventure, and found himself fighting on the losing side.
After the final, disastrous defeat, the young Cromwell is desperate to escape. He flees the carnage on horseback, then sees a wounded officer, staggering away from the battle field. The man is dazed, and easy prey for any victorious Spaniards who might come along. Cromwell cannot bring himself to abandon the wounded Venetian, so drags him up, and lays him across the horses withers.
The wounded man is called Andrea Gritti, and they return to Venice, where they become firm friends. Years later, as Thomas Cromwell runs the affairs of England, so Gritti is elected as the Doge, supreme head of the Venetian state.
“Then all goes well,” Henry says. “I will inform the Lady Anne. She will be most pleased with you, Thomas!”
The king goes off to ingratiate himself into the Boleyn good books, leaving Cromwell wondering at the risk he is taking. There is, he concludes, no other way. With Sir Thomas More still in the hunt, he must gain the advantage, and the only way to do that is to ruin the Lord Chancellor’s own plans.
Stephen Gardiner, who Thomas Cromwell was trying to send to France, as the new ambassador, has been, without warning, made Bishop of Winchester by the king. This has created an unworkable triumvirate, with More working against Gardiner’s influence with the king, and them both trying to alter his own plans.
Henry, in his wisdom, thinks that by playing off the three cleverest men in England against one another, he will achieve his own ends. Cromwell sighs at the
naivety of the king’s plan, for all he has done is create two obstacles for him to remove.
It is a source of great regret to Cromwell that the two enemies he must overcome, were once, his closest, and dearest friends. The next few months will be vital, he realises, and the outcome is dependent on the diplomatic skills of a young poet, and the martial abilities of an ex soldier.
2 The Dogado
“My God!” Will Draper cannot believe how beautiful the city looks from the high poop deck of the ship, sent to collect them from the mainland. “Have you ever seen anything so magnificent?”
“The Dogado, we call it,” Signor Borello says, with great pride. “The city, and islands of Venice, ruled by the Doge and his Senate.” His English is good, as is the man’s French, and Latin. Once, he explains, it was his wish to serve the church.
“A pretty enough sight,” Tom Wyatt says. He is still out of sorts from the journey, and finds it hard to enjoy the view. Mush and Richard Cromwell are dozing on the deck, in the early afternoon sunshine. The days at sea, and the hard ride from Genoa have taken their toll, and they must rest , if they are to be of any use to anyone.
It is the start of October. Back home, it will be like wintertime, but here, the weather is clement, and always warm against their northern European skins. Only Mush, with his olive complexion is truly comfortable with the heat. As he dozes, he can hear the Venetian’s voice droning on, and decides that he does not like the man. He is boastful, and self seeking; a typical politician.
The ship, one of the fast Venetian coastal galleys slips into the harbour, and is tied fast by a swarm of small, dark skinned men, who proceed to unload the cargo. Borello ushers his charges onto the dock and conducts them through a short passage, where they come out into the Piazza San Marco. It is deliberately done, to awe new visitors with the splendour of the city.
Mush rubs his eyes open, and stares up at the vast campanile tower, and is almost made dizzy by the sight. Almost at once, other sights rush in, to stagger the senses. Thomas Wyatt whistles softly. The great basilica, the vast square, and the Doge’s palace to the other side, will provide enough beauty for a hundred poems.
“Master Wyatt wishes to present his letters to the Doge, as soon as is convenient,” Will says, aware that the spectacle is meant to put them in their place. “We have urgent business in Rome.”
“This evening, Signor Draper,” Borello tells him. “You must have powerful friends to obtain so speedy an audience with the Doge. Are you, perhaps the friend of your King Henry?”
“I am Thomas Cromwell’s man,” Will Draper replies. “We all are. He is the king’s foremost advisor.”
“He is?” Borello smiles, and nods. “Then the Lord Chancellor is out of favour?”
“Sir Thomas concerns himself with other than foreign affairs,” Tom Wyatt puts in.
“More is a great friend of the church,” the Venetian says.
“My delegation is authorised to negotiate with both the Pope, and your own master, Signor. May I ask your position, in relation to the Doge?”
“I am a Senator, of course,” Borello says. “Not someone who would normally greet a party of travellers. As I say, you have influence. I hope that influence will not be brought to bear on our Doge. English interference in Venetian affairs will not be tolerated.”
“Is that the opinion of the whole Senate, Signor Borello?” Will asks.
“Venice is an independent city state, sir,” Borello replies, “and does not need foreign gold, or promises of support.”
“With such an advocate as yourself,” Tom Wyatt says, “I doubt any nation will wish to hold out the hand of friendship. Now, please show us to our quarters.”
“I doubt you made a friend there,” Richard says, after they are safely lodged in their rooms.
“Borello is a fool,” Wyatt replies. He unbuckles his sword, and hangs it on a peg by the door. “Master Cromwell has schooled me well about those around the Doge. He tells me that a place in the Venetian Senate can be bought for two thousand ducats, so that, apart from a core of wise men, there are many merchants, money lenders and petty politicians, there because they can raise enough money for a bribe.”
“Then we will be able to bribe Gritti,” Will says.
“I doubt it,” Wyatt tells them. Thomas Cromwell knows his man, and does not think he can be bribed in so open a way. “The bribes don’t go to the Doge. They go to a central treasury, which controls its ledgers as well as a banking house. The Doge is the prime Senator, amongst a hundred, and has influence, but his power is not absolute.”
“They need a king,” Will says.
“Yes, and our king needs a son,” Wyatt replies. “Barring a miracle, the only way that will happen, is if he remarries.”
“There is always young Fitzroy,” says Richard Cromwell.
“Never. England will not tolerate a bastard sitting on the throne” Will recalls the events of a few months earlier, when Baron Montagu almost managed to start a civil war over the child. “We must accomplish our aims.”
“Why must we stop in Venice?” Mush asks, starting to wake up. “Let us rest, and ride on, tomorrow.”
“Without a safe conduct from the Doge?” Wyatt shakes his head. “We would not last fifty miles, before every brigand in the Veneto descends on us. No, we must stay with the plan. Cromwell is sure the Doge will oblige us, and has entrusted letters to my keeping, which will sway him to our cause.”
“I don’t know about letters, but a huge bag of gold ducats might do the trick,” Richard grumbles. “I wonder what the food is like here?”
Cromwell’s massively built nephew need not have worried about his stomach. On the short walk to the Doge’s palace there were food stalls every few steps. Richard stops at two or three, and spends four silver pennies, buying exotic delicacies, ready cooked, and demanding to be eaten.
“We are going to a banquet,” Mush says, poking his friend’s huge girth.
“There are banquets, and there are banquets,” Richard replies, enigmatically, and shoves a whole sweet pastry into his mouth. More follow, and his chin and beard is soon matted with honey, and flecks of fine Madeira sugar. Venice is the gateway to the east, and the city uses luxuries like sugar, mace, cinnamon, salt, and black pepper as everyday condiments.
A crowd of Venetians are milling about outside the Doge’s palace, each greeting the other with familiarity. Ordinary town’s people can wander into the palace, and ask to see a senator or even the Doge, as they wish, and have more licence than any freeborn Englishman.
“Signor Gritti runs Venice like Master Cromwell runs Austin Friars,” Mush says. “Look at the women!” The young man, recently betrothed to a beautiful Welsh girl called Gwen, is astounded by their beauty.
“English?” A thin, well dressed young man asks, and Mush nods, and asks him about the array of attractive women, sauntering about the great piazza. The man, introduces himself as Bartolommeo Rinaldi, the son of a merchant, and tries to explain in halting English.
“My Italian is good,” Mush tells him, and the man grins in relief.
“I am glad of that, for my English is poor,” he replies, and explains about the girls. “This country is very beautiful, and there are many pretty girls. They must either marry well, or come to Venice, as courtesans.”
“Whores?” Mush says the English word, but his new friend shakes his head.
“No, not that, my English friend. You do not give these women a few coins for their favours. It is like this; No matter what their station is, they are all to be addressed, politely, as Donna. In the cooler part of the day, when the mosquitoes sleep, and fat husbands are in their counting houses, amorous gentlemen go out about the Piazza, or the smaller Campos, and saunter around, looking as wealthy as one can.”
“Peacocks luring the hens,” Mush says, with a smile.
“Just so. On meeting a woman in the street, you establish if she is a bored seeker after pleasure, or a courtesan.”
“And the dif
ference?” Tom Wyatt asks. He is eager to speak with the Doge, but always has time to discuss the frailties of the female sex. “I recall the Roman courtesans being most mercenary.”
“It is so the world over, sir,” young Rinaldi replies, warming to the subject. “The courtesan will sniff out the rich men, and spurn the rest. You must seek out a bored wife, or a wayward daughter, and take her to a tavern. In Venice, all persons go without any reserve, to such places. The husband seldom takes things amiss, but often remains obliged to you, as he usually has his own mistress to visit. They often thank you, and if he sees you with her, he departs, so as not to cause any unseemliness.”
“Do they expect presents?” Richard asks.
“Mere trifles for the Donnas, such as flowers, or some pretty ribbons for their hair,” the young Venetian explains. “Though a courtesan will expect a jewel worth at least a hundred ducats.”
“The women are all extremely handsome,” Richard says, appreciatively. “How much is a hundred ducats, Will?”
“Almost thirty five pounds,” Will replies, slapping his bear-like friend on the back. “You must find yourself a willing matron, Richard, for your uncle is not that generous.”
“Do you have business with the Senate?” Bartolommeo Rinaldi asks. He prefers to be with the younger set, and finds the ruling caste to be too old, and too boring. “Conclude it quickly, and I will take you all out.”
“Our thanks,” Tom Wyatt says, wistfully, “but we cannot. We must dine with the Doge, and then conduct some diplomatic affairs. I fear it will be late before we are done.”
“Another day then, my friends,” the young man says. “Ask anyone where the palazzo of the Rinaldi family is, and they will direct you. I am at your service, day and night, gentlemen.” He bows, and darts off, after a young, dark haired woman, who is fluttering a handkerchief in his direction.
“What a splendid way to spend every evening,” Mush says, and they all laugh. A guard, idly checks their name against a list, and has a page boy lead them to the banqueting hall. As they stroll through the palace, they are dumb with awe, at the beauty of the décor, and wonder that they ever thought Austin Friars or Whitehall to be luxurious.
