by Anne Stevens
Three tables are laid out in a U shape, and there about sixty place settings. Tom Wyatt cannot help but notice that the plates are not pewter, but silver, and that there is a matching knife and fork by each plate, together with a silver chased wine cup. Richard, who is his uncles nephew, after all, assesses each place setting to be worth twenty Thalers. He multiplies this by the number of settings, and guesses the table wear alone to be worth twelve hundred Thalers of silver.
“How much is a Thaler compared to a Ducat?” he asks Mush. The boy grins and shakes his head.
“Once more, I will explain,” he says. “One Thaler weighs an ounce of silver, and is equal to two Ducats. A Ducat is a twelfth of an ounce of gold, and there are almost three of them to an English pound. So, twelve hundred Thalers is about eight hundred pounds.”
“I wager they count each piece after dinner,” Will tells his friend. “So don’t get any ideas.”
“I’m more interested in what they will put on the plates,” Richard replies. “Where do we sit?” The tables are filling rapidly, but the elevated seat in the middle, and two places either side, remain resolutely empty.
“We appear to be guests of honour,” Tom Wyatt says. “Shall we sit, gentlemen?” They occupy the four lesser places, and the room falls silent, almost at once. A bell tinkles, and servants appear with the first course.
The sixty guests chatter amongst themselves, leaving the four Englishmen to their own devices. The meal continues in this way for six, heavy courses, without any sign of the Doge. Then a second bell sounds, and the diners stand, and troop out into an adjoining hall. Will and the others follow suit, but are taken to one side by a strange looking youth, who is painted, and bejewelled as if he were a girl.
“Gentlemen,” he lisps at them, “I am Pietro Gallo, the Doge’s Private Secretary. Please, come with me. My master wishes a private audience with you.” They follow the young creature down several corridors, until they have no idea where they are, finally arriving at an ornate door. The young man pauses, and arranges himself, as if he is a piece of art.
“The Doge’s private quarters,” the secretary tells them. “Within is the master of all that is fine and beautiful. Beware that you are not blinded by his magnificence.” He knocks, and pushes the door open. Both Will and Tom go to remove their sword belts, but the young man stops them. “That will not be necessary, gentlemen,” he says. “Weapons are allowed in the Doge’s presence.”
“Is that a good idea?” Mush asks. He was not going to give up his concealed dagger any way, but the idea of weapons so close to the head of state, strikes him as a little too trusting. The secretary simply smiles, and ushers them within. The room is furnished with rich wall hangings, exquisite furniture, and antiquities beyond price.
A tall, strongly built man rises from the desk he is working at, and beckons them to approach. Andrea Gritti looks to be in his fifties, but is now in his seventy fifth year. He is Doge of Venice, and rules an empire that stretches from mainland Italy to Istria, and the far flung Greek islands. He also commands the greatest merchant fleet in the world, and controls the importation into the West of salt, sugar, mace, and other important spices.
“Please, come in, gentlemen,” the Doge says. “I trust that Pietro has not been boring you too much, with his glowing praises of my almost God-like qualities?”
“A most interesting young fellow,” Tom Wyatt says, for lack of anything else to say about so strange a person.
“He is a eunuch, of course. I purchased him from some Ottoman ruffians, who were trying to sell him as a catamite. It is my good fortune to be on good terms with the Vizier of Constantinople, so I was able to bargain hard.”
“I believe it improves the voice,” Wyatt replies, subduing a rogue smile.
“It does,” the Doge replies. “Though I would rather lack a singing voice, than my cozza.”
“I agree, My Lord.” Tom Wyatt places his cap over his manhood, without thinking. “Thank you for receiving us, on such short notice.”
“Hardly that, Master Wyatt,” the Doge says. “I have been awaiting your arrival with great interest. Ever since your master first wrote to me, a year ago.”
Will Draper suppresses the urge to curse the name of Thomas Cromwell. The arduous trip to Italy was presented to him as a sudden, spur of the moment thing, giving him little time to think it over. Now he discovers that it was planned, and he is a dupe, once again. Previously he has been tricked into believing he was saving a prince, when the real task was to murder a Welsh rebel.
“Master Cromwell sends his warmest greetings,” Will says, instead. The game, whatever it is, must be played out, if he is to return safely home to his new wife.
“How is the rogue keeping?“ the Doge asks. “I used to say he had… my English fails me …avere una faccia da culo …”
“A face like his arse,” Wyatt translates, and cannot help but grin. It is a compliment, meaning that Cromwell is brazen faced, and a cheeky, but likable, rascal. “It is better left in the Italian, My Lord, but suits Master Cromwell admirably. He is in good health, and hopes that you are the same.”
“I am seventy five,” the Doge replies, and shrugs. “God can call at any moment when you reach my age, my son. Did he ever tell you how he saved my life?”
“No sir,” Will says. “Just that he once knew you.”
“Twenty four years ago, outside Ferrara.” The Doge waves them all to be seated. He is claiming the privilege of his advanced age, and wishes to tell them the story. “I was visiting the French army, as a liaison officer, between their generals, and the Senate back in Venice. We were looking to leave the alliance with the Holy Roman Empire, and join up with King Francis.
“Outside Ferrara, the French came on a mixed force of six thousand Spanish and German soldiers, and because of our vast superiority in troop numbers, we offered them battle. I was to be an observer at a great French victory. It was foolish of me, for I was not a young man, but I have had many adventures in my youth, and fancied myself a great soldier, like you, Captain Draper.”
“I am hardly that, sir,” Will says. “Chasing Irish rebels, and Welsh bandits is the extent of my military career.”
“Still, you are more of a fighting man now, than I was at the age of fifty three,” the Doge continues. “I was strutting up and down, behind three lines of French pike men, and a squadron of mounted Istrian crossbow men. To my right was a thousand Swiss mercenaries, and to my left, a regiment of English, Irish, and Welsh soldiers of fortune.”
“Master Thomas once spoke of fighting for the French,” Will says. “So, he was in the Italian wars?”
“Thank God, for me.” The Doge opens a casket, and offers around some sugared almonds. Richard resists the urge to take a great handful. “We were about twelve thousand strong, drawn up on a low hill. The perfect position, or so we thought. Then the Franconian gunners began their devil’s work, with a dozen field canon. Their chain shot tore great holes through the French, and smashed men to pieces. Once our lines broke, there was a wild rush to save ourselves, and the Spanish came on, killing without mercy.
“I was knocked off my feet when a canon shot landed close by, and my head was split open. I staggered around, half blind, until a kind soul pulled me onto his stolen horse, and rescued me. It was Thomas. He was a young ruffian back then, of course.”
“He brought you back to Venice?”
“Yes. He saved my life, and when I asked what he wanted in return, he asked for a place with one of our banking houses. Imagine that. Not a bag of gold, or a box of jewels, but a seat at a clerks desk!” Andrea Gritti laughed at the memory. “In two years, he was the most astute young man in our Padua office, and turned his mind to the law.”
“My uncle seldom speaks of his early life,” Richard says. “It is as if he wishes to forget.”
“Some of it, yes,” the Doge replies. He offers another sugared almond. “Here, take the casket, my boy. I see you have a sweet tooth. I will have my people send mo
re to your lodgings, tomorrow. Now, where was I? Ah, yes … Thomas left us, despite my pleas for him to stay, and returned to London. He believed he could become a great man, back home.”
“And so he has,” says Tom Wyatt. “Now, he seeks a favour from you, My Lord. Concerning the matter of King Henry, and his marriage. Are you familiar with the legal niceties?” The old man smiles, and nods. Of late, it is all that seems to be spoken of in Italy.
“The King, who I am told is quite a learned man, is of the opinion that the then pope … Pope Julius II, if memory serves me aright, was not authorised to grant the dispensation for his marriage to the present Queen. The difficulty arising from the fact that she, Katherine of Aragon, was his older brother's widow.”
“The marriage was only allowed because of Pope Julius’ intervention,” Wyatt says. Will Draper and Mush are not interested in the legalities, and are ready for their beds. Richard sits quietly, absorbing the discussion, which he will repeat to is uncle, when asked, and chews his sugared almonds. “He, misguidedly, wished to help Henry, and in so doing committed a fatal error. A man may not marry his own sister-in-law. The bible forbids it.”
“A difficult point, Master Wyatt,” Andrea Gritti replies. “I, myself am married to a cousin. Yet the Dogessa and I live in relative harmony. What of the child, Mary?”
“The Princess is beloved by her father, even though she is much attached to the Queen. His Majesty always treats her with respect, and occasionally dines with her, as a good father should, even though she is not now of legitimate birth.”
“Such a complicated life poor Henry leads,” the Doge says, shaking his head. “Can he not simply take a mistress?”
“There is the delicate matter of the succession,” Tom Wyatt explains. “The king has no son to inherit the throne.”
“Perhaps it is God’s will?”
“Perhaps it is not. Henry is a robust, and fertile man, well able to sire a dozen boys … by the right woman. He must be free to marry again.”
“Not many years ago, the French king had a troublesome wife strangled.” The Doge knows there is no proof of this, but enjoys making mischief.
“It is not the English way of doing things, My Lord,” Tom Wyatt replies. “The king wants it to be legal.”
“And what does Thomas want?” Andrea Gritti asks. “For it is he that I owe, not your troubled king.”
“Master Cromwell begs you to facilitate our progress to Rome. Then he asks that you endorse whatever decision the Pope makes.”
“You wish me to agree with Pope Clement?” Andrea Gritti remembers how Cromwell’s mind used to work, and he smiles, for he can sense wheels within wheels. “He is a Medici, and I hate his family. If you wish, I will set myself against him, for Thomas.”
“That might cause unrest between your two states, My Lord,” Wyatt says. “It is enough that Pope Clement makes a decision, and that you endorse it, no matter what.”
“I owe Cromwell a great favour,” the Doge says. “So, I will arrange for your safe passage to Rome, and give you letters of introduction to the Holy See. Clement will grant you an audience, if only to see what you want, but he will not help you.”
“I wish only a few minutes of his time.”
“How can you hope to change his mind, in a few moments, when Lord Bedford failed after six months?”
“I was with His Lordship, back then, and believe he used the wrong approach.” Tom Wyatt recalls having to flee for his life, with the emperor’s soldiers on his heels.
“As you wish. There, that is the favour returned,” the Doge tells them. “Now, we must discuss the second favour, and what I want in return.”
“The two requests are but part of the one favour, sir,” Wyatt says, sensing a trap of some sort.
“Not so. Cromwell saved my life. In return, I gave him an education, a bag of gold when he left, and now, an audience with Pope Clement. That is enough recompense, I think.” Gritti sighed, and yawned then. “I grow tired, gentlemen. Return tomorrow, in the afternoon, and we will discuss your second request.”
“As you wish, My Lord,” Tom Wyatt says, motioning for Mush, Richard, and Will to stand. “We will return, tomorrow.” The door opens behind them, in answer to a small hand bell which the Doge rings.
“Ah, Pietro, my sweet little finocchio,” the Doge says, using a slang word for homosexual. “Escort my guests back to the Piazza San Marco. Hurry, my friends, and you might yet catch the midnight mass.”
“You are too kind,” Richard says, tucking the box of almonds under his arm. As they are shown from the sumptuous palazzo, he turns to Thomas Wyatt. “Well, Tom, what was all that about? We seem to have collected on one favour, only to owe one back.”
“I don’t know,” Wyatt says. “I cannot think how we might be of use to the Doge.”
“Cromwell can,” Will Draper tells them. “That which he wishes from Pope Clement can be obtained by a diplomat. He sends Richard to keep an eye on you, Tom, but what of Mush and I?”
“I do not see what you mean.”
“No? Master Thomas could have sent any of a hundred men to guard your safety, but he chose me. Because, he has a use in mind for me.”
“But what?” Tom Wyatt cannot think what his friend means.
“I am fit for nothing, except fighting, or carrying out some kind of black work.” Will Draper studies Wyatt’s face. “Do you know what he wants me to do, Tom?”
“On my honour, no.”
“And on mine too,” Richard Cromwell says. “Would anyone like a sugared almond?”
3 Traitors
“Well?” Sir Thomas More is on his knees, and has been praying for an hour. The hair shirt under his doublet prickles, and reminds him that humility is a virtue, and that his sudden flares of anger, are not. “What is it, Boscombe? You know I must not be disturbed at my devotions.”
“That man is here, Sir Thomas,” Wilfred Boscombe says. “The one with but a single eye, who will never give his name. He insists on seeing you, at once.”
“Does he now?”
“He does, Lord Chancellor,” Boscombe says, “and I am too much in fear of him to say no.”
“You do well to fear him, fellow,” More says, smiling to himself. “For I am all that stands between him, and Hell. Send him to my private rooms, and do not let anyone interrupt us.”
The Lord Chancellor finishes his prayers, which revolve mainly around wishing ill on Cromwell and his followers, and returns to his private study. It is not as luxurious as Cromwell’s, nor is the house anything like Austin Friars. More calls it Utopia, after his famous best selling book, and runs it like a monastic retreat. The food is poor, and the rewards few and far between for its servants.
“What do you have for me?” More asks, as soon as he closes the door behind himself. The one eyed man bows, and drops a sheaf of papers on Sir Thomas More’s desk.
“It has taken me weeks to get to the heart of the matter,” he complains. “None of Cromwell’s people can be bribed. I had to buy one of Ambassador Chapuys’ servants, and have him spy for me. Even then, he was able to get only the bare bones.”
“Which are?” More knows that certain members of Thomas Cromwell’s household have dropped out of sight, and believes them to be on some secret errand for the man. Despite employing several agents to track them, there has been no luck, until now.
“Richard Cromwell, the nephew, is supposed to be visiting his friends in Cheshire, but is not. Will Draper and his Jew friend are supposed to be in Ireland, but again, are not.”
“Then where are they?” The one eyed rogue smiles, and picks up the top report. He opens the cover, and offers it to his master.
“Chapuys’ man overheard Miriam Draper asking Cromwell for news of her husband, and he replied, saying that the ship had returned. I investigated, and found that the ship in question has come back from northern Spain.”
“Spain?” More says. “That does not make sense. Why would Cromwell want anything to do with the Spanish?�
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“He does not, sir,” the man explains. “I spoke with one of the ship’s officers, and he informs me, at great cost, that Draper, the younger Cromwell, the Jew, and Master Thomas Wyatt travelled on from Bilbao. Their destination appears to be Italy.”
“Then Cromwell is sending his own embassy to the Pope,” the Lord Chancellor mutters. He opens a drawer, and takes out a purse of silver. He counts out twenty five shillings, and drops them into the one eyed man’s hand. “There, Rattary. Now, get out, and keep away, unless I call on you.”
Matthew Rattary takes the silver, and leaves. He knows better than to try and ask for more. The Lord Chancellor is as parsimonious as a monk, and never spends gold, when silver will suffice. He leaves Utopia, and annoyed at his treatment, strolls down to Austin Friars. The gates are open, and the front door is attended by a small child, whose job is to direct visitors, or announce them, if need be.
“Is Cromwell home?” Rattary asks. The boy looks up, and nods his head.
“The master is at his book writin’,” the child says. “Today, he is writin’ in his book of devils. Get yer name in that un, an’ yer done for!”
“Fetch him.”
“For a copper, I’ll take yer to ’im.” The coin changes hands, and the boy leads him into the house. He taps at one of the doors, then pushes it open, and slips his head around the door. “Gen’lemun to see yer, master.”
“Who is it?” Cromwell asks, annoyed at the interruption.
“A one eyed un,” the boy reports. “He looks like old Hob on a bad day.”
“That sounds like half of London,” Thomas Cromwell mutters. “Show the fellow in.”
“Matthew Rattary, at your service, Master Cromwell,” the one eyed man says, and bows to the privy Councillor. “Forgive my calling without an appointment, but I have news that will be of interest to you.”
