by Anne Stevens
“I shall be the judge of that, sir,” Cromwell says. “There is the whiff of a paid man about you, Rattary. What is it?”
“The Lord Chancellor knows that you have sent men to Rome,” Rattary tells him. “Perhaps I might be of use, letting you know how he will proceed.”
“I doubt it,” Cromwell says. “I am surprised that it has taken Sir Thomas almost six weeks to discover this. Now he knows, they are almost certainly already there. Do you think he wishes to make mischief, Master Rattary?”
“I do sir.”
“Then he will use men like you, no doubt.” Thomas Cromwell surrounds himself with agents, and spies, but he does not like paid informers. “The Lord Chancellor will send the law against me, having the likes of you spread tales, and fabricate evidence. If he cannot stop my embassy, he will blacken my name with the king, and try to prise me away from the Boleyn family. Am I right?”
“You are, sir.”
“Then why do I need you?”
“The security at Utopia is most wanting,” Rattary replies. “Why, a man might slip in, and choke the Lord Chancellor whilst he sleeps, or the entire house might catch alight.”
“I see.” Cromwell sighs. Politics can be a dirty business, and, when all is said and done, it is about winning. “I wonder what a man might want to do such a wicked thing? Might he wish to have a knighthood, or gold, or a well paid position?”
“The right man might want all three, Master Thomas,” Rattary says. “The right fellow might only need a word.”
“Do you know the Nails of Christ?” Cromwell asks, naming a very rough tavern on the edge of Hackney. The man nods. “Go there, and await my instructions.”
“Very well, sir,” Matthew Rattary replies. “I am your loyal servant. Though, make me wait too long, and I must seek my wages elsewhere.”
“Patience, Master Rattary,” Cromwell tells him. “Here is five shillings, take a room for tonight, and tomorrow night. By then, all will be ready.”
“There is nothing for you to do,” the man says.
“I must be eating dinner, with friends, when the deed is done,” Cromwell explains. “A good alibi will stop any gossip. Now, be off, and do as I wish.”
The man bows, and slips from the house. He adds the five shillings to the fee he has from More, and goes off, whistling. If he performs his duty well, he foresees a great future.
“Francis!” A moment later, the small boy tumbles into the room. Cromwell is always amused by the intensity of his children, and their wish to do right by him. “I have a note, for Master Rafe. He is at Lincolns Inn Fields today, arguing in the law courts. It must be delivered, into his hand alone. Do you understand?”
“His ‘and, an nonuvver,” the boy says. He waits for Cromwell to finish, and shake sawdust over the still wet ink, then slips the paper into his shirt. “Am I to wait for an answer, master?”
“No. There will be no answer.” The note explains that a one eyed man has offered to murder the Lord Chancellor, and burn down Utopia. It concludes by asking Rafe to ensure that Sir Thomas knows about the offer, and that the advice comes from Austin Friars.
That evening, Matthew Rattary is contemplating the purchase of a young whore’s services, when four men burst into his room, stab him to death, and drop his body in the Thames. The next day, Sir Thomas sends a beautiful, illuminated Gospel to Austin Friars, with a short note.
Dear Cromwell,
It is good that we know the bounds, and retain a morality above the common herd. Come to dinner soon, and we will make one more attempt to settle our differences. I hope you take pleasure in this small gift, which is a token of friendship past.
Your servant,
Thom. More.
Cromwell admires the book, and is amused to find a passage underscored by More. It is Matthew 5:6
Blessed are those who hunger, and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.
Cromwell recognises it as one of the Beatitudes, uttered by Christ when he gave the Sermon on the Mount. Those who have a hunger for God’s righteousness will be satisfied someday, he mutters to himself. The Lord Chancellor is sending him another message, telling Cromwell that he will triumph, because he knows his service to God must come first.
For such a well read man, More is naïve. Surely, Cromwell thinks, he must understand that too great a hunger for righteousness will lead only to destruction? He picks up his quill, and writes back, thanking More, but declining the dinner invitation. Instead, he invites the Lord Chancellor to Austin Friars, where, he writes, we can discourse over richer fare than your cook provides.
It is a joke, of course, but Sir Thomas is beyond that stage, and will take it as a slight against him. These days, he thinks everything is against him. He thinks that the embassy to Rome is done, against him, rather than to advance the king’s cause. So great a mind, yet so narrowly confined, Cromwell mutters to himself, and signs the note.
At midday, on the day following their first audience with the Doge, Bartolommeo Rinaldi, and five more young bucks arrive, to escort them back to the palace.
“All four of us?” Richard asks. He is desperate to tour the city, and Mush is already weary of politics. “Can not Mush and I venture out on our own?”
“I see no reason why not,” Wyatt says, glancing at Will Draper. “Though you must attend, Will.”
“Of course,” Draper replies, reaching for his sword. “I am the bargaining chip.” They go with Rinaldi, who seems to be less talkative today. Thomas Wyatt tries to draw him out, but he is not in the mood for gossip.
“Are all Venetians so moody?” Wyatt asks. “Last evening, you wished to talk all night with us.”
“That was before,” the young man says.
“Before what?”
“Before I understood why you were here.”
“Then you know more than us,” Wyatt replies. He is short tempered with Rinaldi, and wants to know what is afoot. “I know only that the Doge is after a favour from us, but I have no idea what it is.”
“My uncle is a wily old fox,” Rinaldi says.
“The Doge is your uncle?” Will Draper asks.
“We are a very large family,” the young man answers. “We Rinaldi’s are a minor branch of the Gritti tree. Uncle Andrea uses us like his own private retinue.”
“What do you think he wants?” Draper asks. “Something against our inclination?”
“Not yours, perhaps,” Bartolommeo says. “Perhaps you will be only too willing to oblige.”
“Pray, do not judge me, sir,” Will tells the Venetian. “Rather, let me know what is on your mind.”
“Seriously?” Young Rinaldi stops, and looks hard at the Englishman. “You do not know?”
“This is becoming monotonous, Tom Wyatt says. “Out with it, Bartolommeo. Out with it!”
“The Doge is locked in a power struggle with Pope Clement,” the Venetian tells them. “Rome is always looking to expand its territories, and is casting covetous eyes on Padua, the second city of the Veneto. They connive with the emperor’s people to steal it from us.”
“I see, and where do we fit into this?”
“That is easy. My uncle can get you close to the Pope. I think he wants you to assassinate him.”
“Then he will be disappointed,” Will Draper snaps. “I am not a hired murderer, my friend.”
“Forgive me, but the Doge seldom fails to get his own way,” Rinaldi replies. “He will find what you want, and offer it.”
They stroll on to the palace in silence. Will Draper has suspected as much, but cannot believe that Thomas Cromwell would condone such a violent act against the head of the Roman church. He senses that Tom Wyatt is also surprised, and hopes the young Venetian’s assessment is wrong.
The Doge’s personal secretary is there, fluttering around them, asking if they slept well. He exhausts the list of things he can offer them, then takes them into the Doge’s presence once again.
“You slept well?” Andrea Gritti asks, polit
ely.
“Apart from the heat,” Will replies. “I would not care to be here in Summer.”
“Let us hope you are not,” Gritti replies. “Has my little finocchio asked if you need anything?”
“Your hospitality is overwhelming, My Lord,” Tom Wyatt tells the Doge. “We want for nothing. Now, you spoke of us doing a favour for a favour?”
“I did.”
“I must warn you that my master has given me strict instructions as to our behaviour on this embassy, sir.”
“Ah, someone has been upsetting you,” the Doge says, shaking his head. “Not Pietro, I’m sure. So, it is my dear little Bartolommeo. What does he think I will ask?”
“He made no specific claims,” Wyatt says, quickly. He has no wish to get the young man in trouble, especially when he might be of further use. “Though he professes nothing but admiration for you, My Lord Gritti.”
“Just so. I will flog the child one day. He thinks to manipulate us into acting as he wishes. I blame Machiavelli, of course. Every young man of family believes that The Prince is the bible of political life. The boy wants something, so tries to make it happen by deceit, and intrigue.”
“What does he want?” Will Draper asks.
“To die gloriously,” the Doge says, and smiles. “Let me guess. He warns that I want the Medici Pope dead. Ah, I see from your silence that I have hit the nail on its head. Poor Bartolommeo is such a cazzo!” Tom Wyatt smiles at this. The word cazzo means ‘cock’ and is used to denote an idiot.
“He seeks to dissuade us from going to Rome?” Will Draper asks. “I don’t understand.”
“He wants you to stay with us, and help us fight.” The Doge sighs at his nephews naivety. “The Pope wants Padua, but cannot move against us, as we are all allied to the Emperor Charles. In return, I cannot attack him. This is why my nephew thinks I wish you to assassinate him. I assure you, that is not the case. Were Clement to die badly, I will be the first to be suspected, and punished.”
“The you must tell us what you do want,” Wyatt says.
“You Englishmen are so … straight to the point,” the Doge replies. “I admire that, so will tell you straight. Rome wishes to take Padua from me, but cannot act directly. Instead, the Pope is encouraging someone else to do it for him. Do you know what a condottiero is, my friend?”
“They are warlords, are they not?” Tom Wyatt asks.
“Of a sort.” The Doge takes them to a huge map of Italy, hanging on his wall. “See here. We hold the lagoon, and the Veneto, or mainland. That includes Verona, and Padua, our second city. If Padua falls, then Venice will be isolated. Here, is Perugia, in Umbria, a region closely allied to Rome. The Lord of Perugia is a certain Malatesta Baglioni.”
Will Draper studies the map, and nods his understanding of the situation. Perugia is North East of Rome, and in easy striking distance of Venice.
“You think this Baglioni fellow has designs on you, My Lord?” he asks. The Doge points to another part of the map, which shows the city of Florence, and its surrounds.
“Florence is a Medici stronghold. Captured two years ago by the army of the emperor, after Baglioni betrayed them at the battle of Gavinana. He sold the city, for gold, and the promise of Perugia.”
“I see,” the Englishman says. “Rome cannot invade, but this condottiero can. What do you want from us?”
“The Senate wish to await developments,” the Doge tells them. “They will sit, and wait until the Lord of Perugia has raised twenty thousand men, then call the city to arms. Too late, I say, but they will not let me act. What would you do, Master Draper?”
“Call the city to arms. Raise the peasantry, and start making pikes and crossbows. Then, march to Perugia, and burn Baglioni’s little kingdom, from end to end. You have a great navy, so sail it down the coast, and land troops. Attack from the north, and from the sea, at the same time, and he will be caught between two forces, and destroyed.”
“A good plan,” the Doge says. “In return for my favour, Master Wyatt, I expect Master Draper to carry it out, and save Venice.”
“We are but four men, sir,” Tom Wyatt says. “Even for Englishmen, the odds of six thousand to one, are unfavourable.”
“I am constrained, by the Senate,” the Doge reiterates. “I cannot order the army to be called up, and I cannot issue invasion orders. All I can do is… remain inactive.”
“I begin to see,” Tom Wyatt says. He is a diplomat, and must read where nothing is written, and understand that which has not been uttered. “Do you have a royal guard?”
“I am a democratically appointed city official, Master Wyatt, not a king, but there is the Doge’s bodyguard. Two hundred Swiss mercenaries. Then there is the city’s militia. About four hundred young men, who can afford a horse, and pay for their own weapons. I cannot stop the Swiss deciding to leave my service, nor can I forbid the young men of Venice to follow Captain Draper. I an helpless in the face of such resolve.”
“Then your nephew will have his way,” Will Draper says. “A rag tag army of six hundred, against tens of thousands. We will all get the chance to die with honour.”
“I do not expect you to win, my friend,” the Doge says. “Just disrupt the Perugian invasion, and give me enough time to rouse the Senate cozzas from their lethargy. My spies tell me that Baglioni is still in Umbria, raising funds, and will not move for a month or so. All of which means you have time to ride to Rome, and conduct Thomas Cromwell‘s business.”
“And on our return?” Tom Wyatt wants the matter clearly agreed to.
“Captain Draper will conduct a surprise attack against the Lord of Perugia. Once Baglioni responds, or crosses troops into the Veneto, the Senate will act, and I can launch our army against the Medici’s tame dog. That is when it becomes an internal matter, and you Englishmen can leave. A fast galley, all the way home. You have my word on it.”
“Master Cromwell says that will suffice, My Lord,” Wyatt says. “For he tells me that he has never met a more honest man, nor a greater friend.”
“You will make an old man cry.” The Doge rings his small bell, and the castrato, Pietro tumbles in, as if he has been listening to every word. “Pietro, fetch the warrants for Master Wyatt. He is for Rome this very day. Then put yourself at the disposition of Captain Draper and his companions. Guide him, and see that his instructions are carried out, implicitly. Understood, my little one?”
“As you wish, Doge.” The young man bows, and disappears.
“There, it is done.” The Doge sits down, and sighs. He is seventy five years old, and time weighs heavily on his shoulders. “I do not wish for war, Captain. I have not commanded an army for over twenty years, and I have never won a battle. Please, reassure an old man, and tell me how you will fight my little war for me.”
Will Draper feels an immense sense of respect for the Doge then, and takes a seat close by. The man thinks and behaves like Thomas Cromwell, and he is sure he can work with him.
“Are all the young men as keen as Bartolommeo, sir?”
“Of course, but that is because they have never fought before,” Andrea Gritti says. “They draw swords on one another, and play at duels. Some have even chased after a few bandits, but none have ever had to kill a man. My nephew will spread the word, and the young gallants will assemble when the time comes.”
“No, I need them now,” Will explains. “Your Swiss are trained, and know how to present arms, or stand in the face of a cavalry charge, but your young lords have no idea. I must drill them, until they obey without question.”
“Master Wyatt will be gone about ten days,” the Doge says. “Will that be enough time?”
“To teach them how to die, yes,” Will replies, “but to win, I must have another three months, and ten thousand more men. Can you arrange that?”
“Then you would stay?”
“Find the men, and I will fight your war, for three months, but I must return home in January.”
“You will do this for me?”
/> “For Cromwell,” Will replies. “I owe him. Perhaps, by helping you, I can repay him.”
“In his letters, he tells me to trust you, before any other,” the Doge says. “You must be very important to him.”
“He has never said so… not in words, but he treats my wife and I like his own family.”
“Then, for his sake, do not take too many risks, my boy.”
“I’m a soldier, sir… not a cozza.”
“Baglioni is a dangerous man.”
“I’ve met dangerous men before, My Lord.”
“I once dined with Baglioni’s uncle, who was Lord of Perugia, until two years ago.” The Doge smiles at the memory. “He was a big, blustering sort of man, and I liked him, very much. He spoke of his heir, Baglioni’s brother, with love, and respect. I asked him what he thought of his younger nephew. Here, this is what he said.” Andrea Gritti opens a book and offers it. Will glances at what he presumes is a private diary, and shakes his head.
“My Italian is not good enough, sir.”
“Never mind, I will tell you. I wrote it down, word for word, because it amused me so much. He said: ‘Malatesta Baglioni is a good for nothing, full of shit, penniless brigand, and the misbegotten son of a whore.’ “
“Not a close family then?” Will says, and cannot help but laugh out loud.
“A week later, the man was dead, under dubious circumstances.” The Doge closes his diary. “The elder brother was suspected, of course, as he inherited the title, but within a month, he succumbed to a bout of mushroom poisoning.”
“Dear God!”
“Indeed. Malatesta Baglioni then agreed to join forces with Florence. He betrayed the Florentines to the Pope’s army, and they suffered a fatal defeat. Thus, the traitor became Lord of Perugia.”
“I understand what you say, sir,” Will Draper says. “I must not expect the man to behave in an honourable way, if I wish to live.”
“Just so, Captain Draper. Now, would you like to inspect the palace guards? They are huge Swiss mountain men, who can swing a halberd with one hand!”
