by Anne Stevens
“He went purple.” Audley grasps his own throat, as if to mime the act of having a fit. “It was bad enough to see his sweet lady love made out to be nothing but a cheap French whore, but when he recognised Tom Wyatt, he almost burst asunder with rage. Sir Thomas became most apologetic, and swore he had not understood it to mean either Lady Anne, or Thomas Wyatt … though he did manage to recall that they had been schooled together in earlier times.”
“Clever.“ Cromwell strokes his chin. “You were there then, my friend?”
“I was. I stepped in to the fray, and declared the entire thing to be nothing but a filthy tissue of lies. I said that no sane man would ever think such a disgusting thing of Lady Anne. I swore that, to my own knowledge, Wyatt has been abroad more than in England, these last three years.”
“Was he calmed by your words?”
“Partly. I reminded him that it was Tom Wyatt who fought alongside Will Draper against the Welsh rebels, and helped save us from civil war.”
“Well said, Audley,” Cromwell comments. “What then?”
“More agrees, but reminds the king that it was Cromwell men he fought alongside, and that his father is a friend of your good self.”
“My old friend has a venomous tongue. What then befell?”
“Henry declares the whole thing treasonous, and says that the culprit must be found, given a fair trial, and then be boiled alive.”
“Oh, well done, Master Audley,” Cromwell says, regaining his composure. “Then he does not suspect Tom Wyatt?”
“Not of having intercourse with Lady Anne, sir, but certainly of something.”
“What?”
“He knows not, but seems to think one can be guilty, without the other. As if Wyatt simply wishing to have Anne Boleyn is a crime.”
“But it is,” Thomas Cromwell says, “Any act, whether by deed, or thought, against the king, is now deemed to be treason. A stray thought can lose you your head. I am afraid that Tom Wyatt is walking on eggshells. What was the conclusion?”
“More, in that self righteous way of his, wants to investigate, but I told Henry that it will look bad. The Lord Chancellor of England, looking into Lady Anne’s past, and linking her to a well known poet… unthinkable. People will gossip, and cast a shadow over his relationship with her. He agreed with my view, and asked me to look into it instead.”
“Then we have time to repair the damage,” Thomas Cromwell says. “Henry must be made to see it is all a nonsense, or Tom Wyatt will end up on the scaffold.”
“He may end up on one anyway,” says Tom Audley, “for Henry is becoming suspicious of everyone, these days. I wonder who is safe, and who not.”
“We must not wonder, my friend,” Cromwell tells his colleague. “We must direct the king’s attention away from those we wish to preserve, and focus it on those who mean us harm.”
“You mean the Lord Chancellor?”
“Does he have any love for us?” Cromwell asks. “He wishes to pull me down, and with me, all my friends. He wants both pope and king conjoined again, and for every non-conformist to be burnt at the stake.”
“He is a powerful man, Thomas,” Audley replies. “Perhaps more powerful than Wolsey was. He is a formidable enemy.”
“His weakness is his self belief.” Cromwell finishes his drink. “He is so convinced he knows what is right for England, that he forgets something. It must be right for Henry and Anne… not England. He is out of favour with Lady Anne, and on thin ice with the king. We must crack that ice, Tom, and let the man sink.”
“If we lose,” Audley says, “then we lose our heads.”
“If we lose,” Cromwell responds, “England will lose its head.”
“May God help us.”
“May God help Tom Wyatt and Will Draper,” Cromwell concludes. “The fate of England rests on them.”
8 Temptation
There are fires burning along the ferry landing when Tom Wyatt canters up. He has ridden hard from Rome, and is eager to be back with his friends. There are more guards than usual, and the ferry boat men are feeding the flames with driftwood, and lumps of charcoal. He dismounts, and walks towards the first free boat.
“Your business, signor?” the captain of the guard asks.
“I am an English emissary, with urgent documents, for the Doge. I was hoping to get a boat, even at this late an hour. I will pay double, if any man will take me out onto the lagoon.”
“Where do you come from?” the captain asks.
“From Rome,” Wyatt replies, beginning to wonder at the sudden tightening of security. “I have come from Pope Clement, and have news of His Holiness.”
“Not from Milan, or Lombardy then?”
“No, captain,” the poet says. “Is there some trouble? Is Venice under attack from that quarter?”
“I have orders that no traveller is to reach Venice, if he has been through Milan, or stayed in Lombardy, these last few days. It is the plague, signor. It is in Constantinople once more, and comes from the north, and by sea. We had to sink a ship, and turn away others that carry the disease.”
“Dear God, is it in the city?”
“Not yet. The Doge acted quickly, and we might yet be spared.” The captain has a young wife, and two children, and dreads what may happen if the lenticulae spreads to the island state.
Tom Wyatt understands now why the fires burn. It is to try and repulse the ill humours that carry the disease. He sees that there is an added urgency to his mission, and an added danger. It is one thing to be stabbed in the heat of battle, or cut down by a jealous husband, but death at the hands of an invisible enemy would be unspeakable.
“Have one of these fellows untie his boat, captain,” Tom Wyatt says. “Here is a purse of silver coins for your trouble.”
“Keep your money for the moment, signor. I will get you to Venice tonight, if you would but do me one favour. My name is Giovanni Ipolatto, and I live in the married quarters at the city’s main barracks. Deliver the coins to my wife, and tell her I am well, and will return, once the danger is past.”
“I will do this small thing for you, Captain Ipolatto,” Tom Wyatt promises. “Are you banned from the city too?”
“I am, along with the Doge’s entire Swiss guard, and some hundreds of gentlemen, who choose to stay in camp on the mainland.”
“Is there an Englishman with them?”
“Four,” the captain confirms. “They are crazy, of course. The one who is a soldier talks about us winning. He says he has never yet lost a battle. Is this so?”
“It is,” Tom Wyatt confirms. “Except to his wife.”
“Naturelmente!” Giovanni Ipolatto says, and they both laugh at the unsubtle jest.
“How was your journey?” The Doge is seated on an ivory throne, picking at a plate of fish in some kind of white sauce. Thomas Wyatt bows, and produces the documents from the Papal Court. He hands them to Pietro, the Doge’s castrato servant, who passes them on to his master.
“His Holiness Pope Clement the Seventh, sends his blessings to you, My Lord Doge, and pledges his eternal friendship.”
“Stronzo,” the Doge curses. He sees beyond the shallow flattery, uttered by his enemy, Giulio Medici, and can barely contain his disgust. “He shits lies, and was vomited up by a bitch. Is he well, my friend?”
“I fear not,” Tom Wyatt says, surprised at the vehemence of the Doge’s response. “He appears liverish, and suffers from a variety of minor ailments.”
“Does he have the French disease?” Andrea Gritti asks. “Or is he too feeble to lie with women these days?”
“You are right, sir,” the poet responds. “He is feeble, and can do nothing but pander, and drink wine to excess. I was shocked.”
“It is a Medici failing,” the Doge replies, smiling. “He will die of either drink, or the pox, before long. Then we will need a new pope. You must tell Cromwell to suggest a good candidate.”
“I asked him to give an answer, concerning the king’s marriage, My Lord.”
“And he said he would consider the request, but that it was a weighty matter, and might take some time to decide.” The Doge shakes his head, sure he has predicted Pope Clement’s reply correctly.
“No, sir, he did not,” Tom Wyatt says, gesturing to the folded document, authenticated with the Vatican’s seal. “He will make an announcement presently, refusing the king’s request, and threatening him with excommunication, unless he returns to Queen Katherine.”
“Then you are a master diplomat,” the Doge says, reaching for the papers. “You have succeeded in ruining your king’s chances, for all time. Do you still wish me to support the Pope’s decision?”
“Of course.” Tom Wyatt is merely the instrument, used by Cromwell, but he can admire the cleverness of it all. “You must, ‘with regret’ agree with the Papal decision. The king will have no other choice than to cast Clement aside, and take his own road.”
“Cromwell’s road, you mean.” The Doge nods his understanding. “I see what my old friend is up to, and hope he succeeds. To set Henry against Rome is a dangerous thing to do, and most of the world will be against him. Does he mean there to be a complete break?”
“I believe so, Your Majesty.”
“I am not a majesty, Master Wyatt,” Andrea Gritti says. “I am but the chosen leader of the Senate. I have little time left, and must leave Venice in a better state than from when I became Doge. You must tell Will Draper that the time is near.”
“Gladly, sir,” Wyatt replies. He has left the best news until the last, as any good diplomat should. “Pope Clement tells me that he will break with Malatesta Baglioni, and will not support him if he moves against either Padua, or Venice.”
“Then the Roman army will stay put,” Gritti says. He recalculates swiftly, and alters his plans in the blink of an eye. “That means Baglioni must rely on his own forces. I will send word to Florence, and Siena, where we have good friends. Siena will close the city gates to Baglioni, and declare for Venice.”
“What of Florence?”
“A Medici rules there, but my agents will try and keep him neutral, if nothing else. He is Clement’s son, as I am sure you know.”
“Will the condottiero split his army to deal with them?” Tom Wyatt is calculating the odds. “If he sends troops to lay siege to both towns, his army will be halved.”
“Yes, and I have spread rumours, saying our fleet of fifty galleons will raid the Umbrian coast, and take Rimini from him. With luck, this condottiero will spread himself far too thinly.”
“If a strong force were to strike at Perugia, it might be able to take the city, and leave Baglioni isolated, fighting on three, or four, fronts at once.” Thomas Wyatt thinks he sees it all clearly, and is letting his enthusiasm get the better of his common sense.
“There is one problem,” the Doge says. “I do not have fifty galleons. I have three, and one of them is not yet seaworthy. Then again, Florence and Siena may surrender at the first sight of one of Baglioni’s brigands. We weave illusions, my boy, and hope the magic works.”
“Then Will Draper might find himself up against a host of men.” Tom Wyatt frowns. “I must join him tomorrow. He will need every man he can raise.”
“He has my Swiss guard, and every young blade in Venice, and the Veneto,” the Doge tells the poet. “Why, I am told that he even has my zoologist!”
“Does he have canon?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You have canon here, do you not?” Tom Wyatt recalls seeing some upon their arrival. “Down by the waterfront. I saw a brace of the things.”
“We have two canon, captured from the French almost fifty years ago. I doubt they will work.”
“Let us try them out, My Lord,” the poet says. “If they work, we can hoist them onto a couple of carts, and take them into battle.”
“We have no shot,” Pietro, the effeminate castrato pipes up.
“In England, we are trying out a new method, invented by the French,” Wyatt replies. “One must load a chain, with a weight at each end. It stretches out, when discharged, and acts like a scythe.”
“Dear Christ in Heaven!” the ageing Doge says, crossing himself. “What ever will they think of next?”
“I must return to Chester tomorrow,” Ned Small says, toying with the food on his pewter plate. The tavern, on the outer reaches of Putney is not renowned for its cuisine, but it is secluded, and has private rooms. “My father is ill, and he needs me.”
“He will be pleased with the business you have done for him in London,” Miriam tells him. “We shall all benefit from the arrangement.”
“What of our arrangement?” Ned says, placing his hand over hers. “You know my heart is yours.”
“Do not talk like that,” Miriam says. She is not surprised by his words, and even finds them flattering. “I am a married woman.”
“Whose husband is abroad, doing who knows what?” Ned replies, persuasively. “Months away from you, and seemingly without a second thought. What kind of man is that?”
“Will is a wonderful man, and a fine husband,” Miriam tells him, but she does feel a little resentment at his absence. “I am not one to break my wedding vows, Ned.”
“I understand, but what about him?” Ned says, pressing home his advantage. The husband is not here to defend himself, and the young man is much taken with his new business partner. “He is a soldier of fortune, who takes his share of the spoils. If that share includes women, captured after some brawl, will he take his pick? In the heat of battle, the blood is hot, and men behave badly, without thinking. Might he not sate his lusts, and repent afterwards?”
“My husband is decent, and honest. If he ever does wrong, it is because it is the lesser of two evils,” Miriam says. “You blacken his name to further your case with me.”
“Say you do not want me,” Ned presses on. “Tell me you do not find me handsome.”
“I cannot, for it would be a lie,” Miriam confesses. “My heart fluttered when we shook hands the other day, and after dinner, I was loath to let you go from me, when Master Cromwell left. Had you pressed me then, I fear I might have given myself to you.”
“Then more fool I, for not realising it then,” Ned Small tells her. “I am a decent fellow, and I too am honest. Say the word, and I will swear my love, and spend as much time as I can in London. If you cannot leave your husband, I beg you, share your love between us. I am willing to stay in the background, taking your favours only when I may. Your husband need never know.”
“You would do that?”
“And more. Stay with your husband, and let me become your lover. I will settle for that.”
“You confuse me, Ned. Your words make me want to … to hold you, and find comfort with you.”
“Then I shall take a room, and we can seal our love.”
“Love?” The word pierces the fog of indecision surrounding Miriam. “What you propose is not love, Ned. It is simple lust. The twining together of two animals. I cannot rush into such a thing. I must go, and think this through. If I do come to you, it must be honestly. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yes, you need a little time,” Ned says, “but you will come to me?”
“I will,” Miriam says, firmly. “I will renounce my vows, and ask Master Cromwell to obtain a divorce for me, from the Pope. Then I will explain to my husband, the moment he returns from killing his enemies, that you are now my lover. I do hope he takes it in good part. Will has a tendency to kill first, and ask questions later. Still, what of that? True love will always win out, and we will have a few tender weeks before his return.”
“You want to leave your husband?” Ned Small can feel his limbs begin to shake. “I sought only to … make an arrangement, whereby we might …”
“Fornicate behind his back?” Miriam asks. Her moment of madness is past, and she cannot understand what she sees in the young man, who is a pale imitation of her husband.
“Well… yes.” Ned is deflated. He realises tha
t Miriam has no intention of sleeping with him, and does not know what to say. “I thought it might be quite pleasurable. Have I offended you?”
“By finding me attractive?” Miriam smiles. “No, I am not offended, though I am surprised that so clever tongued a fellow is still unwed.”
“Ah, yes. Well, the fact of the matter is … I have three children, and am a little bit married.”
“A little bit?” Miriam laughs out loud. “Is that not like being a little bit pregnant, or a little bit dead? Oh, you incorrigible rogue, what will I do with you?”
“If you will not bed me, then forgive me,” Ned says, regaining his confidence. “I do not want your husband killing me for nothing other than admiring his wife.”
“I fear my brother would be first in line,” Miriam tells him. “He has the hot bloodedness of our race.”
“Your race?”
“Yes, my people are from Coventry,” the girl says, smiling. She cannot help but like Ned Small, and will not throw away a good business deal just because he admires her. Besides, she thinks, what if Will were ever put to the test? Can he remain faithful, for months on end?
She takes her leave, and makes her way back to her house on the river. Behind, a lone figure pays his bill, and follows. The young man, detailed to keep a watchful eye on Miriam will report back, as he does each evening, that Mistress Miriam Draper has passed an exemplary day, conducting business, and running her household.
Pippa Micheletto can feel the hard road through her worn shoes, and her feet are burning. She has covered almost thirty miles, on foot, avoiding fellow travellers, and hoping, against hope to stumble on the great Venetian army as it approaches.
She knows her father lied to Baglioni, but is sure that some sort of force is coming. Her father died, tricking the condottiero into believing a mighty force was assembling, and his lies saved her life. Once having climbed out of the window of the tower, however, she was on her own.
“Bread?” The tall man appears from the cover of some bushes, and is suddenly in front of her. She steps back, and looks which way to run. The Umbrian countryside is a lawless place, and Pippa knows that a young girl alone is easy prey. The man sees she is prepared to run, and taps the chain about his neck. There is a jewelled crucifix hanging on it. “I am Father … Geraldo. You need have no fear of me, girl. Come. Eat, and we will go on together. You should not be alone. Where are your parents?”
