by Anne Stevens
“Dead.” It is a simple admission, and she feels tears coming. The priest sighs, and presses the piece of bread into her hand. Then he turns, and waits for her to fall in beside him. “Thank you for this kindness, father.”
“There are those abroad who would even offer violence to a priest,” Father Geraldo says. “Are you armed?”
“No, father.”
“Here, take this.” The priest conjures a thin stiletto from his wide sleeved garment, and hands it to her. “Hide it in the folds of your dress. Do not be afraid to use it.”
They walk on. The priest is walking to Venice, which he explains, is a penance, placed on him by his bishop.
“I spoke out about something I should not,” he says. “Bishop Bennotti decided to punish me. I must walk to Venice, with a note for the Cardinal of the Veneto. It will ask the cardinal to send me back to Rome, on foot. My bishop has a keen sense of humour. What is your tale, little one?”
Pippa tells the priest about being taken by Baglioni’s men, and of how her father as tortured, and made to watch as her brother, and her step mother were murdered. She does not mention the fact that her father was a Venetian spy, but concludes by saying she is in search of friends of her father, who will help her gain her revenge.
“Vendetta will ruin you, child,” the priest says. “Even if you succeed, those you kill will have friends, who will come for you.”
“I cannot give up, father,” she says.
“What’s this?” A big, dirty looking rogue appears from behind a tree. “Why, it’s a priest, with his daughter. You dirty old swine. Or is she your mistress, old man?”
“Step aside, my son,” the priest says. “This child is under my protection, and I am under God’s.”
“Then I hope he can fight,” the man says. Two more men come out of the hedgerow, each carrying a cudgel. The first man draws a knife. “A fair trade, priest. We’ll give you your life, in return for your purse, and this girl. Have you broken her in yet?”
“I warn you…”
“No, father,” Pippa says, stepping towards the big man. “It is only fair, and I will be safer with these men, once they have had what they want. Am I right sir?”
“Good girl,” he says. “We will make you happier than the priest can. God’s teeth!” Pippa’s knife slashes up, opening a great gash from the man’s wrist to his shoulder. He staggers back, clutching at the horrible wound. The other two are startled for a moment, then run forward. Father Geraldo draws a short sword from beneath his cloak, and charges.
One man tries to knock the priest down with his cudgel, but he steps aside, and stabs at the man’s unguarded chest. The man drops his weapon and clutches at his side. The third man is already running for his life. Father Geraldo sheathes his sword, and goes over to the leader. He examines the wound, which is pumping out blood, shakes his head, and starts to administer the last rites.
“Oh, God, am I done for,” the man says, slipping into the final sleep. “Done, by a girl.”
The priest stands, and goes over to the other wounded man, who has already lapsed into unconsciousness. The priest’s sword thrust has collapsed a lung, and pierced his heart. In moments, as the priest prays for his soul, he is dead too.
“A pity the other fellow escaped,” the priest says, wiping Pippa’s knife clean of blood for her. “Let us hope he has no further friends. We should find lodgings in a village.”
“I have no money, father,” Pippa says.
“God will provide, my dear,” Father Geraldo tells her. “He always does, somehow.”
“Well, Master Quartermaster, what news have you for me?” Will Draper is crouched over a table in one of the small canvas tents which his rag tag army are using, to keep the colder Veneto nights at bay.
“I have the full tally now,” Richard Cromwell says, and consults the scroll he has brought with him. “Swiss guardsmen, one hundred and ninety six, fit for duty. Mush’s cavalry number four hundred and twelve, all with swords and daggers. Some men from Padua and Genoa have volunteered, but they are badly armed, and untrained. They come to another sixty four. Then there are the English contingent. Apart from we gentlemen, five in number, there are the crews of two English ships, which have been refused a landing in Venice, because of the plague. They number eighty four, including the two captains. They have some pistols, knives, and cutlasses, and look like they can manage a scrap well enough.”
“A messenger from the Doge tells me that Tom Wyatt is back, and will be here tomorrow, along with two elderly canon.”
“Now we are talking,” Richard says, enthusiastically. “That makes us seven hundred and sixty one men, with some pikes, a few dozen muskets, and a pair of ancient canon. The Condottiero of Perugia must be soiling himself in fear of us.”
“It’s enough,” Will says. “Remember that God forsaken valley in Wales? Seven of us, against a hundred bloodthirsty Welsh rebels.”
“It was fifty,” Richard replies, “and we only won because their leader was killed early on. I doubt we can pull the same trick twice. Besides, large armies have generals, and colonels, to take over.”
“You don’t have to come,” Will says. “In fact, it might be better if you stay behind, and report back to your uncle.”
“Do you want me to strangle you?” Richard says, cracking his knuckles. “Not only will I not stay behind, I’ll be first into them.”
“I never doubted it, my friend.” Will is curious, and has to ask Richard something that confuses him. “Tell me, how comes it that you are the gentlest of souls one moment, and a raging warrior the next. What drives you so?”
“Food,” the young Cromwell tells his friend, blank faced. “I imagine that the enemy are between me, and my dinner. The thought that they might win, and eat my portion, drives me insane with anger.”
“Then we must starve you before each battle,” Will says.
“I am Samson,” Richard says, slapping his great barrel of a chest. “Save I am weakened through lack of a nicely broiled chicken, rather than hair!”
9 Boleyn Scandals
Autumn in England is less clement than the almost balmy days in northern Italy. The young women who maintain Austin Friars for Cromwell can smell the rain in the air, and insist on wrapping their beloved master up in his warmest, seal skin cloak. The entire ensemble is topped off with a felt hat, waterproofed with scented goose fat.
“”You look nice enough to eat, Thomas,” Eustace Chapuys tells his friend. “I have, as you can see, been unable to resist a display of feathers. I believe that Lady Anne is amused by my taste in caps.”
“And by the obscenely large pearl earrings you sent her last week,” Cromwell replies, smiling at this little man, who is now almost a fixture about the court. In short, he makes the Boleyn woman laugh, and deflects her from pressing too hard on the matter of the annulment. “La Boleyn is like any woman. She loves pretty things about her.”
“Is this why you want me with you today?”
Thomas Cromwell has all but taken control of the king's complex legal and parliamentary affairs, working closely with Thomas Audley, and he has joined the inner circle of the Privy Council without any undue opposition. He is not a fool, and understands that his fellow councillors are using him as a shield between themselves, and the increasingly unstable king.
“I would be obliged, Eustace, if you could divert the lady for me,” Cromwell tells his friend. “Tell her an amusing tale, so that I might work my magic on Henry. He is roaring thunder, and has become mindful of any man who is taller, better looking, or cleverer than he.”
“Ah, you speak of Master Wyatt,” Chapuys says. “I found his last verse most entertaining. You can almost feel the passion, as he writes: Sweet nectar kisses she doth bestow, and this man’s heart is all aglow, the lady fair from far flung land, but smiles, and …”
“Kisses Tom Wyatt’s hand?” Cromwell snaps. “The fellow makes it hard for me to save his head.”
“I like him, but why do you expend
so much time on him, my friend?” Eustace has a suspicion that it is more than simple friendship for Wyatt’s father.
“For friendship’s sake,” Cromwell says. In truth, he cannot allow the Spanish ambassador to know that he has an illegitimate daughter by a serving woman of old Wyatt’s. Tom’s father knows it all, and has kept the secret perfectly, like any true friend. In return for this, Cromwell feels obliged to keep his wayward son alive. “His father and I once had business together, and became close.”
“I see. Then let us venture out into the rain, and each fulfil our obligations.” Chapuys tilts his hat to a rakish angle, and they set off. Rafe Sadler, who still, on occasion, sulks at missing out on a trip to Rome, and still regrets missing the fight against the Welsh rebels, falls in at his master’s heels.
“Come, Rafe,” Cromwell says, “let us make haste, and dodge the droplets!” Rafe barely manages a smile. The Privy Councillor frowns, and wonders what it will take to lighten his best young man’s mood. Once Will Draper is back, he will find something interesting for young Rafe, other than constant rounds of parliamentary meetings, and audiences with the king. After all, idle hands can make mischief.
“How is Mistress Miriam faring?” Chapuys asks. He is genuinely interested in the Austin Friars clan, and feels at home in their company. “I hear she is seeing a lot of Ned Small.”
“Always in public, my friend,” Cromwell replies. “We are all tempted, but the best of us have their own morality. Master Small is off, back to Chester, where he will find his business interests are beginning to bear fruit. It seems a merchant in Antwerp, and another couple in Mannheim want to buy his wares. I believe he will be abroad for the next twelve months.”
“Well done, Thomas,” Eustace Chapuys says. “I feared he might meet with an accident.”
“My first choice,” Rafe Sadler says. “Strangers often lose their way in London, and end up in the river. Master Cromwell is growing softer by the day.” It is the nearest Rafe can bring himself to criticise Cromwell, and he feels bad, even as the words leave his mouth. Thomas Cromwell frowns for the second time that morning.
“Ah, Cromwell,” the king calls, as soon as he enters the inner court. “At last, an honest, simple fellow, who does not know how to flatter, or deceive. Come to me, and bring your young Master Sadler along too. I would speak with you, on a private matter.”
“Your Majesty,” Chapuys says, boldly. “Might I steal away your beautiful Lady Anne? I have just received a shipment of jewels, from the New World. I have stones that might add to even her beauty!” Henry nods consent, and waves his beloved Boleyn girl away.
“Go on, my pretty bird,” Henry says. “Though you must not fly too far. The ambassador treats you with more love than he shows his own emperor, and I will always remember him for it.”
The King, Cromwell, and Rafe Sadler, draw closer to one another, and Cromwell places his left hand on Henry’s upper right arm. The contact establishes the lawyer’s special status with his king, and helps the king open up his heart.
“You are troubled, Henry?” The king’s eyes flicker at the familiar use of his name. It is something only Charles Brandon and the Lady Anne use with impunity. “You must speak to me like I am your truest friend, and believe that I am your loving Thomas in return.”
“Well said,” Henry says. “You are the only one I can turn to, Thomas, and I must have the truth of things. What think you of Thomas Wyatt?”
“Young Thomas Wyatt?” Cromwell strokes his chin. “Why, little enough, I think. He is a useful diplomat, and serves his king very well. The only remarkable thing about him is his superficial likeness to you.”
“To me?” Henry is wrong footed. “How so, Thomas?”
“Well, granted, he lacks your years of experience, but the common folk often remark on the physical likeness. Though I believe he is the shorter of the two, by an inch, he is almost as broad shouldered, and has that manly set to his jaw that so delights ladies who know you.”
“Do they think him as handsome?”
“Bless me, no Henry. Those who you do not favour, and there are many these days, turn to Tom Wyatt for romantic dalliances. I believe his poetry has a certain naïve charm about it, and would appeal to foolish young girls. Perhaps they see in him, a pale reflection of you?”
“His poetry is weak, you say.”
“I believe he rhymes like a lovelorn shepherd boy, and speaks of ‘eyes like limpid pools’, and ‘breasts like twin doves’,” Thomas Cromwell says, with a timely snigger. “I believe his music is almost as … adolescent.”
“That is exactly what I thought,” Henry says. “I can’t think why I ever believed…”
“What sire?” Cromwell asks, innocently.
“These pamphlets.” Henry is embarrassed, and feels foolish that he ever doubted Lady Anne. “They say such scurrilous things.”
“Against the king?” Cromwell asks. “Let me read them, and if they transgress, I will personally behead the author, and the printer.”
“Ah! There is the fighting talk I so love, Thomas,” Henry says. “The blood of soldiers runs in your veins.”
“And yours, Henry,” Thomas Cromwell reminds his king. “I still recall how you led the charge against the French, and later, when you laid out poor Charles Brandon. I swear it was the mightiest blow I have ever seen.”
“I do not laugh as much, these days,” Henry says. “Not since that cur, the Baron Montagu, was thrown out of court. He was a traitor … but he could make me laugh.”
“I heard a funny story, but the other day, Your Majesty,” Rafe Sadler says. His face does not betray how funny it is, and his lips hardly twitch. “Might I regale you with it?”
“At once, Master Sadler,” Henry says. “Is it a little ribald?”
“It concerns a peacock, sire.”
“A peacock?” Henry asks. “How can a peacock be funny?”
“It is not a real bird, sire, but a name given to a certain gentleman of the court. I regret that I cannot name him, for fear of causing a great scandal amongst the ladies.”
“Ho, but you intrigue me, Master Rafe. Name the fellow, I command it!”
“I am sworn to secrecy, sire,” Rafe says, “but I can drop a hint or two. This peacock fancies himself to be a poet, and a great charmer of women. He fancies himself to match his king in wit, and poetic love.”
Thomas Cromwell’s stomach turns over. He has just drawn Tom Wyatt back from the brink, and Rafe Sadler is bringing him back into the king’s mind again. Is his protégé so angered at being left behind?
“We have business, sire,” Cromwell says. “Perhaps Master Sadler might finish his tale another day?” The king’s hand comes up, demanding silence, and he turns on Rafe Sadler, hovering like a hawk above its prey.
“I believe I know who your peacock is, sir, and will hear out your tale,” Henry informs Cromwell’s young man. “Come, out with it, for I am in a black enough mood already. Tell me of this peacock’s exploits, that I might share the joke against me.”
“I am told, sire, that there was once a vain peacock, well versed in the arts of poetry, and music, who fancies himself to be more handsome than Adonis.”
“Does he, by God!” Henry is turning red with rage.
“One night, two beautiful women set to knocking on his bedroom door.”
“The swine!” Henry is shaking with anger now. “Has he no shame?”
“None, sire.”
“The dog!” Henry is almost beyond rage now.
“The ladies begin to hammer at the bedroom door, and cry out,” Rafe tells his enraged audience. “At last, the noise is so loud, that the peacock is forced to let them out!”
Henry is struck dumb. Then, slowly his sides begin to quake, and he cannot contain his laughter. He begins to roar, and slaps Rafe so hard, he almost falls over. The gentlemen of the court look on, in surprise. Henry raises his arms up, wide and declares: “The peahens were trying to escape!” and continues roaring his approval. To be
on the safe side, Norfolk, Suffolk, Surrey and the rest begin to laugh too.
“By God’s back teeth, Thomas,” Henry says, “but you have a veritable jester on your staff. See he is well treated.”
“Of course, sire.” Cromwell cannot believe he ever doubted his protégé, and grips Rafe’s arm, to signal his approval. “In fact, there is the matter of the new Welsh advisory council. I thought Rafe might do well, amongst the heathens of Caernarfon.”
“See to it.” Henry is his regal self once more, and gestures, as if a movement of the finger is enough to make all things happen as they should.
“I regret, it is one of the Lord Chancellor’s creations, and he might be offended if I interfere.”
“The king does not interfere,” Henry says. “He commands. Have it done. Is there a salary with it?”
“Forty pounds a year, sire.”
“Make it fifty, but do not let Master Rafe leave my court,” Henry tells him. “We need more good humoured men about the place. My dearest Cardinal Wolsey always had a ribald story, for we gentlemen. Damn, but I miss the old rascal, Thomas. Did I ever tell you how I was about to forgive him?”
“Never did a king love a subject more,” Cromwell says, biting back his true feelings. “It is a poor day when Cardinal Wolsey’s duties have to be spread over three lesser men. I fear poor Sir Thomas is finding things difficult, trying to decide which master he can serve, and Stephen Gardiner is little more than a competent diplomat, sire. Might I ask who was foolish enough to suggest you make him into a bishop?”
“Why, I think it was my own idea, Thomas,” Henry says, but, in truth, he cannot remember.
“Really, sire?” Cromwell shakes his head. “When I heard, I thought it was the doing of another hand. The clever, underhandedness of it, is so unlike Your Majesty’s usual way of open government.”
