by Anne Stevens
“The king is smouldering,” Cromwell replies. “He was for removing them both from office at once. He called poor Sir Thomas ‘a wretch of unfathomable ingratitude’, and swore to defrock Warham himself. I counselled otherwise.”
“You are too kind, sir,” Rafe tells him. “You should have them done away with.”
“And made into martyrs?” Thomas Cromwell will not allow such a travesty, if he can help it. “Warham is bedridden, and will not last more than a few months. People will forget him, in time. Have him tried for treason, hanged drawn and quartered, and every catholic in England will want him made into a saint. The same goes for Sir Thomas.”
“He is a wilier prospect, sir,” Rafe says. “Let him, and he will do you harm.”
“I told Henry that he should remove most of the Lord Chancellor’s workload from his shoulders, but let him stay in office, for now. Once we start into the church, he will not be able to hold his tongue. I will condemn the abbeys, and ask him to ratify it in law.”
“He will not.” Rafe imagines More’s stern refusal.
“No, he will not. He will be unable to serve both Henry, and the Pope, and must choose.” Cromwell can see it all, clearly. “The only way he can avoid angering the church is to refute our actions, as Lord Chancellor, and the only way he can avoid refusing the king, is to resign. He has no choice. Resign, and Henry will let him retire to Utopia. I will petition the king to let him keep his pensions, and he can live a quiet life.”
“Will he do that?”
“He will.” Cromwell is very sure of his man. “As long as he keeps silent, the king will not notice him. There are others who will not stay silent, and it is they we must look to.”
“Norfolk?”
“No, he is more of a king’s man than a catholic,” Thomas Cromwell explains. “Suffolk will also be with us. I have a mind to do great things, Rafe, and must have willing men about me.”
“Richard Rich is always seeking employment,” Rafe Sadler replies. “Then there is Stephen Gardiner’s secretary. I believe you know Master Wriothesley?”
“What, Grisley Rizley?” Cromwell shakes his head. “The man used to work for Wolsey, years ago. I put him in the way of the law, and he latched onto Stephen. I think him an ingrate, but when they sent Harry Percy to arrest my old master, I remember seeing him cry, as if grieved. Would you have him?”
“I don’t trust a man who has so many masters,” Rafe replies, “but he writes good law, and that is what we need.”
“Very well, employ the fellow, but I don’t want him hanging around Austin Friars. Understood?”
“Yes, master,” Rafe says. “The house is for the inner circle, and not to be spoiled.”
“Yes, exactly,” Cromwell concludes. “During the coming times, we must use many varied kinds of people. Some will not match our standards, but we must tolerate them, until we reach our goal.”
“Then I may take on those of the Lord Chancellor’s men who feel the wind blowing against them?”
“Yes, but do not put them in positions of trust.” Cromwell sighs, and wishes he had his nephew Richard, Will Draper, young Mush, and even Tom Wyatt back with him. The poet has served him well in the matter of dealing with the Bishop of Rome.
“Ambassador Chapuys is waiting to see you.”
“Ah, yes. Dear Eustace must have his say. I must keep him even closer to me now,” Cromwell says. “Let him come in.”
Eustace Chapuys is shown in, and he bows, after removing his feathered hat. Cromwell offers him the best chair, which is always nearest the roaring fire.
“I will stand, for the moment,” Chapuys says.
“Why so?” Thomas Cromwell asks.” Are we then no longer friends?”
“That depends on what you are going to do with My Lady, Queen Katherine.”
“The Dowager Princess Katherine, wife of the late Prince Arthur, and Princess of Wales. will receive the entitlements of her rank, Eustace. I have always held that to be so. Have I ever intimated otherwise to you? Am I now to become some monstrous creature to her?”
“The king wishes her dead,” Chapuys says. “Forgive my bluntness, old friend, but fear it is so.”
“The king understands that he must not offend the Emperor Charles,” Cromwell explains. “Besides, I will not allow it. Within a few months, thanks to your Pope, Henry will be able to divorce himself, and marry as he wishes.”
“You swear?”
“She will live in comfort.”
“With her daughter?”
“Alas, not. Unless they both renounce their claim on the king, and swear themselves to the new church.”
“Preposterous!”
“Eustace, my dear friend, I asked. I could do no more. Henry listens to the Boleyn woman, and she is spiteful against Henry’s daughter. We do well to keep them both alive, my friend. You may visit the ladies, each once a month. I expect you to advise them as to their behaviour, and I will ensure their safety. No intricate plots, Eustace … or everyone will suffer. Henry is in the mood to hang a few Catholics, if only to flex his muscles. Have I your solemn word?” Chapuys nods, and turns to leave. “Will you not stay, and share my supper, Eustace?”
“Not tonight, Master Cromwell,” the little Savoyard says. “I must resolve myself to remain your friend. These times are hard, and though you might not believe me, I wish you well. Goodnight.”
“Have a care what you write to your emperor,” Cromwell calls. “I am instructed to read all your correspondence. Even that which is sent via the Lombard bankers.”
The ambassador stops in his tracks, and shakes his head, sadly. He has always suspected his diplomatic letters were being intercepted. Henry always seems too well informed, and able to guess his every intent.
“How long, Thomas?”
“Since you first arrived,” Cromwell tells him. “Not by me, you must understand, but by the Lord Chancellor’s men. It is the way of the world, Chapuys.”
“No, it is the way of this world,” he replies. “Diplomatic rules are violated, good men are destroyed, and one and a half thousand years of faith are swept aside, so that a king can put aside his lawful wife, and marry his … whore!”
“Would you act any other way,” Cromwell answers, “if your lord demanded as much?”
“What you say is true.” Chapuys’ shoulders slump, and he sighs. “Only I might not be quite so ardent in my duty as you, Thomas. You say that Sir Thomas More can retire, and the queen may keep her dignity, but I do not believe it. Katherine will die from a broken heart, or poison, and the Lord Chancellor will be condemned, if only out of his own mouth.”
“That is for him to decide.”
“No, my friend, it is already decided. Henry adopts what ever belief suits him, at the moment. He knew what you intended with your Tom Wyatt’s embassy, yet plays the hurt party when the Pope falls for your shabby ruse. He is becoming a dangerous man, my friend, and I fear for us all.”
The ambassador pulls on his cap, and walks out. Cromwell feels a pang of hurt, and knows that a valued friendship has been sorely damaged. Was this, he thinks, how More and I started? He starts after the Savoyard diplomat, as if to make amends, but stops himself at the door.
“Friendship is the great deceiver,” he mutters to himself.
“Master?” Rafe Sadler is there. Rafe is always there, ready to do his master’s bidding. “What can I do for you?”
“Leave me,” Cromwell says. “Find another, less ambitious man to serve, and make a new, less dangerous, path for yourself.”
“I don’t understand,” Rafe says, though, in truth, he does.
“I am set on a certain road, and do not know if I have the strength to follow it to the end.”
“Then lean on me, sir.” Rafe will never abandon his master, come what may. “Let your young men be the pillars of your strength, and carry out your great work.”
“Thank you, Rafe.” Cromwell turns, and goes back into his warm library. “Warn our people that Ambassador Chapuys
will soon set up a new way to relay news to the emperor. I am afraid I let him see how closely hemmed in we have him.”
“Perhaps we might consider a plan, where we must have a new ambassador?”
“No!” Cromwell says, curtly. “Eustace Chapuys must remain in place, and unharmed. He is more than a friend to me. He is my conscience, Rafe, and I have sore need of one.”
12 Christ’s Soldier
Will Draper is desperate for a drink, but even more desperate for news of the enemy dispositions. His scouts are out, looking for the army of Malatesta Baglioni, led by his right hand man, Gino Valdo, and for the condottiero himself. He raises a wine sack to his lips, and drinks, feeling the cool watered down wine run down his throat. Perhaps it is only his imagination, but everything seems to taste sweeter, and fresher here, than back in England.
Even in November, the Umbrian countryside is as hot as England in June, and the heat of the day is slowly sapping his strength. A red faced Richard Cromwell is hiding under a tent flap, eating, as usual, whilst Tom Wyatt is scribbling away in one of his never ending series of notebooks. He is either writing a report of their progress, or ennobling them all in verse.
“Where is Mush?” Draper asks. Edward Wotton, a Cromwell spy who has joined them in the expedition, turns from the canon he is inspecting.
“He rode out at dawn,” he says. “I thought you knew? He is with the Bartolommeo lad, and Wyatt’s friend, Antonio Puzzi. They are restless with the inactivity, and long for battle.”
“No one should want to fight,” Will Draper replies. Two days before, he charged the Umbrian forces at Rimini, and killed three men. It does not make him feel good, he thinks, or add to his honour in any way. Killing is a means to an end, and if there was another way, he would take it, and sail home to his wife.
“They will scout around, and come back when they are hungry,” the zoologist spy says sagely, and returns to his investigation of the two canon, which are strapped onto low ox carts. There is a slight crack in one of the barrels, and he considers what can be done about it without benefit of a gunsmith.
“She’ll fire again,” Tom Wyatt says, noticing Wotton’s perusal of his big guns. “They did well the other day, and will do so again.”
“Once, or twice, perhaps,” Edward Wotton says. “Though, were it down to me, I’d set a long fuse, and stay well back, next time. Have you ever seen one of these things explode?”
“I bow to your superior knowledge,” Tom Wyatt says, and returns to his poetry. The country is beautiful, and he is inspired to try out a few couplets. One day, he thinks, I must put them into a book. Off to one side some men are stirring, putting on helmets, and picking up swords and pikes. More men struggle to their feet, and reach for the nearest weapons.
“Riders,” Richard tells them, stowing away the remains of a red sausage in his bag. “See the far off dust cloud? About half a dozen, I’d guess.”
Will Draper has chosen his ground well. He is camped on a low hill, and has fortified it with tangles of bush, and wooden stakes. He also has guards, with charged muskets dotted about the hilltop, and mounted men scouting the locality. He is sure the men galloping towards him now are friends, and tells Richard so.
“Tell the men to stand down,” he says. A minute later, five riders come into plain sight, and ride straight for them. At closer quarters, Will recognises Mush, and then the Rinaldi boy, and some others whose names he does not recollect.
The previous evening, Bartolommeo Rinaldi had approached him, and formally asked his permission to marry Pippa. The girl, in need of a protector, had ensnared him, after establishing his families position in Venice, and evaluating his wealth. Being related to the Doge seems to have sealed the bargain.
Father Geraldo had married them, in front of a crowd of rowdy Swiss, and catcalling Venetian gallants, who always admire the romantic conquest of a beautiful girl. The climax of the evening consisted of them both being carried, bodily to the marital bed, a straw filled ox cart, and serenaded with catcalls, and lewd comments until everyone was too tired to continue.
Pippa shall make a good wife, he thinks, and Bartolommeo a most adequate provider. Will considers it to be a fine piece of work on his behalf, for having an attractive unattached girl amongst six or seven hundred men was a recipe for disaster.
Mush is galloping ahead, he reigns in sharply, and slides from the saddle, as if he were born to it. His companions are close behind, covered in fine red Umbrian dust, and beg for wine, before they collapse from the unyielding heat.
“We found them,” Mush declares. “They are camped far to the north west, making for Florence. It is as if they expect to meet the Doge’s army coming at them. It will take them a day to turn about, and another two to come back, once they realise they are chasing a phantom enemy.”
“You say they are camped?”
“Yes. It was early morning still, and there was little movement. It’s as if they are taking all the time in the world. Perhaps they are in no rush to take on the Doge’s imaginary army.”
“They should have scouts pressing ahead, looking for the enemy,” Will Draper says. “Once they realise there is no foe, they can wheel about, and come back on us.”
“They seem perfectly content where they are,” Mush tells his brother -in -law.
“And what of Baglioni?” Will Draper asks.
“Bartolommeo rode to the south east,” Mush tells him. “We met up, just now.”
“I rode to the walls of Perugia, Signor Will,” the young man reports. “It is about twelve miles distant. The town is locked up, tight, and the thick walls are manned with guards and lookouts. I asked the sentry at the main gate if I might enter, but was refused. He had orders to turn everyone away. Then, as I turned to leave, a officer came to the wall, and shouted down for me to wait a moment. He asked me where I came from.”
“What did you tell him?” Will asks.
“That I was coming from Siena, where I saw a vast army. I told him it was marching down south, towards Rome.”
“The man asked me what else I knew, so I told him that Rimini had fallen to a great Venetian army, and that it was going on from there, to sack Rome.”
“I bet that stirred them up.”
“It did. The man demanded to know how I knew so much, and I told him that soldiers were also coming down from Lombardy, and up from Puglia to join in the storming of Rome. The officer grew more friendly then, and said they had changed their minds, and that I could enter the town, but I said not, and that I would ride on to Rome, where the Pope was to be deposed by the Doge, and there was to be a great battle. He shouted down for the guards on the gate to detain me, but I rode off, as if on the road to Rome. Did I do well, Signor?”
“Well enough, my friend,” Will Draper says. “Malatesta Baglioni now knows Rimini is taken, and his forces there are destroyed. He has two choices now. He can either stay inside the walls of his Perugian fortress, and hope we do not have enough canon to make his walls fall down, or he can take his men to Rome, and meet up with his main force. If Rome stands behind him, he will have a formidable force … and no-one to fight.”
“Then we might catch him on the road,” Tom Wyatt says.
“Why not let him get to Rome, and have the Venetian army attack him?” Richard Cromwell asks.
“We are the Venetian army, Richard,” Mush reminds him. “You must stay out of the heat more often, my friend. Baglioni will find out he has been tricked, and head north to join his own real army. Once that happens, we are lost. He will invade the Veneto, take Padua, then lay siege to the city and destroy Venice’s power, for ever.”
“Sorry, I wasn‘t thinking straight,” Richard says, wiping his brow. “So, how do we stop him?”
“It depends on which path he chooses. If he stays in Perugia, we are powerless,” Will tells them. “If he makes a run for Rome, we can cut the road, and force him to fight.”
“Are we strong enough?” Tom Wyatt is well aware that their little army has a har
d core of Swiss pike men, surrounded by a few hundred enthusiastic amateurs. They have won one battle, but riding down fleeing men is hardly going to make them into seasoned troops.
“My Swiss will stand,” Richard says.
“Are you doubting our horsemen?” Mush asks. “They charged into the enemy well enough the other day.”
“This is different,” Will Draper confesses. “Malatesta Baglioni is a survivor. He will have kept back his best men, and they will be well armed, with muskets, and lances. Rather than charge us, he will spread his force out, and probe for our weakest parts.”
“We have the canon.” Edward Wotton says. He bends down, and uses his finger to draw in the red dust. “Put them here, in the centre, and make a show of putting our best troops around them.”
“Then strengthen our wings?” Will asks. It is a sound enough idea, but one a wily opponent might expect. “I doubt Baglioni will fall for it, Master Wotton. If I were him, facing a larger force, I would find a favourable place to make a stand. A narrowing of the road, between two hills, perhaps.”
“There are such places,” Bartolommeo Rinaldi says. He too sketches in the Umbrian dust. “Her is Perugia, and here, Rome. The hills at this point, narrow. There is a small walled village, called San Gemini. The fortifications are very old, early Roman, and it sits astride the Via Flaminia.”
“What’s that?” Richard asks.
“The road that runs through the town is two thousand years old, and was built by the ancient Romans,” Bartolommeo explains to the big Englishman. “They built the town as an outpost, back then, and threw up a circle of walls. Later they built a second, outer wall. You could hold the outer walls with a hundred men, and there is a slope, up to some old ruins, a legion’s winter camp, I believe.”
“That is where he will make for,” Will says. “He’ll send men ahead to secure San Gemini. Then he’ll bring the main force on, once he knows he is unopposed. If we are not there to challenge him, he will ride for Rome.”
