The Poet Prince

by Kathleen McGowan

  God is indeed good, he thought, as the tall figure of his cousin, Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici, entered. Giulio was the only person he could stand to see at the moment. He was the only person he could stand to see most of the time. This was the one person alive with whom he could be entirely free with his thoughts and words.

  “Come in, come drink with me. We have much to celebrate today.”

  Giulio nodded, pouring the wine into a matching goblet. He nodded at the portrait on the wall before taking his first sip.

  “I could feel him today, Gio.” Giulio never called the pope anything but his given name. It was a privilege of those from a close family. “It was as if he were here, watching us, willing us to do the right thing. Just as he always did.”

  Pope Leo X looked up at the portrait of his father and raised his glass. “This was for you, Papa. All of it was for you.” The pope’s dark eyes, nearly black, were identical to those of the man in the portrait. They filled with tears as he thought of his father, whom he still missed so much.

  “History will not remember me kindly, Giulio, for what was done today. For what has been done these past three years.”

  Giulio, always the most serious of the children, now did something very rare: he smiled.

  “But we did it, Giovanni. We did it.”

  “Well, we started it. There is much still to do, but we did indeed fulfill our promise today. And if history remembers me as weak, incompetent, and indulgent, then so be it. It was my promise to carry out this deed, and I have done it. I knew what it might cost me, but it is a small price to pay for the ultimate victory.”

  They both drank, reflecting on the events of the past weeks. Four years earlier, a rebellious upstart priest and professor of theology in Germany, one Martin Luther by name, had declared a type of holy war against the Catholic Church. In an act of genius, he had rallied the common folk by nailing a document to the door of a cathedral in Wittenberg. Luther’s document, called The Ninety-five Theses, condemned the church for a number of wrongdoings, several of which had been actively instigated and encouraged by Leo X and his cousin, Cardinal Giulio.

  Pope Leo X had come out against Luther for his audacity but had done so very slowly. He took three years to investigate and ultimately excommunicate the heretic, who clearly had an intention no less grandiose than trying to destroy the Catholic Church.

  The pontiff had been heavily criticized by many of his brother cardinals and other Church leaders throughout Europe, who were insisting that he take a harsher, quicker stand against Luther and his growing movement of reformers. But Pope Leo X had been adamant that such events should be carefully considered and dealt with only after much time and thought. He sent papal envoys—all Medici friends and supporters—to Germany to investigate Luther, but these events seemed only to inflame the reformers and add more, and increasingly rabid, members to the movement. By the time Luther was excommunicated, his followers were so swelled in number and strong of spirit that the decree of anathema against Luther was worn as a badge of honor and celebrated throughout the reformist movement.

  To be excommunicated by a church one despised was a blessing.

  Today, in a series of heated debates, Pope Leo X decreed that no further action would be taken against Martin Luther. He proclaimed that the sentence of excommunication was enough; the reformers would no doubt be disheartened by this act and their little rebellion would diminish. There were other matters at hand that Leo X wished to deal with—the rebuilding of Saint Peter’s, his new commissions for Michelangelo and their other favored angelic, Raphael, while an exciting new artist appearing out of the Venetian school, a man called Tiziano, warranted special cultivation.

  The conservative cardinals were outraged. Was the pope completely mad? How could he not see that the Catholic Church was faced with a revolution the like of which it had never seen before? Further, he had already squandered several fortunes on art and architectural commissions, solidifying his reputation for frivolity and fueling the fires of the reformers. Did the pope not understand the gravity of the circumstances they were in? Did he not realize that the very future of Catholicism was possibly threatened by these protestors?

  None but the most intimate inner circle would ever know that Pope Leo X saw the threat very clearly. Those who mumbled about his ineptitude and railed against his lack of leadership for the Church would never have guessed just how brilliant, committed, and purposeful Pope Leo X was in every single choice he ever made. He had, in fact, carried out a carefully orchestrated plan that had been put in place when he was made the youngest cardinal in history at the age of fourteen. His partner in the plot was his cousin Cardinal Giulio, the sullen child who held a lifetime grudge against the Church that had sanctioned the murder of his father during High Mass on Easter Sunday. But they were not the founders of the plot; they were merely the latest in a long series of operatives.

  “Send our most trusted messenger to Wittenberg,” the pope said to Giulio, “with a message to Luther telling him that his job was well accomplished and we are most grateful. He has served the Order to perfection.

  “But first, come and drink with me—one final toast to the man who put all this into place so fearlessly. To Lorenzo il Magnifico, a wonderful father and the greatest poet prince to ever live. We have kept our promise to you!”

  He raised his goblet to Giulio, who returned the gesture. “To Lorenzo,” Giulio said, before adding, “and in memory of my father, Giuliano, that such crimes will never be committed in the name of any papal authority again.”

  And the first Medici pope, Leo X, drank a toast with Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici. Once a boy orphaned by the acts of a corrupt Church, he would one day follow his cousin to the throne of Saint Peter, to become Pope Clement VII.

  After all, they weren’t Medici for nothing.

  EPILOGUE

  England

  1527

  I SEEK NO OTHER.

  Anne read through the letter once again, whispering the words aloud and savoring each passion-filled syllable.

  Henceforward, my heart shall be dedicated to you alone.

  I wish my body was, too. God can do it if He pleases—

  and to Him I pray every day to that end,

  and hoping that one day my prayer will be heard.

  I wish the time to be short, but fear that it may be long

  until we see each other again.

  Written by the hand of that secretary who in heart, body, and will

  is your loyal and most devoted servant.

  The lovesick suitor who called himself Anne’s loyal and most devoted servant signed his declaration with a phrase in medieval French borrowed from the love songs of the troubadours,: Aultre ne cherse. I seek no other.

  She sighed with the beauty of it all, and then once again with the pain. For as much as her passion was reciprocal, the object of her affection was unattainable by the laws of this land. He was a married man and a father, and therefore utterly off-limits. Yet his letter indicated “God can do it if He pleases,” as if to reassure her that their love was so strong and surely destined that God would intervene to change their circumstances. In the European courts, where she spent her childhood, Anne had been taught that love conquers all. Holding fast to that belief, she went to retrieve her Book of Hours from its resting place on her bedside table.

  A smile played across Anne’s lips as she paged through her cherished

  prayer book. It was an exquisite masterpiece of Flemish art, an illuminated private volume given to her by her grand teacher, Margaret of Austria. But it was neither the artistry nor the sentimental value of the book that brought the smile to her now. It was the handwritten notes in the margins. Anne and her lover had devised a clever method in which to pass secret messages to each other—through her prayer book during church services. His last message had been inscribed on a page depicting Jesus Christ following the flagellation, a man of sorrows, beaten and bleeding. It read, in her preferred French:


  If you remember my love in your prayers as strongly as I adore you, I shall hardly be forgotten, for I am yours forever.

  His message was clear: I suffer for the love of you.

  Anne had given careful consideration to her response. She chose to reply on a beautifully illustrated page of the Annunciation, wherein the lovely Madonna is told by the angel Gabriel that she will bear a son. Composing a couplet in English, she wrote:

  By daily proof you shall me find

  To be to you both loving and kind.

  The symbolism was unmistakable; Anne had chosen wisely. The selection of the Annunciation was an emphasis on the glorious event of God bestowing a son upon a most blessed woman. This was her promise to her lover: she would be both loving and kind to him and she would give him the son he most desired. Whereas her beloved was a married man and a father, his wife had given him only one living child, a girl.

  To emphasize her sacred promise, Anne added a final signature to the book, one which she knew he would comprehend immediately. She wrote in French this time, invoking the Troubadour tradition—and something else, a secret vow that only he would recognize—as she inscribed: Le temps viendra.

  The time will return.

  She completed her signature with the tiny drawing of an astrolabe, a symbol of time and its cycles, an emblem of time returning, before writing her name with full flourish:

  Je * Anne Boleyn

  Later that afternoon, as the king’s own chaplain droned the words of the Mass to the small group gathered in the royal chapel, Anne Boleyn quietly passed her prayer book to her secret beloved. Anne’s father, Sir Thomas Boleyn, acted as her messenger. Sir Thomas’s importance in the court and as a confidant of the king allowed him the privileged position of sitting beside his sovereign during Mass. He was more than willing to encourage the growing affection between his younger daughter and the king.

  Henry VIII, King of England, received the message intended for him and held the book to his heart. The tears in his eyes blurred his vision as he gazed upon the woman he loved and whispered across the chapel to her, “The time will return, my Anne. We will see to it that it is so.”

  How had it all gone so terribly wrong?

  Anne had much time to contemplate this question as she sat in her cell, awaiting the moment of her execution. The French swordsman had arrived from Calais, prepared for his grotesque mission; he would separate her head from her delicate neck with a single slice of his sharpened weapon. It was Henry’s final gift to his beloved. As he had signed her death warrant, the king had also softened her sentence: Anne Boleyn, the queen of England, would not be burned at the stake as a convicted heretic and traitor. In an unexpected act of mercy, Henry had sent to France for an executioner who could put an end to both her life and his misery quickly, efficiently, and as painlessly as possible.

  It had been nine years since Anne and Henry had pledged to each other that the time would return. Anne held that same prayer book now, running her finger over the fading ink of that golden promise she had once believed—they had both believed—would change the world. Make no mistake, Henry had been as committed to this mission as she was. Their love had been real and it had been an unstoppable force for both good and ill.

  Anne paused on the astrolabe to contemplate the passing of time. She had so little left. There was one more thing she must accomplish before leaving this life, one final act of devotion to the mission. She must find a way to protect her tiny, precious, red-haired daughter. Picking up her quill, Anne began to write the letter in French:

  Beloved Marguerite,

  By the time you receive this letter you will be aware of just how spectacularly I have failed you. There is so little time for me to express my sadness and regret. And yet all is not lost. We have accomplished much toward our goals, and we must not allow my death to stem the tide that is washing over this great land.

  I write to remind you of my deep fondness and admiration for you, and to entreat as my final wish that you will find a way to impart your vision, our vision, to my daughter. Let me assure you that Elizabeth is the golden child of our dreams, conceived perfectly and immaculately in a place of trust and consciousness within all rules of The Order.

  I beg of you, do not fail her. Even now, she shows a strength and a brilliance that is beyond compare. If Elizabeth is protected, she alone will ensure that the Time Will Return.

  Anne

  Arques, France

  present day

  MAUREEN AWOKE TO another dawn breaking over the hills of Arques. She sat up gently, so as not to wake Bérenger sleeping beside her, but to no avail. Bérenger, so attuned to her moods and energies, opened his eyes as soon as she stirred.

  “You okay, my love?”

  Maureen looked at him and shook her head. She ran her hands over her throat and whispered, “And I have a little neck.”

  “What?” Bérenger sat up now, concerned.

  “That is what she said, while awaiting her execution. It would be swift because she had a little neck.”

  “Who said it? What execution?”

  “Anne Boleyn.”

  The realization dawned on him then. “You were dreaming again.”

  She nodded. This had been the strangest and most vivid dream Maureen had ever experienced. She was not simply observing Anne Boleyn in the Tower of London, she was Anne Boleyn. She was experiencing the thoughts and feelings and memories of one of the most notorious queen in history as she prepared to die.

  Maureen was not an expert on English history, but she had long been fascinated by the story of King Henry VIII and his six wives. Anne had been the catalyst for the Reformation in England, as Henry had defied the pope to be with her.

  History did not remember Anne Boleyn kindly. She was most

  often portrayed as a scheming adulteress of depraved and unlimited ambition.

  But the Anne in Maureen’s dream was a very different woman. Maureen could feel the lump rising in her throat and tears stinging behind her eyes as she remembered the excruciating pain and desperation of the tragic queen in the tower.

  She knew she would soon be uncovering a new version of history that was waiting for her beneath the layers of five centuries of lies.

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  While writing this book, I thought often of the old saw about painting the Golden Gate Bridge: it is a task that is never complete. I could spend the rest of my life writing a book about the birth of the Renaissance and never be finished. There were so many characters, story lines, and added pieces of information that could have—and perhaps should have—been included. The vast array of artists and their works, the humanists and patrons, and the histories and anecdotes surrounding them all is as daunting as it is inspiring.

  A prime example is the rich and prevalent influence of Dante’s work (as well as that of Petrarch and Boccaccio) on the elder Cosimo de’ Medici and later on Lorenzo and his circle. They all deserve celebration, if not lengthy analysis, but I had to jettison those elements, as they took me too far afield from what was already complicated storytelling.

  The finer points of Neoplatonism in the Renaissance are worthy of volumes, and indeed have inspired them, yet I toned down Plato in an effort to play up heresy. And while I believe that no intelligent person can argue that the Neoplatonist movement wasn’t critical to the unfolding of Renaissance art, I stand by my assertion that it was one element of many, and the most important of these was heresy. Neoplatonism was often a front for the true heretical teachings that were preserved in these great masterpieces. The Gnostic concept of becoming anthropos—a fully realized and enlightened human—is essentially identical to what we now think of as humanism. The difference is that to be anthropos, one must attain a personal connection to God, becoming fully human through that direct connection. Heresy!

  There was initially an entire subplot in this book about the fifteenth-century enigmatic literary masterpiece known as the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili and how Lorenzo inspired and influenced i
t. Unfortunately, the Hypnerotomachia is such a complicated subject that I have had to save that information for another day, another time, another book! Those familiar with that book may have caught the reference to it when Colombina ends her life writing for Destino.

  The bibliography for the books in the Magdalene Line series consists of hundreds of volumes (a partial list of which is posted on my website, www.kathleenmcgowan.com). But the Hope diamond in my library is the volume written by Professor Charles Dempsey, The Portrayal of Love: Botticelli’s Primavera and Humanist Culture at the Time of Lorenzo the Magnificent (Princeton Press). After years of wading through Botticelli commentary, in which each new authority contradicts the previous with astounding vitriol, the discovery of Dempsey was one of the great eureka moments in my research career.

  Dempsey’s book is brilliant, and I am grateful for the enlightenment that I gleaned from it—and apologize to Professor Dempsey for the more extreme conclusions I have drawn, which are mine alone. While Dempsey never makes a definitive case for Lucrezia Donati as the centerpiece of Primavera, as the icon of love personified, he refers to it as a distinct possibility. I would also like to assert that I came to my own conclusions about Lucrezia’s esteemed position in Botticelli’s work several years before reading Dempsey.

  Dempsey is also the only art historian I have found who admits a likeness between the woman in Fortitude and the woman at the center of Primavera. This was, in fact, my own observation in the Uffizi Gallery in the spring of 2001 as I moved from the room that housed Botticelli’s two small Judith pieces and the Fortitude into the main Botticelli room. Although the Uffizi has altered the collections in those rooms recently, moving Judith into the main Botticelli salon, there used to be a magical place in the gallery which I referred to as “the Lucrezia Donati spot.” One could stand in front of the case displaying Judith and see