The 7th Wife of Henry the 8th: Royal Sagas: Tudors I

by Betty Younis

  Thomas nodded excitedly.

  “I have heard of this David,” he said. “Abbot Trithemius has seen it.”

  “‘Tis in Firenze, my home.”

  “And my friend the abbot says it is the work of a genius, of such purity of form that it leaves one breathless.”

  “I agree.”

  Elizabeth laughed aloud.

  The laborer returned and passed a small boulder to the man along with a bundle wrapped in coarse canvas. The stranger nodded and placed the two items in the cart along with Roberto.

  “Now, young man, you feel you can breathe life into stone?”

  Roberto nodded seriously.

  “Then these are for you. This is your marble,” he indicated the white gray boulder, “And these are your tools. I live and work behind the Cathedral of St. Paul, just off the Via Doloria. When you are done, bring me your work.”

  As the stranger turned to leave, Thomas called out to him.

  “Sir, your name? You grace us with our children’s lives and gifts of marble and tools. We must know with whom we speak!”

  “Michelangelo,” the stranger threw his name over his shoulder and disappeared into the crowd.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Double torches lit the steps leading to the massive, single door. A heavy brass knocker rested squarely on a metal base set within the wood. Thomas knocked tentatively. No answer. Again he knocked and again, no response. A driving rain had begun as they reached the city gate late that afternoon, and their progress through the narrow, twisting streets of Rome had been slow. Night had fallen by the time the English ambassador’s residence was found, and as Thomas knocked again, the wind began to blow harder. After a moment, bolts sliding and keys turning were heard. The door opened a mere two inches. The interior was dark and Thomas felt as if he were speaking into a void.

  “I am Lord Thomas de Grey, Baron of Coudenoure, of the township of Greenwich, in England, and I am here to see the English ambassador, Lord Gallingbrook.”

  The door opened a few more inches. Thomas continued in Italian, wondering perhaps if he ought to speak English – had the ambassador brought his own servants from home?

  “Do you understand? I wish to see the ambassador! I am…”

  The door opened wide to reveal an older couple. The woman held a small, stubby candle while the man held the edge of the door firmly.

  “There is no need to shout, signore,” he said clearly if tiredly, “We heard you, but there is no English ambassador here.”

  Thomas looked at the paper he held in his hand.

  “Is this the home of …”

  “Si, signore, but again I tell you, there is no ambassador here. He has been, how do you say, recalled.”

  A voice from within the depths of darkness in the room beyond fed them a question. The old man nodded.

  “What business have you here, Thomas de Grey of Coudenoure?”

  “I am on the King’s mission.”

  “You?” The old man and woman looked him up and down before allowing their gaze to stray to the wagon in the street behind him. Huddled together against the rain atop a wagonload of mismatched crates and bundles were small children and another man hugging a woman tightly. They presented a picture not of a nobleman seeking shelter but of a rag tag band of ruffians, Romani even, seeking opportunity.

  “Si,” asserted Thomas, “The King of England’s own mission.”

  The old woman laughed.

  “Oh aye, and I myself am on a mission for the Queen of Cathay.” She cackled delightedly at her own joke.

  The voice from behind them whispered quietly.

  “Your name again, sir?”

  “Thomas,” Thomas said tiredly, “Thomas de Grey, Baron of Coudenoure.”

  Again the whispering.

  “Wait.” The door closed. He stood in the pounding rain hoping that someone inside would help them. Ten minutes passed before the door opened again. This time, the old man held a small purse and offered it to Thomas.

  “What is this?” Thomas asked as he took it.

  “‘Tis what you came for. Now go!”

  “No!” Thomas attempted to wedge his foot in the narrow opening. “I did not come for this, whatever “this” might be. I have come…”

  The door was closed firmly in his face. More knocking produced nothing but cries from the neighboring houses. In despair, he returned to the wagon. The children slept fretfully under a canvas as he explained the situation to the others.

  “There is currently no English ambassador. He has returned to England and these nits know us not.”

  “Then what is that they have given you?” asked Agnes.

  Thomas pulled the drawstring and reached into the purse, pulling coins out and quickly counting them.

  “Likely the stipend Lady Margaret told us about,” he said. “But where shall we go?”

  Elizabeth spoke.

  “We shall go to the Via Doloria, to Michelangelo’s home. He will help us.”

  She would brook no arguments and sometime past midnight, the tired little troupe found the address. Once again, Thomas found himself knocking upon a closed door, but this time, Elizabeth stood next to him along with Roberto.

  The door opened almost at once. Before them, illuminated from behind by a great fire in a large hearth, stood Michelangelo. His jet black hair curled round his shoulders and his eyes smoldered. He had wrapped a bed cover around his waist before answering the door but his chest, muscular and viral, was bare. Elizabeth gaped. Michelangelo grinned.

  “So, Roberto, you have finished already?” he laughed.

  “Sir, we are desperate. The English ambassador is in England and we know no one in this place.” Thomas began his entreaty.

  A soft, feminine voice called quietly from the direction of the fire behind Michelangelo. He turned and spoke reassuringly to its owner before once again addressing Thomas.

  “So you are beggars now, in need of a place to stay? ‘Tis true?”

  Thomas nodded.

  Michelangelo turned his intense dark eyes upon Elizabeth.

  “And tell me, my lady, is this…” he waved his hand in the air, “…enough of a distraction for you?”

  She blushed and nodded, despising the stuttering giggles which accompanied her answer.

  He smiled kindly, and asked for a moment. The door closed and some minutes later, he reappeared, clothed completely and with a key in hand.

  “Come,” he shouted to all of them, “You may stay next door. The house is mine, but I live in my studio. You may stay until such time as the English ambassador decides to reappear.”

  He opened the door and fumbled in the dark. After a moment, candlelight bathed him in its soft glow. One by one, he lit the nubby remnants of candles in an elegant candelabra sitting near the door.

  “There are more candles near the hearth,” he said hurriedly, “in there, and food in the kitchen. I have no idea as to the state of the bedrooms, but you will figure that out. Now, I must go.”

  “Are you working?” Roberto asked innocently.

  Michelangelo laughed.

  “You might say so, yes.” He tousled the boy’s hair and disappeared into the night leaving them alone.

  At the residence of the English ambassador, a young man sat at a writing desk before a small fire. Dipping his quill in the ink well which sat nearby, he began his letter.

  “Your Highness, The Inestimable Lady Margaret,

  I write to inform you that this evening, the gentleman you wrote of did indeed appear at the door. I gave him the money, as you requested, but no entry, again at your direction.

  Rest assured that the letters, which once arrived regularly and now come not at all, have been managed. I myself burned them all in the very fire before which I now sit.

  I believe you may put your worried mind at ease, but should you require more detail, or additional services, please write me at once. I am always at your call.

  Your humble servant,

  Wi
lliam

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Up, old man! Are you planning on staying in bed all morning? I have work to do even if you do not!”

  It was Agnes, more faithful than any bell or rooster could ever be. The sun was barely above the horizon.

  “None of your back talk. Now, a good hot breakfast waits for you downstairs, and the artist inquires after your health.”

  Agnes had never recovered from the site of Michelangelo in the firelight their first night in Rome. More to the point, she had never recovered from hearing the woman’s silky voice softly calling him back to the hearth.

  “Siren!” she had hissed while waiting in the wagon. “What manner of Jezebel waits within?”

  Instantly she had branded Michelangelo a lost heathen, one with whom they should have no truck whatsoever. The offer of a roof over their heads, however, and his continued kindnesses had mitigated her outraged disgust. Slowly, her resolution to despise such a loose man was eroded. Instead, she took the tack suggested by Ransdell – she would convert him to a faithful way of living and show him the error of his ways. In turn, Michelangelo patiently showed her that art and a creative way of thinking did not necessarily spell doom for all those who came in contact with it. The battle had been joined, and it remained to be seen who had the stronger will. Wagers were frequently placed upon their skirmishes.

  Thomas entered the dining room just as Roberto came running in from the studio next door. Rome had been good for all of them, but to none of them more so than Roberto. Thomas watched him and smiled.

  The child had become the gangly boy and then the man overnight, it seemed to Thomas. The clothes he had arrived in the city with had been discarded long ago, for the simple reason they no longer fit. Roberto was now a tall, muscular young man with long, slim fingers. His English heritage was evident in his sandy brown hair and blue eyes, but that was the only hint of his background. His Italian was perfect, down to the street jargon and vernacular with which he was so fond of peppering his conversation. His default tongue was Spanish and even with Elizabeth’s constant tutelage his English would never be more than rudimentary. But Roberto could not have cared less, for he had found his passion, his milieu.

  True to his word that day on the long, slow journey from the Deimos into Rome, he had taken the boulder given him by Michelangelo and patiently, day after day, breathed life into it. From the natural lines of the stone he had fashioned a conch shell, complete with spiral and knob. Using the gray lines which ran like faults through the rock, he managed to suggest patterning on the outer shell. It was a rough effort, but Michelangelo had been impressed. For a boy working with only a few tools and with no guidance, he had performed a miracle. As the piece had begun to take shape, Michelangelo had offered the boy a table in the back of his workshop at which to work. There, day after day, apprentices and masters would stop and observe the child, completely absorbed in his own work, oblivious to the activity around him. They would offer suggestions and help concerning the spatial issues inherent in all sculpture. But aside from those small moments, the work was completely Roberto’s. As a result, Michelangelo had offered him a unique opportunity: he could clean the shop each morning in preparation for the day’s work. As pay, he would be given small stone tasks and would be allowed to sit at lessons with the apprentices. Paradise, for Roberto, was a distant second.

  He began spending his off days with the apprentices, visiting other workshops and experimenting on his own with different tools and techniques. While others dabbled with painting or clay, Roberto knew that only sculpture would satisfy him. Each evening over supper he would turn the conversation to art, regardless of what was being discussed.

  “And how was the market today, my lady?” Ransdell might ask Agnes.

  “‘Tis funny you mention that,” Roberto would chime in, “Johann painted the most amazing likeness today of a peach.”

  “Elizabeth, how did you pass your day?” Thomas might inquire.

  “You should have come with me, dearest sister, for I saw the most amazing stone today.”

  It was impossible not to be charmed by his passion. Consuelo, too, had found herself, but it was as far from Roberto’s calling as night was from day.

  Consuelo loved an orderly home. She was bound by no decree, nor any dictate to assist Agnes in her daily work. And yet this seemed to be what made her happy. She would plan each day’s meals down to the smallest item, and then swing her basket merrily on her arm as she strode the market place, haggling with green grocers, smelling fish for freshness and browsing cured hams. There was no household item she did not know the price for, and she frequently bested even Agnes in bargaining with tradesmen. But her interest in hearth and home did not stop there.

  On rainy afternoons, Agnes would sit patiently with the young woman, teaching her stitch after stitch of embroidery. From small samplers to larger pieces, Consuelo gradually became a master. She asked Roberto to draw patterns for her on the heavy canvas she usually stitched. Once he was done, she would take the piece to the small corner of the local market dedicated to weaving, cloth and pigments. She would carefully choose the threads herself, and then equally carefully stitch her small masterpieces to be placed over the hearth or on the wall.

  In short, Consuelo was a willing apprentice to her surrogate mother, and Agnes burst with pride each time she looked at her. She would make someone a fine wife, a fine household manager one day.

  Thomas had fared equally well in Rome, although his road had been more difficult. The initial plan was to stay in the holy city only a short time and to travel home to Coudenoure as soon as possible. All were agreed. During the first few weeks of their stay, raw administrative matters had taken up the bulk of his time: negotiating a short lease with Michelangelo, establishing contact with Abbot Trethemius and other manuscript collectors, seeing to the needs of his family when Ransdell had taken his leave. But once a settled feeling came upon them all, he pursued his decreed tasks in earnest. Day after day, he inquired at the English ambassador’s home as to when a new ambassador might be appointed. This was critical for he found that with no letter of introduction from the King, his path to Pope Julius was all but sealed off. The righteous man had no time for English beggars with no credentials.

  Week after week he knocked politely upon the door of the ambassador’s residence, and made his request in scholarly Italian. But week after week, his efforts were met with shrugs, puzzled looks or outright hostility by the elderly couple who always responded. Occasionally, a small pouch would be handed to him, always containing the same amount of coinage. But that was all. His family watched as his frustration grew but there was nothing any of them could do. Finally, Thomas decided to change his approach and seek other avenues to secure the indulgences he had been asked to pray for and receive.

  His daily visits to the grand home became less frequent. Instead, he spent his time composing letters and reports to King Henry. He explained his delay and begged the King’s patience as he continued to collect manuscripts and seek a papal audience. Each letter was carefully sealed, set aside, and finally sent abroad in the care of Captain Ransdell. In turn, they were faithfully delivered to his contact in St. Nazaire and the small fee paid to see them safely delivered to Greenwich Palace. From there, Elizabeth assured him, Charles Brandon would carry them safely on to the king. Confident in his King’s judgment and mercy, he patiently awaited a reply. But none came.

  The weeks turned into months. Seasons passed and the years began to slip by. Thomas loved his daily routine – up at dawn, cider with the small group of like-minded bibliophiles he had come to know, and the afternoon in pursuit of this or that manuscript. But he had lost a step. His eyes could still read the finest print, his mind the smallest nuance. But his knees ached each morning and evening as he went up and down the steep stairs to his bedroom. He frequently awoke from naps he had not intended to take. Worst of all, he had noticed that occasionally, Agnes let him sleep late.

  It was not ju
st age that was beginning to wear upon him. Many experience home sickness at the outset of a journey. For Thomas, it had come to him at the end. He had manuscripts enough; he wanted to go home. So sure was he of King Henry’s forgiveness for not securing indulgences directly from Pope Julius that he would have thrown it all over on a moment’s notice. But each time he approached leaving in his mind the same, fierce fear invaded his soul.

  It had begun as a nagging suspicion eighteen months after their arrival in Rome. Each week, he went to the chamber wherein the Holy Father held audiences. Those seeking such a moment were met by a Cardinal who either passed them forward to yet another Cardinal in yet another hall, or told they would have to try another day. It was a winnowing process and only the special few were caught up by the cardinals’ nets. There was no apparent system and no particular order in which they were called. As for the rest, those unfortunate enough not to have received a nod from the cardinal, they were released back into the lives from which they had come. Initially, Thomas had simply tolerated the protocol, for having no letter from King Henry meant he was treated as other commoners were. But as the weeks passed, he had noticed a pattern emerging: despite the look of randomness which seemed to envelope the entire process, each of the petitioners, if they were faithful and came each week, were eventually passed through and given an audience, albeit a brief one, with Pope Julius. Only he was repeatedly denied, month after month. On a particularly slow day, one deep in November, he approached the cardinal, with whom he was now on a familiar basis.

  “Tell me, kind father, how is His Holiness today?”

  “Cold, Sir Thomas, as we all are. Winters are not easy in Rome.”

  “Aye, neither are they easily borne in my own land.”

  The cardinal smiled politely and took the offered bait.

  “And what land is that? I have noticed all these months that your Italian, while superb, is of the scholarly variety.”

  “‘Tis England that I call home,” Thomas responded, holding his hands out to the fire which always lit the large hearth within the great hall. “I long to go home, but I have given my word that I shall ask for prayers and indulgences from the Holy Father himself, and I cannot disappoint.”