by Derek Wilson
There was a murmur of agreement round the table.
One dissident voice was raised. ‘This Pope is trying to root out corruption. He appointed a commission to report on clerical abuses.’
‘Pah, joltheads! Do you really think that His Holiness will swill out the filth from his own stable? What he wants to do is silence the critics of the Church; to threaten them with charges of heresy; to frighten them into submission.’
‘Best you guard your tongue then, Aunt Maria,’ someone called out with a laugh. ‘We don’t want to warm ourselves at your bonfire in the Piazza della Signoria.’
‘Jest as you like,’ the forthright matron retorted. ‘This Pope will lash out at a thousand lay people before ever he disciplines a single priest. Did he not brand the King of England as a heretic and strike his name out of the book of life?’
‘Where did you hear that piece of gossip, Cousin,’ a young lady opposite asked.
‘’Tis not gossip,’ I said. ‘King Henry was excommunicated for negotiating with the German Lutherans.’
‘In that case,’ Vitelli suggested, ‘the king and the Pope will have much to discuss in hell.’
This time even Maria Traversi joined in the laughter.
The conversation turned to family matters, to which I could make no contribution. I applied myself to the excellent food and also to teasing out what was important about the word ‘power’. Perhaps it had been the Italian forza – so much more menacing in its sound than the word expressing the same concept in any other language with which I was familiar – that had set up vibrations in my brain. But again I was distracted.
‘Look!’ someone called out. ‘A late arrival.’ We all stared across the garden to where the level drive led to a row of pines and then disappeared downhill. A swirl of dust arose among the trees. Then, emerging from it, there came into view a kocs drawn by two horses. I had seen but a few of the Hungarian vehicles before. Only the very rich could afford these innovations, so they were ultimate symbols of status.
‘Ah, this is excellent.’ Francesco had come to stand behind my chair.’ Here comes someone I wanted you to meet. Old Alessandro della Fava is one of the few survivors from the early days. I was sure he would be able to help you, but not so sure that he would help you.’
‘You have problems with him?’
Francesco laughed. ‘No, but you know what old people can be like. Alessandro is something of a recluse these days. When I invited him to come here, he would not give me a definite answer. There were some things that happened back then. Bad things. Sinister secrets. There are few people left who know exactly what went wrong and they do not talk about it. Anyway, he has always refused to reminisce about the old days. I sent the bank’s coach to his house this morning in the hope of encouraging him, and that stratagem seems to have worked. I will go and greet him, then make sure he is well fed. The old man likes his food. Once he has mellowed I will introduce you and leave you alone so that you can talk with him. Perhaps he will tell you things he has always refused to tell members of the family.’
9
Florence
After dinner the company dispersed around the grounds, some strolling by twos and threes along the paths through the formal gardens, others playing games with the children (Italian parents – men as well as women – seem to spend more time with their young ones than do those of other nations). Francesco brought me into the house.
‘Alessandro della Fava was in the bank’s London office in my uncle’s time,’ he explained. ‘He had the training of young Englishmen who came to work for Frescobaldi’s. I am sure he will have memories you will find interesting, but you may have to coax them out of him.’
We entered an intimate solar where chairs were set in a semicircle before a hearth on which a well-stacked fire crackled busily. On the chimney breast the family’s shield was proudly displayed: three silver chess rooks on a red ground. In the armed chair closest to the fire sat a small figure, his upper body supported by cushions, and his legs covered in a sheepskin rug. Alessandro’s white hair and beard accentuated his ruddy features. The old man peered at me through eyeglasses perched on his nose and tied to his ears by ribbons – his vision weakened, I assumed, by years of peering at business ledgers.
Francesco made the introductions. ‘Alessandro, this is Signor Bourbon, the visitor I was telling you about.’
‘French?’ the old man asked in a gruff voice. Firelight was reflected in his eyeglasses and I could not gauge his expression.
‘I come from the court of Navarre, Signore,’ I said.
‘Hmm!’ Alessandro waved a hand, which might have been an invitation to me to take a seat or to Francesco to leave. My host and I interpreted it as a double signal and moments later I was sitting alone opposite della Fava and wishing that the fire was not so hot.
‘It is kind of you to spare me some time, Signore.’
‘Hmm!’
‘I believe you were with the Frescobaldi branch in London many years ago.’
He nodded. ‘In the good years before that half-brain Francesco – this one’s uncle – ruined it all. Not as clever as he thought he was.’
He seemed disinclined to extend that train of thought, so I pressed him further. ‘You knew the young Englishmen who came to work for the bank.’
Alessandro nodded by way of reply.
‘Do you remember one in particular – Thomas Cromwell?’
‘Yes, yes.’ His eyelids drooped. Then, just as I feared the old man was drifting into sleep, he lifted his head, eyes wide open. ‘He was a troublemaker. What became of him?’
‘He is dead – executed by order of his king.’
‘Ah . . . yes . . . no surprise in that.’
‘Why say you so?’
Alessandro took his time over the answer. ‘He was quarrelsome, disputatious, difficult to teach. When you showed him how to do something, instead of accepting it he would argue – suggest a “better” way. Impertinent swagger-brain!’ He took a long pause. ‘Unfortunately, he was sometimes right. That was what made him difficult to tolerate.’ The old man was now getting into his stride. ‘Always getting into fights. More than once he came into the office with a bruise or a black eye. That was why he was sent away from Florence. Fell in with the wrong sort of people – artists and the like.’
‘Yes, Cromwell was very interested in art. He had quite a collection—’
‘One of his copesmates came with him to London, I recall. Repellent rogue! There was some sort of a scandal.’ He grimaced. ‘But what happened next, think you? Cromwell persuaded some of his London friends to introduce this mediocre sculptor at the royal court and, before long, he was receiving commissions from the king. That was the sort of man he was. He made things happen. Tom Crom had some kind of magic.’
‘Perhaps he carried a powerful talisman. Did you ever see him with this?’ I took the broken crucifix from my purse and held it up at arm’s length.
The old man became suddenly animated. ‘Yes, yes! I do remember it. Tom Crom always wore it on a string round his neck. What does it mean?’
‘I hoped you could tell me.’
Alessandro shook his head. ‘No, as far as I know he never told anyone about it. It obviously meant something important to him, though.’
I tried another opening. ‘It has been suggested that he was a disciple of Machiavelli.’
The old man nodded two or three times. Then his head drooped. ‘Well, well,’ he muttered. ‘Tom Crom, Tom Crom.’ He fell silent, breathing deeply.
After a few moments, I coughed discreetly. Then loudly. But nothing would wake him. I stood up and walked to the door. As I reached it, it opened. Francesco slipped in and closed the door quickly behind him.
‘Come with me,’ he whispered. ‘You must hide.’
‘Hide? Why? What is wrong?’
‘There are some
Dominicans here looking for you.’
‘Dominicans? Why should I hide from them?’
‘Because they are the foot soldiers of the Holy Office.’
‘What is the Holy Office?’
‘Most people know it as the Inquisition.’
Heretics are those who wickedly oppose the Holy Scriptures, the first of whom was the devil, when he said to Eve, ‘You shall not surely die’ (Gen. iii, 4), together with his followers. Those also are heretics who cast a veil over the Scriptures and interpret them otherwise than the Holy Spirit demands . . . Those who are such one should overcome with holy knowledge, not angrily but softly . . . If they will not be taught by strong proofs or evangelic reasons, then let them be, and leave them to rage and be mad (Tit. iii, 2, 3), that those who are filthy may become more filthy still (Rev. xxii, 11). The law that condemns heretics to the fire builds up both Zion in blood and Jerusalem in wickedness. Therefore will they be taken away in sighs, for the judgments of God (whose right it is to judge) either convert or harden them, that the blind lead the blind and both the seduced and the seducer go from bad to worse This is the will of Christ who said, ‘let both grow together till the harvest, lest while ye gather up the tares ye root up also the wheat with them’ (Matt. xiii, 29). ‘For there must be also heresies among you, that they that are approved may be made manifest among you’ (1 Cor. xi, 19). Though they indeed experience this, yet they are not put away until Christ shall say to the reapers, ‘Gather first the tares and bind them in bundles to burn them’ (Matt. xiii, 30). This word does not teach us idleness but a strife; for we should unceasingly contend, not with men but with their godless doctrine. The unwatchful bishops are the cause of the heresies. ‘When men slept, the enemy came’ (Matt. xiii, 25). Again, ‘Blessed is the man who is a watcher at the door of the bridegroom’s chamber’ (Prov. viii), and neither sleeps nor ‘sits in the seat of the scornful’ (Ps. i, 1). Hence it follows that the inquisitors are the greatest heretics of all, since, against the doctrine and example of Christ, they condemn heretics to fire, and before the time of harvest root up the wheat with the tares. For Christ did not come to butcher, destroy and burn, but that those that live might live more abundantly (John x, 10).
(Balthasar Hubmaier, Heretics are Those who are Born Thus, 1524)
‘Inquisition! I have done nothing to upset them.’
Francesco grabbed my arm and steered me towards the room’s other door. ‘The Inquisition’s prisons are full of people who have done nothing to upset the Inquisition. Come, we must hide you while I talk them into going away.’
I was taken up a narrow staircase that led into a long, dark attic. The only light struggled through a dusty circular window in what was obviously an end wall. I could just make out a scattering of boxes and what might have been items of discarded, cloth-shrouded furniture.
Francesco said, ‘I think they will not presume to search my house, but if you do hear anyone approaching conceal yourself in here. I will ply them with wine and send them on their way.’ He hurried down the stairs, leaving me in the gloom.
I know not precisely how long I stayed in that little penumbral world, straining my ears for any sound rising from below. All I could hear was the wind siffling around the eaves and the occasional creaking of timbers – the soul of the house flexing its muscles. My only companion was the fear conjured up by the word ‘Inquisition’. This agency of enforced piety had not reached its tentacles across the Pyrenees into Navarre, and King Francis was assiduous in curbing the power of papal vigilantes in France, but accounts were commonplace of ‘heretics’ tortured in ecclesiastical dungeons, consigned to forced labour in the galleys or burned to death for daring to question articles of faith as defined in Rome. My uncomfortable sojourn must have lasted two hours or more, for when my host did return he was carrying a lantern to light his way through the evening house. We returned to the solar where I had spoken with Alessandro. His chair was now empty and the fire was reduced to a few glimmering embers among the ash.
‘What in the name of all the saints!’ I exclaimed as soon as we were seated.
Francesco held up his hand to silence me. ‘Best let me explain,’ he said. ‘All is not yet done. These terriers are stubborn. When they have their teeth into someone they are loth to let go.’
‘But why me? What have I—’
Again Francesco waved his hand. ‘Two reasons, as I understand it. One, you have been asking questions about Thomas Cromwell, a man well hated in Rome – even more, I think, than Martin Luther. The German monk came into the open; argued his ideas in books and sermons. This Cromwell, as they say, was more devious and more dangerous. He was the arch-heretic who persuaded his king to throw off papal allegiance, to close all the monasteries, to make England a heretic state. ’Tis said that the messenger who brought Pope Paul news of Cromwell’s execution went away with a purseful of gold.’
‘And the second reason?’
‘You arrived in Florence as an emissary of the Queen of Navarre. She is viewed in Rome with deep suspicion as someone who harbours heretics.’
‘What lean-witted nonsense! Her Highness’s salon is the most devout and enlightened in Europe. ’Tis a place where a man may speak his mind and test his opinions by debate. All are welcome there.’
Francesco nodded. ‘Exactly! There’s the difference between Nérac and Rome. Oh, Rome is tolerant, very tolerant – of sodomy, libertinism, whoredom, nepotism and cupidity. In Rome you may be absolved even for murder. But speak ill of His Holiness or express any doubt about papal authority and you are likely to be crushed beneath the wheels of the ecclesiastical wagon. Yet there is obviously another reason a man with your connections is of interest to the Holy Office.’
‘What is that?’
‘Affairs in France are of major concern to the Pope. Politics is all. They want to know who the king is making alliances with and what influence Marguerite of Navarre has over her brother.’
I too had the situation at the French court much in mind. Was the fate of my poor pupil, young Jeanne, now settled? Had her proxy marriage already taken place? Was any attention at all being paid to her protests?
‘From this side of the mountains,’ Francesco continued, ‘it is difficult to grasp what is happening among the states of northern Europe. England, the German principalities, Geneva, Strasbourg – it seems that all the papal bastions are falling, one by one, to the enemies of the Catholic faith.’
‘You speak as though you would welcome that.’
‘Oh, no!’ There was a bitter edge to his laugh. ‘If I believed the heretics I would have to stand up for my belief. And if I did that I would have to be prepared to face the consequences. I am not that brave.’
‘Yet you are helping me to escape from the Inquisition.’
‘That is different. I will not have my hospitality abused by papal heresy hounds.’ After a pause Francesco continued. ‘What will you do now? My advice would be to return home as quickly as possible.’
‘I hate to be chased out of the country when I have done nothing to merit such treatment.’
‘The alternative—’
‘Could be very unpleasant. Yes, I doubt it not.’
‘If you make for the coast at Livorno, we can provide an armed escort. From there I will arrange a ship to take you to Marseilles.’
‘That would mean putting you to considerable trouble. And you risk being branded as a supporter of heretics.’
He shook his head. ‘I think not. My family are recognized as priests of the one true god – money. Several men in Rome, including members of the Curia, are heavily in debt to the Frescobaldis. Without us they could not fill their fine palazzos with beautiful things and entertain their friends with lavish parties. They simply cannot afford to upset us.’
The young man spoke with an air of confidence, but I could not help wondering whether it was mere bravado. What
lay behind his offer to help me leave Florence? Was it concern for my safety or his own? For my part, having come so far, I was loth to quit the city until I had exhausted all possible lines of enquiry. Research must be thorough or it is not research. A warning voice in my head murmured, Do not confuse research with obsession, but it was easily stifled.
‘I suppose they will search my lodging,’ I said.
‘Without doubt. They asked where you were staying. Is there anything there you would not want them to find?’
I shook my head, thankful that all Cromwell’s papers were safely locked away in Nérac, save for three items that I was careful to keep with me at all times.
‘That is good, but you obviously cannot go back there. You must stay here while I make arrangements for your journey.’ He stood abruptly. ‘Come, I will show you your chamber.’
I should have stayed him; explained that I was not yet fully resolved on his plan; told him that I needed time to think. A few words spoken at that moment would have changed my destiny and his; might have saved lives. I did not speak those words and I will grieve my sin of omission to my dying day.
Silently I acquiesced in Francesco’s arrangements. I was made very comfortable at Fiesole and left much to my own devices for the next few days. My protector was often away visiting his other estates, and we spoke little about the plans for my departure. One evening, on his return to the villa, he handed me a package.
‘This was left at the bank in a box addressed to me,’ he explained. ‘It is from Alessandro della Fava.’
I removed the paper wrapping and spread the contents on the table between us. They consisted of seven letters and I immediately recognized the handwriting as Cromwell’s. The identity was confirmed by one item dated 17 May 1519, which was the original of a copy already in my possession. Quick exploration established that the letters were reports received by della Fava – between 1510 and 1520, when he was in charge of the London operation – from Cromwell, who seemed to have been his close confidant, or even his deputy.
