by Peter Walker
I was puzzled and said nothing.
‘There are many gentlemen in Mr Pole’s household,’ he said. ‘Why were you chosen as courier?’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I’m the fastest.’
And at that His Majesty suddenly beamed and opened his hands, as at some charming new economy.
At the same moment Dr Starkey, the King’s chaplain, came up and plucked the satchel from my hands as if it was his own trophy. In a way, I suppose it was – Starkey was Pole’s great friend, it was Starkey who had reminded the King of Pole’s genius. If the King was pleased with Pole’s book, that would be a great triumph for Starkey. All the same, I was enraged. I had been strictly ordered by Pole to hand the book to the King and to no one else. But what could I do? I didn’t know how things were done at court; perhaps kings don’t unwrap parcels. The satchel was of very fine leather. It was my own – I never saw it again, by the way. After that, I don’t remember what was said, or how I left the room or the palace, or, for that matter, London. And this is my defect: not to be far-sighted and see what one day will be of importance. What I do remember are many things of little or no value to others and often enough of little or none to me.
Yet now that I have passed the age of forty – at which point, says Portaleone, who is my doctor here in Mantua, a man may without blame recount the story of his life and describe the splendid deeds he has done and the terrible things he has suffered – I must make do with the currency I have. And so there we were – the King’s golden dagger was in front of my eyes, Starkey took the book out of my hands as if it was his own first-born child – and the next thing I remember is the following day, riding through Warwickshire, where as far as the eye could see the elms were casting noontide shadows as dark as inkblots in the middle of the fields. It was almost midsummer’s day. Then a little later I rode through the six-furlong wood, where there is always feeding for fifty hogs, and I came in sight of Coughton, the house where I was born.
There I stopped short and rubbed my eyes. I don’t suppose I actually rubbed them, it’s only an expression for astonishment and not very apt: rubbing your eyes or any other member is not going to restore the world to its proper state. And at that moment it was in a most improper one. For the house was gone. In its place rose a pompous castle, or rather the commencement of one, fifty-feet high and adorned with oriels, battlements, turrets and pinnacles.
Above the arch of the gate were the family crest and the royal arms carved in stone, and an inscription, HA, both above and below: HA HA.
I forgot to say that when I got back to England on that first journey, these initials HA, of King Henry and his second wife, Dame Anne, could still be seen carved, painted, inscribed or sewn above archways, door-yards, the entrances to tunnels, stables and mews, on pelmets, cushions and the backs of chairs. By then, however, Anne had been dead for months, executed for treason, and the device was rapidly disappearing. But some people, such as my brother Sir George, for instance, were strangely languid when it came to removing it. On her coronation day, it was said, she wore a gown embroidered with tongues pierced by nails, just to show anyone who spoke against the marriage – HA – what they might expect. Now I suppose the joke was on her.
But for my part I felt a joke had been played on me. Everything was utterly different from what I expected. How often had I imagined this moment, my first sight of home, in the years I was away! Yet there above me stood strange bran-coloured battlements of newly dressed stone, and even the gateposts of my childhood with their old globes of stone were gone. In their place were two of those nasty sharpened pillars called obelisks. Nothing, in short, had kept faith with my imagination.
At that moment, on the threshold of my birthplace, I felt a pang of homelessness as sharp as any I had known on foreign shores.
Portaleone laughed very merrily when I described this.
‘Everyone knows the memory plays tricks,’ he said. ‘Why should you expect your foresight to be any better? The mind looks both ways, like a man crossing the road who can be knocked down by a cart from either direction. Even so, you should have known your brother better. Of course he spent the family fortune on turrets and battlements! What – a man who sent you abroad to live on a pittance for five years! A brother? A fiend in human form, more like! And here is your other great defect: you are no judge of your fellow man.’
In point of fact, my brother George had given me the usual allowance. But I let Portaleone carry on lecturing me. He does not approve of our English inheritance laws. In any case, he has an upbraiding streak – he likes to stroke fur the wrong way. But as he is my physician, and now my literary advisor here in Mantua, I listen to him peaceably enough.
He then began to laugh and to shake his head. ‘You are altogether too innocent, too trusting.’ (This is not true.) ‘Your memory plays tricks on you. Your foresight is faulty. What a start to this project! Still, it is a good idea to write your life story. I, as your physician, advise it. It will help with your insomnia. And it will send your readers to sleep as well. No, no – I’m only joking. But what do you intend to call your book?’
I said that I had thought of calling it: My Life by Michael Throckmorton.
‘No, no, no,’ he said irritably. ‘A book should have a beautiful title. It is generally the only part of it that will be read. But even the best works thereby gain a mysterious lustre. For example:
The Book of the Honeycomb’s Flow
or
The Mirror of Gold for the Sinful Soul
or
The Banquet of Sapience
You see? Something of that kind would do. But in your case, as there will be but little sapience, or honey, what can I advise?’
Portaleone knows all about many high and difficult things – astronomy, the Talmud, the writing of comedies, the bloodlines of hunting dogs and so on – so I listen carefully to his advice. Even Cardinal Gonzaga, the Regent of Mantua, often calls him to the palace to ‘drive forth the time’ for no one is more eloquent, amusing and impromptu than my physician.
On this occasion, however, he tapped the end of his nose, meaning he would confer with his wisdom in private, and so we parted.
A few days later we met again in the street.
‘I have a title for your book,’ he said,
I could see he was laughing to himself, so I understood some asperity was coming.
‘I suppose I must steel myself,’ I said.
‘Now, now,’ he said, ‘you are far too untrusting. It is a very good title. It came to me while thinking about your brother’s gatehouse. HA HA, indeed! I propose you name your book after that very moment, when you found everything changed as if by sorcery. Even the little stone seats of your childhood had gone. In their place stood two obelisks. And what better title could there be for your book than an obelisk?’
‘But why an obelisk?’ I asked.
‘Why?’ he said. ‘Why, the obelisk is the symbol of time itself. It is, after all, nothing more than the needle of a sundial, although in Egypt the needles grew to such a size that even the Romans, the most thievish of races, stole them from the banks of the Nile in order to adorn Rome, knowing they could do no better for themselves. And thus, being a symbol of time, which changes all things and is therefore the subject of all books, it would do very well on the title page of yours.’
‘Yes?’ I said, suspiciously. ‘And there’s something more?’
‘Well, yes, perhaps there is an additional meaning – almost the opposite in fact, but instructive all the same. An obelisk, you must know,’ said Portaleone, ‘is the name of the printers’ mark beside a passage of writing which is spurious or doubtful, error-ridden, false and not to be trusted. And as you yourself admit – your memory plays tricks, your foresight is poor, you are no judge of your fellow man. Why not declare all your faults at the outset, like an honest man crossing the border?’
‘I see,’ I cried. ‘That’s not a title you have given me – it’s a confession or a curse or something just as bad which I can�
�t think of at the moment. Well, I won’t have it,’ I said, and went off down the street in a rage. Our meetings often end that way. As iron sharpeneth iron so does a friend sharpen the countenance of the other. Those words might have been written for Portaleone and me. And it is not necessarily pleasant, to have your countenance sharpened.
But then, a few hours, or days, later . . . you may find you have come to agree with your enemy. This honing often takes place while you are asleep. In this instance a day or two went past and then I woke up and thought, ‘Well, why not? Perhaps it has a certain ring to it. And I’ve nothing better in mind. Anyway, he’s right – those obelisks I saw as I came out of the wood proved that nothing ever stays still or turns out as you might think.’
And in that same hour, still in my nightclothes, I came to my desk and sat down and with some reluctance wrote here (there was no room at the top of page one)
The Book of Obelisks
And thus, properly entitled, we may proceed, just as I did long ago, into the shadow of the new gatehouse arch, where my horse’s hooves clattered very strangely to my ears, and on to the rest of this history.
I came out into the courtyard beyond.
And then I stopped, as if to rub my eyes again. For there in front of me was our old house, after all – or half of it – still crouching under its crooked roofline. And at the end of the yard were the same ancient apple trees, still crooking their fingers towards me like old widows, as I used to think of them as a child. I stopped and gazed all around, thinking of my poor dead parents with tears in my eyes, and then a door was flung open and out came one, and then another, and then half a dozen servants, most of whom I recognised though they had all changed in different ways, some being stouter and redder, others thinner and greyer or bent a little nearer to the earth – none of which amendments they seemed in the least aware of, crying out instead that it was I, young Michael, who had appeared in a new form – a bearded giant in a red cloak, a German, a Venetian, a perfect Turk . . .
Then the door on the other side flew open, and my sisters came out and began to cry – not solely I suppose at the sight of me, but over the years that had gone by and which would not be back again, and then I was surrounded by my many nieces and nephews, some of them very little children whom I had never seen before, who looked at me with shining eyes as if I had blown down from a hilltop or the clouds. Although my brother had been banished from court, he proved himself the King’s most loyal subject by fathering more new ones than any other man in England.
Among the crowd, but standing back, I saw a pretty girl of seventeen or so, with dark hair and clear high colouring, looking most composed, although quite aware that, in this instance, she was an outsider. This was the first sight I had of my Gloucester cousin, Judith. In fact it was the first intimation that I had a Gloucester cousin at all.
Then my brother and his poor wife appeared. Sir George, alone of all the gathering, did not seem very pleased to see me. It was true I had sent no word of my arrival – yet how could I do that, since I myself was travelling as fast as any messenger? It also turned out that I had forgotten to write from Italy for half a year or so. But my real offence was more serious than that. I had arrived at the worst moment possible, just as the roast dinner was being served.
In a way I was glad of this. Arriving back home after so long, I almost felt that my head was among the stars. George, however, made it plain that home is also the place where, no matter how far you have wandered, you will be held strictly to account if the gravy is burnt.
Chapter 2
That night, my first at home in so many years, I rode over to Weethley Wood just before the sun set with two of my nephews and four or five of the servants. For a long time the hunting rights in this wood had been under dispute between our family and the diocese; now we had it from a good source that the bishop’s men were coming that very night to take four young goshawks from a nest high in the middle of the wood.
Our party split into two. Some went in among the trees, Tom Rutter and I hid on the outskirts of the wood. We stayed there and watched the moon come up. A little while later, four or five figures came past and went on into the trees. Rutter whistled softly into his fist. After a while an owl answered deep in the wood.
Then we came up behind the bishop’s men, and we all fought in the dark with sticks and swords until they ran away. One of the bishop’s men was Rutter’s brother. He was the source of our information. All the same, both brothers fought manfully and gave each other some good blows with their staves.
The following morning I had a long talk with my brother George. When I told him that I recently had seen the King, he went very red.
‘Did he mention me?’ he asked, scanning my face earnestly.
‘It was not that kind of conversation,’ I said. ‘I can’t be sure what was discussed – the fall of Tunis, the state of the Venetian navy . . . There was no occasion to turn to personal matters.’
It had been four years since George was sent away from court. Every hour he dreamt of returning, but no word of forgiveness had come. While we talked, he seemed to look at me in a new light, his eyes darting up and down and taking in the worn jerkin and breeches and seven-day beard.
‘Well, I hope you did not disgrace your family, that’s all I can say,’ he said. ‘Heaven alone knows if you did not commit some solecism that will never be forgotten. For me, of course, it is different – I was brought up with the idea of the court. From the cradle, I thought of nothing but the services our father did there, and his before that, and his before that. I know at once, for instance, without even thinking, to whom one should bow, to whom bend the knee, to whom smile and whom to ignore, which ladies one might dance with and which to kiss. It was all mother’s milk to me, I could do it blindfold, whereas, of course, for you, with different prospects . . .’
The reason George had been banished was this: one day, he approached the King and his secretary Cromwell, and announced that he desired to state his opinion about the plan to divorce the old queen and marry Anne Boleyn.
They both gazed at him in astonishment. Though at the time it was the sole subject on everyone’s mind, in front of the King everyone was infinitely discreet and in fact behaved exactly like mice on the floor of a lion’s cave.
‘Well, what is it that you have to say?’ said Cromwell.
‘Your Highness must not marry this girl,’ said George.
The King stared at him.
‘And why not?’ he said.
‘Because,’ said my brother, ‘Your Highness’s conscience will never lie easy. You have already meddled with the sister, and also the mother—’
‘Never with the mother,’ said the King in a low voice.
‘Nor never with the sister either, so put that from your mind!’ cried Cromwell, and he turned to glare over his shoulder as he hurried after the King, who was walking rapidly away.
The next day George was summoned to see Cromwell and told to leave court at once, take himself off to the country and hold his tongue and mind his own business. For years he waited for forgiveness. During this time he diverted himself with building the gatehouse, impoverishing the estate and teaching the servants some of the manners of court.
As we spoke that morning, for instance, there in the dining room, Tom Rutter dressed in livery was standing behind my brother, glaring at the back of his head. During my childhood Tom was the chief captain of the stable lads, hapless victor in the village brawls and lord of the chaff-house where, to my wonder, he used to stretch out his hand like lightning and catch a mouse and squeeze it to death in his bare hand. Now he was being taught to lean forward and fill my brother’s wine cup from time to time without being asked, and without getting drunk himself, in the process.
‘You cannot imagine the difficulties that present themselves at court every minute of the day,’ Sir George went on. ‘Suppose you meet an ambassador coming round the corner. In the twinkling of an eye, you must recall his rank, the power of his
country, and whether or not they are friendly to us at that moment. If, for instance, you were to run into this Duke of Muscovy who is supposed to be on his way here, then you should greet him thus,’ and he rose and turned and advanced on Rutter, smiling delightfully and twirling his hand towards him.
‘You see?’ he said, standing back to study the effect. ‘He is of exalted rank, but on the other hand he is from a very distant and barbarous land. In short, he is a kind of natural wonder, like the hippopotamus sent to the King of France, to which you may be as pleasant as you like without incurring any blame. If, on the other hand, it is the imperial envoy you bump into – a man of no rank, yet representing a great power – then you accost him thus’, he bowed low to Rutter, ‘unless, of course, the trouble over the excise has flared up, in which case you must do this—’ and, looking coldly at Rutter, he gave him a curt nod and turned on his heel.
‘You see how difficult it all is,’ he said, resuming his seat with a sigh. ‘It is exactly like the labyrinth described by the ancients, where the bull ate up the maidens. One must be cunning as a serpent and as watchful as a hawk. Above all, be discreet. There is your password: discretion.’
I left Coughton after a week, promising that I would return very soon, though how this was to be achieved I was not sure. But the fact was I had fallen passionately in love with Judith, my second cousin, my Gloucester cousin. I blessed Gloucester first for having bred her and then for being so generous or careless as to give her up. This was my first love. Until then my love affairs had, it now seemed to me, been nothing but aping and mimicry. For several days Judith and I had ridden around Coughton together, over the meadows and into the woods, always with the nieces and nephews in tow, and never a word of love was spoken, but one day I thought: ‘Well, what more is needed? It is time I got married and there will never be anyone better.’
Still I said nothing, being naturally sly and suspicious, as younger sons have to be. Judith was free to marry, or rather she soon would be. She was an orphan, and not even a penniless one. In the meantime, my brother was her guardian. I knew he would stand in my way – it was in his nature, he couldn’t help himself – but I also saw that Judith had a temper, and could stamp her foot at him and make him quail, for I had seen her do it.
