by Peter Walker
Chapter 14
The baby was christened Judith. A wet nurse had been found immediately, but she soon dried up, and so did the next one, and then a third. Looking back now, I see that that baby flew round Mantua like a sample of new silk, but then I was hardly aware of the fact. Agnes Hide took care of all those matters; I was abstracted and in despair. No, it was more than that: I was in a rage with God. Why, after so many years apart, and such a little time together, was she been taken away from me, my love, the true companion of my life?
Why do you do this to us?, I demanded. Why do you search for new ways to break people’s hearts?
There was no answer at the time.
The worst thing was this: I discovered that my thoughts almost always took the form of an imagined conversation with Judith. How long this had been going on I had no idea; I only noticed it when she had gone. Perhaps everyone has a conversation running in their mind with someone or other – wife or husband or God, or their children, or their men or dogs and horses. This idea filled me with alarm, for mine was only with Judith, who would never actually hear me or answer again. Yet so strong was the habit I could not stop doing it, which was painful and absurd. But for whom else was I to form my thoughts? My children were infants, I had no fellow-countrymen nearby – George had suddenly been called home – and I’d had enough of talking to dogs and horses.
The long and short of it is this: three months later I married Agnes Hide.
One day she came to me and said she had decided to go home to her father in Venice. Everything was settled now, she said. The children had their nurse; little Judith had a wet nurse who stayed wet. And, she said, since she had come as a companion to my wife, who was no longer there, it was time she went away.
I stared at her aghast.
‘To Venice?’ I cried, and I leapt to my feet and embraced her.
I see now that that is what she hoped for. And why not? The fact is that I have been extremely lucky. I have had one great love of my life, but two good wives. The children loved Agnes already, and she them, as far as I could tell.
Then there was the question of propriety. It is unseemly for a man and a young woman to live under the same roof without the arrangement being regulated in one way or the other, after – let’s say – three months.
I had few doubts on the brink of the marriage and none afterwards. One night a few months later, speaking tentatively as though admitting a grave fault, she declared that she had long ago fallen in love with me, and had therefore decided that she would never marry anyone.
‘This was my secret,’ she said. ‘I did not hope for my own happiness. How could I? You were married to Judith. She was my dearest friend.’
Agnes Hide is as unlike Judith as anyone could be. She is tall, fair, peaceable and always anxious to be just. Judith was not so scrupulous. Life for her was to be lived with passionate feeling. Agnes, even on the wedding night, always reminded me of the woman in the zodiac carrying the scales.
This marriage also turned out to be fortuitous for practical reasons, although I had never dreamt of what was going to happen next.
Chapter 15
A few months after Agnes Hide and I were wed, a message came from the palace commanding me to appear before the Regent. I promised the herald – a skinny youth who came huffing and puffing out to the farm at Cerese – that I would do so at once. However, I did not increase my pace. To tell the truth, the Regent Cardinal Ercole summoned me to the palace rather more than was strictly necessary. He was very interested in horse breeding; he was considering sending one of his mares to my rozzone – my brute – of which he had heard good reports – although, he warned me with an upheld forefinger – ‘one should beware of a handsome horse, as of a handsome man. Despite appearances, there may be no good in him at all.’
Lord Ercole was also interested in England and indeed the whole island of Britain. Sometimes he called me in and read aloud reports that he had received from the Mantuan ambassador there or from other sources, stopping from time to time to stare at me as if it was my doing that no vines grew in England, or olives, or that the tide rises the height of a house twice a day, or that the English affirm that torture is a great evil, which injures not only the bodies of the innocent but the soul of a commonwealth.
As for Scotland, that country, being still more remote to his imagination, pleased him even more.
‘Scotland is marvellously mountainous, sterile, rugged and marshy, and therein is its safety. As half the country is without trees, they burn stones’ – here the Regent stopped and looked hard at me – ‘and peat, of which there is plenty. They have wool and gold and silver mines, but do not know how to work them. The plenty and the variety of fish in Scotland, as also the size of the whales and sea-monsters, are incredible.’
The fact of the matter was that Cardinal Ercole was somewhat bored. Mantua is of course a splendid place but it is not Rome or Venice. It is what you might call a handkerchief state. I sometimes felt depressed at the narrow horizons myself. That very morning, in fact, when the skinny herald came out to the stables looking for me, I was in that frame of mind. It had been raining all week; there was a kind of mould on the apricot trees. I had lost my dearest companion in life. So far I had spent all that morning examining horses’ hooves. My own life, it seemed, had shrunk to that, in a mildewed corner of the world.
So I dismissed the herald and after checking that all the mangers were sweet and clean, and then going home to bathe and dress, I presented myself in the ducal palace.
When I arrived, the Regent, most uncharacteristically, was in a rage.
‘What have you been doing?’ he cried. ‘Didn’t my messenger tell you the case was urgent?’
Then, without waiting for an answer, he spoke further, saying something which I could not at first catch. I heard the words ‘Madama’ and ‘Maria’ and perhaps ‘regnante’, and, to tell the truth, I got it into my head that he was telling me that one of his mares was pregnant. My mind was running on horses and pregnancy a lot at the time. I dare say I gaped at him: if what he said was true, it had nothing to do with me. My ‘brute’ had not yet been near his mares.
Then, with exasperation at my dullness written on his features, the Regent spoke very plainly and clearly: ‘Madame Maria now reigns in England.’
That was how I heard that the young King of England, Edward, was dead. His elder sister, Mary, the daughter of Katherine of Aragon, was now Queen.
‘It is beyond all doubt,’ said the Regent. ‘I have it from separate sources although they have arrived together. Here is a letter from London:
At the proclamation such demonstrations erupted that not only you who were not there but even I who was present can hardly find it credible . . . Men ran hither and thither, bonnets flew in the air, shouts rose higher than the stars, fires were lit on all sides and from a distance the earth must have looked like Mt Etna. The people were mad for joy and the streets crowded all night long.
‘And here also,’ the Regent continued, ‘is a brief letter from your illustrious lord, Cardinal Reginald, begging me to send you to him at once, this instant. You should have left two hours ago. I cannot understand your tortoise steps. There is no time to tell you more. I will send my secretary with you and two guards in case you fall by the wayside. Now – begone!’
So I hurried home and farewelled my wife and children and was away from Mantua within two hours.
On the road I could not help observing that if Judith had been alive I would never have left, for she would not have let me go; and if Agnes was not my wife, I would not have gone either, as I would not have left my children alone like orphans.
And, as I also observed a few miles further down the road, it had never occurred to me to ask Agnes’s advice, much less her permission.
A young man from the palace rode along with me: he was one of the Capilupo clan who serve the state of Mantua as secretaries and envoys and, with their sharp eyes and ears, do it very well. As we travelled he told me all he knew. T
he mood in England was not one of unalloyed joy. There were fears that Mary might ruin all and marry a foreigner, or bring back the Pope, which was dreaded equally by all the Lutherans and many of the Catholics, who now owned abbey land and did not want to give it back. Yet, by and large, the people were happy to see the end of the last rulers, the King’s uncles who had poisoned him – this was quite certain, said Capilupo; the boy had lost all his hair and his stomach was hard as a cannonball – and who had then put a trembling girl on the throne so they could rule without interference.
On seeing this, he said, the whole country rose in support of Mary, who had fled to Framlingham, or from Framlingham. The details were sketchy; Capilpuo had no idea what or where Framlingham was, but being an ambitious youth he liked to appear knowledgeable about the world, and so he spoke airily of that lofty seat.
Then Mary, at the head of a huge number of men and horses, rode to London, and all the conspirators fled.
When we reached the monastery near Lake Garda where Pole had taken up residence, I saw he was in a state of extreme agitation. He had a hectic spot of red in the middle of each cheek. I took them to be badges of vexation and anxiety.
He asked me to go to England immediately and take a message to the new Queen, seeking his admission to the kingdom.
The great threat hanging over her, he said, was that the Emperor, who had never lifted a finger to help Mary in all her troubles, would now gobble her up and take England for himself, in order to complete the encirclement of France.
Pole showed me a letter that had already come from the imperialist ambassador in Venice, warning him to stay out of English affairs.
His Majesty is the chosen instrument of God in all that has happened here and should continue to be so. He knows best, with his great zeal and prudence, what roads the negotiations should follow and when they should be undertaken . . . Nothing can be usefully undertaken without his direction . . . He is the paranymph here.
‘What’s this paranymph?’ I asked.
‘What indeed?’ said Pole. ‘It means the best man at a wedding. Perhaps the word slipped out inadvertently. But it is clear they are planning to carry her off by marriage – either the Emperor will wed her himself, or marry her to his son, Philip. She must be warned of the danger.’
I could not see why Pole did not immediately go to England himself
‘I intend to,’ he said. ‘I would go and beg my bread from door to door if that would help her to see that she is being tricked. But I must wait here for my letters-patent from Rome. I am to go to England as a legate. There have been some delays . . .’
For that reason, he said, I was to hurry on ahead and seek his admission into England.
‘On no account say anything about marriage,’ Pole warned me. ‘She may have already taken it into to her head to marry Philip, and, if she is like other women, any hint of opposition will only make her stubborn. I will have to see her myself, and wean her away from the idea.’
I raced away, crossed Germany and reached Flanders without any impediments. But there, in Brussels, my journey was interrupted. I was arrested. No explanation was given. Why should they bother? It was a simple exercise of power. All was done politely, even smilingly. My letters were not taken. My horse was not taken. The more angry I became, the more benign their expressions.
‘You will be in England soon,’ was all that was said. ‘Of course you will – no, you must go! After all it is your native land. And what can be sweeter than the sight of one’s native land? For the moment, however, your onward journey is . . . inopportune.’
No real attempts, however, were made to conceal the reason. Everyone in Brussels knew what was taking place. Great powers are able to conceal shameful secrets for a short time; those which please them are known almost at once. I was shocked to find out, as soon as I arrived, how far the project had advanced – namely, the captivation of the Queen. For this, half a dozen great imperialist officials had assembled in London before the news of the Queen’s accession had even reached Mantua. They were led by several lords, including that same Don Diego I used to see at the wicket in Rome.
The master spirit, however, the chief wooer, the Cupid who fired the arrows into the Queen’s heart, was a certain Simon Renard, Lieutenant d’Amont.
Renard, a Burgundian with a forked red beard, was the first man to awaken thoughts of love in Mary, a spinster aged thirty-eight who had never known a day’s real affection since her mother was lost to her.
All the details of this wooing, on behalf of the Emperor and his son, were gossiped about openly in the imperial court. From the balcony of Flanders I was able to follow the play, scene by scene. Almost every evening at dusk Renard slipped through the gardens of the palace, at Richmond or in London, to talk to the Queen alone. For a month, he circled round the subject.
‘When I mentioned marriage to her, she began to laugh, not once but several times, giving me a look which plainly said how agreeable the subject was to her . . .
‘I know her to be good, easily influenced, inexpert in worldly affairs, in fact a novice all round . . . And her counsellors are so grasping that if one cares to try them with gifts and promises, one may do what one likes with them.’
That love-bulletin had been written while I was still on a farm outside Mantua, looking at my horses’ hooves.
The proposed husband, the Emperor’s son Philip, who was in Spain at the time, was wholly amenable to the project.
‘I am rejoiced to hear that my aunt has come to the throne,’ he wrote to his father, ‘not only out of natural feelings, but because of the advantages to us where France is concerned. If she suggested marriage between herself and your Majesty, it would be the best thing possible. But if you wish to arrange the match for me, you know that I am so obedient a son that I have no other will than yours . . .’
I took great pains to find out all these things and every night copied down everything I had heard, especially from the Mantuan envoy, another Capilupo, M. Giulio, and sent them to Pole, so he should know what steps to take.
Chapter 16
Pole, meanwhile, was still in Italy, waiting for his letters-patent. It turned out that Innocenzo – Cardinal Monkey, who was hardly ever seen in his office – had on that occasion personally issued the documents for Pole’s legation to England. Naturally he made a fearful mess of it, the seals were not affixed properly or something of the kind. You might not credit that such a trivial thing should matter, but from that omission a great deal hangs.
If not for that, Pole may well have reached England, where he alone had enough authority over the Queen, whom he had known since childhood, in time to prevent her marriage.
It was not until mid-October, however, that he crossed the Alps.
By then the Imperialists had mustered against him. In Germany, just north of the mountains, he was stopped on the road by the Emperor’s most senior ambassador, Don Juan Mendoza, who barred the way with a great array of secretaries and archers.
‘His Majesty has heard of your legation to England,’ said Mendoza, ‘and can only praise the zeal of His Holiness and the choice of person. Yet he deems the execution untimely. He has sent a courier to Rome, explaining why you should on no account go any further. And therefore, my lord, I exhort you to stop and wait until we see what the Pope replies.’
‘Any suggestion from the Emperor must always be held in the highest regard,’ said Pole. ‘If it were up to me I would be happy to stand here in the road all day long, if that would gratify His Majesty. But I must have respect for my duty. I have an express commission from His Holiness to go forward. Unless there is some new and extraordinary reason with which I could justify myself for disobeying him, I do not see how I can halt.’
‘The fact of the matter is this,’ said Mendoza. ‘The English loathe the papal authority so much that your appearance in their midst will create confusion that will admit of no ordering. It would be far better to go about things the other way around – perhaps the Queen should
marry someone first and secure her throne. And one other thing is certain: if she marries an Englishman, she will open Pandora’s box and every discontent will erupt among the nobility.’
‘From what you have just said,’ said Pole, ‘the real reason behind your presence becomes clear. The Emperor wishes the Queen to marry his son. Until he has accomplished that, he will stop at nothing to prevent my going to England. He cannot convince himself that I will help him to place my country in the hands of a foreigner.’
For a long time they argued this back and forth, standing there in the middle of the road, at a place called Dillingen.
And on that very day, according to M. Capilupo, Renard, like a fox that has inspected the entrance to the burrow several times, finally made his move in London. At six in the evening he came up the water stairs from the river and slipped into Westminster palace and, having being led to the Queen, told her flatly that the Emperor thought the time had come for her to marry.
‘But how can I marry?’ she replied. ‘I have never felt love, nor harboured thoughts of voluptuousness. Marriage is against all my inclinations. It is true the women around me talk of nothing else, but I could never mention the subject to my council. How could I keep a straight face? Besides, who is there in England to marry?’
‘His Majesty has given the matter a great deal of thought,’ said Renard. ‘He wants you to choose someone agreeable to you, he bears you such affection that he hopes that person will be adorned with every virtue, and be of an age and character you desire. If an Englishman were chosen, however, he fears that he would try and claim more authority than is his due. When a man gets power or riches greater than might have been expected, it always turns his head and makes him insolent. There is young Edward Courtenay, for instance, Exeter’s son, but he has spent his life in prison, which is not a suitable education for a king. Cardinal Pole, on the other hand, is in a prison of a different kind: he is in holy orders, he has no desire to marry. And in any case, given his very great age of fifty-three, he would not be suitable.’
