The Secret Diaries of Juan Luis Vives

by Tim Darcy Ellis

  I cannot help it though. I have to go.

  Did you hear, diary, on the day we left Oxford, how Henry the hound yelped and howled when Claymond came to fetch him? Faster than fury we travelled back to London—faster than rainstorms. Perhaps what Álvaro said was true since something magical pulled me onward, and if I drank, ate, or slept, I have no memory of it.

  Finally, my focus was sharp like an eagle’s. We were at Bucklersbury House. I charged to the front door, forgetting all about Álvaro, drawn to the warmth of the house. But there was no Meg, no chorus of giggling sisters, only fifty strangers, an army of maids and boys. Everything went silent as we entered, and we stood like strangers in a strange land until blue-eyed Cicely came forward.

  “Señores, you’re here at last, but how you smell like a pack of road horses.”

  Lady Alice, bent in the middle with her trusted walking stick, emerged from the throng and announced us. I think most thought we were the entertainment because they clapped and cheered as she ushered us up the stairs. Where was Sir Thomas? What about Meg? There were no answers, just a ewer of water and soap that we might be ready for supper.

  I saw her at supper, and I saw the bump in her stomach. She turned to me. Was there an ache in her eyes? Then there was nothing, and that nothing felt like a cleaver that had been driven through the middle of my heart. The sense of exile hit me like a seventh wave. I remembered my families in Bruges and Valencia and realised I’d rather be spending Chanukah with them.

  To a fanfare, Master Roper appeared side-by-side with another man, tall and thin. His nose was high in the air, and he had a long blond beard and wore a badge on his black velvet cloak. Could it be in the shape of a diamond? It was Reginald Pole, the grandnephew of Richard III and Edward IV, bastions of Plantagenet England, friend of the pope. Everyone cheered. What treason was this in the home of a friend of the Tudor king? Reginald Pole nodded to Álvaro, as if he knew him, and I shivered.

  I couldn’t get a word to Álvaro, who was lost in chatter. I was overcome by the smell of blood and meat, horrified by whole cow heads placed on the table, cleft in the middle so that the guests could pick out the brains with their two-pronged forks. There were hams the size of a poor man’s house, spiked with cloves from Africa. Above the highest one I saw her face again. She directed the servants to place the ham directly before me. Without smiling, she pointed at the ham and mimed, “Eat, man, eat!” Reginald Pole smiled vaguely as she identified me. A fool came between them, dressed in bright rags and bells. I shifted but found myself trapped in the tightness of strangers on either side, a row of serving men behind me.

  A juggler arrived, and he became a fire-eater before producing a monkey dressed in ermine, like the king. I couldn’t help but laugh, but how I cursed you, my diary, for the trust I’d put in you, trust that you’d surely betrayed.

  The fool tapped me on the right shoulder with his false nose like a falcon’s beak. “What are you about, Señor Academicus?” He rang his bells over my ears.

  “I am about truth, freedom, clarity, and clear speech among academics.”

  “Oooh,” he replied. “Go on, Señor Academicus. Perhaps not so Academicus after all?”

  “I despise academic voices that alienate the people. I’m for plain speech that includes us all.”

  He laughed and offered me sugared fruit. As I ate, he found a pair of brass cymbals and brought the entire room to a standstill. In the silence, I saw Sir Thomas enter from the cold. He nodded to his guests and took his seat at the side of the table. I remembered he hated being at the head. He took power in going unnoticed. The fool began:

  I have a very nobleman,

  Philosopher from Spain,

  Who’d have the speech among us rendered very plain.

  No more will he have talk

  That only scholars know,

  For if that were the case

  His flowers wouldn’t grow.

  He twisted and turned and did a double back somersault.

  I spoke with him at length

  And this he did decree

  As clearly as the jingle bell that rings upon my knee.

  Reginald Pole stared at me with no expression as the fool continued:

  For this is the truth of what he said to me:

  Any non-donkey of a man except Socrates,

  And any other belonging to this same man,

  Begins contingently to be black.

  What did this mean? The energy of the room changed. He turned to Meg, to Pole, to William Roper, and they all turned to me. Could they see me for the alien I was, the enemy within? Was this the final unmasking? They say that fools could read minds and unmask villains. I turned to Meg and Álvaro. Nothing. The fool rang a bell over my head on the end of a curled green stick and finished:

  See my point of view my friends—

  He’s a man who holds his nerve,

  Says one thing to us perhaps,

  Though it’s another God he serves.

  They laughed raucously while I laughed falsely. After supper, I caught her.

  “Mistress Roper—Meg.”

  She shook her head, telling me that the name was not available to me anymore.

  “They are random jottings. If you read them, you would know of the deep affection I have for—”

  She cut me off. “Slow down, Juan Luis. What are you referring to?”

  “My writings, my personal notes. You said you found them. Isn’t that what the fool was referring to?”

  “He’s just a fool, señor, and as for your writings, I could hardly read them.”

  Could she see the relief in my face?

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I never should have looked. Is it Hebrew Spanish that you know, a family dialect?”

  “Yes, an old family dialect handed down from many generations.”

  “Then don’t worry about it.” She paused. “But what, exactly, is your quest?”

  “To finish my book, the one for the queen.”

  “So, Señor Vives, will you show us your book about the education of a Christian woman?” Reginald Pole interjected. He looked down at me from his great height, shoulders puffed.

  “It is for the queen’s eyes first,” I told him.

  “But am I not your queen?” Meg said with a chuckle. Pole chuckled, too, and began to murmur, “Show us, show us.”

  “In this house you are the queen, my lady. The book is for the most pious, the most goodly and Christian queen, ruler of all our hearts.”

  Meg turned and moved away. “Of course, señor. Of course.”

  The next morning, I saw her again, dressed in green and holding a pewter cup while leaning against the giant mantle as she engaged some gnarled aunt. I found myself between the two of them. I whispered in her ear, as Álvaro had once taught me, so that the small hairs within it would vibrate. “Why is it, Mistress Roper, that you are so quiet, so cool. Are you trying to break my heart?”

  She quickly turned away from the ancient one and uttered, “Señor, my home is your English home, but I have many concerns. It will not be long.” She patted her stomach and looked up, but her eyes did not shine. “If only I could break your heart.”

  Álvaro must have been watching from some nook, for he came between us, like a drawbridge slamming down. “My lady, he’s the greatest challenge, this man Vives. His wife in Bruges is always saying it.”

  She bolted as if jabbed by a needle.

  Álvaro grabbed me under the arm, humming, “Just walk away.”

  He took me to Sir Thomas, whom I’d not even spoken to the previous night. “Ensuring the conversos stay converted, Sir Thomas,” Álvaro said.

  I could have thrown him into the giant log fire.

  “Vives. Yes, I remember him, but his real name is Hayim, no?”

  It was the Hebrew name of my ancestors, meani
ng life, which they had translated into Vives. He slapped me on the back and pulled me towards him, kissing me on the top of the head and speaking, “Ad imo pectore.”

  “What do those words mean, Father?” asked a young boy, ruddy-faced and light-haired.

  “From the heart, my dear son.”

  This was John, his only boy, with the face of an angel. Sir Thomas bent low and lifted him up in his arms. “My best boy, my only boy.”

  I was grieving the distance from my own father. Resentment reared up, and I bit my tongue. The rest of the day we ate, talked, and journeyed through the snow to St. Stephen’s Church.

  When I returned to the room at night, I found Álvaro asleep. I feigned sleep, and when I perfected my imitation of sleep-breath, he upped to depart as he had done the previous night. I lay there and whispered.

  “Go carefully. Observe the ways of the ancestors.”

  “That is exactly what I am doing, Juanito.”

  Sometime in the silent stillness of the dawn, he stumbled back.

  “Tell me, Álvaro, where have you been? The stews of Southwark?”

  “No, my friend, I have not been to Southwark.”

  “Where, then?” I asked and sat up in bed. Although it was dark, I could tell that he was looking at me. “Come, Álvaro, tell me. You know me well enough. Have you ever met a more tolerant man?”

  “Have I ever met a more conflicted man?” he replied. “I am entrusting you with my life and the lives of others, but I still believe in you, Juanito. I still believe that we cannot fulfil our quest without you’.

  “Please, Álvaro, tell me.”

  “Yes, you must now know, for this is the moment when everything changes. I have been in two places. First to the Domus.”

  “The Domus? Why?”

  “Because I won’t leave them there to rot! I sit outside and sing a song for tuppence. Then I change an English word for a Spanish word or a Hebrew one that they might feel less alone. I’ve also been to a place they call Creechurch Lane, to the house of a spice man, Jorge Añes.”

  “Who is this Añes?” I knew the name was to be found among my own people. “And why visit him at night, brother?” My heartbeat was in my throat, loud as a mighty drum.

  “This Portuguese merchant, this Añes—he understands the commandment ‘welcome the stranger.’ Do you remember that one, Juanito?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “He welcomes strangers, some from our own land, some from elsewhere, who have been hiding for generations. He welcomes them into his home every Friday night.” I’d completely forgotten it was Friday night, lost as I was in this new world.

  “Who has been hiding for generations?”

  “The children of the English Jews, the ones who they thought they’d got rid of two hundred years ago. There in the attic, with you here, obsessing about a married woman, we’ve been celebrating the festival of lights, Chanukah, this very night.”

  “Good God! This is not safe. You have placed my quest in jeopardy.”

  “Your quest, Juanito? You underestimate me if you think I’d spend every night in Southwark. I’m working for our people and their place here in this land, which will be a safe home for us in its proper time. Until that great day, it’s not my task to visit whores in Southwark but to keep the flame alive.”

  A smidgeon of grey light emerged through the middle of the heavy drapes.

  “No! I am the one. It’s I who has been chosen for this work. Of course you go to Southwark. You’ve told me all about it.”

  “You are the one distracted by love and lust, but now’s the time to bring you back. Things are about to change for you.” He took in a sharp breath. “There were no nights in Southwark last summer. I was preparing, watching—seeing if you were with us or if you were leaving us.”

  “Then I, too, must come to the Domus. I can play the lute and you can sing to them.”

  “You’re too clumsy, too noticeable.”

  “But what of the tortoiseshell penis or the husband baying for your blood?”

  “A good trick, no? If I was to get caught and questioned, I needed evidence. The husband who wanted my blood is named Abrahams. The flame has never gone out here and never will.”

  “Why did you come to me then, Álvaro de Castro? Why not just do it all yourself?”

  “I came to you because I had been told to by the voice of the silence. Some call it the Kabbalah. Believe me, I was told.”

  “The Kabbalah?” To my own embarrassment, I knew little about it. This was the man who the gypsy told me saw more than I saw. I looked into his dark Sephardic eyes. “Álvaro, practitioner of the Kabbalah, what do you prophesy for me?”

  “I’m no fortune-teller—you must know that much—but I know you are a part of this, and when you ask for me, I will be here for you. Do you not remember the Book of Ruth? ‘Wherever you go, I will go. Wherever you lodge, I will lodge. Your people shall be my people, and your God my God.’ ”

  “Of course, but do I know you, Álvaro?”

  * * *

  Is this why he sleeps so soundly? Safe in the embrace of the God his secret community shares together? And now, my diary, what do I want you to be? A witness, perhaps, to the tide of feelings that surge through me this morning, for I know that I have been distracted by the kol ishah, the voice of the woman. Yes, the old fears surge through my bones, and my fear grows fast like a flame reaching up the timber of the stake, but I am back now. I am inside. I am ready for the greatest challenge of all.

  25 December 1523

  On Christmas Day, with a new dedication since I had missed Chanukah, which means “dedication,” we made our way to the Palace of Windsor. We climbed the wide but worn stone steps to the great east door, and there at the door were a group of thin young ladies in green and red singing, “Gaudete! Gaudete! Christ est natus ex Marie virgine Gaudete!” “Rejoice, rejoice, Christ is born to the Virgin Mary. Rejoice!” I wasn’t seduced by it, for I was there on a mission. I listen to higher orders.

  My heart went out to them, though, those thin ladies standing in the cold with just a brazier burning nearby, for soon we’d be in the warm inside, but these ladies—who knew how long they’d be there? Did they sing just for a blanket for a child or for a loaf of bread for the Christmas table? I gave them all the groats and pennies that I had, and so entering the palace with empty pockets I had a clear conscience.

  Once inside, a cup of spiced mulled wine was thrust into my hands, but I found it hard to hold because my fingers seemed frozen, like claws. We were then taken up to our rooms. This was like a military campaign, and we were just one more company that had been mustered for it. Our meagre room looked out across the green towards the river in the distance, rolling towards the ocean, that, pray God, would one day take me home to Marguerite. Álvaro made his home at the foot of my bed. I said a prayer for my Henry and Marguerite, for the little boy, Zeek, and I said another for my father and sisters, that they would soon be here, safe and well.

  Sir Thomas arrived in my room, looking as eager as a child going out to play in the snow. “It is time, young brother. Bring your book, quickly.”

  We hurried through the vast array of rooms—the sheriff’s chamber, the ladies’ chamber, the presence chamber. Each was hung with tapestries: Jesus and Mary, the Three Wise Men, shepherds tending flocks, and more. Each chamber was a sea of candlelight and seemed grander and more elaborate until we arrived at the privy chamber. The doors swung open and the king and queen sat before us on small thrones raised on a dais covered in crimson damask. Grooms and pretty ladies surrounded them, and I could see that the prettiest, with a sunset-coloured hood, was Mary Boleyn. She looked at me with recognition and then turned away. I pray God that she will say nothing or let the queen know that she once knew me.

  “Sir Thomas More and Master John Lewis of Oxford,” the herald announced.


  “Thomas, Thomas, Thomas,” the king said, beaming. “And our daughter’s preceptor, the champion of the poor and advocate of clear speech. What have you two brought for us?”

  “Sovereign, here is my reply to Luther’s tract,” Sir Thomas said. “It is simply called Responsio ad Lutherum.” He presented his book, and the king grabbed it and his face became a storm cloud. He thumbed through the pages and muttered into his beard.

  “Order, Thomas. This is good. Mine is the way of order, and Luther’s is disorder. I see you champion your pope above your king. A brave fool, eh? Let a thousand be printed, and let it be translated and sent abroad. Let it reach the eyes and ears of the heretic himself.”

  “And you, Spaniard, what have you brought us?” the king asked.

  “My king and my queen, Your Majesties, I have brought you the work over which I have laboured since I first arrived in this blessed realm. It is called The Education of a Christian Woman. I presented it to the queen, who read the dedication.

  “I dedicate this book to you, noble queen, like a painter who designed your portrait. In the canvas you would find an image of your body, but in my book, you will encounter a likeness of your soul. As a young girl, a spouse, a widow, and now a wife, you have left to all women in every way of life a magnificent example. And the Princess Mary, through your work, will be the greatest and kindest queen our realm has known.”

  The king’s face soured. He looked to us and then to Mary Boleyn. “We still hope God will bless us with a son.” He turned to both Sir Thomas and me, and with a renewed jolly countenance said, “This is a season of giving and receiving. First, for Thomas, we have something, here, Kate.” She handed him a box, inside of which was a small golden cup gleaming with a Latin inscription around the rim that I could not read. Sir Thomas was effusive in his gratitude.

  The king turned and handed me a small box covered in blue velvet. “Of these there have only been four made.”