‘Indeed, your Holiness. I am Edward of York, half-brother of King Henry of England,’ I paused for effect. Everyone’s eyes came and rested on me.
Pope Clement’s eyes shone. He looked at me with interest, surveying me from toe to head… What was he contemplating?
‘What is your purpose here, Edward of York?’ Pope Clement asked at the end.
‘As I said earlier, Holy Father, we’re here to negotiate your release.’
‘Under what terms?’
I took a deep breath. The pope was much smarter and suspicious than I had anticipated. ‘Your Holiness must understand of his difficult position. The city is in ruins, and the Holy Roman Emperor wishes only your safety.’
‘Is the emperor in the city then?’ Pope Clement asked narrowing his eyes.
‘As a matter of fact, no, Your Holiness. His Imperial Majesty remains in Spain whilst he oversees other matters of importance,’ I answered diplomatically, speaking like a true ambassador.
‘’Tis true, then!’
‘Holy Father?’
‘Emperor Charles had nothing to do with it,’ Pope Clement said, and everyone shifted uncomfortably. I turned my gaze to the guards that had accompanied me. I saw guilt in their eyes. ‘You have been tricked, my child; as I have. My sources tell me that the emperor had nothing to do with the attack and the Sack of Rome. It was a mutiny that guided the imperial troops to our holy walls. Mutiny is an impurity of heart and make no mistake, these people,’ he said and pointed at the guards, ‘are impure, for they are heretics, followers of Luther and his abominable preaching,’ he spat every word with passion and contempt.
‘Your Holiness should be careful,’ said one of the guards.
Pope Clement stood and pointed his forefinger at us. ‘You are the ones that ought to be careful, for if you continue in your current course, you will condemn your souls to the eternal fires of Hell.’
You deserve to die, to be punished, to burn. The voice from my dream echoed again inside my head.
‘Your Holiness,’ I shouted to cover the voice. ‘We are of the same mind, make no mistake,’ I lied. ‘We can help each other.’ The pope sat down and once more surveyed me. It was time I told him my story. ‘My family was murdered before my very eyes, Holy Father. Stabbed and burned to death along with my house and everything I held dear in this world. I have every reason to believe, that the one responsible for this tragedy is the King of England himself, my half-brother.’
‘How so?’
‘My mother confided in me as I watched her die that important people would want me dead for I could be a danger to the succession of the legitimate children of King Henry,’ I explained.
‘King Henry has one legitimate child,’ Pope Clement countered.
‘Yes, Holy Father. A daughter. However, I was told recently, that he has fathered a bastard son and that he hastily gave him dukedoms and titles, something that a bastard would not hope to acquire. This only strengthens my suspicions. He wants to make sure that after his passing, the throne of England will be inherited by his children and not siblings, legitimate or not.’
‘Indeed, I have heard of his obsession with producing a male heir before,’ the pope confirmed. ‘In fact, as recently as last week, I was informed that King Henry was ready to seek my permission to annul his marriage with Queen Catharine, in an attempt to cleanse his soul of his sin of having married his late brother’s wife. However, the said marriage between the late Prince Arthur and Catherine of Aragon was never consummated, and my predecessor, Pope Julius the Second, granted King Henry a dispensation to marry his deceased brother’s wife.’
‘That is what we all know, your Holiness. The king, though, claims to have a heavy conscience and has convinced himself that the marriage was in fact consummated and the proof lies with Queen Catherine’s failings to give him a son. He claims that God is punishing him for marrying his brother’s wife. ’Tis obvious, however, that the matter is not spiritual but merely personal to the king,’ I countered. ‘Furthermore, he has at his side Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, who whispers at his ear and edges the king towards unholy deeds. If the king had any doubts about the annulment, they have certainly been erased by Wolsey.’
‘Cardinal Wolsey is a man of the Church,’ Pope Clement said strongly. ‘Do not speak ill for him. I am certain that the cardinal always acts in the interest of Catholicism.’
‘I should like to think so too, Your Holiness,’ I bowed respectfully. ‘However, I believe that wealth and power have corrupted the cardinal and he is not worthy of his cardinalate.’
‘I will be the one to judge that,’ he said ending the argument. Then added, ‘May I ask you something, Edward?’
‘But of course, Holy Father.’
‘How is this relevant with the Holy Roman Emperor, the Sack of Rome and my imprisonment?’ he asked raising his voice slightly.
I looked at him puzzled. To my eyes, he was either naïve or was trying to make this difficult for me. ‘Holy Father, Emperor Charles is the nephew of Queen Catherine of England, and he would be most displeased if you were to grant King Henry the annulment he seeks.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ he said getting to the point at last.
‘I would never presume to do so, Holy Father,’ I claimed falsely. ‘I only seek your assistance in my personal matter, which will at the same time benefit you too.’
‘What is your matter, then? What do you seek to gain?’
‘I wish to avenge my family’s unjust deaths,’ I confirmed with my eyes fixed on his.
‘By preventing your brother to remarry?’
‘By making him miserable. I want him to feel the pain I felt, the pain of loss. ‘Tis the cruellest woe in a man’s heart. What would the King of England know about pain? He’s the richest, most selfish and arrogant man in the land. His greed devours us all. His lust for possession consumes us. But even a man of his like must have human feelings, Your Holiness. And once I take my revenge, we shall see if kings bleed in sorrow like mortal men do. He’s an unholy man, and his sins have crossed the boundaries of humanity and even Christianity itself. We must save England from this tyrant together. Will you assist me, Holy Father?’ I felt myself shaking with anger and anticipation.
‘Your words are powerful, my child. King Henry is a man of the Church, though. It was quite recently that he was granted the title Defender of the Faith of his writings against Luther.’
‘He has swept that away as easily as he wants to do with his lawful wife, Your Holiness. Who is to say that he will not reject our Holy Church next and side with the heretic Martin Luther? You must keep England in control, Holy Father, and under the protection of Catholicism. Do not give him the annulment. Help me bring down those who guide him towards the darkness.’
I was sweating now. Philibert had told me to make a persuasive speech even if my words were meant nothing to me. However, I believed those words to a certain extent. The only matter in which I was reluctant to commit myself was the Catholic Church. But the pope did not need to know that.
‘Vengeance is a great sin, my child. ’Tis God’s job to avenge,’ Pope Clement said, and for a moment his face became blurry and his face burned.
‘Only God reserves the right to avenge! Edward of York, you are a sinner, and you will burn in Hell’s fires to purge your soul.’
I bent on my knees, as I felt sick and ready to vomit. Everything was spinning again.
‘Edward, my child. Are you all right? Have you fallen ill?’ Pope Clement asked, his voice full of concern.
‘I’m quite well, Your Holiness. I thank you for your interest. ‘Tis only the after-effects of the battle,’ I said and shook my head to clear the fogginess.
‘Oh, help us, God, for we live in a cruel world full of bloody wars and sins,’ Clement prayed, and we all made the sign of the cross.
‘I don’t do it for me, Holy Father,’ I continued as I was standing up, ‘but for my mother and step-father and sisters who were murdered in vain. I want to s
ee justice for their deaths.’
The pope seemed to be contemplating again. ‘Now you speak truly, Edward. We all wish justice. I will do my best. Not for you, not for the emperor but for our Holy Church and most of all the people of England who deserve better than a king who is more interested in his pleasures than his duties,’ Clement said in a slow, serious tone, and I smiled victoriously.
Then I was ready to say my thanks and depart, but the pope spoke again, but now with a different tone of voice, much softer. ‘So, you ought to be the illegitimate son of King Henry the Seventh.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘You have grown, Edward.’
I was left speechless.
‘It has been many a year since I last saw your lord father, the late King of England, and more since I last saw you,’ he said still looking at me intensely. I stared at him awkwardly. How was it possible that the pope knew of my existence? None knew, according to my mother, at least. ‘You were a little more than an infant in our latest encounter, and I was but a young man. It is a pleasure to see you well, Edward. Although, it saddens me to see you sided with the enemy of our Holy Church.’
‘Your Holiness, I don’t know what to say. I never knew that you had an acquaintance with my father.’
‘Well, how could you?’
‘Indeed!’ I concurred. ‘And believe me, your Holiness, we are most definitely not the enemy of you nor the Church,’ I claimed. I sensed a shift in my feelings within me. This man claimed to have known my father and also me. All the same that does not mean he’s a saint! I thought. God chose to punish him and his Holy City gravely for a reason.
‘How did you know my father?’
‘During the early years of my ecclesiastical career, I was travelling to Europe and visited many major cities, including York. My family is the great Medici, and we have connections everywhere. I was thus sent to York to be taught English. You see, Edward, the Catholic Church has always been keeping an open mind and wishes to know its children from within,’ he paused and coughed lightly. ‘I spent quite a few years in York, and it was there I met your father, during one of his many visits to the city. It was quite unusual I must say that he visited the north of the country so frequently. So, I discovered at one point that he had taken a mistress there, a woman that he loved so much that he would not let her go. In the year of our Lord 1500, he fathered a bastard son, whom he loved so much that he wanted to protect no matter the cost…’
I could not speak, I could hardly breathe. The fact that the current pope knew so much about my past was either an incredible coincidence, or God was playing tricks on me.
‘He hid the child and his mistress in a great manor in the outskirts of York,’ the pope carried on, ‘and when his lawful wife died three years later, in 1503, he married his mistress, who was also named Elizabeth.’
The pope finished his speech, but it took a while to register his words. ‘My parents were married?’ I asked. My feelings were overwhelming. Was it joy or fear that I felt? Relief or apprehension?
‘So, it is said, Edward. And if it is true, you could be in line to the throne of England. Should something happened to King Henry and his children, you could be crowned King Edward the Sixth,’ he concluded.
For a moment in my mind, I saw myself sitting on a high throne, with my enemies laying at my feet beaten and justice prevailing. ‘Where’s the proof, though, Holy Father?’ I said suddenly waking up from my dreamland.
‘Go and find it, Edward of York. But promise me this. If you ever sit on the throne of England, you must always be true to your pope and your Church.’
‘I promise, Holy Father. Thank you!’
*
For a few days, we laid low, as we allowed the pope time to consider his options. Of course, he had no alternative and thus at the end he yielded and agreed to pay ransom the great sum of 400,000 Ducati in exchange for his life.
‘Congratulations, My Prince Edward,’ said Philibert when the news of the pope’s surrender reached him. ‘You acted like a true ambassador back there. You could prove most useful to the empire once in England. A great spy…’ he eyed on me, ‘with great compensations.’
‘You’re most gracious, my lord,’ I answered back. ‘I will consider your offer in due course.’
Philibert bowed politely and left the room. I took a sip from my cup of ale and gazed around the room. I was in an alehouse, my favourite one The Mad Bishop, which had miraculously survived the devastations of the sack. The city seemed to have started recovering from the atrocities, although very slowly. Philibert had ordered the plundering to cease three days after the invasion; it had taken two weeks for the blood-thirsty drunken soldiers to settle.
As for myself, I had earned Philibert’s respect after I had single-handedly convinced the pope to leave his hideout, and he was now treating me like a lord. I was allowed to roam the city by myself, or so I was told, but whenever I gazed behind me, imperial troops happened to be nearby, watching my every step.
Belfrigh and Aeron were also freed but were scarcely with me anymore. They did not have to follow me now. They had the liberty to choose any path they wished, whereas I was bound for England. My course was already drawn. The pope’s agreement to my terms was conditional, or at least he had made it sound so; he would help me, as long as I would help him.
‘So, what’s the plan, Ed?’ said Aeron’s voice as he approached my lonely table.
‘What do you mean?’ I said rather aggressively. Ever since the meeting with the pope I felt distanced from him and everyone else.
He moved his ginger head around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, then said, ‘Don’t be a fool, Ed. We’re coming with you.’
‘Why?’ I asked and drained my cup of ale so fast that some of it dripped down my leather doublet.
‘What d’you mean why, you turd? We’re in this together,’ the Welshman said passionately. ‘I’m willing to help you with whatever it is you’re doing, even if you do not wish to confide in me every small detail.’
‘I’m going to a dangerous place, Aeron. You must understand. You would constantly be in danger of committing treason and facing execution,’ I argued to make him see reason.
All around us the vapours and strong odours suddenly seemed to suffocate me. I rose from my seat ready to leave. Aeron followed me outside. The sun had not yet set, and it was quite warm.
‘You really are a pisspot, aren’t you, lad?’ It was Belfrigh that had spoken this time, and as I turned to look at him ready to produce an argument on demand, I saw her… Eleanor. I had not seen her since we had arrived in the imperial army’s camp. Philibert himself had reassured me that Eleanor and Agnese had not betrayed us, but they had only wished to assist us. She looked almost unrecognisable. She wore clean clothes, a magnificent blue linen dress; her tall neck covered delicately with a silver necklace, no doubt Philibert’s present. She looked like a true lady. Her wine-red hair was waving in the light wind and her green eyes shining like rubies.
‘Eleanor!’ I said catching my breath. ‘What are you-?’
‘I came to find you, of course,’ she said with her sweet voice. ‘Hasn’t Philibert told you yet?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘We are to go to England together!’
And so, we would, and for a brief moment I had forgotten my mission and the dangers ahead, the only thing that mattered was her. It is a man’s greatest weakness to be in love, for it consumes him and can destroy him. Love hides the gravest perils in a man’s life, for there is nothing a man would not do for the woman he adores…
CHAPTER VI
An Unwelcome Return
The Kingdom of England
May 1528
Ialways wanted to go out and see the world, go on an adventure, meet new people, discover their ways of living. It was one of my dreams as a child; a dream that continued to linger in the depths of my mind as I became a young man, secluded as I was in our manor in the outskirts of York.
‘And why I pray ye, wou
ld you like to endanger yourself by going out there to the unknown?’ Father Edmund had asked me once when I was fifteen, and I had confided in him my thoughts.
‘What do you mean endanger, Father?’ I had enquired puzzled.
‘’Tis a treacherous and cruel world this one, Edmund; full of temptations and sinners that would attempt to drive you towards the Devil’s dark deeds; away from the light of God,’ he had claimed seriously.
I never truly believed those words, although I did dwell on them on many occasions. I never wanted to believe him. I had the need to escape. For many a time, I felt as if surrounded by a golden bubble that was protecting me but was keeping me imprisoned at the same time; whilst I was forced to watch my sisters flourish with their lives and plan their future. It was torture. On the other hand, I felt that there must be a reason that my parents were so protective of me. Thus, when I discovered the truth I felt liberated in a way, but a different weight came and settled in my heart, and that was guilt, for I considered myself responsible for my family’s tragedy. So, if I could turn back time, I would choose not to know the truth and stay home protected by my golden bubble; I would prefer the old me, the careless and irresponsible one, I would want to believe Father Edmund’s wise words…
Hence, coming back to England was always going to be an emotional moment for me, not just because I had been exiled for four years, but also of what coming back really meant. Was I really going home, though? It did not feel like it. And whilst I shivered in awe when I gazed upon the magnificence of the White Cliffs of Dover, an odd sensation struck my stomach. I was not excited about seeing my mother country again nor was I rejoicing for being close to my birthplace and the people I loved that had lived there… I felt only apprehension. For my return was foreshadowing dark deeds; a series of events had already been set into motion when I conspired with the pope against King Henry, my half-brother, and as it was increasingly dawning on me, the murderer of my family.
England looked unaltered; from the smell of the grass in the rain to the blossomed flowers on the wild fields in the countryside… I was a changed man, though. I felt it deep in my guts. I had hatred in my heart; it was running through my body, deep in my veins and my very bones. Although I could not have foreseen the outcome, I was sure that either way, English blood was going to be spilt and Henry was going to rue the day he was crowned king.
The Illegitimate Tudor Page 11