by Anne Stevens
The Condottiero
A Tudor Deceit
By Anne Stevens
Tudor Crimes Book 4
TightCircle Publications
Foreword
It is October 1531, and two great power bases are struggling to sway King Henry, in the matter of his divorce. The king sways from his Lord Chancellor, Sir Thomas More to his Privy Councillor, Thomas Cromwell, like a willow, bending in the breeze.
Lady Anne Boleyn grows impatient, and is pressing Henry to bring things to a head. She would have More put aside, and her new favourite, Thomas Cromwell put in charge. Henry agrees, but still vacillates, hoping for a miraculous change of heart by Pope Clement in Rome.
In a bid to end the seeming deadlock, Cromwell suggests sending more emissaries to meet with the principle lords in Padua, Venice, Milan, and Rome, knowing that their efforts will be in vain.
Along with the new missions, Thomas Cromwell decides to send his own, with a specific agenda. Will Draper and his confederates are tasked to do but one thing: hurry the Pope into a swift refusal.
Despite having travel documents, and the support of a powerful master, Draper knows he must face a new world of intrigue. The French king covets Milan, as does Venice and Padua, and the Pope wants a good marriage for his son. Deals are made, and promises broken, as each state vies to win out, and emerge all powerful in a disjointed Italy.
It is Will Draper’s duty to escort England’s ambassador at large, the poet Thomas Wyatt, to Rome, and somehow, get him an audience with Pope Clement. Despite having served in Ireland, and fought Welsh rebels, Draper is in for a rude awakening. The city states of Italy seem to be small, oasis’s of calm, in a sea of carnage and ruin, but appearances can be deceptive.
In a time when five thousand men, and a few canon, can make you a prince, the great mercenary warlords, known as condottieri, are poised to change the map of Italy forever. The greatest condottiero of them all is Malatesta Il Baglioni, and his belligerent desires, ultimately, must come into direct conflict with the Englishmen’s own aims.
The road to Rome is a difficult one. If Draper and Tom Wyatt are to return, alive, they must face savage conflict, dangerous intrigue, and horrendous natural calamity.
1 At Court
“Any news, Master Cromwell?” Miriam has asked the same for the last week. She is without her husband, Will Draper, and her brother Moshe, who they all call Mush at Austin Friars, to hide the young man’s Jewish birth. Cromwell, smiles at the girl, for unlike the previous days, he does have something to tell her.
Cromwell’s nephew, Richard, the poet, Thomas Wyatt, Will Draper, and Mush, his brother -in- law, who has recently taken Will’s family name, sailed from Plymouth eleven days before, in the king’s ship ‘The Sovereign’, bound for Bilbao, in northern Spain. From there, they must travel across country to Girona, where another ship, a Flemish trader, part owned by Cromwell, waits to take them on to Genoa. From there, they will ride to Venice.
The big, four-masted carrack, a converted merchantman, has made good time, and Thomas Cromwell has just had news of its safe return to Plymouth Hoe. He smiles at the girl, who is so like a daughter to him, and holds up a report.
“They are all very well, my dear,” he says to her. “The ship’s captain is in my pay, and writes to inform me that Will, Richard, Mush, and Master Wyatt, were landed safely at Bilbao. They have diplomatic safe conducts, recognised by the Emperor Charles’ people, and by now, they should be in Girona, or even at sea again.”
“So many boats,” Miriam mutters, touching the beautiful gold star at her neck. “Could they not have rather ridden, Master Tom?”
“Twelve, or thirteen hundred miles, across the most dangerous, and unfriendly country,” Cromwell replies. “Having to face constant border crossings, bandits, outlaws, and roving bands of unpaid mercenaries, is not my idea of a safer passage, my dear Miriam. Even with fresh horses waiting at every stop, they would scarcely have done it in less than twenty five, or thirty days, and under constant fear of attack.”
“It is a poor choice you give my man, and my brother,” Miriam says. It is the closest to a reproach that she can bring herself to make to her benefactor. “At least, they will be in Italy, before the winter sets in.”
“How are things with you, my dear girl?” Eustace Chapuys appears at the gate, with two servants in tow. “And good day to you, Thomas. Are you venturing out today?”
“Of course I am, you silver tongued little rogue,” Thomas Cromwell replies. “Today is a special occasion, is it not?”
“Is it your birthday, Master Eustace?” Miriam asks. “Had I known, I would have…”
“No, no, my dear, calm yourself,” the little Savoyard says, preening in his new doublet, and with yet another monstrous hat on his head. “Today, is special. His Majesty, after almost three years, has invited me to an audience, at Whitehall Palace.”
“You have met the king before, though,” Miriam replies. “Why is this time any different?”
“Politics,” Cromwell says, interrupting. “Chapuys, the man, is known to Henry, but Chapuys the Imperial ambassador is not yet formally accepted. Today, Henry will stop fencing him off, meet him, face to face, and accept his formal introduction. The king will put out his hand, for the ring to be kissed. It means that Henry is offering his hand to the Emperor Charles, in a gesture of love, and peace.”
“And I am the conduit,” Chapuys says. “I will be introduced, and bend my knee. Then I will beg him to take my passport, and accept my master’s deepest felicitations.”
“And presents too, I hope?” Chapuys beckons one of his men over and takes a box from him. He opens it, and displays a silver communion goblet.
“Hand chased by the greatest silversmith in all Christendom,” he tells his friend. “There is not another like it in the world, and it cost Charles six thousand ducats. I shall present it to His Majesty, in person.”
“In that hat?” Cromwell puts in, knowing it will annoy his friend. “Let me find you a less … flamboyant … cap, my friend. I fear that the feathers might tickle the king’s nose, and he will sneeze on you. The gust might blow you back to Spain.”
“Such a jester,” Chapuys replies, happily. Today’s action will confirm him as ambassador, and encourage the emperor to keep him in place. This is to his liking, as he has grown fond of his English friends, and there is little enough for him back home. “I thought we could walk to the palace together, and show the king how well we get along.”
“A good idea. I believe I shall,” Cromwell says. “Give me a moment, and I will have Rafe Sadler and Barnaby Fowler put on their best coats, and come along with us. The common people will cheer us, and shout when they see our grand parade … if only at the sight of your wonderful hat.”
“Curse it, Thomas, I will leave it behind, if you only hurry. I must not keep the king waiting.”
The small, dignified ambassador, and his entourage of friends, set off for Whitehall, with Eustace Chapuys in the van. As they come to the front entrance, some professional loiterers raise a cheer, and one shouts out a rousing ‘Gor’ bless yer worship!’ The delighted Savoyard plucks a handful of copper coins from his purse, and distributes them into eager palms. Cromwell cannot help but smile, as he knows that Chapuys salary is always four months late, and amounts to only forty pounds a year.
Whilst this is enough to maintain a reasonable standard of living for most gentlemen of the court, it does not allow for the trappings of ambassadorial pomp, and leaves Chapuys out of pocket, time and again. Cromwell guides his friend past the rest of the begging hands.
“Leave some of them for S
tephen Gardiner to give to, Eustace,“ he says. “Now he is made up to Bishop of Winchester, he has more than enough to throw about.”
They are granted access, by deferential guards, warned that Chapuys’ visit today is of a special nature, who bow, and rush to open inner doors. The vast reaches of Whitehall stretch out before them. The ambassador continues into the bowels of the great new palace, flanked by Cromwell, Rafe Sadler, Barnaby Fowler, and Chapuys’ own two servants.
Apart from the many English gentlemen present there are dozens of visiting foreigners, who flood to Whitehall to pay their humble respects. Henry often enjoys meeting them, and is eager to hear news from the wider world. Each tall story is rewarded with a little gift, dependant on its amusement value.
Recently, great amusement was had, when an envoy from Muscovy, bedecked in strange furs, and with a beard, almost as big as his chest, mistook Sexton, the king’s fool, for the king. To see the foreign lord bowing, and attempting to kiss the jester’s hand caused Sexton to gambol about, posturing like the finest of the fine.
“Call me Hal,” he had declared, and only returned to his usual grovelling respect, when the Duke of Norfolk kicked him up the backside. The Muscovite was soothed, and taken away to regain his composure.
Now, Thomas Cromwell pauses, smiles, and nods towards three men clustered in one of the great, open gallery’s numerous alcoves. He recognises two of them as the Venetian ambassador, Lodovico Falier, and Marco Raphael, who professes to be a teacher of languages, but is, in fact a Venetian agent, sent to pry into English business.
“Master Falier, my dear ambassador,” Cromwell says, offering a small, sharp bow. “May I introduce Eustace Chapuys, the Holy Roman ambassador to this court?” The man gives a generous bow, and replies in Italian. Marco Raphael starts to interpret, but Cromwell says:
“Tutti noi parliamo italiano, signore. E 'la lingua della poesia.”
“That is true,” the Venetian ambassador replies, in quite acceptable English. “Just as your language is the voice of commerce.”
“I do not know this gentleman,“ says Cromwell. “Is he new to the court?“
“Forgive my manners, Master Cromwell,“ Falier says. “This is Mario Savorgnano, a fellow Venetian, who is here to tour your country … for pleasure.”
“You must pay particular attention to our busy ports, my friend,” Cromwell says, pointedly. “Where the king has sixty great men o’war. Our navy is quite the most powerful in the world now, save for the Ottoman infidels. Did you come here, straight from Venice, sir?”
“No, sir, I did not.” Savorgnano pauses, then realises that Cromwell is, in a quiet way, demanding answers of him. “I quitted the Imperial Court, which is, as you know, in Brussels, and journeyed to Ghent, From there, I took a carriage, and visited Bruges.”
“A handsome town, Master Savorgnano,” Chapuys puts in, trying to hurry the conversation along. He is eager to meet with the king.
“Yes, sir, it is considered to be the handsomest, and most magnificent city of any in all of Flanders. It contains an infinite number of large palaces, inhabited by men of diverse nations, in which they carry on their mercantile traffic. Then there are houses without end, belonging to private gentlemen, part of which are by the water's side, with very handsome quays in front, with seats all made alike; and looking on the canals. I almost fancied myself to be back at Venice.”
“Then a fair wind blew you here?” Cromwell says. He smiles, but his eyes are asking what the man is really all about.
“A man can admire only so many merchant’s houses, and fine churches,” the Venetian explains. “I took horse, and in one day arrived at Calais, a distance of some thirty miles.”
“An English town,” Chapuys says. “I recall it as being a most vulgar, and dirty place.”
“It is a very strong place, as I will tell my master on my return. Your king guards the town well, for it is a true fortress, and gives you control of the channel. On that same night, two hours before daybreak, I embarked on board a small boat, and with a pleasant south-west wind, and a calm sea, crossed from Calais to England in just six hours.”
“Then you saw Dover castle, and its great guns.” Cromwell gestured all about himself, as if encompassing the four points of the compass. “Our island has the appearance of a fortress, sir. It is difficult to land anywhere, other than in the harbours. I hope you see Canterbury, and visit the cathedral. Saint Thomas Beckett’s shrine is magnificent. It is ornamented with precious stones, and sundry jewels, and with so much gold that its value is inestimable. Then, you must go to Winchester. You know Master Gardiner, I suppose. As he once visited Venice.”
“As did you, sir,” the man replies, “many years ago.”
“Ask Stephen Gardiner what he thinks of an alliance between our two great seafaring states, Signor,” Cromwell says. “He will tell you that Venice has more in common with England, than it does with Rome.”
“Sir, you do my job for me,” Savorgnano replies.
“Come sir, you must have something to pass on to your master,” Thomas Cromwell tells him. “You must inform him that England is strong, and well able to hold its own. Tell him that Tom Cromwell tells you this.”
“You see through me, sir,” the stout Venetian says, smiling ruefully. “You must realise that I come as a friendly agent. The Doge wishes only to ensure that, if need be, England will fight on the right side.”
“Forgive me, Master Cromwell,” the Venetian ambassador puts in, “but this is neither the time, nor place to discuss such weighty matters.”
“Then do not bring spies into the royal Court,” Signor Falier,” Cromwell says, softly. “We will speak again, Master Savorgnano. Come to me at Austin Friars.”
Cromwell, much to Chapuys relief continues the progression, leaving the bemused Venetians behind. The ambassador and his two spies look at one another, and shake their heads in dismay. How, Savorgnano muses, does the man know so much? He has the feeling that Cromwell knows every movement, and has been receiving news of his visit, since the day he left Padua.
He will write his report to the Venetian Senate, and tell them about the great, and accessible Thames, guarded by great fortresses, and huge galleons, twice the size of any other war ship he has ever seen. Then he will explain that the city is fast becoming the hub of a great commercial alliance, and is governed by merchants - men of real worth. All things considered, he will write, England is ruled well, and its capital city is a very rich, populous, and mercantile place, but not as beautiful as Venice.
Cromwell and Chapuys continue, nodding their way past the ambassadors of Rome, Milan, and France, who acknowledge, or ignore each other, as the dictates of that day’s politics suggest. Later, they will all dine together, and exchange snippets of information.
“You rather shocked the Venetian ambassador,” Chapuys mutters, smiling at some ladies, who curtsey back. “What was your purpose?”
“I dislike foreign spies,” Cromwell says. “Even ones who report favourably to their masters. The Doge is a cautious fellow, and wants to reassure himself about the embassy I am sending to him.”
“You mean to Rome,” Chapuys says. “Ambassador Wyatt, and Will Draper, are to see the Pope, are they not?”
“Eventually,” Cromwell says, amiably. “I thought they might visit Venice and Padua first, just to say hello.”
“Just to say…but no, Thomas,” Chapuys says. “What are you up to now?”
“Nothing, my friend,” Cromwell says. “I did the Doge a great service once, and Captain Draper’s visit will merely jog his memory.”
“You wish a favour from him?” Chapuys asks, but Cromwell steps back, and lets the little Savoyard advance. His great moment is at hand, and Cromwell is pleased for his friend. Courtiers part, and create an avenue for him, leading to the king. Henry is in his finest regalia, and is standing on a small dais, to accentuate his higher position. It is hardly necessary in poor Chapuys case, who is a good foot shorter than the majestic King of Engla
nd.
Behind, two trumpets flourish, and a herald announces him as Master Eustace Chapuys, the most exalted Emperor Charles’s ambassador to the English court. Every man’s head bows low, and the ladies all execute a well rehearsed curtsy. One or two cast covetous eyes, for a rich foreigner is a good catch for a single girl, no matter his height, or his age.
“My Lord Ambassador!” Henry roars, and throws his arms wide. “You are most welcome.” The king proffers his right hand, for the ring to be kissed in formal obeisance, and Chapuys bows, and presses his lips to the huge ruby. As he goes to rise, there is a sudden movement, and Lady Anne Boleyn is there, holding out her own ring hand to him.
“Welcome, Master Chapuys,” she says, in her quite excellent French. The Savoyard is stricken with horror. For three years, he has avoided all contact with the Boleyn woman, and is under strict orders never to acknowledge her, in any way. He has nowhere to turn, without mortally offending the king, so takes the delicate little hand, and kisses the ring.
“Good day, my lady,” Chapuys says, colouring up. It is the closest he has ever been to the woman, and cannot see what Henry finds so fascinating about her. “I did not know you were back in court.”
“When I heard that my dearest Henry was going to receive you,” she says, smiling, “I changed my plans, just to be here. Now, you must not be a stranger, sir. I expect to see you often at our balls. Is there a Mistress Chapuys?”
“Alas no, my lady,” Chapuys says.
“I am sure we can find you a mistress or even two here, sir,” Henry says, and there is a ripple of laughter at the king’s clever play on words.
“I detest the state of bachelorhood, Monsieur Chapuys,” Lady Anne tells him. She is happy with her little deception, and is enjoying the ambassador’s unease. “You must come, and walk in the gardens with my ladies in waiting and I … some day.”
“You are too kind, Lady Boleyn,” Chapuys replies, and steps back, to be enfolded within the friendly arms of Thomas Cromwell and his young men.