by Anne Stevens
“The insolent swine,” Clement says. “he’ll think otherwise, when our condottiero, Baglioni, takes Padua from him.”
“As the Doge does not know our plans, might I suggest we humour him, and let him think we have granted his wish?” the chamberlain says. He spends his days trying to divert his master onto the right path, and not one that is governed purely by family hatred, and revenge. “Listen to the Englishman, then send him on his way, thinking well of us. Let him report to Andrea Gritti, and put him at ease also. Then …”
“Yes. You are right, as always, my old friend,” Clement replies. “Make him first … no, second audience today. “I want to speak with Donna Malaposso first. She wants a knighthood for her husband, and I am disposed to lend my help.”
“She is a generous woman, Your Holiness,” the chamberlain says. The Pope is only in his early fifties, and still needs the consolation of the flesh. “Shall I allow an hour?”
“That will suffice,” Clement says, “unless she is very grateful indeed.”
Then I shall present the Englishman at eleven. His name is Thomas Wyatt. He was here with the Duke of Bedford, a few years back.”
“Ah, yes. Poor Bedford was captured by the emperor’s men, and held to ransom. They were bad times.” Clement rises, and moves into the centre of the huge room. Immediately, four servants rush forward, and start to dress him for the day. “I do hope Gritti’s friend will not be too tiresome.”
Thomas Wyatt bows low to the lady emerging from the Pope’s throne room. She curtseys back at him, and is about to move on, when she pauses, and smiles at the poet.
“Tomas?” she asks.
“Donna Maria Vutti,” Wyatt says, and takes her hand.
“Donna Malaposso now, you naughty boy,” she says. “What ever happened to you?”
“I was taken captive, on my way to you,” Wyatt lies, smoothly. “I fled the city, and this is the first time I could return, safely, my dearest Maria.”
“Why are you here, now?”
“To speak with the Pope.”
“You will find him in a good mood,” the courtesan says. “I have just this moment relieved his anxieties.”
“He is a Medici, and must have many.”
“You are as sharp tongued as ever,” she replies. “Come, I will take you in, and ask him to look upon you with favour.” Before he can answer, Maria sweeps back into the Papal throne room. “My dearest Giulio, look who is here to see you. A dear old friend of mine, from England.”
Clement is embarrassed at her using his given name, but can forgive her anything. Maria Malaposso, despite being almost forty, is still the most desirable woman in Rome. He beckons them both forward, and dismisses his chamberlain.
“You must forgive me keeping you waiting, Signor Wyatt,” he says, holding out his ring hand. Tom Wyatt steps forward, and kisses the Papal ring. “I was just … listening to this lady’s confession.”
“Adding to my sins, more like,” Maria announces. “Drop the act, Giulio, Tomas is an even greater goat than you. Invite us to lunch, and I will gather a few gnocca; or would you prefer a troia or two, Your Holiness?”
Thomas Wyatt smiles at the Popes discomfort. Maria is an expensive woman, and gnocca and troia are varying degrees of whore. One is paid with silver, and the other with a couple of copper coins.
“You wicked little slut,” Clement says, shrugging. “Very well, whistle up a few more girls, and let us celebrate, Master Wyatt.”
“Celebrate what, Your Holiness?”
“What ever it is you are here to tell me,” he replies. “Maria vouches for you, and says you are a great … what is the word in English? No matter. We will see, young man.”
The meal, which started at noon is showing no signs of coming to a close, despite it being late afternoon. Maria, true to her word, returns with three more women, and strews them about the dining room. Wine is plentiful, and of the most excellent quality, and the Pope drinks vast amounts, with no apparent effect. Between courses, he fondles one or another of the girls, and invites Wyatt to do the same.
“Is he always like this?” Wyatt whispers in Maria’s ear, when she comes, and sits on his knee, staking her claim for the evening, at least.
“Since they sacked Rome,” she replies. “He is frightened of losing everything, so spends his days playing at politics, and proving his manhood with one of the courtesans, or even a common street whore.”
“And you?”
“I keep him at arms length,” Maria tells him. “Until I want a favour. It keeps him keen. You aren’t going to hurt him, are you?”
“Not I,” Tom Wyatt says. “Though he might be better off leaving the Venetians alone. Why does he covet Padua?”
“Baglioni bullies him into action,” Maria explains. “He promises a united Italy, under the Pope. The man is a scoundrel.”
“So I hear.” Wyatt sees that Clement is watching, so kisses the woman on his knee, and strokes her thigh. “Will he not be jealous?”
“I doubt it,” says Maria. “He will touch, and he will fondle, but the girls will go home unmolested. Poor Giulio boasts much, and does little. He is like a castrato, since Rome fell to the emperor. We play up to him, and tell wild stories of how he satisfies us, two and three at a time. He pays well for it.”
“Dear God,” Wyatt says. “Are you still at the same house?”
“No, I am married now, and live near the Palatine, in a new villa. Anyone can tell you how to find me.”
“What of your husband?”
“Away, with Baglioni’s army.”
“Then I shall pay my respects, tonight.”
“All night, I trust?” Maria says.
“You shall have my undivided attention,” Wyatt promises. “Now, can you remove your friends, and let me talk with Clement?”
“Call him Giulio. He prefers it, when he’s been drinking.”
The room clears, and Tom Wyatt moves to sit alongside the Pope. He takes a fold of parchment from his doublet, and places it in front of His Holiness.
“My letters of introduction, Giulio,” he says.
“Where are the girls?” Giulio asks.
“You have worn them out, sir,” Wyatt tells him. “Now, we can talk. I have two proposals for you. My master says that you must choose which ever suits you best.”
“Your master?”
“Master Thomas Cromwell, the King of England’s most favoured Privy Councillor, sir.”
“Ah, I know of Cromwell. He is Wolsey’s man.”
“Cardinal Wolsey is dead, Giulio,” Wyatt reminds him.
“Yes, of course. Was he poisoned?”
“No, he died in bed, of … a broken heart.”
“A fine man, who might have succeeded me, one day,” the Pope says. “Still, I am sure Cromwell is as capable. What does he offer me?”
“He is charged, by Francois, King of France, to find a husband, for his illegitimate daughter, Marie. It is for Master Cromwell to choose, and he is minded of your own son, born out of wedlock, and wonders if a match might be made.”
“He has the power?”
“He promises Francois, a hundred thousand pounds, and the girl is bought,” Tom Wyatt explains. “Say the word, and it is a love match. They shall be betrothed at once, and married, the moment you conclude your part of the bargain.”
“Ha! A bargain. here comes the devil, to spit in our face. You wish me to betray the emperor?”
“Not at all. You are looking into the matter of the king’s annulment and…”
“Never!” The part of Giulio Medici that remains Pope Clement knows he must refuse even this magnificent bribe. His greatest wish in life is to see his son married into one of the great royal families. “I shall never allow Henry to buy an annulment.”
“We understand this,” Tom Wyatt continues, smoothly, “and wish nothing more than for you to come to a swift decision… even if it is not in Henry’s favour.”
“What, you want me to refuse?” The Medici is wr
ong footed for a moment.
“That is your intention, is it not?” Wyatt asks. “You want this marriage, and we want a decision. All you have to do, is announce that you find against King Henry, and your son will marry a French princess.”
“I could always delay my decision, until your king is too old to sire other children. Then Emperor Charles will favour me.” The Pope sees it all, and will not have any of the plan. “You seek a path that will lead Henry away from Rome.”
“That is not your concern, sir,” Wyatt says. “Although, there is a second offer, that you might find most interesting. Master Cromwell calls it ‘the French option’, and is considering it, even as we speak.”
“What is this second choice?” Giulio Medici is suspicious, and is quite right to be so. The second offer is not going to be to his taste, at all.
“Master Cromwell will have Queen Katherine strangled, and give it out that it was because of your stubbornness to negotiate. The emperor’s favourite aunt will be dead, at your instigation. How friendly will Charles be then, my friend?”
“You would not do such a thing,” Clement says. “It is monstrous.”
“No, I would not,” Tom Wyatt tells him, “but there is no shortage of willing helpers. Cromwell’s nephew, Richard, is a beast of a man, and will snap her neck in a trice.”
“On your honour, Master Wyatt … Cromwell would do such a thing?”
“If he does not hear by twelfth night, Queen Katherine, aunt of the emperor, will die,” Wyatt tells him. “It is a drastic solution, but one forced on us, by you, Your Holiness.”
“I must think. I don’t know what to do, or …”
“Take the first option, sir.” Tom Wyatt places a comforting hand on Giulio Medici’s shoulder. “Everyone will be happy. Your son, the French princess, you, and my own king. Even the Emperor Charles will be relieved that it is done with.”
“But the damage…” Clement is a husk of a man, and can hardly think straight anymore. The Medici side of him is all that keeps him going.
“What sort of damage can there be?” Thomas Wyatt tells his greatest lie. “Afterwards, if the king strays too far from the church, you can threaten to excommunicate him. He is a pious man, and will not let that happen. Henry will come to Rome, and kiss your ring, rather than break with Mother Church. Then he will gladly burn a few heretics, and celebrate the birth of many strong sons.”
“You are right, my friend,” the Pope says. “I see that clearly now. Then the deal is struck.”
“Almost,” Tom Wyatt says. He is the consummate diplomat, and always has a parting shot. “You must withdraw your support of Malatesta Baglioni, at once.”
“He will be furious with me,” the Pope says, almost whining. “I am frightened of what he will do.”
“Nothing, sir. There is an army of thirty thousand, moving out of Venice, even now. Baglioni is a dead man. Cut him loose, and save your face.”
“Very well, but for God’s sake, do not let him live, or we are all doomed!”
“Can one man inspire so much fear?” Wyatt asks. “He will never dare harm the Pope.”
“He is not a man,” Clement says, almost whispering. “It is said that he has forged a deal with the devil. He drinks the blood of virgins, and does Satan’s bidding. In return, he is more than a mortal man. It is said that no blade can pierce him. How can he die?”
“Pull yourself together, Your Holiness,” Tom Wyatt tells him. “I am English, so I do not believe in the devil. I have a man with me who will destroy Baglioni. Now, call your chamberlain, so that we can draw up the documents. Henry must be refused, forthwith!”
“Good day to you, Master Cromwell,” Tom Audley says, stamping the snow from his boots at the door to Austin Friars. “The weather has turned, I see.”
“A mere flurry, Tom,” A genial sounding Cromwell replies, ushering him inside. “I have a warm fire going. Come and sit a while, and tell me how Parliament went this morning.”
Tom Audley, one of the king’s favoured councillors, and a sitting Member of Parliament throws off his fur lined cloak, and accepts a cup of hot, spiced wine.
“There was some talk of discussing the king’s business by several members from Northamptonshire, and the West Country, but it was shouted down by the Duke of Suffolk’s men. I guess he arranged it at your instigation?”
Cromwell raises an eyebrow, but does not answer.
“What then?”
“It will go as you wish, Master Cromwell.” Audley cannot help but admire how the man manages to arrange matters, with a word, here and there. “The third session was a shambles, and the new member for Putney suggested we adjourn. On a show of hands, we agreed to postpone the session, until the middle of January, 1532.”
“Excellent, Tom,” Cromwell says. “This will give us time to frame the new laws better, and work things to our advantage.”
“Providing you get the answer you want from Rome,” Tom Audley says. “What if Wyatt fails?”
“Then we find another way,” Cromwell replies, “but come what may, I will force a split with the Bishop of Rome, and make Henry the true head of the English church.”
“Henry is scared of excommunication.”
“True, but he loves money.” Cromwell takes Audley to his desk, and shows him a ledger. “See here. This is a list of revenues, going to the monastic institutions, the churches, and the abbeys and priories of England and Wales. So far, it totals almost a million pounds, most of which then goes to Rome.”
“God in Heaven!” Audley whistles under his breath. “Are these figures true?”
“You doubt me?”
“Of course not,” Audley says, hurriedly. “It is just that the figures are so massive. Why, the whole country only brings in a million to the royal treasury.”
“This will double it,” Cromwell continues. “The new laws, once ratified, will divert this money to the English crown, who will return a tenth of it to the churches, for their minimal upkeep. Let any object, and it is treason.”
“Making Henry the head of the church, within England is a shrewd move,” Audley confesses. “If the monks wish to go over his head, then it must be to God alone, and not Clement in Rome. I was wondering about the treasure.”
“Treasure?” Cromwell smiles benignly at his favourite Parliamentarian. “What treasure?”
“Well, if Henry is head of the church in England, everything within the church belongs to him,” Audley explains. “From the silver chalices, to the holy relics. All become the property of the ruling monarch, does it not?”
“Audley, you are a clever man,” Cromwell says. Later, if the king feels he is being too harsh, he can point to the stripping away of the golden crosses, and silver goblets, and claim that Audley came up with the idea. In fact, he is already valuing each religious house, and knows that Canterbury alone will bring in almost two hundred thousand pounds of treasure. “That is something which I should have thought of. I will tell the king of your splendid idea, and ask him to let you take the task on.”
“Thank you, Cromwell,” Audley says, feeling rather pleased with himself. “How are things with the family? Is our young Miriam coping without her husband?”
“She is a good wife, and a fine woman of business,” Cromwell tells his colleague. “She will be earning a thousand a year the way she is going!”
“A thousand a year?” Tom Audley is astounded. “I trust she invests it wisely. I can always talk to some of my people in Antwerp.”
“She has her own,” Cromwell says, boasting about her, as if she were his own daughter. “In Antwerp, in Paris, and in Bruges. I hear she is also looking at opening up trade in the north. She is forging close links with the Chester business community. Something to do with cheese.”
“You must be proud,” Audley says. “I pray that her husband is as successful, and we get the answer we want from Rome.”
“Let us drink to it,” Tom Cromwell says, picking up his hot spiced wine. “Here’s to a speedy conclusion
to their business, and a safe return for Tom Wyatt, and his party.”
“Ah, then you have not heard?” Thomas Audley saves the worst news to last.
“What is it?”
“The Lord Chancellor.”
“Oh, poor dear Thomas More,” Cromwell says, shaking his head. “What is he up to now?”
“He is content searching out these pamphleteers,” Audley tells Cromwell. “They think it funny to make up rude ditties about the Pope, or the new Bishop of Winchester. He smashes the printing press, and has them flogged in public. It seems to give him some pleasure. Now and then, one is mad enough to rhyme Harry, or Hal with some dirty word, and the Lord Chancellor can have him burned at the stake, or flayed alive, before beheading the poor swine.”
“What is this to me?” Cromwell asks. “I can help those who hold certain religious views, but not those who traduce the king.”
“One of these fools decided that it would be funny to tell the tale of a certain lady, who has been raised in Paris, before coming to London. It hints that she is very fond of amour, as the French say, and describes in the filthiest detail what she likes doing, with a string of eager lovers.”
“Dear Christ,” Tom Cromwell slumps into a chair. “Tell me the worst.”
“The lady is obviously Anne Boleyn, but the ‘lovers’ are well disguised, all except for one, a poet, who is called Tim Whatnot.”
“Baron Montagu,” Cromwell hisses. “He seeks a crude revenge on me. He cannot make a head on attack, for I have ruined him time and again, so he does this.”
“Worse than that. A copy was sent to Sir Thomas More, anonymously, of course. It did not take him long to deduce who Master Whatnot is, and what is inferred. I hear that he took it to Henry, along with a few other pamphlets. The king, though he always expresses shock at the content, does like to have a read through the ruder ones.”
“Cleverly done,” Cromwell sighs. It is how he would have handled it, letting the king come upon it, as if by accident, and expressing horror at his interpretation. ‘Surely not, sire‘, and ‘I can scarcely believe it’ would be apt phrases to employ. “I can just imagine Henry’s reaction.”