Spalatin took the letter from his servant with a certain weariness. Another letter of complaint from Albrecht about Luther? There had been dozens, ranging from pleading to sputtering outrage at Frederick’s refusal to hand him over.
He reached for his knife to cut the seal. This one, he thought, must be some complaint to Frederick’s not having attended Albrecht’s installation as cardinal. Which had nothing to do with Luther. A simple matter of Frederick’s health.
Spalatin read.
“Christ.”
He rushed to Frederick’s quarters. He gave the letter to the Elector. Frederick read, brows furrowing.
Your odious and contemptible plot has been discovered. Do you truly suppose that this shall divert us from our efforts to carry out the will of the Holy See of Rome and bring your heretical monk Luther to judgment? If so, then you err as well as contravene.
Frederick looked up at Spalatin. “What in God’s name is he talking about?”
“Read on.”
Your agent in this disgraceful and deceitful affair, Relick Master Dismas, is my prisoner. Pray take me at my word that he is undergoing most rigorous examination. Pray also believe that his confession, fully describing the foul details of your blasphemous machinations, will shortly be published throughout the Empire, bringing shame upon Saxony and the House of Wettin.
Signed this day by your brother in Christ, whose Holy Name you mock by your patronage of the heretic Luther, and now by sacrilege most heinous.
ALBERTUS CARINA MAGVN.
Frederick shook his head. “Has he gone utterly mad?”
“I infer,” Spalatin said, “that Master Dismas’s shroud forgery has been discovered. That would explain the business of blasphemy and sacrilege. Why he implicates yourself in the matter is far from clear.”
Frederick stared at the letter. “It’s some trick. To create advantage in the Luther business.”
“Possibly. But its logic is opaque, at least to myself.”
Frederick sighed. “Whatever the case, he’s got Dismas.”
“Yes. I fear so.”
“Didn’t you tell me about some new technique of their employ?”
Spalatin nodded.
“Well?”
“It’s called, I believe, the Marionette. There are . . . two manners of application.”
“Just tell me, Georg.”
“Hooks are driven into the ears, hands, and feet. The victim is suspended, the ropes manipulated. Thus the name. There were those who desired that Bernhardt, the Nuremberg swindler, should be dealt with in this fashion. It is popular with the spectators, as it can last for days.”
A look of contempt came over Frederick. “This letter. When was it sent?”
“Five days ago.”
“Christ.”
“He’s sturdy, Dismas. He was a Reiselaufer, remember.”
“Dangling from hooks is different from soldiering, Georg. What he did was wrong. But I won’t leave him to the mercy of Albrecht’s inquisitors. You’ll have to ride hard. Are you up to that?”
Spalatin nodded.
“Make whatever offer is necessary. Find out why he thinks we’re behind this . . . calamity.”
Spalatin bowed and made to withdraw.
“Georg.”
“Yes, your worship?”
“Get him back. If only so I might wring his rascal neck myself.”
• • •
Spalatin was ushered into the Cardinal’s reception room at the palace in Mainz. He was in such crippling pain from his journey he had to grit his teeth as he limped across the stone floor. He rebuked himself for revealing his discomfort, and forced himself upright when he entered the chamber. Bowing to kiss Albrecht’s outstretched ring sent a hot spike into his spine.
“Em . . . inence.”
“You are unwell, Master Spalatin?”
“Well, Eminence. No longer young.”
“Do we gather that your journey was not leisurely?”
“I am commanded by the Elector to convey his fraternal love. He is most aggrieved and anxious to know the reason for your—if you will permit me—astonishing allegations.”
“If you will permit us, we are gravely disappointed in our once beloved brother.”
“That much was clear from your missive. I am charged by my master with ascertaining why your eminence holds the Elector responsible for whatever offense is alleged.”
Albrecht scoffed. “Master Spalatin. Let us not play at innocence.”
The Cardinal gestured to a monsignor, who took from a box a folded piece of linen. He laid it on a long table and unfolded it, in a rather less than reverential way, like a hurried shopkeeper displaying third-best goods.
Res ipsa, Spalatin thought. The thing itself. He made a sign of the cross.
“No, no, no,” Albrecht said. “We both know there is no need for that.”
Spalatin’s gaze fell on the shroud. It was quite marvelous. He felt Albrecht’s eyes boring into the back of his skull like corkscrews.
“It’s magnificent,” Spalatin said. “I congratulate your eminence.”
“How gratified we are that you approve. Tell us, do you think the right hand of Our Lord especially magnificent.”
Spalatin looked. He didn’t see it at first. Then there it was—a ruby ring in the mouth of . . . Good God, Cranach’s signature? What on earth . . . ?
He looked up at Albrecht.
“I confess I am at a loss, Eminence.”
“You do not recognize the signature of your own court painter, Master Cranach?”
“I do, yes. Even so.”
Albrecht tapped his forefinger on the arm of his throne chair.
“Do not trifle with us, Master Spalatin. And take care, lest the ground beneath your feet open and you find yourself in our dungeon, dangling alongside your fellow conspirator.”
Spalatin tried to assemble the pieces. Was Cranach the author of the shroud? It was, sure, Cranach’s signature. But why would Cranach . . . ? More to the point, why would Albrecht purchase a shroud so obviously signed?
“Your eminence must believe me when I say that this is all mystery. As indeed it would be to the Elector, were he here.”
“So. You simply deny everything. Shame, Master Spalatin. You, esteemed for your scholarship and intellect. Is that all you have to offer us? A shrug? Perhaps you should join your friend, below.”
Threats?
“Might your eminence answer one question before making more insults?”
“Go on.”
“I acknowledge it to be Cranach’s signature. Or a clever imitation. Why did your eminence purchase this object in the first place?”
“The signature did not reveal itself until later. There was a fire in the sanctuary. Your court painter’s signature was precipitated by the intense heat. Thus was revealed your plot. The forgery was to become evident at some later time. Perhaps when the shroud was on display. Causing us grievous humiliation. So as to blunt our efforts to bring the heretic Luther to justice.” Albrecht leaned back in his chair. “The fire surely was wrought by God, to protect us from your scheme.”
Stark nonsense, Spalatin thought. Raving. Yet there was Cranach’s mark. He wondered: had Albrecht had put Cranach’s signature there, so he could level this accusation and put Frederick on the defensive to undermine his protection of Luther? Such scurrility was not beyond Albrecht. But the impasse had been reached.
“I shall return to Wittenberg and make my report to the Elector.”
“What,” Albrecht said silkily. “Leave us, so soon? Stay. Be our guest. We have ample room. Master Dismas will be glad of company.”
“Does your eminence threaten?”
“No, Master Spalatin. I offer hospitality.”
Spalatin drew from inside his cloak a paper, folded quarto. He handed it to Albrecht.
“The Elector had desired that our negotiation be conducted with cordiality and mutual respect. But as you now threaten, I am charged to inform your eminence that one th
ousand of this pamphlet are printed and in readiness for distribution throughout the Empire.”
Albrecht read.
CARDINAL SIN
SHAME OF MAINZ
ALBRECHT
PURCHASES HIS CARDINAL’S HAT
WITH FUGGER DUCATS,
A FALSE RELIC OF ST. PETER
AND NOW, BRIBES
FOR HIS ELECTOR’S VOTE
JESU WEEPS
AS SAINTS CRY OUT FOR JUSTICE
He looked up from it at Spalatin, cheeks flushed.
“This is villainy.”
“I agree, Eminence. I can think of no better word to describe such conduct. Bad enough to deceive the faithful with a boat purporting to be that of the Fisherman. But to be a custodian of the throne of Charlemagne who takes bribes for his vote? Villainy indeed.”
Albrecht’s face empurpled. He rose in fury from his throne. For a moment, Spalatin thought Albrecht might order him taken to the dungeon and strung up with hooks beside Dismas.
Then all defiance went out of him, like air from a cushion. He slumped back onto his throne.
“Very well, Master Spalatin. How shall we proceed?”
15
Is Something Amiss?
Spalatin was back in Wittenberg a week later, his negotiation with Albrecht having afforded a return at a less punishing pace.
A cessation of hostilities was in place. Dismas’s “examination” was suspended, and himself unsuspended from the Petit Marionette. He would remain Albrecht’s “guest” pending resolution of the matter. It was agreed that his wounds would be looked after by Albrecht’s own surgeon. Spalatin put Albrecht on notice that if Dismas died—that he had not already was nearly miraculous—the pamphlet would be immediately distributed. Dismas’s release, however, was far from certain, and Albrecht was far from pacified. He remained convinced Frederick was the architect of the shroud fraud. Spalatin departed Mainz with Albrecht’s vow ringing in his ears: if Frederick released the pamphlet, Dismas would be re-hung from hooks and danced to death. Further, Albrecht would publish his own pamphlet, accusing Frederick of confecting the shroud scheme as a means to frustrate Albrecht’s valiant attempts to bring Luther to justice.
So strained were relations between Brandenburg and Saxony that publication of either pamphlet might precipitate war. Much therefore was at stake.
To mitigate the sting in Albrecht’s pride at having been duped, Spalatin had devised an arrangement: Albrecht would magnanimously “loan” the shroud to Frederick, ostensibly for display in his relic gallery at Wittenberg. The shroud would never be displayed, but would disappear forever, burned to cinders in a freak fire. Frederick would compensate Albrecht for his loss with a donation of five hundred and fifty ducats to the Mainz Almshouse.
The negotiations for Dismas’s release were nearly complete when Albrecht added a final condition: a meeting with Frederick, on neutral ground. Spalatin pressed: To what end? What could such a meeting accomplish? Albrecht said he wanted to look Frederick in the eye to satisfy himself that he was innocent of the scheme. Spalatin and Frederick were suspicious, but Albrecht remained adamant. Dismas would not be released absent such a meeting. So it was arranged, to be held in Würzburg.
Concealing the movement of two electors, one the Primate of Germany, another the ruler of Saxony, was difficult if not impossible, considering the size of their respective retinues. A cover story was put out that this Würzburg Diet was an effort to reach a solution in the Luther affair.
• • •
“You’re certain it was Dürer?” Frederick said.
“I have little doubt. They looked a perfect pair of rascals when I chanced on them that night at the Nuremberg tavern. Drunk as soldiers. Making little castles with their ducats.” He smiled. “The very tableau of venality.”
“And Dürer embedded Cranach’s signature in it? Why?”
Spalatin shrugged. “Artists.”
“How did he do it?”
“It’s child’s play. Milk. The juice of a lemon. An onion. Other techniques involve bodily fluids. Urine or . . .” Spalatin cleared his throat.
“Oh, go on, Georg.”
“Ejaculate.”
Frederick grimaced. “Let’s hope it wasn’t that. On a shroud? God save us.”
“Master Cranach approached me earlier today. Indeed, my ears are still warm from his expostulations.” Spalatin could not help but smile. “He’s in a proper state.”
“He knows?”
“No. But he had a commission from Albrecht to undertake a great altarpiece for the cathedral at Koblenz. Yesterday he received word from Mainz canceling the commission. No explanation given. He wanted my opinion as to whether he should pursue legal action for breach of contract. I advised against.”
Frederick began to laugh. Slowly at first, until his great frame was heaving like a house in an earthquake.
Spalatin, too, laughed. “It does have a mirthful aspect. His umbrage would appear to eliminate him as a conspirator. If he were complicit, I doubt he’d be snorting like a mad bull and threatening to sue.”
Frederick wiped the tears from his cheeks.
“I should like to have an interview with Master Dürer,” he said.
“I, too. Very much.”
Frederick considered. “Nuremberg is a free imperial city. We have no juridical rights there.” He looked at Spalatin. “So we cannot compel him to come to Wittenberg.”
“No.” Spalatin smiled. “But it would be impolite of him to decline an invitation.”
Frederick considered. “I should decline, were I he.”
“Let me concern myself with the particulars,” Spalatin suggested.
• • •
Dürer was in his studio putting the final touches on his portrait of Jacob Fugger when Agnes entered to say that three gentlemen had arrived. Imperial emissaries, they said they were.
Normally, Dürer found interruptions while working intolerable. But one must make allowances for imperial emissaries. Especially when the Emperor Maximilian still owed him the balance for two family portraits. Perhaps these gentlemen had come with his remuneration.
“Don’t dawdle, woman,” he said, wiping his hands with a terebinth-soaked rag. “Show them in. And bring refreshment. The good ale, Agnes.”
Frau Dürerin muttered that she had seen better-dressed imperial emissaries in her day, and huffed off.
Presently the door to the studio opened and the three gentlemen entered. A glance was enough to incline Dürer to agree with Agnes about their attire. The trio was devoid of plumage, silk, or medallions. Into the bargain, they were unshaven, indeed, filthy.
Dürer had vast experience of dignitaries and servants in lordly employ. These chaps looked more the kind one might encounter lurking about a riverfront or city gate. At night.
The fellow who addressed him, with courtesy and deference, looked vaguely familiar, though Dürer could not place him. Portraitists recall faces. Where had he seen him before?
“We are commanded by his imperial highness, the Emperor, to escort you to him. Without delay.”
Dürer wondered hopefully: Could it be a summons to the imperial deathbed?
“Is the Emperor . . . not well?”
“His highness ails. And for this reason is desirous of your presence. Time presses.”
“I’m grieved to hear it,” Dürer said. Something off, here.
“Might I ask, do you bear a written order from his highness?”
“No.”
A rather cavalier answer, Dürer thought. He took a fortifying breath.
“With all respect to his imperial highness, you will allow this is a bit irregular. Numerously have I been summoned to court, and always there was something signed.”
The leader—where had Dürer seen him before?—shrugged.
“Well, your honor, I’m sure that’s the case. Still, here we are, and go we must. Now, why don’t you gather up your things and we’ll be on our way? Yes?”
The door opened. Fr
au Dürerin entered with a tray of ale mugs and sweetmeats whiffing of staleness.
“What’s all this, then?” she said, setting down her tray and looking the trio over with a prunish air. “Payment for past work owed is my hope.”
“Thank you, Agnes,” Dürer said. “You may leave us.”
“I’m only saying—”
“I’m to accompany these gentlemen to court. I am summoned. By the Emperor.”
“Oh? Is the Emperor wanting to pay you himself, in person?”
“Agnes.”
“It’s all well and fine for you, gadding off to court, while I’m left to cope with the creditors. Don’t suppose there’s any point asking if I’m ‘summoned to court’?”
“With regret, Frau Dürerin, it is Master Dürer who is asked for. Urgently.”
“Mm,” Agnes said. “Urgently. With emperors and cardinals and electors and what such, it’s always urgently, isn’t it? Unless it’s about paying what’s owed. Then it’s eventually. Urgent is as urgent does, I say.”
“Agnes.”
“Don’t mind me. I’m only a serving wench here. Scullion. While everyone else in the house is summoned to court. Shall I pack your kit? Will his honor be requiring his sable-lined doublet? Or will the sateen do? Don’t ask me what’s the fashion these days at court. It’s been so long since I was asked.”
Agnes left them, grumbling.
“Fine lady, your missus. Time to go, your worship.”
Dürer now remembered where he had seen him. In Wittenberg. He was one of Spalatin’s men.
“Is your name perchance Theobald?” Dürer asked.
“Theobald. Well, it’s a good enough name that I wouldn’t mind having it. But there’s no time for chin-wagging, your honor. Never mind the packing. You’ll have all the necessities when we arrive. At court.”
“Now hold on,” Dürer said. “Hold on one whisker. Your name’s Theobald or mine’s not Dürer. And your master isn’t the Emperor Maximilian. It’s Georg Spalatin, who serves the Elector Frederick. What’s all this about? What’s going on here?”
“No time for banter. Come along, now.”
Dürer’s face flushed red.
“I’m not going anywhere until you explain the meaning of this—this outrage!”
Theobald said in a tone gentle and firm, “Now then, your honor, we can do this two ways. There’s easy. And there’s not so easy. Easy’s easier all round, for you, ourselves, and the lovely frau. No need to alarm her. No one wants that, I’ll reckon. With all respect, she seems armful enough as is. Wouldn’t care to see her in a pet. No.”
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