by Derek Wilson
‘These will make interesting reading,’ I said. ‘I wonder why the old man made no mention of them when we met.’
‘Doubtless he wanted to form his own opinion of you before he parted with anything in writing that would connect him with a notorious heretic.’
‘Presumably he has more records like this. He and Cromwell obviously worked together for a long time.’
‘Without doubt. Much of it, of course, will be confidential.’
‘After all these years?’
Francesco stood and stepped across to the buffet standing against the wall. He busied himself pouring wine into two goblets. When he spoke, his back was towards me so that I could not read the expression on his face. ‘Commercial life floats on a raft of secrets. Every plank removed makes it less seaworthy. There are things Alessandro will not reveal, even now, because they could seriously damage the bank – its standing, its reliability, its survival against unscrupulous competition.’
I did not need to see my host’s face to sense his heightened anxiety. By helping me in my quest he had found himself drawn into marshy ground and was only now realizing the difficulty into which his generosity might be leading him. For all his braggadocio, I wondered whether the suspicions of the Inquisition troubled him. Even if he could nonchalantly wave them aside, there must be other members of his family who were deeply embarrassed. I could easily imagine what some of his more senior relatives had been saying to him: ‘You must get rid of this foreigner.’ ‘Be careful what you tell him about our business.’ ‘He must not be allowed to pry into Frescobaldi history.’ ‘He could damage our interests in England.’ ‘We cannot allow ourselves to be drawn into religious arguments.’ I felt very guilty at having placed Francesco in such a difficult position.
Francesco gazed mournfully over the rim of his glass. ‘Signor Bourbon, I deeply regret that things have come to this pass. We have all enjoyed meeting you. But at least you have something to take with you and reflect upon during your journey home.’ He pointed to the letters. ‘All the arrangements for that are now ready. We will leave before dawn on Friday, in two days’ time. We will reach Livorno by nightfall, and there will be a ship waiting to transport you to France on the next tide.’
It was obvious that I should distance myself from Fiesole – and from Florence – as soon as possible. And yet, and yet . . . it was obvious that there was more here about Thomas Cromwell waiting to be discovered. To flee Italy with my self-appointed task only half completed would be shameful. For if I had a responsibility to Francesco, I also had a responsibility to my old friend, Thomas Cromwell. The conviction grew upon me that I had been entrusted with the responsibility of saving his reputation, of clearing away the obloquy his enemies had piled upon it.
My dilemma worsened as I studied my new cache of Cromwell letters. They all dealt with business minutiae and at first reading seemed to yield no information of importance. There were details of imports and exports – principally wine and cloth. There were references to national and international events that might impact on Frescobaldi business interests: ‘This king [obviously Henry VIII] spends more freely than his father, but he is no less interested in gleaning revenue from all possible sources (tenth December fifteen ten)’; ‘On Monday last I rode from here [Antwerp] to Leuven to hear Erasmus lecture. What a great scholar he is. I have his New Testament almost by heart (ninth January fifteen seventeen)’; ‘The king’s forthcoming visit to France will be inordinately expensive, but if it secures peace the cost will be justified. I am in hopes that, through my friends at court, your suit will prosper (fifth March fifteen twenty)’.
What was more intriguing was the change in relationship between the writer and the addressee over the years. The earlier letters began in a tone of deference: ‘Good Master della Fava, I heartily recommend me unto you and thank you for your goodwill towards me, which I pray God give me grace to deserve.’ Such humble invocation of the deity had disappeared by the end of the decade, as had self-effacing expressions of respect. By 1520, Cromwell was wasting no ink on superfluous courtesies: ‘To my good friend, Alessandro della Fava, Greetings.’ The earlier correspondence was largely given over to relaying information and requesting instructions. By 1517, the writer was proposing policy that he clearly expected to be endorsed by the Italian.
By the time I extinguished my candle and climbed into bed that night my mind was aflame with curiosity. The correspondence contained so many hints and innuendos, so many questions clamouring for answers. The only way I could obtain those answers was by having another meeting with della Fava, but I did not know his address and it was obvious that Francesco was very unlikely to tell me. Indeed, my asking the question would alarm him greatly.
The dark hours were long and sleep did not shorten them. At dawn I dressed and took a walk around the garden to cool my throbbing head. Sentinel pines inscribed long shadows on the lawn. Box hedges contained pools and flower beds with geometrical discipline. Stone paths dictated the visitor’s itinerary through the mini-landscape of imposed precision. I wished that my mind was as well ordered.
The gardeners were already at work and I fell into conversation with one of them, as he knelt, trowel in hand, carefully lifting out plants and placing them in a box beside him. I asked him what he was doing.
‘Taking these geraniums into the greenhouse for the winter, Signore.’
‘Greenhouse?’ I asked. ‘What is that?’
‘A little house with walls of glass, Signore. It keeps the more tender plants warm during the colder months.’
‘That sounds like a good idea.’
‘Yes, Signore. Signor della Fava recommended it a few years ago. He is very proud of his garden. He grows many plants brought from other lands.’
‘Really? Do you mean Alessandro della Fava, an elderly gentleman?’
‘Yes, Signore.’ He stood up. ‘Have you met him – a small man with a big . . .’ He gestured with his hands, struggling to find the right word.
‘Personality,’ I suggested.
He nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, yes, Signore. He has very definite ideas, but he knows his plants.’
‘How interesting. I should love to see his garden. Is it far?’
‘No, Signore. His villa is just beyond Ellera, the other side of the valley – half a morning’s easy walk.’
As I left the labourer to his work and hurried back to the house, I felt as though Mercury’s wings were fixed to my heels. My anxieties, my prayers, were answered! I could visit della Fava and be back in time for dinner. There was no need for Francesco, who had already left home, to know of my visit. I decided not to call for my horse, as it would have been noticed and perhaps commented upon. I simply set off on foot in the direction of Ellera.
I strode purposefully along the roads and tracks that took me down to a small river and up the other side through olive groves, vineyards and open meadowland that afforded occasional visions of the city. As I walked, almost jauntily, enjoying the fresh morning air, I exercised my mind with the questions I would ask della Fava, if he granted me an audience. Various opening gambits suggested themselves – innocent enquiries that might lure him into revealing some of those old ‘secrets’ about which, according to Francesco, the old man had always been tight-lipped. The sun was barely free of the treetops by the time my sprightly steps brought me to Ellera, perched beside the Arno.
One could scarcely call it a village. The dusty road dawdled through a cluster of small houses and sidestepped the church before continuing its nonchalant way uphill. The only living creature in sight was a scraggy dog that barked twice on my approach before deciding that I was not worthy of his attention and ambling away into the narrow gap between two buildings. The obvious place to go for information about della Fava’s villa and find someone to ferry me across the river was the church.
As I pushed open the door, a chicken rus
hed out, brushing against my boots in its hurry to be free. The interior of the building might well have been taken for a large barn. No colourful (and expensive) frescoes enlivened the stone walls. The windows were filled with plain, dusty glass. It was difficult to recognize that this place was dedicated to the same purpose as those architectural jewels that graced the city only a few kilometres away. The candles in their brass holders that stood upon the simple altar were unlit. The church seemed empty and deserted, but as I turned back to the door a voice spoke from the shadows on my right.
‘Signore, have you come for confession?’ The man who stepped forward was a gangling fellow in a priest’s dark robe.
‘Not today,’ I replied. ‘I seek help on a terrestrial journey, not a heavenly one.’
‘A pity.’ The man scrutinized me wordlessly for several moments. ‘You are a stranger here.’
‘Yes. I come from Navarre.’
The man nodded, but showed no emotion or indeed even interest.
It was I who broke the silence. ‘I am paying a surprise visit to an old friend, Signor della Fava, but I am not sure how to find his villa. Perhaps you can—’
‘Della Fava? Yes, I know him. He lives on the hill beyond the river. You will be needing the ferry.’
‘Yes. Can you tell me where to find the boatman?’
‘I will fetch him for you, Signore. It may take a little time to find him. If you would like to rest here,’ he motioned me to a row of stools and chairs facing the altar, ‘I will return as quickly as I can.’
I thanked him and seated myself on a roughly hewn chair. I heard the door behind me open and close, and resigned myself to what I hoped would not be a long and tiresome delay.
After a few moments of silence I heard, or thought I heard, a slight sound. More poultry? Or perhaps a rat – never far away wherever there are farm animals. I half turned to look for the source of the noise.
Then something struck the back of my head and everything went black.
10
Florence
To know yourself to be awake yet able to see nothing is a frightening experience. Even now I tremble to recall it. As consciousness returned to my throbbing head I was aware first that I was lying down, then that I was moving. A jolting, rocking sensation accompanied by the creaking of timbers and the clopping of horses’ hooves indicated that I was in some kind of wagon. My next discovery was that my hands were tied. At this point I must have called out or uttered an involuntary groan, for there was an immediate response.
‘Silence, Lutheran pig!’
Half dazed as I was, I realized that I was in no position to protest at my treatment or argue with my abductors, whoever they were. I concentrated instead on using my ears in the hope of gaining clues about my predicament. There were, I concluded, two other occupants of the wagon. They were engaged in animated conversation but, though I listened intently, I could glean nothing from it. They spoke rapidly in the Florentine dialect and their words were largely drowned by the rattling of the wheels over uneven ground.
After a while the sound reaching my ears changed. Voices, wheeled traffic, horses, merchants calling out their wares. We had obviously entered the city. Minutes later the wagon stopped and I was roughly helped down. My feet stumbled on cobbles, but I was allowed no respite to gain my balance. Half pushed, half pulled, I was propelled into a building and heard the door close behind me. I was guided along what must have been a high-ceilinged corridor, for the footsteps of myself and my captors echoed around the space. Eventually, we stopped. Bolts were drawn back. A heavy door creaked open.
One of my captors pushed me with a hand in the small of my back. I stumbled forward. I heard the door being slammed and bolted behind me. With my hands still firmly trussed I struggled to dislodge the blindfold tied tightly round my head.
‘Let me help you,’ a voice said.
I felt strong fingers working at the cords round my wrists. As soon as my hands were free I tore the cloth from my head and for several moments blinked, adjusting my eyes to the sudden light.
I was in a tiny room – more accurately, a cell. The bare stone walls were relieved only by a small, high window and a wooden crucifix. A narrow truckle bed and a night-soil bucket comprised the only furnishings. Memories flooded back – memories I thought I had long since buried. My fellow prisoner was a young man, who lounged against the wall opposite and looked me up and down inquisitively, as I did him. From his dress I supposed him to be a student or an apprentice.
I slumped wearily on to the bed. ‘Where on earth—’
‘Where in hell, more like,’ my companion observed sourly. ‘We are in the convent of Santa Maria Novella, guests of the Black Friars.’
‘Dominicans! I suppose I should have guessed.’
‘Hellhounds!’ He spat, with remarkable accuracy, into the open pail.
‘How have you offended them?’ I asked.
‘I refused to let Prior Girolamo bugger me.’
The bald statement rendered me speechless. What reply could I possibly make to it?
The young man came to sit beside me on the creaking bed. ‘Since we are doomed to be holed up here for several days, we must introduce ourselves. I am Antonio Speronti of Parma, painter, or rather student, in the studio of Agnolo Tori. Most folk call him Bronzino. Either way, he is the finest in Florence. Since Florence has the finest artists in the world that makes him—’
‘The only possible model for a young man aspiring to excellence,’ I suggested.
‘Ah, I see you understand. Are you an artist also?’
‘In words, perhaps. I write poetry, essays, epistles. My name is Nicholas Bourbon, currently of Navarre, where I have the honour to serve Queen Marguerite. So, how comes it that two humble craftsmen find themselves prisoners of the Black Friars?’
‘Simple,’ Antonio scoffed. ‘We are dedicated to truth. They are liars, cheats and dissemblers.’
I turned my head to face him and saw in his eyes the gleam of youthful conviction, perhaps fanaticism. ‘If you have the courage to hold to that belief you may not live to be the great artist you aspire to be,’ I suggested.
‘Surely, art is not doing; it is living. If we betray our belief to avoid suffering we are not artists. Other men when they reach middle age may choose comfort and compromise. Not me.’
‘May God keep you constant in that,’ I said. There was something warming about this young painter’s enthusiasm, even in that dank, stone cage. ‘You remind me of someone else; a man to whom I owe everything. He was a champion of truth, probably much like you, thirty years ago.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He had his head cut off.’
‘A failure, then.’
‘On the contrary. He achieved more than any other man in his country. But reminiscences solve no problems. I presume these men are threatening to send us to Rome.’
‘Yes.’
‘To be tried as heretics.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you a heretic?’
‘Only if refusing to bow to the prior’s lust be heresy.’
‘How came that about?’
‘I was here at Santa Maria, making drawings of Andrea di Bonaiuto’s massive frescoes in the chapter house. They cover the entire interior. No space is spared their pious mediocrity. That might not be so bad if their subject was the glory of God, but the only praises they sing are of the Dominican order.’
‘That bad?’
‘Aye, vulgar self-glorification by these black beetles. My master sent me here to understand that when art is bad ’tis really bad. While I was working, the prior came in. He asked what I thought of the painting.’
‘My guess is that you did not give him a diplomatic answer.’
‘I told him I hated the subject matter and the execution. He said my words had the whiff of heresy
and that he ought to report them to Rome. All the time he was stroking my hair and running his hands over my body. Then he said there was a way I could persuade him to forget our conversation. He had his hand between my legs. That was when I hit him.’
‘So he had you shut up in here?’
‘Not straight away. The incident was three days ago and I assumed the unholy sodomite had calmed down, but yesterday morning he sent three of his black-robed rakehells to my lodging. They did not take me easily. One of them wears a black eye today, and another a cut lip.’
For some moments I reflected on what I had heard.
‘This all sounds like the reaction of a desperate man,’ I suggested. ‘Has he arrested anyone else?’
‘Not that I have heard.’
‘Does anyone know what has happened to you – friends, colleagues?’
‘I told Signor Bronzino about my experience in the chapter house. He was furious. He will certainly make enquiries about my disappearance. He enjoys the favour of Cosimo de’ Medici, our new ruler, and Cosimo is no lover of the Dominicans.’
‘I hear he turned them out of their convent at San Marco.’
‘Aye, and it is said that he has his own plans for the future of Santa Maria . . . But that is all politics.’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Do you have influential people who might come to your aid?’
I thought of Francesco Frescobaldi and realized now, to my shame, that my discourteous disappearance had been an appalling betrayal of his friendship and support. ‘I am a stranger here. There is no one likely to rescue me. Not this time.’
‘Have you been in this sort of trouble before?’
‘Aye. Seven years ago.’
‘What happened?’
‘I had written verses that offended some people in Paris – people like your black hellhounds. They locked me up in a place like this.’
‘How did you escape?’
‘Friends. One especially.’
The young man gazed at me with searching, sympathetic eyes. ‘Was that the one who lost his head?’