by Derek Wilson
We clustered briefly against the wall of the convent. My liberators were a group of a dozen or so men. Antonio was among them, talking in urgent whispers with two of the conspirators. I guessed that these were his young, artistic friends. Bold, certainly. But foolhardy? What now? I wondered. Had these headstrong adventurers thought ahead? It was one thing to escape confinement; another to put ourselves beyond the claws of the domini canes. They would need to find somewhere for us to hide until our deliverers could get us out of the city.
I had no time for speculation. Almost immediately we were on the move again. We walked in single file along one side of the piazza, then plunged into a narrow side street. The overhanging balconies blocked most of what moonlight there was. We twisted and turned through the urban labyrinth at a fast pace. Our saviours clearly knew the city well – or so I profoundly hoped. The thought of losing ourselves and scuttling to and fro until daybreak was frightening. I was no longer held by the Dominicans, but I was now in the hands of other people I did not know. I swallowed panic, prayed fervently and followed very closely the man in front of me.
After several minutes we emerged into a wide thoroughfare. Ahead of us loomed the black bulk of a squat tower. As we approached, I recognized it. I stepped closer to the man in front of me and grabbed him by the arm. ‘That’s the Prato Gate,’ I whispered. ‘It will be locked. The guards—’
‘Do not worry, Signore. All is well. You will see.’ He moved close to the wall of the house beside us and drew me up beside him. ‘We will wait here.’
While most of us stood by the wall, two men walked to the gate and disappeared within.
‘What is happening?’ I demanded.
My companion merely held a finger to his lips. ‘We must listen for the signal.’
Moments later there came a low whistle from the gate.
We all moved forward across the open space alongside the city wall. When we reached the portal we filed into the gatehouse. Three soldiers sat around a brazier. They surveyed us with mild interest as we crossed to a door on the far side and walked through. We carried on walking – along the Strada Maestra, the main road leading away from Florence.
The company strode purposefully along the road through the suburban straggle of artisans’ houses and smallholdings. There was no pause in our progress; no opportunity to ask questions. Nor, I think, would anyone have been disposed to answer questions even had I asked them.
Our march took us beyond clustered habitation, through hedged fields and eventually into flat meadowland. At a point where a wayside cross stood, a track departed from the highway leading to the left. This we followed.
‘Best be careful where you tread,’ someone said. ‘This land is poorly drained.’
It was a timely warning. Puddles, some deep, encroached from the surrounding marsh and slowed our advance. However, before we had gone far, the track came to an abrupt end. We had reached the river.
I stared about over empty land and empty water. ‘Where are we?’ I demanded of those around me. ‘What is happening?’
‘Down there!’ Someone pointed along the bank.
There was now just enough light to be able to make out details in our surroundings. What had appeared to be nothing but a grassy bank bordering the sluggish Arno was, I now realized, a short wooden staithe, and moored to it was a wherry.
One of our rescuers stepped into the boat and held out a hand to help me down and into the seat at the stern of the boat. On the bank above, everyone was gathered round Antonio. He exchanged embraces with his friends, then came to sit beside me. Two others followed into the boat and took up the oars.
‘God speed you both!’ someone called out.
Hands pushed our craft away from the bank. As we moved out into midstream and were caught by the current, I turned. First light was seeping into the landscape and the small group on the shore waved energetically before turning round to set off on their return journey.
‘You have brave friends, Antonio,’ I said.
‘Aye. Brave and loyal.’ He half choked over the words.
We both wept.
As we moved downstream I plied Antonio and his colleagues with questions, but they could not provide all the answers.
‘Everything was arranged by Signor Bronzino in a hurry,’ the taller of the two rowers, named Paglio, explained. ‘He called us all together, told us Antonio was in danger from the friars and asked for volunteers to break into the convent and get him out. Of course, we all volunteered.’
‘But how did you get in unnoticed? And why were we not stopped at the city gate? What will happen when the guards identify some of you? You now risk finding yourselves in the very cells you freed us from.’
‘Signor Bronzino gave his word that he would protect us, just as he was protecting Antonio.’
‘Then how fortunate I am to have been in the same cell. You cannot have known that you would have two prisoners to set free.’
‘We did know, Signor Bourbon. The master told us we would have an older man to rescue as well.’
‘But how could he—’
‘Hey, Signore, it is useless to ask us. We only know what we were told.’
‘Which was little enough,’ Paglio’s companion added. ‘Ever since he heard of Antonio’s plight Signor Bronzino has been away from the studio, going to and fro, calling on patrons, friends, members of the Signoria. He knows very influential people. Then yesterday, as Paglio says, he told us where to meet and what we had to do. No explanations. It was as though he was laying out the rules of composition: decide your view plane; fix your focal point; make sure your blocks of colour are complementary; take care of the details and your entire conception will be transferred to the canvas or the wall.’
‘Then,’ I responded, ‘shall I be forever indebted to his brilliant tactical planning and all the brave members of his atelier for putting it into effect.’
‘That is true for me also,’ Antonio said. ‘But where are you taking us now? The beetles will be searching for us soon.’
Paglio explained. ‘Pietro and I are to take you as far as Empoli, about twenty kilometres downstream, and deliver you to some people who will attend to the next part of your journey. And the master also instructed me to give you this.’ He drew a letter from his purse.
Antonio broke the seal and unfolded the letter, then held it up before his face in order to read it by the light of the dawn sun. Its contents obviously affected him. He stuffed the paper into his doublet and roughly wiped tears from his cheeks.
‘Bad news?’ I enquired quietly.
‘No . . . Yes . . . I know not. He releases me from my indenture and says I am one of his best ever pupils. He is sorry to see me go, but he advises me to stay away from Florence and even Italy for a while.’ He took the letter out again and haltingly read from it aloud. ‘“My Dear Antonio, your talent will not fail you. Settle in some city where there are men of standing and taste . . . I know you will not want for clients . . . At Empoli someone will give you money. It will help you become established . . . Take it with my thanks for all.”’ He covered his face with his hands and his frame shook with sobs.
After the strain of the last few hours I, too, was close to tears again.
Under any other circumstances the journey down the winding Arno would have been a real pleasure. The air was fresh and soon warmed by the climbing sun. The ever-changing vista of ploughed fields, hamlets, vineyards and woods pleased the eyes. The rhythm of the oars charmed the ear. What drained the landscape of its delight was the knowledge that I was a fugitive; the fear that at any moment I might hear the clatter of hooves along the bank, and the shouts of angry pursuers. However, we arrived at Empoli around mid-morning without any such alarms and, having tied the boat to the small quay on the south bank, we wandered into the centre of town.
Our instructions were to rendezvous with men who
would be waiting for us at the inn beside the castle. We made our way there thankfully, eager to soothe our parched throats with cool ale. The hostelry was not busy and we took possession of a table close to the door. Scarcely had we sat down when two men approached. One of them smiled down at me.
‘Well, Signor Bourbon, who would have guessed we would meet again under such circumstances as this?’
11
Southampton
The speaker was Luigi Calloni, whom I had met at Francesco’s villa. He and his companion seated themselves and introductions were made. Calloni explained that the other man, Emilio Baroncini, was his assistant in the Frescobaldi bank.
Calloni smiled across the table at Antonio. ‘So this is the young man who gave the prior of St Mary’s a bloody nose. I wish I had been there to see it.’
Antonio shook his head. ‘It was a foolish gesture and it has made much trouble for many people. I see that now.’
‘Do not apologize,’ Baroncini said. ‘It has given all Florence something to laugh about – a welcome potion in these dismal times.’
‘Yes,’ Calloni agreed. ‘We have all enjoyed Prior Girolamo’s embarrassment. Now tell me, has all gone smoothly? No unforeseen problems?’
‘It has all been like a military campaign,’ I said. ‘I must confess I have seldom been more frightened in my life. I felt sure the alarm would be raised; that the whole convent would be on our heels and the watch alerted. I still do not understand why we were not stayed at the city gate.’
Calloni and his assistant exchanged glances and laughed.
At that moment a serving girl came to our table and Calloni ordered a flagon of ale. Then he explained. ‘My friends, you must forgive our mirth. The truth is you were never in any danger at all.’
My companions and I all protested.
‘You were not there, Signore,’ Antonio said. ‘You do not know. If we had not moved silently and swiftly—’
‘’Twould have made no difference.’ Calloni leaned forward across the table and spoke in an undertone. ‘’Twas all a game, a performance, a dumbshow.’ He glanced around the puzzled faces of his hearers. ‘Look, my friends, what you must never forget is that politics is everything. Now, who rules Florence?’
‘Cosimo de’ Medici,’ someone muttered.
‘Yes, but who would like to rule? Who claims to wield real power bestowed by Almighty God?’
‘You mean the Pope,’ I suggested.
‘Indeed, but who in very truth is more powerful than even Cosimo or Pope Paul, because at any time he can back his authority with military might? Well, I will stop playing the schoolmaster. We all know I am talking about Charles of Habsburg, ruler of Spain and the Empire. The Romans have not forgotten the invasion of their city by imperial troops a dozen years ago.’
Antonio could not contain himself. ‘What has all this to do with our escape from the convent?’
‘Everything.’ Calloni sat back and spread his arms wide. ‘Whenever there is an issue in Florence that affects power and authority, all these conflicting interests come into play. Fra Girolamo wants to demonstrate his spiritual influence by arresting our friends here for supposed heresy. Normally, such a move would have papal blessing, but the zealous prior has plunged into deeper water than he realizes. Cosimo is still in the first flush of love for his new bride – his Spanish bride. The portrait of the beautiful Eleanora has just been painted by none other than Signor Bronzino. The painter hastens to his patron to complain of the outrageous behaviour of the prior of Santa Maria Novella. Now, this might not be enough to cause the great Medici to intervene, but Eleanora shares her husband’s detestation of the Dominicans, and, as it happens, Eleanora’s uncle, Cardinal Toledo, is a power broker in the papal court. In fact, he is the Emperor’s eyes and ears in Rome. So, instead of winning warm papal support for his campaign against heretics, the prior is ordered to drop the case against Antonio. But this will seriously undermine his reputation in Florence. What is to be done? I suspect it was Signor Bronzino who proposed the solution. The heretics cannot be released, but what if they were to escape – and not only escape, but quit the country? That would be an embarrassment, but it would not cast doubt on Fra Girolamo’s determination to fight heresy.’
‘So all our prowling through the city, terrified of being recaptured at any moment—’
‘My dear Signor Bourbon, it had to look convincing.’
I went over in my mind the details of the last few frenzied hours. ‘All this must have cost money,’ I said. ‘Some people had to be admitted to the plot and silence is not bought cheaply.’
‘That is how the Frescobaldi house became involved. Bronzino needed cash quickly. He knew of your connection with the family. We were happy to help.’
I was surprised and shaken by the statement. ‘Surely the bank did not fund this scheme just to save me?’
Calloni drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table. ‘There will be plenty of time to talk more. We have a long ride ahead of us. Come, our horses are saddled and ready in the yard.’
We said goodbye to Paglio and Pietro, who returned to the boat. Antonio and I went through to the rear of the building with our guides. We mounted our horses, walked them through the busy streets and, within minutes, were riding westwards along a road that ran beside the river.
‘Are we permitted to know where we are going?’ I asked, trying to keep a note of sarcasm from my voice.
‘We are heading for the port of Livorno,’ he replied. ‘I travel to England on business and there is also a consignment of wine that must be accompanied to England – the last of the season. My brother-in-law plans to meet us there to see it safely stowed.’
‘Francesco?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am glad of it. I owe him a profound apology. My thoughtlessness has caused him and others an ocean of trouble.’
‘An ocean?’ Calloni laughed. ‘A small lake, perhaps; nothing more. We Florentines are quite accustomed to our quarrels and intrigues. Trickery and connivance are second nature to us. Sometimes our very survival depends on outwitting our enemies.’
‘Do you number the Dominicans among your enemies?’
‘Some.’ He drew his horse to the side of the road to make way for an oncoming wagon. ‘It is seldom so simple. Friend and foe; black and white; orthodox and heretic – do you not think, Nicholas, that putting such labels on people is often an excuse for shallow thinking? Fra Girolamo, for example. You and Antonio have suffered at his hands. I doubt you think kindly of him. I like him not myself. He is a bigot and a hypocrite. Yet I am sure he believes that Catholic truth is under threat. I heard him say as much from the pulpit quite recently. “If Luther had been silenced, by any means, twenty years ago,” he screamed, “we should not have all these noisome preachers of novelties springing up everywhere.”’
‘Do you agree with that?’
‘Agree, disagree – ’tis not to the point. I regard religion much as I regard wine. Here in Tuscany we make several wines – Carmignano, Chianti, Vernaccia. All different, but all wine. Must I never drink wine from one vineyard because the owner of another tells me his is superior?’
‘Do you “drink” from the doctrines of many preachers?’ I asked.
‘I listen. I form my own judgements. If I did not do so, I would be a slave and not a free man. For example, some weeks ago a wandering friar came to Florence. Ochino, I think, was his name. Yes, Bernardino Ochino.’
‘Yes, yes. I heard him,’ Antonio said.
‘What was your opinion of him?’ Calloni asked.
‘He was very stirring; very passionate. Much of what he said made sense.’
‘I agree. Do you know that some men say he is a Lutheran?’ Calloni continued without waiting for a reply. ‘If that be so, perhaps I too am a Lutheran.’
‘Thomas Cromwell’s accu
sers branded him with that same name,’ I said. ‘’Twas why they wanted rid of him.’
‘And was he? A Lutheran, I mean,’ Baroncini asked.
‘’Twas not an allegiance he acknowledged. He dared not. His royal master, King Henry, was violently opposed to the German heresy. What I would say is that, like Luther, he was a man of the Bible. He worked tirelessly to have it translated into English so that people could read it and make up their own minds, which, as you say, is important.’
We came to a ford and allowed the horses to drink before crossing.
As we checked the girths and remounted I gave vent to my frustration. ‘All this talk of Luther is not to the point as far as Cromwell is concerned. Luther made his challenge to the Pope twenty years ago. Cromwell was here in Italy as a young man almost as many years before that. What did he think then? What did he believe? I wish I had been around in those days. I had hoped that I would find here the answers to these questions. Now I must abandon my quest. I can see that it has become a dangerous obsession – and dangerous for others as well as myself.’
We emerged on to the north bank and left the river behind to meander its way towards the sea while we followed a straighter, uphill path through mixed woodland, where fresh-fallen leaves bordered the road.
‘I am truly sorry that you have had such a barren harvest in Florence,’ Calloni said, ‘though in truth I am not sure how much you could have learned. There are not many men in the bank whose memories reach back almost four decades. However, I have been doing some probing on your behalf and gathered some fragments of information that I thought might help you.’
‘It was good of you to take the trouble,’ I said.
‘For the most part they are impressions only, but Cromwell does seem to have been the sort of young man that people notice – and remember.’
‘Think you that he was liked?’