by Derek Wilson
‘Well, I spoke to a man who was a member of the same gang. It seems that your Cromwell was one of a band of ruffians who were frequently in trouble. Of course, such tales tend to be exaggerated over the years, but apparently they were not strangers to the city jail. Cromwell was friends with several students, apprentices and artists, some of whom went on to become highly respected councillors, lawyers, painters, sculptors.’
‘He certainly kept many mementos of his youthful companions,’ I said. ‘His London house was full of paintings and small sculptures. And he did not only value them for their beauty. He enjoyed telling tales of Raphael, Michelangelo and other friends with whom he had shared wild escapades.’
Antonio said, ‘I wish I had been there in those exciting times. There were giants then – artists who dared to dream mad dreams and turn them into reality.’
‘I like the story of how Michelangelo fooled the Pope,’ Baroncini said.
Antonio laughed. ‘You mean about the Laocoön?’
‘How does that tale go?’ I asked.
The young artist explained. ‘The Pope was eagerly buying up antique Greek statues for his new buildings at the Vatican, and Michelangelo grumbled about it. “He should be commissioning new works,” he said, “not digging up old ones in the Roman ruins.” That led to an argument. Michelangelo said he was better than the ancient masters. One of his drinking friends said, “Prove it.” Perhaps it was your Thomas Cromwell who wagered that the sculptor could not make good his boast. Anyway, Michelangelo locked himself in his studio for weeks and emerged with a life-sized statue based on one that had been known to exist fifteen hundred years before, showing Laocoön and his sons being bitten to death by snakes. While his copesmates were admiring it, one of them challenged Michelangelo to fool the Pope himself with it. They all fell in with the scheme, bundled the statue on to a wagon and set off for Rome. One night they took it to an old orchard that was being dug up, covered it with earth and waited. The end of the story is that the Pope was delighted with the “find” and bought it from the orchard owner.’
‘So Michelangelo had nothing for his pains?’ I said.
‘He could not gain from it without admitting the deception, but he took quite a lot of money from his friends by winning the wager.’
I laughed. ‘’Tis a good story.’
‘Aye,’ Calloni said, ‘and probably nothing more, but it does say something about the spirit of the times.’
‘From other stories I have heard about the young Cromwell he was the sort of man very likely to have been mixed up in such an audacious venture.’
Calloni shrugged. ‘Well, who knows?’
‘True or false,’ I said, ‘it suggests that Cromwell fitted in well with the young Florentines of his day.’
‘Well,’ Calloni conceded, ‘the recollections of my contacts are of someone who was rather full of his own importance, particularly for one coming from a cultural backwater like England, but that he was generally well liked.’
We had reached a place where the road ran slightly uphill through hedgeless fields.
‘Time presses,’ Calloni said. ‘Let us make the most of this soft ground.’ He steered his mare on to the verge and spurred her into a canter. We sped to the top of the rise and down the far side, coming once more into sight of the winding river. As we slowed our pace I persisted with my questions. Though I had decided to abandon my mission, I could not suppress my curiosity.
‘It has been suggested that in his youth Cromwell was a disciple of Machiavelli.’
Calloni nodded. ‘That is possible. Many thinking men go through such a phase. I did myself – briefly.’
‘You believed that power is its own justification; that morality counts for nothing?’
He paused before giving his answer, then said, ‘My friend, it is difficult for strangers to understand. You have not seen your land riven by internal factions and inter-state wars, overrun by Spanish and French armies and Swiss mercenaries, your cities sacked, your loved ones put to the sword. Machiavelli appealed to people who would welcome any ruler who could deliver peace and security. Above all else, such a saviour would need to be a strong warrior. That is the kind of message that appeals to young men.’
‘Rather simplistic.’
‘Aye. As we grow older we realize that safety from invasion is not enough. A state needs more than security. It needs identity, a sense of purpose. It must be able to stand in front of its neighbours – and before the judgement bar of history – and say, “This is what we believe. It is for this purpose that we exist.” I certainly came to see this. Doubtless Master Cromwell did also.’
If Italy might – after so long a time – see her saviour, with what love he would be received in all those provinces which have suffered from these foreign floods, with what thirst for vengeance, with what resolute fidelity, with what devotion, with what tears. What doors would be closed to him? What peoples would deny him obedience? What envy would oppose him? What Italian would refuse him homage? To everyone this barbarian dominion stinks. Let your illustrious house, therefore, take up this task with that spirit and with that hope with which just enterprises are undertaken.
(Machiavelli – exhortation to the perfect ruler, from The Prince)
‘I am sure of it,’ I replied. ‘He often said that the task of a good councillor was to support the power of his prince but also to guide him in the right use of that power.’
‘Cromwell would have found Florence a good schoolroom thirty or more years ago. He would have seen our city during some of its bloodiest and most chaotic years. The Medici in and out of power. They and their rivals making foreign alliances to prop up their regimes. Bold and audacious statesmen steering the state in a new course through uncharted seas.’
Somewhere at the back of my mind I sensed that connections were being made – connections I could not and perhaps did not wish to comprehend.
It was evening when we reached Livorno and we rode straight to a house near the quay, owned by the Frescobaldis. Francesco welcomed us, but I had no opportunity to talk to him because he and Calloni hurried off to their ship to check the stowing of their barrels and confer with the master. Only when we all sat later to a very welcome supper was I able to make my apology to Francesco.
He waved it aside. ‘I should have warned you more strongly not to venture from the villa. Yet, in truth, I underestimated Fra Girolamo’s obsession to gain the approval of Rome. If this little episode results in his wings being clipped you will have done all of Florence a valuable service. My only regret is that you have had to cut short your visit. I am sure you will be able to return before very long, but for the moment we must get you well away from the fangs of the domini canes. As for our young friend here,’ he smiled at Antonio, ‘this may prove to be the beginning of a very successful career. Italian painters are much in fashion among the English. Every aspiring noble or gentleman wants his portrait made. Signor Bronzino speaks highly of your talent.’ He placed a small bag of coins on the table. ‘This is from him, and the bank has added a little contribution.’ Antonio mumbled his embarrassed thanks. ‘B-but England,’ he stuttered. ‘I know no one there. I speak not the language.’
‘Our friends there will help with introductions. As for the barbarous English tongue, I am sure Signor Bourbon will help you master the basics. He obviously speaks it well, and taking lessons from him will help to pass the time during the voyage ahead of you.’
‘I shall be happy to help,’ I said, ‘but I will be leaving the ship at the first French port we reach.’
There was a brief silence during which Francesco and his brother-in-law exchanged glances. Then Calloni said, ‘There is a slight misunderstanding here and it is my fault. I should have explained. We will not be calling at other ports on our voyage to England. We have to land our wine in Southampton without delay in order to reach the market ahead of our
rivals. The season is already late and we cannot risk running into bad weather. I regret, Signor Bourbon, that this will lengthen your homeward journey, but you will easily find a ship to take you across the Channel from England to one of the French ports.’
The prospect of several more days at sea filled me with dismay. So did the thought of returning to a country from which, a few weeks earlier, I had been only too happy to depart. I was also saddened by the fact that Francesco would not be accompanying us. ‘Nature is my master, Nicholas, and she demands my presence at her court,’ he said.
‘I am sorry to be taking my leave of you again so soon,’ I replied. ‘You are the second man who has rescued me from heresy hunters – very possibly saved my life. And I have repaid—’
He waved me to silence. ‘Let us have no more talk of that, Nicholas. I have gained a friend and one I look to seeing much more of in the future. That is more than sufficient recompense for any minor inconvenience I may have experienced.’
The following morning, standing on the ship’s deck, Francesco and I embraced warmly like lifelong companions, promising to renew our acquaintance at the earliest opportunity. Then my new friend went ashore.
The voyage was not the ordeal I had feared. As had been suggested, I spent three or four hours each morning helping Antonio to grasp the rudiments of the English language. He was an eager student and concentrating on our lessons certainly helped me to gain what the sailors called ‘sea legs’. After two days I became accustomed to the motion of the ship and was able to join the master and my fellow passengers for meals in the main cabin.
The god Boreas held in check his northern blasts until we had made landfall – or so it seemed. For we docked in Southampton on a November afternoon which turned suddenly blustery after we had gone ashore. We hurried the short distance up English Street to where a large hanging sign bearing the image of a dolphin and the words ‘THE DOLPHIN’, for the benefit of passers-by unfamiliar with that sea creature, indicated a large inn set back slightly from the road. This was where the Frescobaldis permanently rented rooms for the conduct of their business in the port and where their factor lived. This was no other than the owner of The Dolphin, Edward Wilmot, who greeted us in person as we stood before the fireplace in the large public room shaking the rain from our cloaks.
‘Signor Calloni, welcome, welcome. It has been too long since your last visit. The stocks of your excellent wine are quite exhausted. Daily I receive pleas from London, Oxford, Exeter – all points of the compass: “When can you supply us with more?” Chambers are prepared for you and your companions. Dinner will be ready in my office as soon as you have refreshed yourselves.’
Wilmot was a small, lithe man of around forty years of age, whose elaborate gestures matched his effusive speech. His eyes constantly flashed from one to another of us, as though he was seeking our approval for everything he said. The ‘office’ I entered shortly afterwards was a commodious, first-floor room with an oriel window overlooking the street, and furnished in a manner obviously intended to impress. The chimney breast above a hearth where a good fire burned bore the painted legend ‘iustum sapientia’.* A buffet on the opposite wall carried a modest array of silver dishes and was flanked by two tapestry panels. Master Wilmot was obviously a man of some means. As Antonio and I entered, he was in the window embrasure in conversation with Calloni and Baroncini, but he immediately crossed the room to welcome us.
‘Master Bourbon!’ he beamed, clasping my hand afresh. ‘I have just heard that we share an immense admiration for a departed mutual friend. What a loss England has suffered in the death of Lord Cromwell.’
‘You knew him well?’ I asked
‘Aye, many a long year. Such a tragedy. Such a tragedy.’
‘Yes, indeed. I would love to hear your reminiscences of him.’
‘And so you shall. So you shall. As soon as Signor Calloni and I have concluded our business we will to our victuals and you shall ask me all you will.’
When we sat at table a little later there was scarcely any need – or, indeed, opportunity – to question Master Wilmot. He was only too eager to talk about his long relationship with a man he had obviously come to idolize.
‘There is many a family in this city that mourns Lord Cromwell’s death – aye and with reason, with reason. He was a great friend to Southampton back in the glory days.’
‘What do you mean by “glory days”?’ I asked.
The little innkeeper waxed philosophical. ‘Merchant houses are like great empires – or so I like to think. They make war on each other and make treaties with each other; they rise and they fall. Master Calloni here will vouch for the fact that Frescobaldis has seen better days . . . though there is no doubt,’ he hastened to add, ‘that even more prosperous times lie ahead. Twenty, thirty years ago there were three great international mercantile empires with offices here in Southampton: the Frescobaldis, the Huttofts and the Mills. All general importers and exporters. We dealt in wines, wool cloth and, of course, alum.’
‘How so?’ I was beginning to wonder how much trust could be invested in Wilmot’s testimony.
‘Officially all imported alum came from the Pope’s Italian mines. He claimed a monopoly and hedged it around with papal curses. But the Frescobaldis had Levantine sources and smuggled alum into England. The king closed his eyes to this “unholy” trade – and charged a high price for his defective vision. When young Cromwell was appointed to the Frescobaldi staff here, he brought his own commercial genius to the development of the house’s range of activities – including alum smuggling by royal licence.’
As I tried to form a picture of those activities, there was something that puzzled me. ‘I thought that the English end of the Frescobaldi enterprise was in the hands of an Italian agent, a Signor della Fava.’
Wilmot glanced at Calloni. ‘Perhaps you can—’
‘Yes, of course,’ the Italian said. ‘There was a time when it was vital to keep all our business in the hands of our own people. Back in our grandparents’ days England was a much-troubled country – civil war, rival dynasties competing for the crown. It was difficult, impossible probably, to know who would be in or out of favour. If we employed any Englishmen at all, it was on very strict terms. We trained them in Florence and only sent them abroad – to London, Antwerp, Southampton – under close supervision. Members of the della Fava family represented us in England and supervised apprentices like young Cromwell, who were learning the business. Fortunately, the last fifty years have seen peace spread over this land. That has meant that more decision-making can be entrusted to English representatives, like our good friend the excellent Signor Wilmot.’
The recipient of this accolade nodded sagely. ‘The balance between foreign owners and local agents involves wisdom and trust on both sides, as poor John Huttoft discovered.’
‘What happened?’ I prompted.
‘It was only five years ago. The Huttofts – Henry and his son John – handled the Southampton end of the Guidotti Venetian bank, much as I look after the Frescobaldi interests here. Henry even married his daughter into the Guidotti family. Perhaps, like Icarus, he flew too high. Perhaps his son-in-law took advantage of him. Wherever the fault lay, the house became overextended. Young Antonio Guidotti fled, leaving a pile of debts, a broken-hearted wife and a ruined business.’
Calloni said, ‘I heard it was Cromwell who came to the Huttofts’ rescue.’
‘Aye, indeed it was,’ Wilmot replied. ‘He never forgot his friends. Even though he had by then risen to be the greatest man in the land under the king, he never forgot his friends. He took up some of the Guidotti debts and introduced John Huttoft to the royal court. He did all he could, but poor Henry was broken by it all. He died of shame.’ Wilmot shook his head mournfully. ‘Died of shame.’
After a pause I tried to steer the conversation in another direction. ‘I suppose it is true th
at few of us reach that station in life to which our talents fit us. I have never been able to accept Aristotle’s dictum that we are free agents; that success or failure depends on our own efforts. It seems to me there is a higher power to which we are all slaves. Some call it destiny; others divinity. What think you of Thomas Cromwell’s rise to fame?’
Wilmot frowned and shook his head. ‘I am no philosopher, Master Bourbon. Merely a simple-headed man of business.’
I hastened to make apology. ‘Forgive me, Master Wilmot. My meaning was not to pose riddles. It is simply that Cromwell’s rise from Putney obscurity to the summit of power is like a gaudy cloak: magnificent yet marred by holes. I picture him now as an ambitious young man, eager for a life in international trade. He goes to Florence and proves his worth to the Frescobaldis. He is despatched to England and establishes himself as the indispensable link between his Italian employers and their English interests. After this there is one of those irritating holes. How came he from skilful merchant to king’s minister? How did he appear to colleagues in Southampton in these early days? Was it pure chance that advanced him, or insatiable ambition, or a belief that he had a higher calling?’
‘Aye, that is a problem,’ our host responded, ‘and one often voiced by others. Unfortunately there are not many people left who can answer those questions from first-hand knowledge.’
‘People who were intimate with Cromwell in those early years?’
‘Yes. I only knew him personally from the late fifteen twenties. By then he was already famed as a great benefactor of the city. Unlike many other patrons he never failed to respond to our petitions. Although he was very busy with affairs of state he always gave careful study to our letters.’
‘He must have been very industrious, considering the large number of calls there were on his time.’
‘Oh yes. One thing all men agreed on, even those who hated him, was that he worked tirelessly, morn to night, and was very well organized. People say he survived on very little sleep.’