Around that time the younger sister of Mary Boleyn came to court. Her name was Anne. She arrived with the dashing Henry Percy to ask for the king’s permission to marry. It was a formality that the nobility adhered to. Only on the rarest occasion did the king decline such a request.
Henry, as usual, enjoyed being the centre of attention in the room. He poked fun at most of the couples presented to him. However, he went quiet when Anne and Percy knelt before him. He knew his family. But he did not even pretend to listen when a courtier announced them.
He called Wolsey over. The cardinal stooped down so the king could whisper in his ear. “What did you say the girl’s name was?”
“Anne Boleyn, my Lord. The younger sister of Mary Boleyn.”
Henry stroked his light beard. “Ah,” he said, his eyes fixed firmly on the girl knelt before him.
Anne knew well her king’s priapic ways. Mary had suffered at his hands and she resented him for it. She kept her head bowed, desperate to avoid his gaze.
The king’s interest in the girl was not lost on Catherine. She glared fiercely at her husband. It humiliated her that he would so openly disregard her presence and flaunt his interest in Miss Boleyn.
He granted his permission to the court for the couple to marry. The banquet soon began. Henry called Wolsey over. “Percy is not to marry Anne Boleyn,” he said.
“What, my Lord?” Wolsey asked. He too had noticed Henry’s interest in the girl. “But you have granted them permission.”
“Well, I am revoking it.”
“What can I do?”
“Get rid of Percy. Warn him off.”
“With what, my Lord?”
“I do not know,” he growled under his breath. “A year in the Tower? You think of something. Get rid of him. I want him gone.”
Wolsey sighed. The king did not want anyone to see him as the one to end the arrangement. The cardinal bowed. “Very good, my Lord.”
He summoned Anne to a private room. There he advised her the king had revoked his permission. She was distraught and begged Wolsey to intercede on her behalf. He advised her that he could not. The king’s word was final.
It was the part of his job that Wolsey hated the most. But he loved his king. Henry’s wishes were all that mattered to him. Anne cursed him before she ran away in tears. She swore she would have her revenge one day. Wolsey sighed and watched her leave.
Not long after, Henry called on Anne at her family home. He found her totally unreceptive to his advances. It did not deter him. Although upset at the rebuke he kept his calm. He was obsessed with her already. More than anything he wanted her for his own.
“I will have you,” he assured her.
“Only if you take me by force,” she replied.
That was something Henry could not do. He had fallen in love and could never force himself upon her. Having her could never be enough. He needed her to love him too.
For the next two years he courted her. It always resulted in the same end. She showed none of his interest back. Even though she did warm to him slightly, she never gave in to his designs of bedding her.
Tuscany. The villa of Marco Ponti in the rione Borgo.
Late June 1527.
Ponti sat at the head of his long dining table. His friends chatted and laughed, as they enjoyed the wonderful spread he had laid on for them. His wife sat just to his left. He had done this all for her. They had been married twenty-five years today.
She held his hand and smiled. “Thank you for this, my husband.”
He smiled back at her. His friend, Negri, watched the tender moment between them and called the attention of the others. “I call for a toast,” he said, standing up. “To Marco and the beautiful Lucia.”
“Marco,” they all said, raising their glasses. “And Lucia.”
The party continued. Ponti looked around the table to each of his friends. He looked too to his three sons. They had all grown into fine men. A deep sense of pride filled him inside. He and Lucia had done well with them.
One of Ponti’s guards walked up to him at the table.
“What is it?” he asked the man.
“A messenger has arrived from Tuscany, my lord.”
“Can it not wait until later? This is a celebration for my wife.”
“He says it is important, my lord.”
Lucia rubbed the back of his hand. “What is it, my love?”
“A messenger from Tuscany. It can wait.”
“You should go and see what he wants. It might be important.”
“It is not as important as you.”
She smiled. “Go on. Go and see what news he brings. Hurry back to me when you are done.”
He wiped his mouth with a napkin and gave Lucia a kiss. “Take me to him,” he said to the guard.
The messenger bowed when he saw Ponti.
“You have a message for me?” Ponti asked him.
“Yes, my lord,” he said, holding out a scroll.
Ponti took it from him and undid the ribbon. He opened the scroll and read it. A deep frown crossed his face. He tied the ribbon again and paid the messenger.
“What is it, my love?” Lucia asked when he sat down again at the table. She saw the look on his face and knew all was not well.
“It is Niccolo,” he said.
“Niccolo Machiavelli?”
“Yes. He died a couple of days ago.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” she said, touching his face.
Ponti sighed. “Yes. It is not the news I wanted today.”
“Will you need to go to Florence?”
“Yes. He left a letter asking me to sort out his affairs.”
“When will you go?”
“On the morrow.”
Ponti left early the next morning. Negri and his three sons formed part of the twelve-man unit who rode with him. The ride took two days.
He had gone onto great things since the days when he had served Cesare Borgia. Ponti was one of the men present when Pope Alexander VI had died. He had kept a vigil over Cesare as he recovered from his illness. His master endured prison and then exile to Spain soon after.
Ponti did not go to Spain with Borgia. Newly wed to Lucia, he stayed in Rome. Michele de Corella made him an offer to go into business with him. The two men enjoyed much success and built their fortunes. Ponti bought a plush villa in the rione Borgo and made his home with Lucia there.
It had been a difficult month in Rome. A German army had savaged the capital. They had raped and pillaged on an epic scale. Although they had gone now a dark cloud remained. Rome would take a long time to recover.
For a time he had feared for the safety of his family. His villa lay close to the Vatican. But the Germans had not come to his home. Had his friend died any sooner then he would not have made the journey north. But now he was glad to get away from the city for a short break.
Ponti spoke to one or two people who claimed to be friends of Machiavelli. They directed him to the lawyer in Florence who had written to him.
“What happened to Niccolo?” he asked.
“I do not know. He was not himself of late.”
“Someone must know how he died.”
“His health was poor.”
“In what way was he not himself?”
“He seemed afraid of something.”
“He did not say what?”
“No. He was very secretive. But he had several priests visit his home to bless it and placed crucifixes everywhere.”
Ponti thought about it for a moment. He knew Niccolo had never harboured any great religious convictions. “Why did he ask for me?”
“I expect he trusted you.”
“And what is it he wanted me to do?”
“He wanted you to take care of his works and memoirs. They are at his home. Nothing has been touched.”
“And his burial?”
“I took care of that. He was buried yesterday morning.”
“Do you have the keys to his home?”
&nb
sp; “Yes. Here they are.” The lawyer handed them over. “Thank you for coming. I know it will have made him happy.”
Ponti was a shrewd man. For his friend Niccolo to have made this request he knew his documents contained something of great importance. When he got to the house he entered his friend’s study alone.
“What is it you want me to see, Niccolo?” Ponti said out loud, as he walked around the room.
Ponti spent a couple of hours poring over various documents. He found nothing that caught his eye. It was a slow and tedious task. After a time he tired of it. Whatever Niccolo wanted him to find he had hidden too well even for him to see.
He wondered what to do with the documents he did find. If he did not take them they would surely make a bonfire some time soon. He did not want that.
For that reason he called his sons into the room. “Find boxes for these papers. I want nothing left behind here.”
They did as he instructed. Ponti flicked through more of his friend’s writings but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “Talk to me, Niccolo,” he said quietly to himself. “Talk to me. What is it you want me to see?”
He saw a copy of Machiavelli’s finest work alone on a shelf. It bore the name The Prince on the front of the leather cover. Ponti noticed much dust on the shelf. But the book itself only had a faint trace of it. He knew then that his friend might have only recently put it there. Whatever the case, it stood out.
Ponti picked it off the shelf. He eyed the volume for a moment and then blew the light film of dust away. When he opened it a letter fell out and dropped to the floor. He stooped down and picked it up. A smile crossed his face. It had his name on it.
He waited for a time. His sons continued to fill the boxes they had found with his friend’s writings. When they finished he asked them to leave the room again.
Ponti sat down at his friend’s desk. He took a deep breath and opened the letter.
Dear Marco
I pray that it is you reading these words. If so, I thank you for your trouble in coming to my home and seeing through my wishes. I did not know whom else I could trust with this knowledge or to carry out my instructions with regard to it.
Many years ago I encountered a man. Except he was not a man, but a monster. He came to my aid one night. Three men had set upon me with the intention of killing me. He killed them instead, all three of them.
I understand that when you read on you may doubt my sanity. I swear on our great friendship that all I say is the truth. This man, or monster, drank their blood. I watched him fly high into the night sky with one of them in his arms.
Naturally, I feared for my own life and fled. He pursued me and found me. I found his motives most confusing. He did not try to harm me, but insisted I write down his words. They became this very book you are holding in your hands.
At that time I was in love with a beautiful woman. Her name was Piera. He came between her and I. In his words, if I did not forget her he would kill me. I had to give her up. But some time later her friends found her dead in her home. She had suffered a fatal bite to her neck. I can only assume that he killed her.
In recent days another like him has visited me. He wanted to know if I had made any record of my meetings with the other one. Of course, I denied this. But he did not believe me. These beings have the power to see into a man’s mind.
He tortured and hurt me. Yet I kept my secret from him. Before he returned I had this room blessed to ensure he or no other like him could enter again.
I have placed my memoirs in a strongbox. It is hidden somewhere in this room. I have hidden the key also. There is only one clue I can leave you. Try and think back to that wonderful picnic I shared with you and your family some years ago. I cannot afford the wrong person to get hold of these documents. But I am sure you will find them. When you do, you must pass them over to his Holiness, the Pope. He, and only he, can have possession of them.
Take care my friend. Give my love to Lucia and your sons.
Niccolo
Ponti sighed hard and looked around. He knew there was nothing wrong with his friend’s sanity. It was then he noticed the many crucifixes on the walls and doors. For them to be there then Niccolo must have been truly terrified. He thought about this “monster” his friend had given mention to and felt a shiver go through him.
He always knew his friend as a strong and well-balanced man. For sure, he would have spoken the truth in his letter. It occurred to him then that this thing might come after him now. Whoever it was obviously wanted these documents.
His mind drifted back to the picnic many years ago. It was the only clue he had. Niccolo had come to Rome. Together they had spent the day just outside the city. They had a picnic by a quiet brook near to a bridge.
A painting across the room caught his eye. There were several of them adorning the walls around the room. He hoped one of them might hark back to that day. But none of them did.
He sighed and stood up. How do I find this key? He placed the book down on the writing desk with the letter. Then he saw it. On the wall right behind where he had sat was another painting. Niccolo had commissioned an artist to paint the location of their picnic. The memories of that day came flooding back.
His excitement got the better of him. He lifted the canvas off the wall. Just as he had hoped he found a small key stuck to the back. Now to find the strongbox. He put the painting back on the wall and called his sons into the room.
“Yes, Papa?” the eldest of them asked.
“Luca,” he said. “I want you and your brothers to comb this room.”
“What is it you are looking for?”
“A small strongbox. Search the room thoroughly.”
His sons did as he asked. Still they found nothing that resembled such an item.
“Well? Luca? Did you find anything at all?”
“No, Papa. It is not here.”
“It is here.”
“Then I cannot say where.”
Ponti stroked his chin a moment. “Perhaps it is under the floor. Clear the top half of the room. We will see.”
They moved the furniture from one end of the room to the other. On his instruction his sons rolled back the light carpet. A smile crossed his face when he saw a small hole in the earthen floor. He removed the wooden cover and peered inside. Just as he had hoped he saw the strongbox hidden there.
“What is in it?” Luca said.
“It is for no one’s eyes but mine own,” Ponti said. “Would you leave me alone?”
They left him again. It was a larger box than he had expected and quite heavy. He turned the key inside the lock and opened it. Inside he found hundreds of documents wrapped in a heavy cloth. A note on the top of the cloth said the name of the Pope. His curiosity got the better of him. He had to see what it said.
He began to read the first document. It took him to the home of Lorenzo dei Medici in the summer of 1489. That was where he met the one he called Dracula. He read on. His friend spoke of his journey home that night.
Three men accosted him in a dark alley. He had nowhere to turn. One of them grabbed him from behind, maybe even two of them. The man in front pulled out a blade. Then a fourth appeared. It was Dracula.
Suddenly he and the man with the blade were gone. They heard a cry from above and looked up. Dracula held the man there high above the ground. He could not believe his eyes, but his abductors saw it too. They all watched on in horror when Dracula bit into his neck. Soon the cries ceased and the body of the man dropped to the ground.
Dracula stood there again in the alley. Even before the body had landed he was there. Machiavelli looked down at the dead corpse. It looked deathly white. He saw Dracula wipe the blood from his mouth. The beast had drunk the dead man dry.
His captors let him go and turned and fled. Dracula sped past him and pulled them both down. He killed them as he had the first, by drinking their blood.
Machiavelli got away. But Dracula found him again a little later in the night. He caught h
im while he was waiting to watch home the woman he loved. The beautiful Piera. They went back to his house. There Dracula revealed his true identity.
Ponti gasped at what he read. It was the most fantastic story he had ever known. His son, Luca, walked back into the room.
“What is keeping you, Papa?” he asked. “We need to set off again soon.”
“I think we should stay here in Florence tonight. We can set off at first light.”
“Very well, Papa. I will find an inn for us to spend the night.”
Ponti read on until his eyes could take no more. It worried him that this monster that resembled Dracula might come for him. But it did not happen. In the morning they set off again for Rome.
“We are heading home?” Luca asked.
“Not quite. We need to go and see the Holy Father.”
“But no one is sure of his location. Not since the Germans ravaged the city.”
“I have heard he is at the Castel Sant’ Angelo. It makes sense that he would be.”
“It is probably a waste of time.”
“We will soon find out then. It is to there we are going.”
They found the castle under heavy guard. The soldiers stationed there stopped the group well before they reached their destination.
“Who are you?” one of them asked. “What is your business here?”
“I have come to see the Holy Father,” Ponti said.
“He is not here.”
“Of course he is here,” Ponti laughed. “Or why else would you be?”
“No one gets to see him.”
“I have something for him. He needs to see it.”
“I can pass it on to him.”
“I must give it to him,” Ponti said. “My sons can remain here. You can surround me if you wish. But I must pass these documents to him with my own hand.”
The guards looked at each other and agreed with nods to allow Ponti through. They escorted him deep inside the castle. One of them announced his arrival to Clement. They left Ponti to wait a long time. Just as he felt ready to give up the guard returned.
“The Holy Father will see you,” he said, without emotion.
“Would someone help me with this box?”
The Dracula Chronicles: Bound By Blood - Volume 2 Page 17