The King's Diamond

by Will Whitaker

  After dinner I walked with her alone in the loggia, and then at last I begged forgiveness: for running away from her that night when we should have met in the garden, for fighting like a beast in the sala, for my vain jealousies and suspicions.

  She squeezed my arm. ‘My dear Mr Richard. I hope your gain in Florence was worth the loss of that night.’

  ‘It was a heavy price. But there will be other nights?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Cellini at this moment appeared. He murmured in my ear, ‘If you have cooled down, come with me to my workshop. I think you will be surprised.’

  Hannah gave me a last smile: elusive but laced with promise. Cellini and I walked out together into the late afternoon sun. We were silent until we stood in the workshop down by the river, where Cellini unlocked his chest and held up to me a gold pendant on a chain, a disc some two inches broad. There it was: the garden, just as we had planned. There were the reapers in gold relief, their sickles cutting into the corn; there were the meadows, studded with crimson jacinths, as it might be poppies; the shepherd beneath his tree; the nymphs, one undressing, two naked, their feet hovering over the pale, milky pool of the white sapphire. Round its rim hung Ippolita’s nine pendant pearls. Every smallest space had been used, and yet the composition did not seem in the least crowded or constrained. Only one thing was missing. In place of the green distant fields that were to have been figured by the Scythian emerald, there was only an empty socket.

  ‘It is a marvel,’ I murmured. ‘And the emerald?’

  Cellini wiped his hand across his beard. ‘The emerald, you say. Well! I tried to cut it, and I couldn’t.’

  ‘Couldn’t!’

  He held up the stone in his other hand. As he turned it, rounded and smooth, it glinted with a pale, beech-leaf brilliance, shooting out glances of turquoise and amber. ‘Look at it. Have you ever seen an emerald like that?’

  I had to admit it, I had not. There had been something all along that was not right about it. It was too pale, too ready to shine, and with colours that were simply too fickle for an emerald. But its beauty had always shouted down my suspicions. ‘You are not telling me it is fake?’

  Cellini tossed the gem up in his hand and caught it. ‘That depends what you mean. This is not an emerald. It is a diamond.’

  ‘A diamond!’

  ‘Of the rarest kind. It is a green diamond. I have only ever seen one other like it.’

  I took the stone greedily from his hands. It was plain to me now. It had a diamond’s temperament, its limpid depth and sudden flash of colour; yet all in an emerald green. It was a wonder. I looked up. ‘Will you cut it?’

  ‘If you want the risk. But the green in a diamond of this kind is most likely skin-deep, no more. It is a virtue which the stone drinks up from its mother rock, but which does not penetrate to its heart. Cut it, and we may have only a drab white stone.’

  I gazed at it. Its surface rippled like gently flowing water. ‘It is perfect as it is.’

  He nodded, and looked at me with a sideways smile. ‘Paulino, bring us wine. Our friend is in need of it. He went to Florence for a stone, and came back with only a bad temper.’

  It was my turn to smile. I took out the casket, unlocked it, and handed Cellini a fold of silk. He unwrapped it and took out the stone: the Golconda diamond of the Old Rock. He lifted it to the light in silence, turned it, round, under, back; he paused, he rotated it again. I let him look in silence.

  ‘Its main faces are three,’ he murmured. ‘After we have cut away the flaw. Its water is good: very good. Pure, limpid, silver-blue. Its shape, yes, the light already invites us where to place the table. And its flash, its fire, they will be of the finest. But it will be ticklish work. Oh, yes. You wish me to attempt it?’

  I stood at his elbow, gazing along his line of sight into the diamond. Already I saw it in new ways. The hidden gem inside its smooth outer skin seemed to jump into life. I said, ‘I trust you.’

  Cellini laughed. ‘Now you trust me! And what is your plan for this stone?’

  ‘A thorn. A thorn to pierce the heart.’

  Cellini handed me the diamond. ‘You are right. This is a deadly stone. It is a stone men would kill for.’ He gave me a sharp look. ‘I have no notion how you afforded it.’

  ‘Let us just say I still have enough left to pay you.’ I took out the blood-red garnets and the violet balasses and amethysts, and laid them beside the diamond. Cellini, with his paper and charcoal before him, was already beginning to sketch.

  That night I sat drinking with John, back at the Ship. He had ordered a bottle of the finest old romney. ‘My friend,’ he protested, his hands spread in appeal, ‘what was I to do? Mrs Hannah was distraught. I merely kept her company as best I knew how. We spoke of no one but you. And then, when Benvenuto recruited his little army, of course I volunteered. And so Susan actually wrote to you in Florence, to warn you I was stealing your place? The little strumpet has pluck.’

  I laughed. John was right. Susan was no better than a spiteful child. She envied her sister her happiness; and perhaps she would have liked some of John’s easy smiles for herself.

  I was impatient for Cellini to get on with his work. But he spent several hours each day at the Palazzo del Bene: Alessandro, he explained, fretted constantly over his defences. There were fifty men quartered there in all, some on the roofs, others in the two gardens which flanked the building’s wings, others ready to defend the windows. Fifteen had harquebuses and the rest were armed with pikes, crossbows and swords. There was a good supply of gunpowder, which Cellini ground and mixed himself.

  Of Bourbon’s army there was no news. It was presumed he still lay at Siena, where he had gone to take on fresh supplies. The majority of Romans thought nothing of the danger. A ragged army a hundred and twenty miles away, that would regard Florence as unfinished business before it ever turned south to Rome? What danger was there in that? The citizen militia obeyed the call to patrol the gates and walls with bad grace. What was the point? Only a few men like Alessandro feared the very worst, and made their own private plans accordingly. Stephen Cage was another who took the threat seriously.

  ‘We shall be out of this damned city,’ he murmured to me, ‘just as soon as we may. Our goods are ready to be loaded up at a few hours’ warning.’ Then he took his leave for yet another trip over the river to the Pope’s palace.

  I sent Martin out about the city for news. His Italian had become almost as good as mine; I knew I could trust him as a spy. It was Friday, two days after I returned to Rome, when Martin brought back a letter from the English hostel. It came from Bennet Waterman. I snatched at it with impatience and sat down at once to decipher it.

  My dear Richard,

  At last I can offer you a name: a name which is on everyone’s lips at Court, and soon will be known through all England. That name is Anne Boleyn. She is a gentlewoman, of Kent; her father and brother both courtiers. She is the sister of the King’s last love, Mrs Mary. No beauty, but that the King’s regard makes her one. Her hair and eyes, dark. Figure slight; her wit and temper both quick. Her emblem: a falcon. At last I understand the fear I see daily in my master, Cardinal Wolsey. He had a hand in breaking off the Mrs Anne’s betrothal some years back, and she hates him for it. The King’s love makes her powerful; powerful enough perhaps even to threaten the Cardinal. Well might he call her the Night Crow, this dark woman who murmurs against him in the King’s ear when they are alone together. But he swears her days of glory are numbered. When the King has his divorce and marries the Princess d’Alençon, this Anne will be heard of no more.

  For the sake of your business, hurry home. Fear is our daily diet. I tell you also, the Cardinal fears more and more what the secret envoy might be doing in Rome. And I am disappointed in you, Richard: three months in Rome and not a word of the agent sent there to harass us. If I did not know you were my own nephew, I would suspect you were concealing something from me. Well: we have discovered his name nonetheless,
and it is one to watch for, and fear. Stephen Cage. He is Mrs Anne’s cousin, and a strong arm of her faction, and therefore an enemy of Cardinal Wolsey and of us. I beg you, write to me soon with news of Italy, and, if you can, send me word of this Stephen Cage. He is dangerous.

  I put the letter down and let out a long breath. At last I had it. A name, and with it a face. In my mind I saw Anne Boleyn, wearing on her bosom my opal cross, or my ship, or my green diamond idyll. No beauty, Bennet said, but her wit quick: so much the better. She would appreciate my treasures, and take their beauties for her own.

  But the second part of the letter hit me hard. It was what I had suspected for many weeks: Stephen was the man in Rome. I had not written to Bennet since meeting the Cages, and my disloyalty pressed on me with a weight of guilt. If I did not tread carefully I would soon lose my uncle’s trust, and I feared what harm might come to me if Cardinal Wolsey came to count me as one of his enemies. But that was just one more risk I would have to take. My new loyalty pulled stronger, and Bennet’s own letter confirmed I was right to stick close to the Cages. Stephen was one of the Boleyns, the faction that counted on Anne’s place in the King’s favour to secure their own fortunes. I was one of that faction now too. I must do Stephen Cage all the good turns I could, and put him firmly in my debt. That was my surest way to Court, as well as to the girl I loved. But my uncle’s suspicions and warnings still nagged at me. Just what was Mr Stephen doing here?

  I repeated the letter to Martin, and he whistled. ‘You’re playing a dangerous game, master, when you don’t know who’s who, or who makes the rules. Get yourself out of these courtiers’ snares, and for God’s sake let us go home.’

  ‘What, when I’ve just learnt the name of the lady? And who would cut our diamond? No. Not yet, my Martin. Not yet.’

  The next day, Saturday, the fourth of May, I set off as usual for Cellini’s workshop. As I came down towards the river I heard the ringing of bells from Saint Peter’s, and from Santa Maria del Popolo to the north, and soon from all round. Benvenuto came out and we stood together, listening, looking out across the Tiber, which surged with a swift, brown flow.

  I said, ‘What do you think it is?’

  ‘Suppose we find out.’

  We set off together across the Bridge of Sant’ Angelo and up into the Borgo. Here there was a great streaming together of people, running out from the houses to see what was wrong. Through the crowds groups of soldiers were pushing towards the city walls: the few remaining detachments of Swiss and the citizen militia that had been mobilised by Pope Clement’s general, Renzo da Ceri. Near Cardinal Campeggio’s palazzo we climbed a stone stair to the ramparts, past men toiling up with casks of gunpowder to the cannon on the towers. From here we looked out over the marshy valley known as the Vale of Hell. Before us was an army. Its bands stretched out, miles long it seemed, to left and right. Banners waved over the different divisions; there were the clustered pikes, the longer straggle of the harquebusiers, the horsemen, and behind them the scores and scores of wagons with their canvas covers. The din of hoofs and the clatter of harness and armour were audible even here. The men around us looked out at the sight, frightened and amazed, and I too was shaken. I knew for a fact this army had been at Florence, a hundred and fifty miles away, only a week ago.

  Cellini said, ‘I must see Alessandro.’

  As we walked back through the city we saw bands of servants and artisans being herded into companies and issued with weapons. They had a shambling, half-hearted appearance. In the goldsmiths’ district, Cellini stopped with this acquaintance and that, and we heard snatches of rumour. No one seemed too much bothered.

  ‘The walls will defend us.’

  ‘How do we know that army is Bourbon’s? Most likely it belongs to the League.’

  ‘They say the Imperials are dying of hunger.’

  ‘They need to be: without the Black Bands we are helpless.’

  ‘Well, suppose Bourbon does take the city? Things can only change for the better.’

  ‘True, Rome has been under the priests for long enough. Let the Emperor come from Spain and rule us. Why not?’

  We made for the Palazzo del Bene, where Cellini’s men stood on nervous guard outside the doors. Bundles and packages filled the entrance hall, and the Cages’ servants passed to and fro bringing out more. I felt a stab of apprehension and hurried up the stairs. In the loggia I found John, a harquebus at his side, talking to Hannah. My suspicions instantly returned, but the smile with which John met me was open and full of innocence. Hannah ran over to my side. She put her head on my shoulder and murmured, ‘This frightens me.’

  John, with a smile, withdrew. I stroked her arm. ‘You, frightened? The girl who stood in the path of the wild bulls?’

  ‘There is more to be afraid of than a few bulls.’

  ‘No one in the city seems troubled.’

  ‘But my father is.’

  I was about to speak again to calm her, persuade her there was nothing truly to fear. I was enjoying my role as gallant protector. At that moment the door to the saletta opened and we stood quickly apart. Stephen and Grace came out, with Susan stalking after them. Grace squeezed my hand in silence. Stephen, his arms full of papers with dangling seals, had a fierce glint in his eye.

  ‘The devil! Perhaps you can tell me, Mr Richard, how the Imperials covered the ground so quickly? Forded rivers in flood, marched thirty miles a day. Starving, are they? Too weak to march? Well, they have already sent their trumpeter to the gates, demanding Rome’s surrender. Do you know what they carry as their standard?’

  I shook my head.

  Stephen poked a finger at my chest, still clutching his papers. ‘A gallows. A gallows with a noose, to hang the Pope. That’s how Bourbon gave his troops the spirit to march. That’s what he’s promising them. Lutherans, Moors and Jews. All those the Church persecutes. Well, they will have their revenge if they can. Where’s the Pope’s peace treaty? Ferramosca saw to that, by telling the Spanish and Germans they could never trust Pope Clement. And where is the army of the League, that should have stopped them from ever coming this far?’

  ‘Dear Mr Richard,’ Grace put in, ‘why do you not come with us? Follow us home to England?’

  ‘Then you are really leaving?’

  ‘Just as soon as may be,’ answered Stephen. ‘His Holiness!’ he spat out. ‘He is just what the popular jibes say of him: the Pope of Ifs and Maybes, the Pope with feet of lead. Tomorrow, he says. Well, tomorrow then. And if not, we are gone.’ He caught my eye for a moment, and allowed a smile of complicity to pass over his face. ‘We understand one another increasingly well, I think. I shall look forward to taking our discussions further.’ Then he turned abruptly away to confer with Fenton: leaving me with the uncomfortable knowledge that for the price of favour I would be called upon to make further betrayals of Bennet’s secrets.

  ‘But the roads,’ I protested to Mrs Grace. ‘Surely you would be safer here?’

  ‘The road to Ostia runs down the east of the river,’ Susan sighed, with the air of one who was instructing a child. ‘The Imperials are to the west. If we leave now we’ll be safe.’

  ‘Consider it, Mr Richard. Please do.’ Grace squeezed my hand again, and turned after her husband. I glanced at Hannah, who rewarded me with one of her arch smiles. The temptation tugged at me. I pictured myself setting out for Ostia, sailing home with Hannah, riding across France in that vast and glorious cavalcade that was the Cages’ household, with the servants putting up the pavilion for one of their fantastical luncheons wherever we stopped. And Hannah: seeing her every day, and yes, with luck, by night. But then I thought of the diamond, uncut, opaque, misted, its charms still secret, perhaps never to be revealed. How many of its former owners had left it untried, had been deterred for one specious reason or another? And was I to be the same as them, to return home with jewels of wonder, yes, but without the greatest treasure of all? Cellini had set the green diamond yesterday. The Golconda diamond sat even n
ow in his locked chest, waiting.

  ‘Another few days, Mrs Grace. The danger from the Imperials cannot be so pressing as that. Then, God willing, I will come with you.’

  I took my leave, bowing low to them both, and Hannah watched me go with a frown. It would be some time, I consoled myself, before the Cages could be fully packed and ready to go. I wanted to see Cellini, to badger him into returning to his work. But he was busy with Alessandro, discussing whether to put extra crossbowmen in the rear windows. I turned away, fuming. Together with Martin I set out to scour the city for news. We found fear in some quarters, but in most a cheerful confidence. There was no great rush to flee the city, or hide away valuables. The Imperials, it seemed, had no cannon with them at all: everything had been left behind at Siena to allow them to complete so swift a march. They would be unable to bombard the walls. This news heartened me a good deal.

  That afternoon the Pope held a special Mass in Saint Peter’s. He sat on his throne dressed in a violet cope staring down on us, his eyes bearing their usual expression of proud reserve. He made a long speech, urging his people in his lilting voice to fear nothing. The Imperials had not the strength to capture even a little fortress, let alone a city like Rome. After the first failed attack, they would break up and be seen no more. ‘God in His mysterious providence has led the heretic Lutherans here, to the chief seat of His holy religion, in order to destroy them and make them an example to others. All those who die in defence of the Holy City will have full remission of their sins and immediate entry to paradise, as well as remunerative church benefices for their heirs. Two days: that is all we need. If we hold the walls for two days, they will be gone.’