The Secret Diaries of Juan Luis Vives

by Tim Darcy Ellis

  What insanity! Can I bind his feet and hands and drag him out of the city that has become his prison cell?

  There were two other letters with this one. They came from Bruges. My heartbeat doubled. The first was in a man’s rough hand, and I recognised it, although this time there was no diamond seal.

  Master Vives,

  Your work is good, very good. You write with the hand of God.

  I thank you,

  Louis de Praet of Bruges.

  Does he mean it? Can I use this?

  There was a scent about the second letter that was inescapably light. I felt something on my cheek, like a breath. I ripped it open.

  My dearest Juan Luis Vives,

  It has been several months since I received your letters, all together, delivered by Master de Praet, smelling of the camphor of your own cuff. I trust you have received all of my letters and the clothes. As I have said, Father grows weaker, Mother stays strong and does her very best at continuing the trade, but money is becoming sparser. Zeek grows daily and is learning to read a bit. As for Nicolas, he’s studying in earnest to one day be a physician and make us proud. Each day, I think of the happy times at the table and in the shop, of your bravery. We say prayers for your safety and that one day you will fly across the ocean and sing the old songs with us and pray with us, your family, on the Sabbath.

  Your best friend, M. V.

  De Praet had been the gatekeeper of my correspondence, as I suspected. There was no more time to waste. Although I may be the tutor of the seven-year-old and the best friend of Sir Thomas More, it is the king and queen who I had to get to, and fast.

  20 October 1523

  I found myself in the midst of dark shadows and early nights, cold winds and early frosts. Even my lecture hall was alive with the voice of change. Did the boys feel that something was about to happen in the land? And could I be an instrument to direct that change for the good?

  “Would we not agree that the relief of the poor is the task of the state and not of the church?” I asked. “That the problem is not simply of the distribution of wealth, but of the availability of opportunity?”

  A few eyebrows were raised. I’d already decided that I would find a way to make them believe in this Renaissance age.

  “One man must regard the distress of another as if it is his own.” I looked to their faces, making sure I had their attention: “So what say you? Speak, boys. Speak!”

  “Where can we begin to relieve the conditions of the poor?” Walsingham, uglier than a gargoyle, stood up. “That’s a massive undertaking, sir, for if their condition improved, they’d be demanding everything! English bibles, new lands. There could be a revolution, a new civil war.”

  “We’d begin by making a proper survey of every institution in every town and of every hovel where they dwell. Above all, we would understand their journey and that they are as clever as us—that they are one with us.”

  “And when you had a new doomsday book?” Walsingham said, his smirk belying the thought that God was indeed an Englishman, and a rich one at that.

  “All must be taught a trade, and the trade must be the one to which they are most drawn so they’ll lend themselves to it fully.” I had their attention at last.

  “And what can we do that our fathers could not do?” Nicolas Udall asked, bringing his index finger to his temple.

  “Don’t spend your money furnishing your houses to impress the king,” I said. “Help young men and women to read and to be made into apprentices. Fund healthy hospitals with your healthy rents, welcome the foreigner into your land, learn from the stranger.” There was a murmur in the room and the guards at the door shuffled uneasily.

  “Whoa! We’ll be inviting Arabs and Jews to rule us,” said Udall. “You’ve some lively ideas, sir!” He turned to his classmates for approval.

  “But what benefit is there for the nation and for the king in relieving the condition of the poor and the mad?” Charles Durham asked.

  “For one, there is great honour in living the true word of the one, the universal spirit, the place where we’re all connected.” I raised my foot onto my chair and leaned forward, an elbow on my knee, my head on my fist. I would not be afraid. “And there’d be fewer acts of violence and of theft because the poor wouldn’t resent the rich. They would hold them in esteem as brothers. And you’d learn from the Jews about medicine, philosophy and from the Arabs about science.”

  Walsingham spoke up. “Every person would become more productive and hold the nation dearer in his heart.”

  “Exactly, dear boy.”

  Can we, with young men like this, create a utopia in this land? Can it be a place where all men and women, regardless of faith, live together? As Father says, the king of Spain may come to his senses, and the hermandad will have succeeded.

  I was full of the future as I turned the iron key to my room that evening. There, thrust underneath my door, chewed at the edges, was a sealed letter whose handwriting I knew could only belong to Margaret Roper.

  My Master Lewis,

  The rooms of our home grow quieter without your presence.

  A confession needs to be made: Your book, private writings—I needed to know what was in your heart, and though much of it I could not read, much of it I could. I wonder if you are truly the cuckoo in the nest or if you are still our true friend?

  And yet the month since you have been departed seems like a month of dark days. If only I could call back the summer for just a day and you could tell me what those words mean, whether you are a Jew of practice.

  Will you promise me that you will return for Christmas and take the goose stuffed with partridge and tell me? Will you accompany us to the Palace of Windsor on Christmas Day and bring your case before the king and queen? Or will you balk and pretend you know nothing about this secret to which I am alluding?

  Yours in truthful curiosity, Meg

  An hour passed. In my mind I was floating, taking my family to a safe place, perhaps as far away as the lands of India, where we could forget all of this. You, diary, have gotten me into trouble again, yet I cannot destroy you, for you are my only truth. You have told me that she wants me and that I want her.

  There was a banging on the cedar floors. It was the messenger boy, and he thrust a folded letter, sealed, with a sense of urgency into my right hand and then ran away.

  To my office, at once,

  Claymond

  In a state of panic, I flushed my face with water. With the dog that had to follow me, everywhere, I walked slowly to his room. “Today is an important day with special visitors.” He could see I didn’t understand, and he slumped back into the creaking chair. His focus was back on the glass. “Here to visit their special daughter.”

  “Special daughter?”

  “Be ready. They’re here to hear you and your views on the poor, the insane, and these hospitals you can’t shut up about.” He slumped forwards, lost in another world.

  By dusk, I bumbled my way towards the great hall, and though voices buffeted me from obtuse angles, I registered nothing. I was in the lion’s jaw, but here in the lion’s jaw was my chance. The boys settled, the giant doors were closed, the front row was empty. The oak door swung open on its iron hinges and in walked Master Claymond. He walked straight to my lectern, ignoring me as he took the stand.

  “My lords and noblemen, today finds us with the honour and privilege known to few. We are proud to welcome to our new college his Majesty King Henry of England and his good wife Queen Catherine.”

  There was a fanfare, a drum roll, and gasps and heavy breaths from the boys. Here was King Henry, like a visitor from the Book of Kings. He wore a purple coat with an ermine and velvet collar. He had a beard that was neatly trimmed. His face was like a wide-bowed ship. On closer inspection, he was thin-lipped but was twice the height and breadth of his Spanish wife, dressed in de
ep red and black. This was majesty and magic, a vision that emitted, without words, power.

  Between them was their daughter, holding their hands. Before the royal trio, two young boys walked carrying silver crosses and behind them was my friend, Sir Thomas More. I looked eagerly, but there was no Margaret Roper. By Sir Thomas’s side was a fat man in red, po-faced and grisled with a tuberous drinker’s nose and an awkward gait. Who else could this be but the butcher’s son, Cardinal Thomas Wolsey?

  They walked to the front of the hall, and the king fixed me with his Zeus-like gaze. Then, like a thunderclap above my head, he exclaimed, “Well, talk, man. Talk!”

  All I saw were expressionless faces. Where had Álvaro gone? In the front row was the woman about whom I had heard so much.

  I spoke of education and lifelong learning, the rights of the common man, the responsibilities of the state in relation to the poor. I spoke about Venice, with its department of public health and its tolerance of Jews and others, about how it has prospered. I stopped, exhausted, my gaze resting on the woman in a bejewelled dress with an elegant Spanish hood, brown, grey-flecked hair peeping out from under it. Here was my fellow exile—but my sworn enemy.

  There was silence as the king arose. The audience rose with him.

  “Very good,” the king said, but he had a flat expression. Had I talked myself into treason? They rose and left, the students followed them, and I was left standing at my lectern.

  That night, my sleep was a chicken coop with a fox thrown in it. By dawn, I wanted to bury myself beneath the sheets and blankets and to hide away from the world. There was to be no hiding, for by the early light I was summoned.

  Two officers with plumed feathers in their shining helmets were at the doors. They knocked thrice, and as the doors were opened from the inside, they announced my new name: “John Lewis of Oxford.”

  I walked forwards and saw the king and the queen, the princess standing between them once more. There was Wolsey and my friends, the two Thomases—More and Linacre—and John Claymond. I bowed low.

  The king spoke with a voice like a hunter’s horn. “Arise, John Lewis.” The king was not adorned with jewels or gold. Instead, he sat quietly in white and black, as if toying with the idea of a new era of humility, or purity. His black hat seemed all the blacker against his auburn locks and his pale skin, his wet lips. His wife, though, was all gold and red and green, his daughter the same. What was he trying to convey?

  “We trust you find yourself well situated here in Oxford.”

  I prepared to speak but was too slow. He asked his groom to bring him a small gold-painted writing desk, and he sat behind it and grabbed a quill and swilled the ink in the shape of a lion’s head. “We have known of you now for some time. We acknowledge the dedication of your work to your king and you must relinquish all loyalties to any other kings.”

  I was happy to relinquish that, for here was what chance was left.

  “I thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “We know the education of our daughter is of the upmost importance, although it is our sincere hope that God will deliver us a son—indeed many sons.” He looked disparagingly at the queen. “Until that day comes, this is our sole heir, our future queen.”

  Could I align myself with him, this man who thinks himself the equal of God? Might I one day stand beside him as he turned his back on his Spanish wife and her family’s decrees? My mind was a mess of Hebrew prayers, of uncertain loyalties and disloyalties.

  “Sad it is,” said King Henry, “but Thomas Linacre is now old and infirm. We need another to relieve him of his duties and become our sweet daughter’s preceptor. You are a good man, señor. We are to become your patrons now, and Sir Thomas More can let you go, eh Tom?”

  I looked at my friend, who had his arms crossed, one finger drawn to the mouth. He gave a flick of his wrist as if to say, “Go, Ludo.”

  The king went on. “She needs Latin first and foremost, and then Greek. Her Spanish is already good, so give her French and Italian.”

  “And Hebrew,” I added, “to understand the bible without translation.”

  He lifted his torso from the chair, and the struts creaked with relief. He walked around the room, digesting the impact of my interjection. His wife and daughter looked at him, as if trying to read his mind.

  “Hebrew. Yes, Hebrew, very good.” There was a silence. “Well, man, speak up. Do you take the brief or nay?”

  Master Claymond spoke up. “Lewis, remember that Fortuna audacis iuvat. Fortune favours the brave.”

  “If I can teach her toleration and the true message of Godly kingship, then I accept. I will do all I can to fill the role that Thomas Linacre so adeptly filled these last years.” I saw quiet delight in the queen’s face.

  “Then it is a settled matter,” said Henry.

  I realised I was now risking my body in the flames. Could he see the terror and the impossibility of my position? He took Wolsey to one side as Sir Thomas walked up to me, beamed, and put his arm around my shoulder.

  The queen turned to me and said in the Aragonese dialect, “Señor, welcome to our dearest friend and brother.”

  Would she have called me “brother” had she known that I, the secret Jew, had spent hours in Paris with her rival, Mary Boleyn, and her sister, Anne, teaching them of the need to question authority?

  “Kate, Thomas, Wolsey—to Woodstock,” the king said. “There is hunting to be done and the day grows old. Mr Claymond, Master Linacre—talk to the Spaniard about his brief and his pension, but do not be too generous.”

  The entire party departed, and I heard a voice in my left ear, a kind of whistle through missing teeth. “She is wilful. Oh yes, you will find her such,” Thomas Linacre said. “I have not known a young mind so fixed on purpose and so strong in belief. She is already determined to stamp them as Lutherans at the age of seven.”

  “Where did she get such a fixed mind?” I asked.

  Master Claymond took over. “You have to realise that her mother is a pious woman who quells any voice of dissent.”

  “And her father?” I inquired.

  “Nay, not her father. The king listens to the people with their mistrust of the monasteries.”

  “Who else influences the princess’s mind?” I sensed I was close to what I needed now to know.

  “It is the rogue who stalks these corridors, whispering in her ear, pretending to be a man of modern thinking.” Linacre looked up, worried.

  “Rogue?”

  “Reginald Pole, of course. The man who places the very fires of the holy office in her ear.”

  “And who is he?” I asked.

  “He is the great nephew of King Edward IV and is versed in ancient lore and calls for our Hebrew and Greek library to be burnt to the ground.”

  “He would burn ancient knowledge and the future of learning?”

  “He would light the fires of the Inquisition beneath your very feet, señor.”

  I took a sharp breath. There was a movement even here to stamp us out before we got a footing. For some, the prison of the Domus was not enough.

  So where was the princess, my new charge? Clearly, I had no time to waste. Had she gone to Woodstock with the party?

  I found her in the yellow-draped chamber, lying on cushions and looking out the window, surrounded by maids immersed in embroidering an epic scene.

  “My lady, to dance?”

  She got up and held my hands, twisting and turning. She repeated the steps a hundred times, working hard so that she could own the steps. Even her stony-faced maids clapped as she danced to the ancient song of nightingale voices that I sang by the riverbank: “Riu, riu, chiu.”

  “Why that song, señor?” the princess asked.

  “It tells us that you must always protect the little ones, my lady.”

  23 December 1523

  In thos
e wintry days in Oxford, anticipating Christmas, I was with the princess every day, like a father. Sometimes we’d walk through the streets or gaze out the window. I wanted to play games and see her laugh, but I knew I had to emphasize the themes of tolerance, peace, and equality. She would come with me with something she wanted to know, a new word perhaps that she’d overheard, like “verisimilitude.” And just when she was learning her steps, she’d say it out loud, over and over, until she had it, and not just the word, but the word with multiple translations. I wanted her to question everything, to argue. One day, it would be a solution to poverty or a way to provide schools for all.

  All the while I worked by candlelight, deep into the night until my eyes could take it no more. My treatise, The Education of a Young Woman, though I was ordered to call it The Education of a Christian Woman, was now complete. I’d remember my love, my fair one in Bruges, and the little boy, Zeek, and my eyes would spark up again and I’d write something else down and hide it in the bibles I sent her: one in Latin, one in Greek, and one in Hebrew. She received them, for there were letters telling me that things had changed. The curfew had been lifted and the guards outside their door had been dismissed. Louis de Praet had even sent his best physician to tend to Señor Valldaura, and Zeek was speaking now.

  Why didn’t I go back there, at least for the season? Why didn’t I write to persuade them to join me?

  I don’t know, but I do know there are thoughts of a woman in London, my diary, whom you know intimately. You promised me, with your carefully woven codes and dialects, that you did yield yourself entirely to her. However many times I’ve tried to put the thoughts of her out of my mind, they resurface. Perhaps the only way to put her out of my mind is to be close to her. Álvaro warns me against it. “You’ve been captured by the [kol ishah],” he says, “the voice of the woman.”