The Secret Diaries of Juan Luis Vives

by Tim Darcy Ellis

  I opened it and saw a gold ring with a blue enamel Star of David. I closed it again with a reflex jerk.

  “Thank you, Your Majesties.”

  “Now go, the pair of you, and enjoy the festivities,” the king said.

  “One last thing, Your Majesties,” I said. “I made a promise. Master Owen of Chatham begs to make an apology.”

  The king looked puzzled. “Who? Owen of Chatham?”

  The queen sat upright, her face red despite the white nightshade make-up.

  “Oh, Owen, and his buxom daughter Abigail of the horse stables, wriggling like a snake on my lap when she came in,” the king said.

  Mary Boleyn sniggered, and the queen snapped her fingers for her to shut up.

  The king, who was still laughing, leaned towards me, elbow on his knee. “Time for you to go, methinks. We will see you tonight at the masque.”

  What had I done this time?

  “Sorry,” I said to Sir Thomas, who had seen the ring.

  “Shut up, you fucking fool. You’re the one who should be covered in shit now, and as for that,” he said, pointing to the ring, “keep it hidden.”

  Had I alienated myself to the one I was trying to win over? I was deaf to the Christmas court. Did the king know me for a Jew? I hurried back to my room.

  “Álvaro!” I called. “Look at this! The king presented me with this as a gift and said there were only four in the realm. For whom are the other three?”

  Even the implacable Álvaro de Castro looked shocked. “It is as I thought,” he said. “He knows. This is a message, Juanito. Stay low. Listen rather than speak and all will be revealed.”

  “What does he want? What will be revealed?”

  In the early evening, we made our way to the great hall, the hearth itself the size of a small room. On it sat the Yule log. Singing and music filled the space, along with the smells of the banquet to come: venison, lamb, and game birds. Long tables were arranged in the shape of a U, and the seats were neatly covered in red velvet. There were cloths of pressed and starched damask—from Florence, I guessed—and the heavy silver cutlery came from Venice. I found my name on a vellum card and looked at the card to my left: “Reginald Pole.” It wasn’t long before he arrived.

  “Agh,” he said. “It is Señor Hayim.”

  My Hebrew name. How did he know that? He took off the cloak to reveal a black silk shirt.

  “I didn’t get the chance to explain at Bucklersbury. The first bit you’ll be pleased to hear. I’ve returned, for the season only, from Padua. The second bit, I fear, señor, you’ll not like so much. I’ve returned on the command of the Holy Order of the Inquisition, señor.”

  His words were like a sudden jab in the ribs, but I’d not let it show. “I am delighted. Let’s talk of Rome, of the pope.”

  “You’re a scholar, señor. That I know. What I’m not certain of, however, is why you won’t stay in your own kingdom.”

  “I’m sure that if you’re working for the Holy Order, that you know the difficulties faced by a Nuevo in Spain. Thankfully we have a warm welcome here.”

  He turned his entire body and looked at me with eyes that yearned for power. “Why the king trusts you I’ll never know. We have a word for your sort in Italy, much easier on the ear. Marrano, which means pig.”

  Trembling, I grabbed the heavy tablecloth and clung to it like a drowning man clinging to a single wooden oar in the ocean. In the distance, like a rescue vessel, I saw Meg, and the very sight of her gave me strength.

  On my right were Lord and Lady Lisle, the governors of Calais. He was about sixty, and she was half his age. Lady Lisle said, “Sir, call me Honor.”

  I felt a hand between my thighs, and I felt its stroke. This was the hand of Honor Lisle. I turned and whispered, “Don’t.”

  She had something to squeeze on to now and laughed. Finally, she let go, whispering, “More later.”

  I scanned the face of her husband, who looked at me, smiling and nodding.

  The queen waved at me before turning away. Was I forgiven?

  Lady Lisle pointed at the bulge in my pants and then turned and thrust her bosom into the chest of her corpulent husband. Acrobats came in running, tossing each other ever higher into the air. Two men, tanned and painted, held green-winged parrots with crimson neckbands that flew from their arms and circled the rooms in opposite directions before landing on the hands of their masters. The audience shrieked and cheered for more.

  With a crack like thunder, a wooden castle was dragged into the room and was placed in front of the fire. Children in bright blues and yellows ran in, chased by a red-clothed dragon that somehow breathed fire and exterminated the children one by one. Next, a young woman with a mask and pointed hat entered the room, followed by the midget minions of the dragon, who chased her onto the floor and tied her to a post. Just as it seemed as if the dragon would burn the woman alive, in came a tall man in shining armour with a sword and mask. He lunged at the dragon, which replied with more flames. Would the whole palace be set ablaze, with the country’s nobility cremated en masse? I looked for an escape route.

  The knight pierced the shoulder of the dragon, which groaned with a final crash of the cymbal before slumping to the floor. The knight removed his mask, revealing the king himself. He bowed and moved towards the young lady, untying her, kissing her hand, and removing her mask. There was a gasp followed by more applause. This was not Mary Boleyn, but another young lady whom I’d once known in Paris. This one was raven-haired and dark-eyed, with a cut-glass figure and a proud, defiant look.

  I turned to Lady Lisle. “Who is it?” I asked.

  “La petite Boleyn,” she replied. “Anne.”

  She took his arm and they bowed to the audience. They took their seats next to one another and the banquet began. The queen, dignified as ever, greeted the king with a kiss and smiled sweetly at Anne Boleyn, although it must have given her pain to do so. Mary Boleyn also appeared, taking a seat at the top table. I noticed she didn’t look at her sister. Would he pluck two cherries from the same tree? Would he do it before his own wife and the entire court?

  A great cooked bird, a thing from the New World called a turkey, with peacock feathers thrust into it, was wheeled before the king. He seemed to take great pleasure in carving it, as if he was the high priest performing a sacrifice at a holy temple. He told us that within the great bird were smaller birds: peacock, swan, goose, chicken, duck, woodcock, and quail. They all cheered at every new bird he announced. Was there anything he could do for which they wouldn’t cheer?

  We sat down to eat as four musicians, dark and handsome, began playing.

  “What is this new kind of fiddle?” I asked Lady Lisle.

  “They call it a viol.”

  “And who are the players?”

  “They’re Italian musicians, the king’s new favourites. Very exotic-looking, no?”

  The dancing started after dinner. I used my crooked back as an excuse not to join Lady Lisle in the energetic galliard. I got up from my seat and hid by a garlanded pillar. I glanced at where Meg had been sitting to find her gazing straight back at me. William Roper was in the dance, now a pavan, intricate like a knot garden. He was strutting like the peacock the king had just carved. I took his seat.

  “Why is one season so warm and the next so cold?” I asked her.

  “My dear friend,” she said, “you want everything, but what of your wife in Bruges? At least my husband, although imperfect, is here.”

  “You expose me, my lady.” She looked at me, expressionless.

  “Things move very quickly for us. Today we have the king’s favour, but forces are at work that may change the status quo.” She nodded towards the Boleyn sisters. “You’re not secretly part of those forces, are you, señor?”

  “No, my mistress, Meg. Listen, why don’t we run away from here and visit Bedlam
—continue our work there?”

  “You’d take me to Bedlam, but you wouldn’t truly take me to heart, would you? If you relinquish for me that which is in your blood, then I’ll be your secret companion for all time.”

  “My lady, where is the fresh smile that you tendered in the summer months? I long for those summer days, my mistress.”

  ‘Señor Vives, my dear, I can be no Israelite’s slave any more than you can be an Egyptian’s.” She quickly joined her husband and left.

  I retreated to my room, where I found Álvaro deep in meditation.

  “You stink,” he said. “The Italian viol players—they played well.”

  “Beautifully. Is it significant?”

  “Did the king look pleased at their playing?”

  “Very pleased. Why do you ask, brother? Are they known to you?”

  “Good. It is as it should be.”

  6 January 1524

  Álvaro de Castro headed into the purlieus of the city. I waited there, at the Palace of Windsor for the king, but I wouldn’t join the hunt for stags or otters, so I found myself with an impossible wait. I found solace as my father found solace, in the books of the ancient library. Patience, diary, was my friend. Let me tell you why.

  Among the musty smell of the centuries-old gospels was a purple vine scroll hidden among a series of Greek bibles, a part of the Talmud. It wasn’t complete, of course, but it had a German stamp on each of the four volumes, and the ink was still shiny, surely less than a year old. Who’d brought it there? What other Jew resides in the court of Henry VIII? Does he or she have one of the other rings? Would Álvaro tell me if he knew? Our hand strengthens.

  I was alone in the library when the queen’s guard found me. An audience at last! I must have been pardoned for asking William Owen to be forgiven. She was wearing pale blue, talking with her Spanish lady-in-waiting, Maria de Salinas. I have seen her before, this Maria, a thin, fragile, high-pitched creature who goes by her married name, Lady Willoughby. She looked uncertain as I approached them, floating as they were on a sea of candles that reflected gold from the rosewood panels. Here was the daughter of the enemy, the architects of the Inquisition. She told me to get a great coat and make for the jetty, for we were to take a barge upstream to a nunnery known as Syon.

  Waiting with the ladies that included the Boleyn sisters, I seized my chance. “Mary, Anne, happy is the day, but you must entirely forget that you know me.”

  They huddled together in the cold, waiting for the queen, like a pair of young witches. Anne, dressed in black, whispered back, “Voy a mantener nuestro pequeno secreto, al menos por ahora, por cuanto tiempo se shebe nuestra Reina?” I will keep our little secret, for now at least, for how much longer will she be our Queen? I remembered how sharp and gifted she was. She went on in low tones. “Para mi amigo, Vives, el secreto Judio, podemos ayudamos unos a otros, no?” My friend, Vives, the secret Jew, we can help one another, no?

  The queen arrived and we boarded. She called me inside the red cabin. We set out on the wintery morning, a gentle mist rising from the withered rushes on the banks of the river. A watery sun, just beginning to pierce the bank-side willows, shone through the panes of the cabin and lit her rounded face.

  “Señor, you are a good man. Tell me—can a man’s mind, infected by lies, ever heal?” She was focussed intently on the wading birds, stock-still in the cold mists.

  “With patience and reason, of course, Your Majesty.”

  “And with good counsel from wise men?” she asked.

  Lady Willoughby was fussing around her like a wasp at the honey pot. Anne Boleyn had crept into the cabin and was trying to give the queen a glass of something warm. I asked them both to leave.

  “My lady, if you’re asking me to counsel the king, then I accept, but how can I counsel him unless I’m allowed an audience with him.”

  “I can barely get an audience myself,” she said, touching my limp shoulder. “Who did this to you?”

  “There was a peasant revolt in Flanders and scuffles in the streets. It was hard not to get caught up in it.” She sighed as Anne Boleyn, who hadn’t left, leaned forwards, thrusting mead under the queen’s nose. Was she trying to poison her?

  “This is precisely what will happen here if he is persuaded by the new factions,” the queen said. “There will be a civil war and brother will fight brother.” She fixed her swollen eyes to the floor. “Señor, I am nothing if not for my daughter, Mary, and my father Ferdinand’s faith, which is the king’s faith in his own heart. Surely, with good counsel you can show him that the only way is to remain united?”

  “And what of Prince Arthur?”

  “Señor, why do you ask? It’s long resolved and between God and me.”

  Maria, who had been observing from farther down the cabin, walked quickly towards us and tried to wrest the carafe from Anne Boleyn’s hands. As the wine flew around the cabin, she yelled, “Su Majestad, su Majestad,” but the queen would not be stopped.

  “Go from here,” the queen replied.

  Maria, muttering to herself, walked to the back of the cabin, taking Anne Boleyn with her.

  “What passes between you and me will remain between you and me,” I said. “Confide in your Spanish brother. Were there intimate relations between you and Prince Arthur? If you tell me, I can perhaps help you with the king.”

  “There were indeed relations that, save from Maria, I have not spoken of to another living soul. There were nights of passion, and there was something else in Durham House. No one but the old king, the brutes of his Star Chamber, and a dead maid know.”

  “I am your brother and also like a loving uncle, not merely a schoolteacher to your daughter. To help you, I have to know.”

  “When they saw the bump, they laid me down and thumped on my stomach. There was a miscarried boy, perhaps six months, that the old king’s men forced from my belly after Arthur died.”

  My chest felt like a lead weight had been placed on top of it, making it impossible to draw breath. I had not anticipated this.

  “The king’s men launched an attack on you? Men took your dead son? Why should they do so when that boy may have been king?”

  “They said it was not a son, but a bleeding. The old king, the tyrant—his queen had died, and he had wanted me first for his own bride so as to get his own sons on me.”

  I sighed in disbelief. “Why launch an attack if he wanted you?”

  The queen slumped and chewed on a fingernail. “He wanted me intact, a virgin to the world.” She seemed tenser now. “My father utterly rejected the match, so the old king, a horrible man, took his revenge.”

  “You could have left, no? Gone back to Spain?”

  “Yes, had they not kept me prisoner in Durham House for seven months without a window on to the world. My Henry wanted me, and I wanted him. So, my secret son, my firstborn, whom I’m sure I heard cry, was given, they said, to the gods of the river. I thought God would give me six or seven sons from Henry and that I should forget the little one, but I never forgot.”

  Whatever I had previously heard or witnessed, this seemed far worse. It jarred my soul, but why was I coercing her to confess? I remembered the little boy, Zeek. If it weren’t for Spanish brutality, his parents would still be there to love him and raise him.

  I glanced at the bank. The horses had gone, and the sun had broken through. Everything seemed clearer. Anne emerged from behind the small table where a carafe had been placed. She was filling glasses with it.

  “Go away,” I said. But she was like a leech that would not budge.

  “That girl, does she understand Spanish?” I asked the queen.

  ‘No,” the queen answered. “She reads and speaks French, not Spanish.”

  I did not correct her ignorance. I knew, though, that everything had changed, for though we were speaking the queen’s dialect, it was close
enough to the Castilian I had taught Anne Boleyn in Paris that she would have understood every word. The secret was out. One day it would get to the king, and it was my doing. Things would change, and it was my task to ensure that the lot of my people would change with it. Alhough I had cajoled the queen into revelation, I wanted to be the one with the weapon, not Anne Boleyn. I beckoned Maria de Salinas from the back of the cabin to take Anne away once and for all. Happy with having overheard us, she went. I sat down again close to the queen.

  “Your Majestad, I will counsel the king, but there is a great favour I must ask.”

  ‘Señor, anything. Just ask.” She was all mine now. This was the moment.

  “There is an old man in Valencia who lives in La Juderia. He has three daughters—Eva, Beatriz, and Leonora.”

  “His name is Vives?” she asked, alert like a deer in the open fields.

  “There is an issue—Limpieza de Sangre-the impurity of the blood. Unfounded, but it persists, and they are to this day heckled and harassed.”

  “I am sorry for your father and for these women—your sisters, no?”

  “There is no truth in the rumours. We are Nuevos for many generations. Just look at my writings. There is no doubt.”

  “I know this, señor. Why do you think we’ve had the cardinal’s groom in your room?”

  “Yes—Álvaro, the cleverest one of all. My lady, I beg you, speak for them. Get them safe passage and have them here soon.”

  “Stop, brother. Don’t tremble so. It’s done. Leave it with your queen, your other sister and Master Pole. Speak no more of it, for by the end of January, they’ll be here.”

  “My lady, Master Pole is another agent perhaps? He does not seem friendly to my cause.”

  “All right then, the new ambassador, Louis de Praet. He’ll be in London soon. He can arrange it.”

  “Louis de Praet is the new Spanish ambassador to England? Surely, this cannot be true?”

  “It is, and very soon, brother.”

  Pole or de Praet? Did relief or horror spread over my face? I moved away, shaking, and then returned, not thinking my words through. “Perhaps we should have Reginald Pole, after all.”