The Secret Diaries of Juan Luis Vives

by Tim Darcy Ellis

  “All right then. Pole it is. Don’t ask me to change my mind again, though. Have faith.”

  The barge eddied upstream with the oarsmen silent.

  Later, the queen, outside the cabin with her hands in a fur muffle, seemingly caught in meditation, called me back. “Señor, out of the two, adversity or success, which would you choose?”

  “Success, Your Majesty. And yourself?”

  “I would prefer an equal share of both. If I still had to choose, I would prefer the former because those with only success frequently lose their minds.”

  She let me contemplate her words in a silence, broken only by the sound of the oars breaking the surface of the gentle river. Anne Boleyn had crept back again. Did she know no fear? The queen turned to her and said, this time in English, “Or their heads.”

  Anne drew the back of her hand across her neck as if slicing it off and then threw her head back.

  We toured the nunnery, with its elaborate cloisters, garlanded pillars, and roaring fires. Before we turned into the abbess’s private chapel, I caught Anne Boleyn by the shoulder.

  “Do not grab me, señor. Only Lord Percy or the king can grab me.” Rumours in court said that she had bewitched Lord Percy, the future Earl of Northumberland. She went on. “Señor, don’t worry about what I know. Just remember that we can work together—that we have common goals. One day you’ll see the sense in my words.”

  As our tour of the nunnery drew to a close, and after the abbess had been given a small chest of silver coins, I caught up to the queen.

  “Your Majesty, let us talk about the princess’s education. She’s wise beyond her years. But for her own good, she needs more exposure to the world and its peoples, the rich and the poor, traditionalists and reformists.”

  “Reformists, never. It is out of the question.”

  “Shouldn’t she be taught about the love of God, of being, and the Universe itself rather than the Holy Order?”

  “Señor, I will do for you what I can, but she is a true crusader of our faith.”

  “We have to bring her out of the darkness of the past. To keep her Catholic, yes, but let it be Catholicism that celebrates the unity of creation, not its difference.”

  She shook her finger and put it to her lips. “Basta! Enough!”

  I retreated, but back in the palace, as darkness lay all around, I prayed to the God of creation, of oneness. I prayed that there might soon be a time where I could experience that oneness with my father, my sisters, and the woman I would make my wife. I prayed for Zeek, who I would treat as a son. How could I be one if these were not here. I would only experience God when I experienced the true love of family.

  The king would not see me, and I had to get back to Oxford. By February my family would be here. Then I could work on the king for the grand plan. In the end, it would make this land a new world of concord, peace, and harmony.

  15 January 1524, Oxford

  “A misfit. Nothing I like more than a misfit,” said Thomas Linacre, still clinging to life when I told him of my solitary days in the library at Windsor while the others hunted. “I’m still earthbound,” he said as we ate beef and drank sweet wine. Later that day, we walked slowly to the Oxford players’ revival of Aristophanes’s comedy The Frogs. He fell about in laughter, and I was sure that he would fracture his frail ribs, and Henry barked when the players became frogs. What privilege to be with him on the final part of his earthly journey. Perhaps he’ll hold out until Father is here.

  I wait impatiently for a letter, any news of their journey. They must be on their way by now. I hope they don’t waste time packing old things or saying goodbye to old friends. I pray that when the men deliver my letter signed by the queen and Reginald Pole that they will just come.

  There was a surprise last week, a gift of money from the queen and a letter offering me a royal privilege of importing Gascony wine. When Father gets here, he’ll find a house big enough for the families Vives and Valldaura.

  There is work to be done. The princess is back on the morrow, and my father will be here soon. So, diary, I’ve got plans to make. You’ll have to go now. I’ll get you again when they’re here and you can meet them. For now, it’s adios.

  2 April 1524

  No. Dear God, a thousand times no.

  I rip my shirt. Shema koli Adonai. Lord, hear my voice. Tell me it is not so.

  6 April 1524

  This letter, get into the flames. Burn, burn, burn!

  An hour passes and though the letter has been burnt, its news has not died.

  An hour more and I dig my head out from my hands, only to find that the nails have scoured my scalp with lines. I ignored the whimpering hound and was deaf to Álvaro’s words, “Let us say the mourner’s Kaddish.”

  I was right. I was too slow, too clumsy.

  Was this the price I paid for my self-love, for my cowardice, for procrastination? As January passed and February turned into March, I made no move to go there.

  Father, can you hear me? Why did they do it? Was it Reginald Pole or was it Louis de Praet? Did the new neighbours who took de Pinto’s silver workshop vilify you? As you packed to leave, did you by mistake reveal the Torah scrolls hidden within the wall cavity by the fireplace? And what of my Eva, Beatriz, and Leonora, who dispersed into the night with the clothes on their backs?

  The letter from the Lady Willoughby made no attempt to save me from my suffering. It said that they chained you to a post, shaved your head and beard, and painted a Star of David on your forehead. What was that moment like, Papa, who used to hold me so tight and laugh as Eva sidestepped and high-kicked?

  She said that, as the flames started, you chanted loudly and rhythmically: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul.” And you called my name and the name of my mother, Blanquina, and of my lost brother, Jaime, and my own name with that of my sisters again and again.

  Did you hear the crying and wailing in the streets from the men and women who had always known you? Did it seem to you, as she said in the letter, that there would be a riot, that you would be rescued even as the flames licked at your feet? I pray God that you were gone before the hour on that windless day, that the report of your slow death was not true.

  “I shouldn’t have meddled,” I muttered over and over. “I must get my sisters out and rescue them. I must make amends. It’s not too late.”

  * * *

  I left a princess and a dying Thomas Linacre. All credit to him, though, who refused to go to the next world once he’d heard the news, as if trying to be my father, to spare me another grief.

  We rode that night and gave him his leave of this tortured world. Álvaro was ever by my side, like an archangel, but wearing black from head to foot except for a tzitzit-tassel that flowed from beneath his jacket.

  First, I would get to the queen and tell her what her meddling had done. Then I’d be in Spain to find my sisters. When they were safe, if anywhere in this world is now safe, I’d go to Padua for Pole. Crows of death seemed to be laughing at me: Turn back, Jews.

  Álvaro said over and over, “We’ll be safer in Oxford. We mustn’t go to the queen. Things will be worse.”

  Eventually, the lights and the smoke of the city appeared in the distance. Through Ludgate and over the River Fleet we rode, past St Paul’s, which was battered like a ship after a long storm far out at sea. In darkness, we came to the Barge. I felt that Margaret Roper would help me. I had to be with her for comfort and warmth before going to the queen.

  The guards recognised us and fetched Dorothy, the housekeeper, who came to the gate.

  “Gentlemen,” she exclaimed. “We were not expecting you. Master is away at court.”

  “And Meg?” I asked.

  “Mistress Margaret is at home, sir, along with Mistresses Cicely and Agnes.”

  “Dorothy, show
us to her.” I walked through the front door.

  “Meg!” I shouted. “Meg!”

  Chattering from the drawing room ceased, and she came out. Could she see the grief in my road-weary face?

  “Juanito, what on earth…”

  Her sisters parted like the Red Sea and out strode William Roper, prouder and taller than I remembered. He pushed Meg to the back of the group, and I saw that he carried a bundle.

  “You called for Mrs. Roper, señor?” he asked.

  “Yes. I have things I must discuss with Meg.”

  “There is a Margaret Roper in this house whom you will address as Mrs. Roper, not Meg, and whose company you will obtain only on my own warrant.” The bundle cried. “Tonight, that warrant is not granted.”

  I staggered and found myself in the arms of Álvaro, as strong as my lost brother. “Ande va la piedra, en el ojo de la ciega,” I said.

  “What did he say?” William Roper asked.

  Meg came forward, holding an arm out to me, and translated. “Where does the rock go but into the eye of the blind person?” She gestured to speak again, but he raised his left hand, the right still clutching the baby. He wore thick gold rings on two of his fingers. One had a large stone, and he thrust it at the top of her head until she fell to the floor with a shriek. Cicely and Anne rushed to pick her up. I tried to help but found myself surrounded by a wall of guards.

  “Thank you, but we cannot stay tonight,” Álvaro said. “We simply meant to extend greetings. My friend has received bad news.”

  “Oh, but you must stay here,” piped up sparkly, blue-eyed Cicely.

  Roper lifted his left hand again, and she backed away with a whimper.

  Álvaro spoke up, sounding like a biblical prophet. Was he one of the great rabbis of legend? “Be among the students of Aaron. Love the Lord your God. Pursue peace in your own house.”

  I stumbled out of the entrance hall, Alvarao supporting me at the waist as we made our way into the biting cold wind.

  ‘Álvaro, we must help Meg. We have to go back in.”

  “No! There’s nothing more we can do.”

  “Then we must get to the queen. Take me there, Álvaro.”

  “Yes, I’ll take you there. Come.”

  We trudged through dark streets lit only by the night-guard’s torches and faint glimmers from tiny windows. We walked through archways and past churches that I neither knew nor recognised. It seemed we were walking away from the river, not towards it, which is where we needed to go in order to get a barge to the palace. Finally, we reached a tavern outside the eastern city wall. Álvaro took to the back entrance to stable the horses.

  We walked through a horse yard and into the back of the smoky tavern. There were a couple of men there, one drinking and the other snoring, his arm over the back of a chair to stop him sliding onto the stony floor. Álvaro spoke to the landlord, but I was beyond pleasantries. I simply followed. We walked down wooden stairs into a brick-lined, vaulted cellar. A thick door was shut and bolted behind us. I thought to myself, “Let it be over and make it quick,” for I was convinced that this was the secret home of the Inquisition in England. There were vats of beer, bottles of wine, and river sand strewn on the floor, the space lit by a pair of candles.

  In that moment of great despair, clarity reappeared. There was a tall, thin man with a dark beard, older than I, and he had a long neck. He and Álvaro talked Portuguese. I was given a yarmulke, soft and silky, and though there were only three of us present, the tall man led me in the mourner’s Kaddish.

  He looked me in the eye and said, “May his memory be for a blessing.” Then silence filled the dank room.

  Álvaro touched my forehead with his first two fingers and closed his eyes. “I,” he murmured. He traced a line to my left hip and said, “Malkuth.” He moved his hand to my right shoulder. “Ve geburah.” He traced the line to my left shoulder. “Ve gedulah.” He then traced the line to my right hip and concluded with, “Le olam. Amen.” He took a dagger from beneath a silken sheet. My heart stopped. Was this the final act of his play? A pagan sacrifice? But he simply put my hand on the dagger and traced the same pattern. He said, “Thrust and speak with me, YHVH. I was not supposed to say the name of God, for no one is. He turned me a quarter of a circle and said, “Thrust again and say with me, Adonai. He turned me another quarter-circle. More words were spoken, and I followed him blindly. “Feel the breath that is your soul,” he said.

  Above me was a bright blue sky and the sound of nightingales. I focussed on their song. It was one of joy, of survival, of courage. There was the breeze, and a warm wind drifted into the evening of my childhood. I saw my parents standing together as one and in the peace of their courtyard in the shade of a lemon tree. Their suffering was behind them.

  That night we stayed in the ramshackle tavern known as The Flying Horse in the street known as Houndsditch. It was close to Bishopsgate, the main road north out of the city. The tall man of fatherly wisdoms, a specialist in Portuguese wines and ceramics, was introduced as Benjamin Elisha of Lisbon.

  “May the Lord bless you and guard you,” he said. “May he lift up his face to you and give you peace.”

  There was calmness about him, a sense of knowing. Of what, I was not sure. He was simply a sage man.

  “Your family?” I said. “How do you live here?”

  “Señor, it’s important that we are here in some form, however we do it and regardless of whomever. Our time will come again in this land, and in all the new lands in which these funny English folk settle.”

  “The b’yi-to, the proper time, but when is the proper time?”

  “When? None of our business, my friend, but it will happen. For now, you have done all you can.”

  “It would have been better to do nothing,” I said. Releasing those words seemed to release me from my burden.

  “Not so! This is all part of our story, part of the great journey of our people, and you’re part of that journey, my son.”

  Was my father talking through him?

  By the break of dawn, we trudged to St Katherine’s dock, for what was the point of demanding justice from a queen whose loyalties had become crystal-clear? The ship went only as far as Calais, but it went there peacefully, and the next morning we left that boat. We acquired two old nags and rode into the rising sun to Bruges. After two days of silent riding, we entered the city at evening. Saddle-weary and shoulder-sore, we found the Verversdijk. It was there still, three stories high and unguarded. We knocked and waited. A kind-eyed Spanish girl opened the door, and Álvaro said something quick, as if in code. She fell back and opened the door wide.

  From the hall, we could smell the freshly baked challah bread. There was a familiar scraping of chairs from the kitchen that sounded as if someone was rushing to hide something. Who would be inside?

  The Spanish girl opened the door to the kitchen an inch at a time and whispered something. It was dark and hard to see, but the first to emerge was Nicolas—taller now—dressed like his father, with a dark jacket, kerchief, and tufts of beard. Behind him was Maria, unable to hide her amazement. I was all eyes for whom was behind her. She emerged, holding the hand of a little boy, blond and awkward. It was Zeek. Her hair was cut shorter now, her face a little thinner, but she still had beautiful eyes that glimmered like diamonds struck by the sunlight.

  “It’s over,” Marguerite said.

  “What’s over?” I asked.

  “The waiting.”

  Maria, bolder now, grabbed us both by the hands and led us into a circle with the maid between her and Álvaro. “This is Susa. Who knows how she got here from Girona? Let’s say it was a miracle.”

  There weren’t enough of us for a minyan, but there never was these days. Nonetheless, Nicolas led us in a prayer of thanksgiving, the ha gomel. Then there was a slow and muffled rumble from the back room and a stumbling of weary
steps.

  “What is happening here?” asked Señora Valldaura, emerging from a chair that was hidden in the alcove at the back of the room. Stooped and bent over like a willow branch, grey hair peeping through a black scarf, she touched my cheek with her cool, motherly hand and nodded her head.

  “And Señor Valldaura, where is he?” I asked, looking up the stairs.

  “Father is no longer with us,” Marguerite answered. “He passed but a month ago.”

  “May his memory be for a blessing,” I said.

  All I could feel was the second that led to another second. And if there were to be no more of these seconds, if Louis de Praet was here and was to break down the doors and drag us all to a prison cell, then at least I would have these seconds. The little boy looked into my eyes, and I remembered the day I saw his father, the peasant rebel, being marched through the streets of Bruges. I remembered the day that I saw his mother, distraught, in the small town of Eelko that had since been razed to the ground in a war between Catholics and Protestants. I went up to him, knelt down, and put my arms around him.

  “Zeek, little man, you’re safe here. You’ve a home here. There are people here who love you very much.”

  I blessed that day when, dressed as a monk, I spied on Marguerite and became embroiled in the judicious murder of the little boy’s father. I couldn’t have changed that. His mother and father are gone now, but we are here, a family, a hermandad. Here is a chance for all of us, a chance in this troubled world.

  He looked up at me, but all that he said was, “I remember you.”

  With my hand on his shoulders, we slowly moved towards the long table in the back room. A meal appeared as if from nowhere. There was spicy fish, pickled beetroot, and fresh challah. Once we had eaten, my words flowed.

  I skirted the subject of how my meddling led to Papa’s death and the breaking of Bernardo Valldaura. To my surprise, no one seemed to bring it up. Marguerite, with her hand on mine, led me down the path I needed to tread. “Juanito, we know you tried, my love.”