The Courier's Tale (12 page)

We remained in Rome a few more days while Pole completed a report on all the woes of the Church. These he blamed on the papacy itself. His argument, I see now, was similar to what he wrote to the King.

Some popes, your predecessors, having itchy ears, gathered around them teachers who were not there to teach but to find ways for them to do whatever they liked . . . As the shadow follows the body, so flattery follows greatness, and Truth can hardly reach the ears of princes . . . These false jurists taught popes that all benefits belonged to them, that they could sell everything for their own gain, and, in short, they were above the law. From this single source, as from the Trojan horse, such mortal diseases have broken forth in the Church of God that they have reduced her desperation. Benefices are bought and sold. Everywhere the most uneducated youths of vile parentage and evil manners are ushered into the priesthood as the best place to serve Mammon. From this follow innumerable scandals. The clergy are held in contempt. Benefices in Spain and Britain are given to Italians. The flock go hungry for the shepherds are far away.

As for Rome itself – this city, the mother of the Church and mistress of other churches, is the worst of all. Strangers are scandalised when they go to St Peter’s and see slovenly ignorant priests so habited they could not appear cleanly in a nasty house. Nay, in this city, whores walk about as if they were goodly matrons and ride on mules and at midday are followed up and down by clergymen and men of the best account in the households of cardinals. We see no such degeneracy in any city but Rome, and here as well malice and hatred reign among private citizens. To bring men to good understanding and make them friends is the chief part of a bishop. You are Bishop of Rome . . . If you do not listen, the indignation of God, which now hangs over our heads, will fall upon us . . .

While this was being prepared for publication, I sallied forth to inspect the terrible city which now, on my first morning, lay stretched out under a blue sky as if darkness and confusion had never laid a hand on her. My friend Marc’Antonio Flamminio led me around, over the bridge and through great arches or low doorways which I would have never noticed on my own. In one passage, near Campo Fiori, I thought I felt the presence of an angel. But which angel? Not, surely, Flamminio with his long black beard and his bony wrists? It must have been some angel of the area.

Having said that, I noticed that Flaminio addressed every woman we met, whether a great lady in a mansion or the daughter of the octopus-seller at the stall near Trajan’s column, so gallantly that he might well have seemed like an angel to them. I watched him closely. His whole manner with these ladies seemed to say: ‘I take you at your true worth, which is inestimable.’

After a day or two I realised that the real sights of Rome were to be seen in Pole’s own apartments, which were crowded with visitors all day long. All the luminaries of the city came to visit him – artists, cardinals, nobles, writers. M. Donato was often there, and del Piombo, the painter, and Farnese, secretary of state (‘not a mouse stirs in Asia or Europe without Farnese knowing’). One afternoon in came the Marchioness of Pescara, Vittoria Colonna, the most famous woman in Italy, who arrived with M. Michelangelo.

The marchioness, who was of the most noble blood in Rome, was still fair and handsome, and had a kindly blue gaze.

‘Yet she leads men in chains,’ Flamminio whispered to me, ‘through the force of her mind.’

He and I stood at the back of the crowd observing the scene.

‘Well, she seems to dote on my master,’ I said.

‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘Until a few months ago she used to wear rags and starve herself in order to save her soul, but
il Signor
laughed her out of it. “There are better ways to get to heaven,” he said. “And your soul won’t thank you for battering down its only earthly home.” So she has given all that up and now eats well and dresses as you see, and is much happier. Indeed she is enchanted with her new
son
, as she calls him.’

In her wake trod M. Michelangelo. He was so famous that when he entered the room one felt that something else accompanied the man, something not quite human – his own fame, in short, like a cloud wrapped around a mountain, or a monument, or a season of the year. Yet he was also just an aged man in drab, black garb, who came in with an air of uncertainty and looked around the room with a sharp, suspicious eye. For a moment I thought of a certain jackdaw, a fierce bird that once lived in a cage behind the stables at Coughton and whose gaze used to frighten us as children.

But I saw the artist had a noble, weary look as well, as if marvellous exertions, which no one else had ever achieved, had gone on behind that high, lined brow.

I also noted that his gaze followed the Marchioness around the room wherever she went.

We remained there for much of the afternoon, Flamminio and I, watching the comings and goings.

‘These people all seem to hold my master in high regard,’ I said.

‘They do,’ said Flamminio. ‘They know what he has said both to the Pope and to his own king. But quite apart from that, everyone is delighted with his manner. What comparisons, what expressions –
bei motti
– flourish on his lips! No one can remember anyone like him.’

He added something about honey and bees but I forget what it was.

For a day or two, from the side window of Pole’s apartment, I kept seeing a little gilt ball high in the air, just visible over the old basilica, which was then half dismantled. One afternoon I went to find out what it was. Flamminio came with me and we stood at the base of a great stone pillar and gazed upward. This was the obelisk of Nero, who brought it to Rome many centuries before. It was almost the only one still standing of a great number which had once been scattered as thickly through the city as hedgehog prickles; the others had long ago been thrown down by earthquake or the insane rage of the barbarians or the jealousy of the Christians. This one was spared, said Flamminio, because St Peter had been put to death just where we stood: it was the last thing he had beheld with mortal eyes.

Inside the gilded ball on the top of the obelisk, he said, were the ashes of Julius Caesar. He read out the words inscribed below:

O Caesar, who once the whole globe held,

See what a little globe now holds thee!

Chapter 13

We left Rome a few days later and rode through snow as far as Lyons. Our hopes were high. In England, everything had suddenly changed. There had been an insurrection in the north; forty thousand men were under arms, demanding the retention of the monasteries, which were then falling, and the dismissal of Cromwell. Henry dared not call out the musters for fear the whole country would go over to the rebels. The King, it seemed, had been checkmated by his subjects.

He met the leaders of the revolt, gave them a royal pardon and offered to hold a parliament in York to hear their demands.

It was on this meeting that Pole set his hopes. He planned to loiter nearby in Flanders or Scotland until summoned to the negotiations.

‘You see – it may all end with my marrying Mary after all,’ he said.

There were about twenty in our party. Giberti, who was an old acquaintance of the King, was with us, and Priuli, and Lombardo the philosopher, three secretaries, four archers, five grooms. At first, Pole wanted to travel slowly as he felt unwell; Giberti declared this illness imaginary but he was then thrown by his horse which made him more sympathetic. Priuli fell off his horse at least once a day. Often I galloped ahead to see if the way was clear, and for the joy of it. The whole world seemed fast asleep: for mile after mile nothing moved in the whiteness but a few ravens which flew away cawing as we approached. Pole had only five hundred gold pieces to pay our expenses, but what did that matter? In a few weeks everything would be happily resolved, and I would be on my way to Coughton.

But then we came to Lyons, and this dream came to an end. The news from England was dreadful. The rebels had accepted the royal pardon, laid down their arms and gone home. Then a royal army was sent after them and a great slaughter commenced; in every town and village across the north men were hung in chains until no more chains could be found and then they were hung with ropes. Before execution some of the captives produced their pardons showing the Royal Seal. The King expressed wonderment that anyone should think those of any worth. His enemies had put themselves in his power. What did they expect? There was to be no parliament at York. The living were not permitted to bury the dead.

These further details reached us on the road between Lyons and Paris. Why we didn’t turn back to Rome then, I don’t know. Pole was a legate
ex latere
, which means ‘from the Pope’s side’ – the highest grade of ambassador – and I suppose these grand cognisances have their own momentum. He thought he should at least go to Paris and speak to the King of France. So on we went.

On the outskirts of Paris we were met with all the pomp due to the highest grade of envoy. Cannons were fired, bells were rung and the Archbishop of Paris, the Constable of France and other great personages led us into the city. But then word came that King Francis would not receive the legate.

This was unheard of. Giberti hurried off to see the King and came back shaking his head. Things were worse than he had feared. The English ambassadors had got to court before him and besieged Francis with demands. It was not sufficient that Pole be expelled from France. He must be ‘trussed up’ and handed over, to be conveyed to England alive.

‘The worst of it,’ said Giberti, ‘is this: Francis is considering their request. I saw the thought slide across his eyes. He tried to hide it by becoming imperturbable. Imagine – the witty King of France turned stolid before my eyes. It is all the fault of this war with the Emperor. The French are anxious not to exasperate Henry. The English ambassador, Gardiner, knows this very well. What a creature he is – more like a devil than a human being! Even his secretary seemed ashamed of him and took me aside and spoke gently about you – ‘
il povero signore
’ he called you. You have many friends in England, he said, but you are in grave danger. What an age we live in!’

We departed from Paris with no ceremony, apart from riding very slowly to make it look as if it was not fear that sent Pole away. Before we left, some gentlemen of the court came to warn him that the danger was growing every minute. Henry, afraid the French might not hand Pole over, had made further plans. Assassins were crossing the sea to kill him. Some had already arrived, armed with hand guns and swords. We took the road north to the city of Cambrai, which was neutral in the war.

This was mid-April. On the outskirts of the wood of Héraumont we were met by the Bishop of Cambrai and other dignitaries. The whole wood was already in leaf and birds were singing joyously. Here and there on the horizon rose pillars of smoke; both their majesties, Francis and the Emperor, Charles, were busy burning villages and farms. And meanwhile from north, west and south assassins were making their way towards us.

We stayed in Cambrai more than a month. The fact of the matter was we could go neither forward nor back. France was closed to us. The Imperialists shut their borders as well, for the same reason: fear of exasperating the King of England.

In the end, the Regent in Brussels – sweating, it was said, with terror, she was so frightened of her brother, the Emperor – came to a decision. She would allow Pole into the imperial dominions but only in transit.

We left Cambrai and went to Bousshyn, then to Bavey, then to Anno, and finally we reached Liège. There we stopped again. Paris to Liège should take about three days. It had taken us forty.

On the way we stayed two nights at the monastery at Anno. This was the most dangerous part of the journey. Our Cambrai entourage had left us; the place was impossible to defend; a row of pumpkins could have managed matters better than those monks at Anno. On the first morning there I came from the garden – I have always taken a keen interest in a kitchen garden – into the barnyard where I saw an Englishman peering through the gate. Then he came in and began browsing all around, examining the lodgings of the pigs and hens as calmly as if he was at a market.

I knew he was English from the cloth he wore. It shows what a fine state of affairs we had reached, that the sight of English worsted filled me with alarm.

‘What do you want?’ I said.

‘Ah, well now,’ he said cheerfully, ‘I have a message for Master Pole.’

He had light blue eyes and a thatch of hair cut to country standards. I took him for a poor country gentleman with perhaps a little learning.

‘From the King?’ I said.

‘No, his own people.’

‘His mother?’

‘No.’

‘His brother?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lord Montagu?’

‘No, the other one. Geoffrey.’

That was Pole’s younger brother. The messenger, whose name was Hugh Holland, said he was Sir Geoffrey’s servant and had come across the sea for the wheat trade, but that he also had a message for my lord. I went to Pole, and then brought the stranger into the cool of the church where they could talk together, while I stayed close by.

‘Your brother commends himself to you,’ said Holland, ‘and wishes to come here to join you. The world in England, he says, has waxed all crooked, God’s law is turned upside down, abbeys and churches overthrown, you yourself are proclaimed the worst traitor ever known, Lord Cromwell announces your immediate destruction and Peter Mewtas has been sent to kill you with a hand gun.’