Read The Courier's Tale Online
Authors: Peter Walker
‘Who was this counsellor?’ asked the Marchioness.
‘His name is Cromwell,’ said Pole. ‘He was once the companion of the common soldiery here in Italy and then a bookkeeper’s clerk in Venice – I knew the merchant who employed him – but he then tired of this wandering life and went back to England, studied law and soon made a name for himself for a certain ruthless spirit. But there were still some human aspects to his personality; I went back to England ten years ago and had not been there long before he came up to me one day in the palace and engaged me in conversation. “What,” he asked, “did I think were the chief attributes of a good counsellor to a prince?”
‘ “Well,” I said, “he must above all be able to tell his prince the truth, for, of all men, princes are those who need to hear it most, and yet often are the last to do so.”
‘At this he laughed very merrily, saying that such ideas might sound very good in school, or when emitted from a pulpit, but they were of little use in the secret councils of princes. What, then, I asked, was his own view? The chief quality in an advisor, he said, was to know how to study the ruler’s secret inclinations and find a way to satisfy them. This was harder than it seemed, because even the most powerful leader wishes to appear good and virtuous, while his desires often lead him in another direction. The best counsellor therefore was one who found a way to get the ruler what he wanted, without an open breach with law, religion and virtue.
‘I was astounded at this,’ said Pole. ‘I should have said that if he had been an advisor when the murder of Nero’s mother was under consideration, he would have been at no loss to justify matricide. But my wits were too slow, and I said nothing. He could tell from my expression what my feelings were and he laughed again. “Your trouble,” he said, “is that all your learning comes from books; five minutes in the real world teaches a man more than fifty volumes of your philosophers. Yet if you must have books,” he went on, “at least read those which value experience over speculation.”
‘He then offered to lend me one, written, he said, by a very acute modern, who did not, like Plato, publish his own dreams but laid down maxims based on real experience. I thanked him and we parted. He must have changed his mind because he never sent me any writing. But then, as I watched him rise in the King’s esteem, I became alarmed and took the trouble of finding out from others what his favourite reading was. In fact, I took as many pains as a general does to intercept the dispatches of the enemy. And when I found the book he had referred to, I discovered that truly it was written by the enemy of the human race. In fact, I had hardly begun to read it when I recognised the hand of Satan – for if we say that books which inspire mankind to love and justice are of divine origin, then those which set men at each other’s throats may be called satanic. Yet this one had the name of a man on the title page, and was written in a plausibly human style. Not to keep you in suspense any longer, the book was inscribed with the name of Machiavelli, from Florence, though he is entirely unworthy to have been born in that noble city, which I know, Master Angelo, is your own birthplace. But we know that the sons of God and sons of Satan are bound to mingle in life and will do so until the last day when he “whose hand holds the winnowing fan shall thoroughly clean the threshing floor”.’
‘I know the man you mean,’ said M. Angelo, ‘but I never heard this harsh judgement on him before. On the contrary, several people have described his work as well written, eloquent and containing excellent advice.’
‘I dispute that,’ said Pole. ‘Among his works, for instance, he has composed something called
The Prince
– such a performance that if Satan himself were to come to earth and reign in the flesh, and then bequeath the sovereignty to his son, he would need to leave him no other instructions than those found there. Listen, for instance, to what he says about religion, and justice and mercy, and all the virtues praised by the philosophers. Machiavelli tells his prince that nothing is more important for a ruler than a reputation for goodness, as no one can deceive the people better than a man about whose piety they have conceived some measure of hope. And yet, says Machiavelli, nothing is worse for a ruler than truly to be merciful, just and generous, as that will gravely limit his power.
‘ “And so,” he says, “what should be done?” Why, one should follow the middle way – appear devoted to religion, mention God frequently, pray in public from time to time – but make sure you secretly ignore the precepts of the gospels, or follow them only when it suits you.
‘You see what has happened here? Guile and deceit have become the basis of your rule. Machiavelli, in fact, is quite explicit about it: he urges the Prince to act in the manner of the fox and the lion. To those two beasts he transfers the
arcana imperii
, the secret power of state. To the lion he assigns first place, but when brute force is less effective, one should imitate the way that a fox enters burrows . . .’
Now at this point I dared to speak up. Usually I was as silent as a statue during conversations among these great personages, but I also had practical matters to consider. By then I was, in effect, Pole’s chief bodyguard, and I saw that the shadows were creeping across the ground, and the great brick ruins nearby were beginning to redden like embers, for the sun was sinking. The threat to Pole was by no means over simply because he had left Flanders. On the contrary, Rome, I thought, was a much better place to have someone killed than, say Liège, where everyone knew who was coming and going and strangers could be closely watched. In Rome, a thousand travellers arrive every day. I had been badly frightened once or twice already by certain English birds of passage. So I spoke up tentatively and said that, considering the time of the day, perhaps we should think of making for home.
‘What!’ said Michelangelo, who hated being made to stay or to go unless he himself had made the decision. He wagged a finger at me. ‘There’s plenty of time yet. The Cardinal of England has not finished what he is saying, which is of the greatest interest. We might have hoped that you, especially at your age, would show a little more courage.’
I accepted the rebuke meekly. As a matter of fact I was completely in the dark about the risks we faced from one hour to the next, or rather, to be more precise, I had lost faith in my own instincts. A year before I had made a laughing stock of myself, being convinced that a great danger was approaching. In fact, many years later, it turned out that I was quite right but I had been looking in the wrong direction. The peril was right there under our noses. But I did not know it then, and I was not forgiven for my mistake. Indeed I had not forgiven myself. So I fell silent and gave way.
After a pause, Pole went on. ‘And this is the whole doctrine of Machiavelli,’ he said. ‘This is the poison which Cromwell poured into the King’s ear: that under the pretext of virtue you may pander to your worst desires and ambitions. It was only seven years ago and look what has happened in England – the laws overturned, our ancient liberties, the customs of our ancestors, the ornaments of the land, the monuments of the nobility, the shrines of the saints, splendid libraries – everything of worth extinguished, violated, scattered, torn out by the root. A hundred hospitals emptied and sold. The old, the sick, the blind, the lame – thrust out to die in the street. Surely he was born with an aptitude for destruction, this bookkeeper’s clerk! If a single legion of devils drove the Gadarene swine into the sea, how many legions must there be in Cromwell who has sent so many men down into the sea of death? No doubt he speaks in public of the Gospel and his desire to purify it and save it from priestcraft, but in private he uses very different language. And what of the King, who has followed his advice? He is certainly richer and more powerful than ever, but is he safer, or happier? Once he was adored by the people, in fact our whole nation was stupefied with love for him. Now he sees deceit everywhere, and sheds blood without pity. Divine law is decided at drinking bouts in the palace; he has made religion a trap to catch his minions as if they were mice to be tortured. He has betrayed all the kingly oaths he took as a young man, and he accuses everyone else of betrayal. All this as the result of following the precepts of Cromwell. If a man’s sole aim was to drag a prince down to his destruction, he could devise no speedier method than that by which Cromwell has led the King into the dark, namely the doctrine of Machiavelli. But apart from the wickedness of the writer, observe his stupidity! He warns a prince above all never to be caught feigning virtue, as nothing infuriates the people more than to realise they have been deceived. Yet that, most foolish of men, is precisely what human beings cannot control. It is in the hands of God. Nature herself says that nothing feigned can last. And it is especially true of a ruler, whose every action is scrutinised, and his words, and his sighs, his smirks, even his gait – all the bodily gestures which so often express what is in the soul.’
Here I began to despair, for it really was getting quite dark – it was late in the year – and I could see that Pole had no intention of concluding his speech. Just then there was a happy intervention. Nearby, so that no one could fail to hear it, came the prolonged cry of an owl.
‘Ah, well,’ I said. ‘Did you hear her? It is a pity. Night has come. I can protect anyone in daylight, but after dark a single man armed with a dagger can slip in close and never be seen until it is too late. I can do nothing to stop him . . .’
At this, the Marchioness hastily intervened, saying that I was quite right, and that we should go at once, but meet again soon in order to continue the discussion.
‘After all,’ she said, it is not Michael’s fault that night is falling. It is a rather frequent occurrence.’
I was very pleased with this, and with the bird which had come to my rescue.
‘Perhaps,’ I thought, ‘it is the very same creature I heard here three years ago, and which now seems to be in alliance with me. How things can change . . .’
But just then I saw one of the youngest grooms, a cheeky youth named Girolamo, emerge from the darkness in the direction from which the owl had called. It occurred to me that here was the real source of the signal. I knew he could imitate an owl well because I had once taught him to do so. He looked very pleased with himself and glanced at me as if expecting thanks. I could not of course condone such deceit, especially when employed against their Excellencies, and I refused to look at him. All the same, I could only be happy with the outcome. Even Michelangelo was making his way to the horses, though he was still grumbling.
‘Night?’ he said. ‘Night? It is not night which is to blame for the wickedness of the world.’
Then he stopped and recited a verse.
Poor night, she is so dark, lonely and lost,
The birth of one firefly can make war on her.
This recitation seemed to please him, and so he got up on his little chestnut colt, and we all made our way back to town.
Despite the Marchioness’s wishes, we did not meet again for a long time as soon afterwards Pole set off to see the Emperor and the King of France. By then a ten-year truce was in place between them, although no one expected it to last. The talks, which were held at Nice, had been more like the circling of wrestlers before they clash. Even as the royal fleets had approached the port they fired on each other from sheer force of habit, and then, no sooner had the Emperor’s suite come on shore than certain courtiers noticed a man raising and lowering a black flag at the base of a tower further along the coast.
This was taken as a sure sign that the Turkish fleet had gathered on the horizon, summoned there by the King of France so that the Turks could fall on the Emperor and destroy him.
The black flag was seen to rise and fall a hundred times, signifying that the Turkish strength was a hundred galleys. At that, imperial trumpets sounded in all directions, and the Imperialists made ready to dash out to sea to escape the trap. But then a brigantine which had been sent to reconnoiter came back and the captain declared no Turkish fleet was on the horizon and in fact there were no Turks there at all.
As to the signals from the base of the watchtower it was discovered that a farmer who had a large quantity of beans in shell was winnowing them in the breeze. Each time he threw them in the air it looked, from a distance, as if he was raising and lowering a black flag.
That was the degree of mistrust that prevailed between the parties: one man winnowing his beans nearly consigned the world to ten more years of war.
Nevertheless, after many delays and absurdities and displays of pride, a truce was agreed. I forget all the precise terms – what was to happen to Milan, for instance, or to the Duke of Savoy, who had nowhere to live – but one thing that the monarchs agreed on was the King of England. By then Henry had managed to outrage everyone. Not only had he attacked the living, now he turned his lightning against the dead. The holy martyr Thomas à Becket who had been in his grave three hundred years was accused of treason and summoned to hear the charges against him. Failing to appear, he was sentenced to stern punishment. His bones were dug up and burnt. His shrine was stripped and demolished. Two great chests full of treasure, deposited there by pilgrims over the generations, were taken to London by the King.
Becket’s was only one of many shrines that fell that year, amid a great destruction of images, painted and carved, which were broken up or burned in bonfires, with, on occasion, a monk hung in chains above the flames so that his fat, dripping down, might accelerate the combustion.