Read The Courier's Tale Online
Authors: Peter Walker
‘The King of France is your faithful servant, that’s all I meant to say,’ said du Bellay humbly, although by nature he was very proud and haughty.
‘Very well,’ said the Pope, somewhat mollified. ‘We love your king. He is an obedient son and does what is required of him. But it is not your business to speak when we are speaking. In any case you are always tedious, and no one else ever gets a word in when you’re around.’
‘But Holy Father,’ said Farnese, retuning to the point, ‘there is no sign of the French.’
‘Very well! The Turks will not fail us!’
‘Holy Father!’ said Cardinal Morone. ‘I am sure your Holiness is of such goodness you will not have recourse to that infamous source of aid.’
‘Sultan Suleiyman is very good. He will send galleys,’ said the Pope. ‘Given an enemy as devilish as these Spaniards, it is quite lawful and indeed praiseworthy to turn to anyone else for help. Jews, Moors, Turks – they will all be eager to give assistance.’
A few days after the fall of the port of Ostia, a truce was called for forty days. The Imperialists hoped to reach an accommodation with the Pope while he wanted to spare his forces until the French arrived.
I took the chance to leave the city and went home to Mantua. There the Regent asked me to go back again and be his eyes and ears in Rome.
‘The game is not finished,’ he said. ‘I doubt that it will end as badly as we feared. But Capilupo is still in gaol, and I have no one as good as you at getting information out.’
I had devised a system of writing letters to my wife in English, which no one else understood, and posting them through Venice.
I accepted the commission and went back, not entirely reluctantly. In fact, I even considered taking young Francis with me. It was time, I thought, for him to get a measure of the world. Agnes Hide was horrified at the idea. She stood, her arms enfolding Francis, glaring at me as at a ravening monster. I retreated, laughing a little at myself and at her. But I was pleased in a way: it was the first time she had ever defied me and it was love for my own child that made her do it. In any case, I thought, perhaps she was right. No one knew how things would end in Rome.
There was very little happening when I got there. I took lodgings in the street of the bowmakers near Campo Fiori. During the day I went to work writing this book, which I had begun the year before in Mantua. On most evenings, at an hour after sunset, I went to Navagero’s house. On my first night back in Rome he reported his latest interview with the Holy Father.
‘Thank goodness you have come,’ the Pope said to him, ‘at least before that great ball has set’ – here Navagero stood and pointed dramatically at the shutters – ‘for now we no longer give audience after sunset and indeed have ordered our chamberlains not to dare to bring any message whatever, even if it were to report the resurrection of our own father. But we are always delighted to see you. We have often spoken to you of the wickedness of the Imperialists, and of their desire to destroy this state so that they can seize yours as well. Yet, like Cassandra, we have never been believed. Tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, we shall depart this life and you will remain behind, and amid the ruins will remember this poor old man and lament not having provided against his downfall. Indeed it is marvellous that you remain so calm. By God, when they have devoured us, Venice will be the salad! You will be next between the shears! But never mind – we recommend that you hang out a carpet and place a cushion on one of your balconies on the Grand Canal so you may sit at your ease and watch your destruction approach. Ah, well – whom God wishes to punish he first deprives of reason. Perhaps you think there is some ray of hope from the sea, like the frogs which jump into the water at the first sound of footsteps. And yet, after all, what is there to fear? This tyrant of an emperor is of no account. And what proof of himself has his wretched son, the King of England, ever given? This empire of theirs is like an old house – take one arch away and the whole thing falls. If we start by giving them a little cudgelling here in Italy, everything will go arse over kite.’
‘The government of Venice,’ said Navagero, seizing the chance to speak, ‘is highly desirous of peace, and knowing Your Holiness’s own great love of peace, believes that with some care a catastrophe can still be averted.’
‘Yes, it is true,’ said the Pope with a sigh, ‘I have done far more for peace than is strictly becoming. But against such devils, nothing of that kind avails. The Emperor cannot bear either you or us. Our freedoms are the furies that drive him wild. In the devilish soul of Charles, in that filthy body, there remains an active malignity which has conceived universal monarchy. And as well as that, it is remarkable that this Holy See has maintained itself at all, seeing that our predecessors did everything they could think of to ruin it, especially that bloated Pope Leo. But nor, from the life he led, could anything else be expected . . .’
That same week the news came that the French had indeed broken off diplomatic relations with the Imperialists and were preparing for war. Suddenly the whole world was drawn into the conflict.
The Queen of England was delighted. At last her husband had need of her. She offered him ten thousand infantry and a thousand horses – but only if he came back to visit her. This he agreed to do.
In London, war – ‘by fire, sword and bloodshed’ – was proclaimed against France.
A herald was sent to Paris, but left in such a hurry that he neglected to observe the proper forms.
‘Where is your safe-conduct?’ asked the French king.
The herald, Norroy King-At-Arms, admitted he did not have one.
‘Oh dear,’ said the King, ‘then the law requires you to be hanged, as a spy.’
Norroy King-at-Arms went pale.
‘Now, now,’ said the King, ‘We didn’t mean it. You are pardoned. Look, we have brought in all these gentlemen, the ambassadors, to show that we receive you.’
‘Your Majesty is too good,’ said the Constable of France. ‘If you took my advice, you’d hang him on the spot.’
‘Nonsense,’ said the King, ‘he’s as white as a sheet. Give him your gold chain to
encourage
him.’
Then he read the patent, in which Mary declared that she defied the most illustrious Henri, most Christian King of France, to war.
‘Consider how I stand,’ said the King, laughing, ‘when a woman sends to defy me to war. However, I expect God will assist me.’
Soon the Danes, the Scots and the Turks began to edge towards the conflict. German mercenaries were raised by both sides, and set off from home singing, arm-in-arm, like brothers, which in fact sometimes they were. But as they came up to the border where some must go to the French camp and some to the Imperialist, they began to exchange dark glances, then words, then blows, and then tried to trap and even to murder one another, without a single order to do so.
Thousands of German troops also marched through Venetian territory to join the imperial army approaching Rome.
Hearing of this, the Pope refused to see Navagero for several days and left him sitting on a stool outside the audience chamber. But then, feeling the tide of war was running in his favour, he called him in again.
‘We hear from many channels that the very stones of Venice complain of your not being able to obtain audience of us,’ he said. ‘We have always given you preference over everyone else, and how were we rewarded? But never mind – once there was a decrepit old man who was supposed to sit in a corner bewailing his infirmities. Instead he showed himself valorous and chose to act against this mongrel race of Spaniards who take root like weeds wherever they attach themselves. Now we hear that that accursed silly boy, Philip – would to God he had never been born – has taken himself off to England to see the Queen. We are of the opinion that the people of that kingdom would gladly remain at peace. The English are not very easy to
coax
, you know. Nor do we believe they will remain under Spanish domination for long. We intend soon to publish such a tremendous sentence that it will darken the sun. We will deprive this hateful youth of all his realms, and release his subjects from their obedience to him. If the English were to rebel now, what might we expect! And, keep in mind, there is always Scotland. It is incredible how willingly the Scots pass into England under arms, but, being almost savage and having nothing, they go there joyfully in the hope of gain. Would to God that that little beast, Philip, understood the matter better.
Dubius eventus belli!
Now he has excited the great he-goats, which might bite him in earnest!’
Dubius Eventus Belli. ‘Nothing is certain in war.’ Never did the Pope speak more truthfully. After a few more months, during which time a French army arrived in Italy, it became clear that something unforeseen and mysterious was taking place: His Holiness was changing sides.
The first sign of this was not recognised for what it was. It took the form of the arrest of Morone, one of the most senior cardinals in Rome. But as he was known to be of the Imperialist party, his arrest was not inexplicable.
The Pope himself, however, set the matter straight. He summoned Navagero to the palace.
‘My dear son,’ he said, ‘I am delighted to see that you have arrived, for it is getting late and as you see I am old and must look after myself and have regard for my life. Nevertheless, we still have a little time left now, in our life and even in what remains of the day. Now, as to this war: perhaps it is time to think of stepping back. We have always longed for peace and have done far more in pursuit of tranquillity than was seemly. But popes should not make war – it is fishing with a golden hook, by which I mean you risk much to get very little back. And remember: they are all barbarians, without exception, both the French and Spanish. These Frenchies, especially, give us cause for suspicion. They make many demands and now want to take possession of our seaports, if you please. But beyond all that, we now have a much more serious matter to consider.’
Then, drawing Navagero to the window, and swinging his foot back and forth, he continued; ‘We shall now give you an account of the arrest of Cardinal Morone. It was not a case of treason that forced us to act. Alas, if only it had been we perhaps might have let it go. But it was something much worse. Imagine our sorrow to discover that among the cardinals are certain people tainted with heresy. To be honest, we ourselves saw this danger in past conclaves, but no one would listen. Now we have decided to act, to make sure the devil does not place in this Holy See one of his own children, who will induce everyone else to lead his sorry life. A heretic cannot be pope. One who is not a member cannot become the head. For this reason we have arrested Morone and ordered all other cardinals, especially the Cardinal of England, to return to Rome at once.’
I should have said that by this time Carafa and Pole had long since made peace, Carafa many years earlier had withdrawn his accusations of heresy and apologised to Pole for his speech in the conclave. Now it seemed that his suspicions had suddenly revived.
‘We wish Venice to open the road to peace between us and Philip,’ the Pope continued. ‘You must write at once to your government, because certain calamities are at hand. In fact, they are so close they may be said to resemble the lightning that immediately follows the limbo.’
The road to peace was more difficult than the Pope had foreseen. The Imperialists made many demands, including the restoration of all the Colonna estates. They sent Marcantonio Colonna to Rome to announce their terms.
‘Is it possible for us to be disbelieved?’ the Pope exclaimed to Navagero. ‘Is it blockishness or divine judgement that drives them to this madness? How often we have told you these Imperialists are traitors, that they preach peace for the sole purpose of making war more commodiously! This boy, Philip, declared his will for peace. And so we offered ourselves to him, we opened the bosom of commiseration, such being the duty of anyone seated on this throne. And how are we rewarded? The Duke of Alba sends a Colonna to us, a rebel of ours, an excommunicated convict, an accursed son of Satan, giving him enough soldiery to insult us face to face. Anyone who thinks a pontiff would accept conditions from such an abominable person deceives himself.’
Alba therefore continued slowly to approach Rome.
At length he arrived under the walls of the city. He drew up his soldiers and addressed them, promising them double pay if they would not sack the city. The Germans indignantly rejected this suggestion.
The scaling ladders were then brought forward. Terror filled Rome.
Faced with this new threat, the Pope gave in. He sent his envoys to meet Alba, who was waiting under a tree near Cavi. They accepted all his demands and the next day returned to Rome and, booted and spurred, hurried into the Pope’s presence. Peace had arrived.
At that moment, the Tiber suddenly rose the height of a morris pike, drowning men, women and children in their houses, carrying off cattle, grain, oil, wine and mattresses towards the sea, and then, just as quickly, subsided.
This flood marked the end of the War of the Campagna, as it is now called.
Immediately the Pope turned his full attention to his new obsession: the question of Cardinal Pole.
When Pole had been ordered to return to Rome, there was outrage in London. The English ambassador went to the Pope to demand the decree be revoked.