Time Will Tell (18 page)

 

Could he find these numerical values inscribed in the piece itself? He needed to look at his most recent transcription and the original copy, both of which lay tantalisingly close at hand in his briefcase. Might there be, say, twenty-three breves of music and thirty-five breves of rest? Or might the values of Ockeghem's surname, so beautifully balanced in the numerical reduction, be somehow located in the values of the notes? Sixty-four, after all, was the cube of four and maybe the number four had some special significance in the piece? Of course. There were four basic parts and the time signature was in four!

He couldn't take it all in; he needed more time. However, he was now convinced that the idea that Ockeghem had deliberately changed his name was a sound one. The symmetry of the numerical values was just too – well, as Schut had put it, just too beautiful. When he got home he would read more about numerology and
gematria
and track down references to number games of which, like wordplay, the medieval mind was so fond. There was a lot of work ahead, which delighted him; it meant another chapter at least. His book was going to be a large one.

He set aside his papers just as Emma finished her talk and the chairman invited questions. The first was from a young Ph.D. student whom Andrew identified as the one who had sent him the draft article that mentioned Chiron. The Frenchman suggested Emma might want to revise her opinion about Ockeghem. His research showed that the composer was not quite the saint described by Francesco Florio in 1477, and that he had constantly quarrelled with the Chapter at St Martin. Emma, slipping effortlessly into the constrained language of academia, thanked him for his observation and, in the interests of reciprocity, imparted two quick anecdotes about the clergy at two English cathedrals who had recently shown themselves to be just as self-serving and uncharitable as anyone in the medieval period. The audience had laughed and, with perfect timing, she offered to provide the appropriate references should he require them.

The second question was from Anne Frewing, who all but swaggered to her feet and addressed her question not so much to Emma as to the other delegates. Did Emma feel, as she did, that the study of a man who was a priest and who thus ‘knew' no woman, yet who chose to write about them in chansons or in motets, had anything to offer women in the twentieth century?

Emma smiled. She knew that Anne was feeding her a line, one that she could run with or ignore.

‘Thanks for that, Anne,' she said with no enthusiasm in her voice, a dry delivery that raised a small laugh. ‘Well, obviously, when we're dealing with sacred Catholic music and with traditions of courtly love we're up to our elbows in patriarchy, and I do sometime feel patriarchal pressure in fifteenth-century music. It's by men and performed by men, as choirboys or as adults, an entirely male-dominated world in which women don't get a look-in. So I'm really glad that women sing this music now, and not just because they're patently better than boys.

‘As for Ockeghem himself?' She paused and squinted, as if seeing the composer in her mind's eye. ‘I guess Ockeghem seems to me like one of the good guys, a
bon père
as Molinet would have it, more like a grandfather than a father. In fact –' she smiled – ‘now I come to think about it, exactly like my grandfather: an old man who sat in his armchair doing cryptic crosswords. Ockeghem liked puzzles too, so, yes, I think of Ockeghem as a grandfather. Someone, then, who has divested himself – or
absolved
himself – of power. Not a politician at all.

‘And that may be a fantasy, but then that's history and that's early-music performance. We hope to discover the truth, but we have to admit that there's a healthy dose of fantasy involved.

‘I'm not sure that answers your question, Anne. This sense of a composer is important for me – for all of us, I think – and we all know that it's fictional. But then it's fictional in the way that history is fictional. We'll never know.' And Emma looked at her audience and shrugged, a gesture that acted as a cue for applause.

Daniel stood and thanked Emma, though with more subdued enthusiasm than he had introduced her. Emma placed her script back into her bag and, as she leant down, she saw Andrew with a lunatic grin pasted over his face, his eyes wide, his bandaged hand resting on a piece of paper covered in letters and numbers, the other hand raised, giving her the thumbs-up.

He really should get some sleep, she thought.

The Memoirs of Geoffroy Chiron: Livre IV
ed. Francis Porter

Martius 2, 1524

The greatest changes to our city occurred during the reign of Louis XI. The new King's hope was that Tours would become the symbol of a stronger France, renowned throughout Christianity for its culture and devotion and, just a year after his coronation [1462], he proclaimed Tours the capital of France and made his home there. The townsfolk welcomed the news for it meant increased fame and wealth for the city. The constant comings and goings of visitors and the court meant that a sol could be added to a barrel of wine, a
livre tournois
to a fine cloak lined with rabbit fur, and that employment was guaranteed for the craftsman of the city. Soon we had goldsmiths coming from the south and tailors from the north. Houses were built across the Loire on the north bank, and St Cyr, where Jehan lived, soon became a recognised part of Tours. Where French was once the only language spoken in the streets, now Italian, German and Spanish were heard. And the look of the town changed also, for Louis had hundreds of mulberry trees planted to encourage the production of silk. Many traders came from Lyon [1470] and they built new, higher houses along the Rue de la Scellerie.

As was well known, Louis had quarrelled with his father, Charles le Victorieux, and been banished. He had received protection at the court of Philippe le Bon, Duke of Burgundy, where he had plenty of time to plan his strategy. There he had come to know and love the music sung in the court chapel and at the various feasts. The
premier chapelain
at that time was Robert Morton, an Englishman, and Louis, seduced by the glory that was conferred upon Philippe, took it upon himself to learn something about music. His ambition was not merely to be King of France but to build a choir that could rival his current host's, for at the time Philip employed some of the finest musicians. Gilles Binchois, the great composer for whom Jehan would come to write his beautiful
Déploration
, had retired to Soignies and Louis asked Morton if Binchois would be likely to forgo the pleasures of an idle life and accompany him to Tours. Binchois graciously declined the offer and added that the finest composer in the land already worked for the Royal Court: Johannes Ockeghem.

Jehan knew nothing of this and it was with more than a sense of foreboding that he met the new king shortly after the coronation in Reims. Having observed many like himself advance only to be cut down, he knew well that he might be replaced as Treasurer of St Martin by a favourite of the new king. Thus he was pleased to discover that his place as treasurer was assured, and that his responsibilities to the court and to St Martin would, if anything, increase; Louis's first instruction was to find new and better singers for a larger choir so that its fame should reach Burgundy.

When Jehan took Holy Orders, he did so with Louis's encouragement and blessing, for Louis was a devout man and, like Jehan, dressed austerely. His clothing was usually grey or brown and of basic cloth, and he often wore a strange grey felt hat (it was not for personal reasons that he had invited the silk traders to Tours). Jehan likewise had little interest in fine clothing, and throughout his life could only be persuaded to wear garments fitting to the occasion if he were provided with them. Only when it would have been rude not to display the gift would he set aside his usual sober clothing in favour of convention. It was Louis who gave him a fine scarlet robe lined with rabbit fur so that, when Jehan appeared in an official capacity, he did not look like a mere citizen. Such modesty was complemented by a generosity of spirit. At New Year Jehan's
éstrennes
[gifts] to shopkeepers, servants and patrons exceeded all expectations, and, when he died, he left all his possessions and wealth to the church.

And there were further commonalities of spirit between the King and his favourite composer: Jehan preferred his smaller house in Saint Cyr to the grandeur of the Treasurer's home, and Louis lived in the smaller Château of Plessis-les-Tours rather than the Château d'Amboise. Although he had the former enlarged, it was to accommodate his retinue and not for reasons of ostentation. When the choir of St Martin paid one of its regular visits we were afforded the occasional glimpse of the living quarters and, where I expected to see wooden beds with soft materials, instead I saw straw beds and sparse decoration. Where tapestries might have provided colour and softness, the stone walls echoed, and the floors were hard and unforgiving on our feet after the long walk, with music the only concession towards indulgence of any kind.

With the exception of an outbreak of the plague [1472], all was calm during the early years of Louis's reign. The King would occasionally visit the city, his arrival heralded by
haut
instruments, but generally the townsfolk conducted their lives with no interruption. Jehan was occupied with his various duties as Treasurer, disputes with the clergy being his daily bread. Slowly and surely, I ascended the ranks to become procurator, working alongside Jehan in his office as Treasurer, administering the responsibilities of receiving payments in the form of local taxation, and pursuing monies that were not forthcoming. When Jehan was absent, away on business in nearby towns or detained by the King, I was entrusted with the keys to the Treasury. Now and then dignitaries from other cities and countries would visit, occasions for which the organisation of grand galas held in the Hôtel de Ville fell entirely to me. Sometimes Jehan would compose a piece, which I would transcribe, and we would be as we once were: he the maître and I his pupil. And, of course, Jehan and I still sang together in the choir of St Martin. The seasons came and went, with the feasts that marked the passage of the year respected and honoured, and signalled by the tolling of the bells.

It all changed when Louis fell ill in Forges [1479]. From then until his death four years later, the King suffered a series of strokes and his modest, predictable tastes turned from the sober to the bizarre. He began to wear increasingly refined and colourful clothing – scarlet, crimson and blue silks and satins trimmed with fine marten's fur – and, as if to complement this, the walls of the Château were adorned with paintings and tapestries. Where once there had been modesty, now there was affectation; where humility had dwelt, now was found vanity. Worldliness was not the cause – Louis was still a devout man – but the conviction of his beliefs had become an uncontrollable appetite as his love of God turned to fear.

Louis made Saint-Jean du Plessis, the small chapel in his Château, a collegiate church and Mass was now sung every day. He confessed his sins every week and, always a collector of relics, now sought them out in the hope that they might effect in him a cure. He brought the ring of Saint Zenobius from Florence and the blood of hard-shelled animals from Cape Verde. He even summoned St Francis of Paola and built for him a cave wherein the famed hermit from Calabria devoted his prayers for the King's life. For this, as for other services, Louis paid excessively, his largesse increasing the nearer he came to death. Yet his illnesses continued and he was increasingly drawn to charlatans and soothsayers for whom guile counted as knowledge.

Rather than face death and his maker with the kind of quiet acceptance I have observed in Jehan and others, Louis frantically sought solace wherever he could find it, the logic of which was never explained. The most astonishing addition to the household was a menagerie of fantastic animals: elk and reindeer from Denmark – relatives, one supposed, of deer but much larger and possessed of antlers and fur designed for the cold climates of the far north rather than the temperate climes of Tours; dogs of all kinds – greyhounds from England, bull mastiffs from Spain, spaniels from Brittany, and shaggy dogs from Valencia; and horses of various breeds. The last were at least kept in stables, but all the others, including a jackal, were kept in the Château where they were free to roam. God only knows what kind of mongrel bastards this array produced. The smell of the animals was obvious to us all when we entered the Château, hardly surprising given their fear, snatched as they had been from their homelands. Often the baying of dogs was louder than the choir and Jehan instructed us to sing out, whatever the meaning of the words. Better, he said, to drown out the din and, in any case, Louis, his shrunken figure just visible above the desk of his stall, was by this time rather deaf.

Louis now trusted animals more than men and soon set about removing his closest advisers. All around him he saw scheming where there was none and he banished many barons. It was as though he feared that the plotting against his father in which he had indulged himself as a youth was now being visited upon him. Phillipe Commines, one of the King's closest advisors, warned Jehan to be careful and Commines himself was dismissed shortly thereafter. It was testament to Jehan's ability to read other people as one would a book that he was never estranged from Louis.

Jehan advised me that he spoke to Louis exactly as he always had done. If Louis said something that made no sense, Jehan would tell him so; if he suggested that someone undeserving should be banished, Jehan would disagree with him. Truth was his guide, Jehan said, and in that way Louis could never doubt his sincerity. Yet it was a dangerous time for him and others close to the King, and he had to tread carefully and observe all the proper hierarchies of the court and behaviour fitting to them.

In these last years of Louis's life, Jehan's conversations with the King were limited mainly to matters theological. There was, though, one administrative matter in which Jehan attempted to intercede, namely the addition of Desprez to the Royal chapel. On the death of Le bon roi René [René d'Anjou – 1480], the duchy of Anjou became the property of France. René had built a fine chapel and employed some great singers and composers, notably Desprez, and, seeing an opportunity for the further expansion of the choir at St Martin, Jehan suggested to Louis that the best members of René's choir should come to Tours. Jehan had seen several of Desprez's compositions and was impressed; he was undoubtedly a man blessed with ability and had much to offer God, France and the King. Although Desprez was a difficult and troubled man, Jehan believed that he might yet be redeemed.

Louis, though, had other ideas. Many of the finest relics in the land were in the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris, brought there from Constantinople by Louis IX, and the King believed that any power they might possess could be enhanced by the properties of music. Rather than bring the singers to Tours, he instructed that they be sent to the Sainte-Chapelle.

Desprez wrote to Jehan from his new home in Paris. He thanked him for his intervention
–
though, with typical lack of grace, said he would much prefer to have been in Tours. Despite this minor inconvenience, he wanted to write a piece for Louis. It was a fitting gesture; a composition is often given to a new patron in the hope of future service. But Jehan was not blind to the game of advancement that Desprez was playing. With Louis's death there would be many changes. The Dauphin was but a boy and, when he succeeded his father, though he was unlikely to interfere with the smooth running of St Martin, Jehan's tenure as
premier chapelain
was by no means guaranteed. Jehan was an old man and, if the new King preferred someone closer to his age, then the post of
premier chapelain
might become available. If Josquin was close to the Dauphin's volatile father, then the son might well repay the debt.

Desprez asked Jehan to advise him on the text. Generally such a piece would be a hymn of praise, but Desprez had heard many rumours of Louis's strange behaviour, his illness and his obsession with death. Louis saw false messages where there were none and often spoke of codes and riddles hidden in documents and Desprez was right to seek advice; the choice of text for the composition would have to be made with great care. The answer, Jehan believed, was to be found in Louis's recent commission from Jean Bourdichon which was displayed throughout the Château Plessis-les-Tours: fifty glorious scrolls borne by angels, which, through the artist's skill, seemed real. And upon those scrolls were the words of Psalm 88 [Psalm 89]:
Misericordias Domini in aeternum cantabo; in generatione et generatione adnuntiabo veritatem tuam in ore meo. Quia dixisti sempiterna misericordia aedificabitur; caelos fundabis et veritas tua in eis.
[The mercies of the Lord I will sing for ever. I will shew forth thy truth with my mouth to generation and generation. For thou hast said: Mercy shall be built up for ever in the heavens: thy truth shall be prepared in them.]

Jehan had played his part as honestly as ever, for the King had discussed with him what might be the most suitable text, but at that time it was a secret known only to the King, Bourdichon and Jehan.