After dinner the company dispersed around the grounds, some strolling by twos and threes along the paths through the formal gardens, others playing games with the children (Italian parents – men as well as women – seem to spend more time with their young ones than do those of other nations). Francesco brought me into the house.
‘Alessandro della Fava was in the bank’s London office in my uncle’s time,’ he explained. ‘He had the training of young Englishmen who came to work for Frescobaldi’s. I am sure he will have memories you will find interesting, but you may have to coax them out of him.’
We entered an intimate solar where chairs were set in a semicircle before a hearth on which a well-stacked fire crackled busily. On the chimney breast the family’s shield was proudly displayed: three silver chess rooks on a red ground. In the armed chair closest to the fire sat a small figure, his upper body supported by cushions, and his legs covered in a sheepskin rug. Alessandro’s white hair and beard accentuated his ruddy features. The old man peered at me through eyeglasses perched on his nose and tied to his ears by ribbons – his vision weakened, I assumed, by years of peering at business ledgers.
Francesco made the introductions. ‘Alessandro, this is Signor Bourbon, the visitor I was telling you about.’
‘French?’ the old man asked in a gruff voice. Firelight was reflected in his eyeglasses and I could not gauge his expression.
‘I come from the court of Navarre, Signore,’ I said.
‘Hmm!’ Alessandro waved a hand, which might have been an invitation to me to take a seat or to Francesco to leave. My host and I interpreted it as a double signal and moments later I was sitting alone opposite della Fava and wishing that the fire was not so hot.
‘It is kind of you to spare me some time, Signore.’
‘Hmm!’
‘I believe you were with the Frescobaldi branch in London many years ago.’
He nodded. ‘In the good years before that half-brain Francesco – this one’s uncle – ruined it all. Not as clever as he thought he was.’
He seemed disinclined to extend that train of thought, so I pressed him further. ‘You knew the young Englishmen who came to work for the bank.’
Alessandro nodded by way of reply.
‘Do you remember one in particular – Thomas Cromwell?’
‘Yes, yes.’ His eyelids drooped. Then, just as I feared the old man was drifting into sleep, he lifted his head, eyes wide open. ‘He was a troublemaker. What became of him?’
‘He is dead – executed by order of his king.’
‘Ah . . . yes . . . no surprise in that.’
‘Why say you so?’
Alessandro took his time over the answer. ‘He was quarrelsome, disputatious, difficult to teach. When you showed him how to do something, instead of accepting it he would argue – suggest a “better” way. Impertinent swagger-brain!’ He took a long pause. ‘Unfortunately, he was sometimes right. That was what made him difficult to tolerate.’ The old man was now getting into his stride. ‘Always getting into fights. More than once he came into the office with a bruise or a black eye. That was why he was sent away from Florence. Fell in with the wrong sort of people – artists and the like.’
‘Yes, Cromwell was very interested in art. He had quite a collection—’
‘One of his copesmates came with him to London, I recall. Repellent rogue! There was some sort of a scandal.’ He grimaced. ‘But what happened next, think you? Cromwell persuaded some of his London friends to introduce this mediocre sculptor at the royal court and, before long, he was receiving commissions from the king. That was the sort of man he was. He made things happen. Tom Crom had some kind of magic.’
‘Perhaps he carried a powerful talisman. Did you ever see him with this?’ I took the broken crucifix from my purse and held it up at arm’s length.
The old man became suddenly animated. ‘Yes, yes! I do remember it. Tom Crom always wore it on a string round his neck. What does it mean?’
‘I hoped you could tell me.’
Alessandro shook his head. ‘No, as far as I know he never told anyone about it. It obviously meant something important to him, though.’
I tried another opening. ‘It has been suggested that he was a disciple of Machiavelli.’
The old man nodded two or three times. Then his head drooped. ‘Well, well,’ he muttered. ‘Tom Crom, Tom Crom.’ He fell silent, breathing deeply.
After a few moments, I coughed discreetly. Then loudly. But nothing would wake him. I stood up and walked to the door. As I reached it, it opened. Francesco slipped in and closed the door quickly behind him.
‘Come with me,’ he whispered. ‘You must hide.’
‘Hide? Why? What is wrong?’
‘There are some Dominicans here looking for you.’
‘Dominicans? Why should I hide from them?’
‘Because they are the foot soldiers of the Holy Office.’
‘What is the Holy Office?’
‘Most people know it as the Inquisition.’
Heretics are those who wickedly oppose the Holy Scriptures, the first of whom was the devil, when he said to Eve, ‘You shall not surely die’ (Gen. iii, 4), together with his followers. Those also are heretics who cast a veil over the Scriptures and interpret them otherwise than the Holy Spirit demands . . . Those who are such one should overcome with holy knowledge, not angrily but softly . . . If they will not be taught by strong proofs or evangelic reasons, then let them be, and leave them to rage and be mad (Tit. iii, 2, 3), that those who are filthy may become more filthy still (Rev. xxii, 11). The law that condemns heretics to the fire builds up both Zion in blood and Jerusalem in wickedness. Therefore will they be taken away in sighs, for the judgments of God (whose right it is to judge) either convert or harden them, that the blind lead the blind and both the seduced and the seducer go from bad to worse This is the will of Christ who said, ‘let both grow together till the harvest, lest while ye gather up the tares ye root up also the wheat with them’ (Matt. xiii, 29). ‘For there must be also heresies among you, that they that are approved may be made manifest among you’ (1 Cor. xi, 19). Though they indeed experience this, yet they are not put away until Christ shall say to the reapers, ‘Gather first the tares and bind them in bundles to burn them’ (Matt. xiii, 30). This word does not teach us idleness but a strife; for we should unceasingly contend, not with men but with their godless doctrine. The unwatchful bishops are the cause of the heresies. ‘When men slept, the enemy came’ (Matt. xiii, 25). Again, ‘Blessed is the man who is a watcher at the door of the bridegroom’s chamber’ (Prov. viii), and neither sleeps nor ‘sits in the seat of the scornful’ (Ps. i, 1). Hence it follows that the inquisitors are the greatest heretics of all, since, against the doctrine and example of Christ, they condemn heretics to fire, and before the time of harvest root up the wheat with the tares. For Christ did not come to butcher, destroy and burn, but that those that live might live more abundantly (John x, 10).
(Balthasar Hubmaier, Heretics are Those who are Born Thus, 1524)
‘Inquisition! I have done nothing to upset them.’
Francesco grabbed my arm and steered me towards the room’s other door. ‘The Inquisition’s prisons are full of people who have done nothing to upset the Inquisition. Come, we must hide you while I talk them into going away.’
I was taken up a narrow staircase that led into a long, dark attic. The only light struggled through a dusty circular window in what was obviously an end wall. I could just make out a scattering of boxes and what might have been items of discarded, cloth-shrouded furniture.
Francesco said, ‘I think they will not presume to search my house, but if you do hear anyone approaching conceal yourself in here. I will ply them with wine and send them on their way.’ He hurried down the stairs, leaving me in the gloom.
I know not precisely how long I stayed in that little penumbral world, straining my ears for any sound rising from below. All I could hear was the wind siffling around the eaves and the occasional creaking of timbers – the soul of the house flexing its muscles. My only companion was the fear conjured up by the word ‘Inquisition’. This agency of enforced piety had not reached its tentacles across the Pyrenees into Navarre, and King Francis was assiduous in curbing the power of papal vigilantes in France, but accounts were commonplace of ‘heretics’ tortured in ecclesiastical dungeons, consigned to forced labour in the galleys or burned to death for daring to question articles of faith as defined in Rome. My uncomfortable sojourn must have lasted two hours or more, for when my host did return he was carrying a lantern to light his way through the evening house. We returned to the solar where I had spoken with Alessandro. His chair was now empty and the fire was reduced to a few glimmering embers among the ash.
‘What in the name of all the saints!’ I exclaimed as soon as we were seated.
Francesco held up his hand to silence me. ‘Best let me explain,’ he said. ‘All is not yet done. These terriers are stubborn. When they have their teeth into someone they are loth to let go.’
‘But why me? What have I—’
Again Francesco waved his hand. ‘Two reasons, as I understand it. One, you have been asking questions about Thomas Cromwell, a man well hated in Rome – even more, I think, than Martin Luther. The German monk came into the open; argued his ideas in books and sermons. This Cromwell, as they say, was more devious and more dangerous. He was the arch-heretic who persuaded his king to throw off papal allegiance, to close all the monasteries, to make England a heretic state. ’Tis said that the messenger who brought Pope Paul news of Cromwell’s execution went away with a purseful of gold.’
‘And the second reason?’
‘You arrived in Florence as an emissary of the Queen of Navarre. She is viewed in Rome with deep suspicion as someone who harbours heretics.’
‘What lean-witted nonsense! Her Highness’s salon is the most devout and enlightened in Europe. ’Tis a place where a man may speak his mind and test his opinions by debate. All are welcome there.’
Francesco nodded. ‘Exactly! There’s the difference between Nérac and Rome. Oh, Rome is tolerant, very tolerant – of sodomy, libertinism, whoredom, nepotism and cupidity. In Rome you may be absolved even for murder. But speak ill of His Holiness or express any doubt about papal authority and you are likely to be crushed beneath the wheels of the ecclesiastical wagon. Yet there is obviously another reason a man with your connections is of interest to the Holy Office.’
‘What is that?’
‘Affairs in France are of major concern to the Pope. Politics is all. They want to know who the king is making alliances with and what influence Marguerite of Navarre has over her brother.’
I too had the situation at the French court much in mind. Was the fate of my poor pupil, young Jeanne, now settled? Had her proxy marriage already taken place? Was any attention at all being paid to her protests?
‘From this side of the mountains,’ Francesco continued, ‘it is difficult to grasp what is happening among the states of northern Europe. England, the German principalities, Geneva, Strasbourg – it seems that all the papal bastions are falling, one by one, to the enemies of the Catholic faith.’
‘You speak as though you would welcome that.’
‘Oh, no!’ There was a bitter edge to his laugh. ‘If I believed the heretics I would have to stand up for my belief. And if I did that I would have to be prepared to face the consequences. I am not that brave.’
‘Yet you are helping me to escape from the Inquisition.’
‘That is different. I will not have my hospitality abused by papal heresy hounds.’ After a pause Francesco continued. ‘What will you do now? My advice would be to return home as quickly as possible.’
‘I hate to be chased out of the country when I have done nothing to merit such treatment.’
‘The alternative—’
‘Could be very unpleasant. Yes, I doubt it not.’
‘If you make for the coast at Livorno, we can provide an armed escort. From there I will arrange a ship to take you to Marseilles.’
‘That would mean putting you to considerable trouble. And you risk being branded as a supporter of heretics.’
He shook his head. ‘I think not. My family are recognized as priests of the one true god – money. Several men in Rome, including members of the Curia, are heavily in debt to the Frescobaldis. Without us they could not fill their fine palazzos with beautiful things and entertain their friends with lavish parties. They simply cannot afford to upset us.’
The young man spoke with an air of confidence, but I could not help wondering whether it was mere bravado. What lay behind his offer to help me leave Florence? Was it concern for my safety or his own? For my part, having come so far, I was loth to quit the city until I had exhausted all possible lines of enquiry. Research must be thorough or it is not research. A warning voice in my head murmured, Do not confuse research with obsession, but it was easily stifled.
‘I suppose they will search my lodging,’ I said.
‘Without doubt. They asked where you were staying. Is there anything there you would not want them to find?’
I shook my head, thankful that all Cromwell’s papers were safely locked away in Nérac, save for three items that I was careful to keep with me at all times.
‘That is good, but you obviously cannot go back there. You must stay here while I make arrangements for your journey.’ He stood abruptly. ‘Come, I will show you your chamber.’
I should have stayed him; explained that I was not yet fully resolved on his plan; told him that I needed time to think. A few words spoken at that moment would have changed my destiny and his; might have saved lives. I did not speak those words and I will grieve my sin of omission to my dying day.
Silently I acquiesced in Francesco’s arrangements. I was made very comfortable at Fiesole and left much to my own devices for the next few days. My protector was often away visiting his other estates, and we spoke little about the plans for my departure. One evening, on his return to the villa, he handed me a package.
‘This was left at the bank in a box addressed to me,’ he explained. ‘It is from Alessandro della Fava.’
I removed the paper wrapping and spread the contents on the table between us. They consisted of seven letters and I immediately recognized the handwriting as Cromwell’s. The identity was confirmed by one item dated 17 May 1519, which was the original of a copy already in my possession. Quick exploration established that the letters were reports received by della Fava – between 1510 and 1520, when he was in charge of the London operation – from Cromwell, who seemed to have been his close confidant, or even his deputy.
‘These will make interesting reading,’ I said. ‘I wonder why the old man made no mention of them when we met.’
‘Doubtless he wanted to form his own opinion of you before he parted with anything in writing that would connect him with a notorious heretic.’
‘Presumably he has more records like this. He and Cromwell obviously worked together for a long time.’
‘Without doubt. Much of it, of course, will be confidential.’
‘After all these years?’
Francesco stood and stepped across to the buffet standing against the wall. He busied himself pouring wine into two goblets. When he spoke, his back was towards me so that I could not read the expression on his face. ‘Commercial life floats on a raft of secrets. Every plank removed makes it less seaworthy. There are things Alessandro will not reveal, even now, because they could seriously damage the bank – its standing, its reliability, its survival against unscrupulous competition.’
I did not need to see my host’s face to sense his heightened anxiety. By helping me in my quest he had found himself drawn into marshy ground and was only now realizing the difficulty into which his generosity might be leading him. For all his braggadocio, I wondered whether the suspicions of the Inquisition troubled him. Even if he could nonchalantly wave them aside, there must be other members of his family who were deeply embarrassed. I could easily imagine what some of his more senior relatives had been saying to him: ‘You must get rid of this foreigner.’ ‘Be careful what you tell him about our business.’ ‘He must not be allowed to pry into Frescobaldi history.’ ‘He could damage our interests in England.’ ‘We cannot allow ourselves to be drawn into religious arguments.’ I felt very guilty at having placed Francesco in such a difficult position.
Francesco gazed mournfully over the rim of his glass. ‘Signor Bourbon, I deeply regret that things have come to this pass. We have all enjoyed meeting you. But at least you have something to take with you and reflect upon during your journey home.’ He pointed to the letters. ‘All the arrangements for that are now ready. We will leave before dawn on Friday, in two days’ time. We will reach Livorno by nightfall, and there will be a ship waiting to transport you to France on the next tide.’
It was obvious that I should distance myself from Fiesole – and from Florence – as soon as possible. And yet, and yet . . . it was obvious that there was more here about Thomas Cromwell waiting to be discovered. To flee Italy with my self-appointed task only half completed would be shameful. For if I had a responsibility to Francesco, I also had a responsibility to my old friend, Thomas Cromwell. The conviction grew upon me that I had been entrusted with the responsibility of saving his reputation, of clearing away the obloquy his enemies had piled upon it.
My dilemma worsened as I studied my new cache of Cromwell letters. They all dealt with business minutiae and at first reading seemed to yield no information of importance. There were details of imports and exports – principally wine and cloth. There were references to national and international events that might impact on Frescobaldi business interests: ‘This king [obviously Henry VIII] spends more freely than his father, but he is no less interested in gleaning revenue from all possible sources (tenth December fifteen ten)’; ‘On Monday last I rode from here [Antwerp] to Leuven to hear Erasmus lecture. What a great scholar he is. I have his New Testament almost by heart (ninth January fifteen seventeen)’; ‘The king’s forthcoming visit to France will be inordinately expensive, but if it secures peace the cost will be justified. I am in hopes that, through my friends at court, your suit will prosper (fifth March fifteen twenty)’.
What was more intriguing was the change in relationship between the writer and the addressee over the years. The earlier letters began in a tone of deference: ‘Good Master della Fava, I heartily recommend me unto you and thank you for your goodwill towards me, which I pray God give me grace to deserve.’ Such humble invocation of the deity had disappeared by the end of the decade, as had self-effacing expressions of respect. By 1520, Cromwell was wasting no ink on superfluous courtesies: ‘To my good friend, Alessandro della Fava, Greetings.’ The earlier correspondence was largely given over to relaying information and requesting instructions. By 1517, the writer was proposing policy that he clearly expected to be endorsed by the Italian.
By the time I extinguished my candle and climbed into bed that night my mind was aflame with curiosity. The correspondence contained so many hints and innuendos, so many questions clamouring for answers. The only way I could obtain those answers was by having another meeting with della Fava, but I did not know his address and it was obvious that Francesco was very unlikely to tell me. Indeed, my asking the question would alarm him greatly.
The dark hours were long and sleep did not shorten them. At dawn I dressed and took a walk around the garden to cool my throbbing head. Sentinel pines inscribed long shadows on the lawn. Box hedges contained pools and flower beds with geometrical discipline. Stone paths dictated the visitor’s itinerary through the mini-landscape of imposed precision. I wished that my mind was as well ordered.
The gardeners were already at work and I fell into conversation with one of them, as he knelt, trowel in hand, carefully lifting out plants and placing them in a box beside him. I asked him what he was doing.
‘Taking these geraniums into the greenhouse for the winter, Signore.’
‘Greenhouse?’ I asked. ‘What is that?’
‘A little house with walls of glass, Signore. It keeps the more tender plants warm during the colder months.’
‘That sounds like a good idea.’
‘Yes, Signore. Signor della Fava recommended it a few years ago. He is very proud of his garden. He grows many plants brought from other lands.’
‘Really? Do you mean Alessandro della Fava, an elderly gentleman?’
‘Yes, Signore.’ He stood up. ‘Have you met him – a small man with a big . . .’ He gestured with his hands, struggling to find the right word.
‘Personality,’ I suggested.
He nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, yes, Signore. He has very definite ideas, but he knows his plants.’
‘How interesting. I should love to see his garden. Is it far?’
‘No, Signore. His villa is just beyond Ellera, the other side of the valley – half a morning’s easy walk.’
As I left the labourer to his work and hurried back to the house, I felt as though Mercury’s wings were fixed to my heels. My anxieties, my prayers, were answered! I could visit della Fava and be back in time for dinner. There was no need for Francesco, who had already left home, to know of my visit. I decided not to call for my horse, as it would have been noticed and perhaps commented upon. I simply set off on foot in the direction of Ellera.
I strode purposefully along the roads and tracks that took me down to a small river and up the other side through olive groves, vineyards and open meadowland that afforded occasional visions of the city. As I walked, almost jauntily, enjoying the fresh morning air, I exercised my mind with the questions I would ask della Fava, if he granted me an audience. Various opening gambits suggested themselves – innocent enquiries that might lure him into revealing some of those old ‘secrets’ about which, according to Francesco, the old man had always been tight-lipped. The sun was barely free of the treetops by the time my sprightly steps brought me to Ellera, perched beside the Arno.
One could scarcely call it a village. The dusty road dawdled through a cluster of small houses and sidestepped the church before continuing its nonchalant way uphill. The only living creature in sight was a scraggy dog that barked twice on my approach before deciding that I was not worthy of his attention and ambling away into the narrow gap between two buildings. The obvious place to go for information about della Fava’s villa and find someone to ferry me across the river was the church.
As I pushed open the door, a chicken rushed out, brushing against my boots in its hurry to be free. The interior of the building might well have been taken for a large barn. No colourful (and expensive) frescoes enlivened the stone walls. The windows were filled with plain, dusty glass. It was difficult to recognize that this place was dedicated to the same purpose as those architectural jewels that graced the city only a few kilometres away. The candles in their brass holders that stood upon the simple altar were unlit. The church seemed empty and deserted, but as I turned back to the door a voice spoke from the shadows on my right.
‘Signore, have you come for confession?’ The man who stepped forward was a gangling fellow in a priest’s dark robe.
‘Not today,’ I replied. ‘I seek help on a terrestrial journey, not a heavenly one.’
‘A pity.’ The man scrutinized me wordlessly for several moments. ‘You are a stranger here.’
‘Yes. I come from Navarre.’
The man nodded, but showed no emotion or indeed even interest.
It was I who broke the silence. ‘I am paying a surprise visit to an old friend, Signor della Fava, but I am not sure how to find his villa. Perhaps you can—’
‘Della Fava? Yes, I know him. He lives on the hill beyond the river. You will be needing the ferry.’
‘Yes. Can you tell me where to find the boatman?’
‘I will fetch him for you, Signore. It may take a little time to find him. If you would like to rest here,’ he motioned me to a row of stools and chairs facing the altar, ‘I will return as quickly as I can.’
I thanked him and seated myself on a roughly hewn chair. I heard the door behind me open and close, and resigned myself to what I hoped would not be a long and tiresome delay.
After a few moments of silence I heard, or thought I heard, a slight sound. More poultry? Or perhaps a rat – never far away wherever there are farm animals. I half turned to look for the source of the noise.
Then something struck the back of my head and everything went black.