Read The Courier's Tale Online
Authors: Peter Walker
‘I know all that well enough,’ said Pole. ‘I am sorry my Lord Privy Seal would like to kill me and I trust it’s not in his power to do so. But what more do you have to tell me?’
‘Nothing more,’ said Holland.
Pole then shook his head sorrowfully at the thought of his brother Geoffrey – who was always somewhat light-headed – sending a messenger so far for no reason.
‘Commend me to Geoffrey,’ said Pole, ‘and tell him to meddle in nothing and leave all things alone. If you see my brother Montagu, commend me to him by this token: “In the Lord I confide”. And if you see my lady, my mother, by this token: That once she and I, looking on a wall together, read a motto there: “My hope is in God”. And ask her blessing for me. Perhaps she will be glad of mine. And yet, if they are of the same opinion as the King – even though she is my mother and he my brother – why, then I
tread them underfoot
.’
And then he got up, very agitated, and went away.
I took Holland to the kitchen for a meal, and then I went with him down the road a few miles, talking of this and that, the harvest in England and so on. All the way I kept wondering to myself whether through him to send a message of my own to Coughton. At that time it was almost impossible to get letters into England or out. This seemed a good opportunity. But in the end something about Hugh Holland decided me against: namely, his cheerful and guileless expression. The world was a more dangerous place than Master Holland seemed to understand. So I said nothing. A great deal hung on that decision, though I had no idea of it for a long time.
At
Liège
, there was a period of respite, although in many ways our prospects grew darker than ever. Henry sent letters to all other kings outlining the incredible ingratitude of Pole, a wicked traitor whom he had nourished from the cradle and brought up in learning and who now wandered the world slandering his prince, against all equity, humanity and reason. The town soon began to fill with suspicious strangers. Everyone knew the old palace where Pole and his household were lodged. The people of Liège themselves well-nigh adored my master, and kept a watch on the strangers. Even in the depths of the night one sensed that many minds were turned in our direction.
And yet for all that, there was this atmosphere of ease, or peace, of
otium
as Pole called it, in the old palace. In the mornings, most of the household remained in their rooms, reading and writing, until about ten thirty. Then they heard mass sung by Giberti, then came lunch, conversation, walking in the garden, boating on the river late in the day. Painters and writers began to appear, from nowhere, like fish and frog spawn which arrive by magic in a new pond. Surrounded by spies and artists, Pole soon set up a little court. He had
la belle manière
and knew how to talk to every man.
From time to time I rode to Antwerp to talk to merchants and sailors and hear news from England. Nothing could have been simpler for me than to have slipped away and sailed to England myself. Officially I was still in Cromwell’s employment, and could certainly make my peace there. It was on Coughton that my thoughts were set. More than once – and once after too much to drink – I stood on the bank and watched a ship with men I knew aboard swing out into the river and sail downstream with her lanterns lit in the dusk, and with my head full of wild thoughts – what could be sweeter than to arrive late one night at Coughton and tap lightly at Judith’s window? Or, no – to accost her, as if by chance, one fine morning by the meadow on the road into the six-furlong wood: ‘Why, my sweet cousin Judith!’
I often dwelled on these surprising encounters.
But then a counter-argument came to me. I thought of the King’s rival favourites, Francis Bryan and Peter Mewtas, who were both abroad hunting for Pole. I knew both those fighting cocks by reputation and, being somewhat rivalrous myself, I could not allow either to succeed. How would I feel, back at Coughton, if the news came in that Pole had been shot dead in Liège, or, trussed up, had been brought to England alive? At that thought, terror seized me. I raced back to Liège.
After six weeks or so in that town, Pole came one day in search of me. By that time I had turned into a peasant and was in the kitchen garden tending a new crop of spinach, which in Flanders is called the ‘captain of herbs’. Pole watched me hoeing as if he had never seen it done before, and when I stopped to talk to him he commanded me at least to finish my row. I did so and then, standing among the ranks of seedlings, I listened as he outlined his dilemma.
‘The time has come to leave Liège,’ he said. ‘I did not want to go before, as it would only increase the King’s vanity, and dishearten those in England who look to us for help. But I can do nothing for them now. Meanwhile the danger has not lessened. If anything it increases every day. Henry is now offering the Emperor not only money but ten thousand infantry for a year if he will hand me over. Philip of Macedon used to say he could take any castle into which he could secretly send an ass laden with gold. I’m afraid there are many asses laden against me. In the meantime, the Pope has summoned me to a council in Mantua in the autumn. As well as all that, it is beneath the dignity of a Roman legate to hide in a corner for ever. So what is to be done? We can’t stay here. We can’t go back to France. And we can’t go through Germany, where the roads are watched, and plans are being laid.’
I stood thinking it over. The garden was very quiet. Most of the household were out on the river.
‘I ask you,’ said Pole, ‘as we are in the same situation. The others may go where they please. You and I can never go home, even with a pardon, as
his
pardons no longer have a meaning. We are in the same boat . . .’
I could not think of an answer. Pole had no idea I was still in Cromwell’s employment. I was still, in fact, completely lost in the labyrinth, and I was there all alone. Pole took my silence for despair.
‘Never mind,’ he said standing up and patting my back. ‘All will be well. I see us back in Italy very clearly. It’s just a matter of getting there.’
He picked up my hoe and held it for a moment.
‘A hoe,’ he said, as if to himself.
That night I had made my decision. I wrote to Cromwell and told him Pole was about to fly the coop. And once he was back in Rome, I said, he would publish the book he had written for the King, if only to defend himself against the charges that he was the worst traitor in the world.
Yet this [I said] he does not wish to do. Apart from the difference of opinion concerning the unity of the Church, there is no one who more favours the king’s true honour and wealth. I am astonished at the diligent procurement of this man’s ruin which daily comes to his knowledge, and yet he remains in the same love and constant mind towards His Majesty.
You, my lord, must consider what is best to be done. I suppose it is hopeless to think that you yourself might come here, or rather to some place in neutral territory nearby, to speak with him. I cannot think of anyone else who would help . . . Perhaps Maastricht would be suitable? These matters require greater prudence and a more pregnant wit than mine. I leave it all therefore to your wisdom.
Cromwell wrote back at once:
From Mortlake, at night
Though the King counts as nothing all that the malice of the Bishop of Rome can do, yet to save this man Poole whom he hath from his cradle nourished and brought up in learning, he will send two learned men, Dr Wilson and Mr Heath, to Maastricht there to entreat all matters with him. So write the certainty before his departure if he will answer to His Grace’s clemency and affection and go to Maastricht and tarry there till Dr Wilson and Mr Heath thither repair.
I sent a message to the English embassy in Brussels, agreeing to this plan. Wilson and Heath, as I later learnt, were then summoned by Cromwell and given their instructions:
On your arrival you shall frankly declare to the said Pole his miserable condition, and on the other hand the great clemency of the Prince in suffering you to resort there for his reconciliation, and the great probability the King shall yet take him to mercy if he will return home, acknowledge his fault and desire forgiveness. You shall urge him to weigh what may be the end if he persist in his madness. In your conversation you must by no means call him by any other name than
Mr
Pole, nor in gesture give him any pre-eminence, but rather show by your bearing you hold him in less estimation for his vain title.
So everything was arranged. On the second to last day of August, in the blaze of noon, the people of Liège turned out to farewell Pole and we set forth from the gates with all the ceremonies due a legate and with a great entourage of local lords and gentlemen to accompany us.
All eyes now turned to Maastricht. I was aware that a number of our watchers and spies had already hurried there ahead of us. Who could say what reception was being planned for us? Indeed I felt rather anxious just to see Pole out on the open road again. But the whole world seemed to be at peace. The war had not come roiling in this direction. In the heat of the day even the birds had stopped singing, and the harvesters had laid down their scythes and were sleeping in the shade.
A few miles along the road we came to a wood, near Visé, and rode into its shadows for a mile or so. Then, at a place I had found a few days earlier with the help of some woodmen, the party divided. Most went on to Maastricht; the rest of us – Pole, Giberti, Priuli and I, and one or two Flemish painters who had conceived a desire to see Rome – turned softly aside and rode for many miles through the woods until we had passed clean out of the territory of the Bishop of Utrecht, and reached the river, and even then did not stop but went on by water as far as Speyer, taking no rest until we came in sight of the Alps.
Cromwell’s next letter to me was very terrible:
Michael – you have bleared mine eye once, you shall not deceive me a second time. Your duty was to obey the King’s commands, not your own fancies, but now you stick to a traitor . . . So he will declare to the world why the King takes him for a traitor? All princes already know it. Nay, some of them have told the King of the enterprises of this silly cardinal.
If those who have made him mad can persuade him print his detestable book, he will be as much bound to them as his family are like to be to him.
Pity ’tis that the folly of one brainsick Poole, or to say better, one witless fool, should be the ruin of so great a family.
If his lewd work go forth, will he not have reason to fear that every honest man shall offer to revenge this unkindness? The King can make him scarce sure of his life even though he goes tied to his master’s girdle. Ways enough can be found in Italy to rid a traitorous subject.
Michael, if you were either natural towards your country or your family, you would not thus shame all your kin. The least suspicion will now be enough to undo the greatest of them.
Cromwell was as good as his word. Within a few weeks, my brother Sir George was in the Tower. He was accused of treason, yet as he had been hidden away in the country for so long, nothing could be maintained against him, except the accusation that he once made: that the King had slept with both the other Boleyn ladies, sister and mother alike.
This was not something that could be decently aired in court. Instead, therefore, he was accused of being in communication with me.
‘Him?’ he cried. ‘My unnatural and unthrifty brother! I have not seen or heard from him for months or years. I was at dinner at St John’s at midsummer, and there I met a man called Fermour who said he had seen him at mass in Antwerp and that he was in good health. “Good health!” I said. “Why, it would be better if he’d never been born!” To tell the truth, I never wish to lay eyes on him again – unless – if the King wills it, I were to track him down, yea, him and his master both, even to the gates of Rome, and there fall on them both, even if I die in that quarrel.’
All this he wrote out in a long tear-stained letter to Cromwell, which, by a very strange turn of events I will later describe, I was one day to sit down and read in perfect ease and security. At the time, of course, I knew nothing about it. But even if I had, I would certainly have forgiven him. If your own brother can’t wish that you’d never been born, in order to save his skin, I don’t know who can. All I knew then, however, was that he had been taken away and his wife was in a dreadful state, like a drowned mouse for tears. But she was the aunt of a lady at court, Mrs Parr, who had some influence with the King, and I was reasonably sure that George would survive his journey to London, which, after all, he had looked forward to for so long, and that he would come back safe and sound to Coughton quite soon. Which indeed he did. His arrest was only a rehearsal of the real sorrows, which commenced the following summer.
Riding down to Luftington in Sussex one day, Pole’s younger brother, Sir Geoffrey, saw a strange sight on the road ahead. Coming towards him was his servant Hugh Holland, surrounded by archers, with his hands tied behind his back and his legs tied under the horse’s belly.
‘Why, Hugh,’ he said riding up and saluting him, ‘where are you
bound
to go?’