Ariosto (7 page)

“Primàrio,” he said deferentially, “I must speak in confidence. It could be most unfortunate, should any of our conversation…” Though he did not look at Lodovico, it was clear that the poet’s presence distressed him.

“Don’t worry yourself about Ariosto, Damiano said rather brusquely. “He’s overheard more state secrets than any of the spies at this court. I’ve never had cause to regret that.”

Idly, Lodovico wondered if he should, for Sir Thomas’ sake, find an excuse to leave, but he could not bring himself to do it. He admitted to himself that he was eager to know Sir Thomas’ secret. He settled back in his chair and studied the embers of the dying fire.

“Very well.” Sir Thomas rubbed at his stubbled cheeks. “You know, of course, of my King’s dispute with His Holiness.” This was a statement of fact. All Europe knew of it. “I am supposed to press Henry’s interests with you, as you know. But I’m afraid that I am prey to grave doubts about His Majesty’s conduct. I have not been able to accept the new conditions of worship we’ve been given. I cannot accept his divorce. I cannot tolerate his break

“Are you saying that there is rebellion brewing in England?” Damiano asked with a deceptive lightness.

“No, not precisely. That is, there may be, but I know nothing of it, if there is. No. That was not my purpose in speaking. You see, Primàrio, I find that I cannot remain in England. If I do, I must surely defy the King, and he will destroy me. I could reconcile myself to that fate, I think, if I didn’t have a wife and family. In conscience, I could not ask them to live in the shadow of my ruin.” He spoke quite calmly, as though he had long since made up his mind.

“I myself am not on the best of terms with His Holiness,” Damiano said coolly. “I doubt if I could convince him of anything at the moment.”

“I would not ask that,” Sir Thomas responded quickly. “I was not aware that there were such difficulties and I confess I had hoped that there might be a way…But no matter. What I am asking you, Primàrio, Damian, is the right to remain here in Italy. Catastrophe awaits me at home. Here, I may live and continue to work. Perhaps I can help Henry to be reconciled with Rome.”

Damiano made a noncommittal sound, then asked, “And your family?”

“They are at the moment in the Netherlands, visiting friends.”

“How providential,” Damiano said, laughing softly. “You are a very subtle man, Sir Thomas.”

“My wife agreed that it was a fortuitous time, since I was going to be gone so many months in any case. It would not take them long to come to me here, if I were to send them word they were wanted.” He smoothed the fur edging on his long gown and at last looked toward Damiano.

“I see.” Damiano fingered his neat, short beard. “You realize that, given my difficulties with the Pope, your presence could be something of an embarrassment to me?”

Sir Thomas stared at his hands in his lap. “Until this evening, I was not aware that your relations were so strained. I felt, since you’re blood relatives, there would be a closeness…” He could not go on.

“You say this, coming from England where Plantagenet cousins killed each other for more than eighty years?” Damiano clearly did not expect Sir Thomas to have an answer to this challenge. “It was clever of Richard to make Henry Tudor his heir. It prevented more bloodshed.”

Sir Thomas started to rise. “I see. I am sorry that I importuned you in this way, Primàrio. I beg you will forget…”

“Sit down, Sir Thomas,” Damiano interrupted him sharply. “I haven’t refused your request.” He waited while the older man sank back into his chair. “You are certain you stand in danger from your King?”

“As certain as I may be outside of a cell.” There was a fatalistic expression in Sir Thomas’ face, and his words were flat and toneless.

“You are a valuable man to Henry. Do you think he would overlook your worth for nothing more than pique?”

“I am positive he would.”

Lodovico longed to ask Sir Thomas what it was about Henry VIII that made him so sure of the King’s enmity, but knew that he could not speak without angering his patron. He set his mouth in a tight, closed line, and listened.

“Positive?” Damiano repeated skeptically. “A man who has been of service as long as you have? He must be very serious about his break with the Church.”

“He is very serious about the child that Mistress Boleyn carries,” Sir Thomas said grimly. “One of the unofficial reasons for this mission to the Grand Duke of Muscovy is that Henry hopes for an alliance there. If the child is a male, then Henry wishes to betroth him to the oldest of the Grand Duke’s daughters. If the child is female, she will eventually be the Grand Duchess to the Grand Duke’s heir.”

“From what we know of the Grand Duke, none of his children have survived infancy,” Damiano remarked, but there was a keenness to his face that revealed his newly-kindled interest.

“Yet one of them will probably survive, and Henry dreams of a bond there.” Sir Thomas sighed heavily. “What I have told you is treason.”

“Then why have you spoken?” Damiano asked, his large brown eyes darkening.

“How else am I to convince you of my sincerity?” This time Sir Thomas actually rose from the chair. “You will want to think over what I have told you, Primàrio. I am, I need hardly remind you, at your mercy. Should you decide to reveal to Henry all that I have told you, my fate is sealed, and it is a dire one.”

“For the sake of the Virgin, sit down!” Damiano burst out. “You have no idea what I am thinking. I am not your capricious Henry Tudor. Sit down!” He waited until Sir Thomas obeyed him. “The peace we have negotiated with the Turks is a perilous one,” Damiano told him when he was confident that Sir Thomas was listening. “It could be easily overset. If Muscovy and England were to form an alliance, and if Poland could be convinced to join with them…”—he shrugged extravagantly—”then our little treaty would be at an end in less time than it would take the parchment to burn. And if we have to take up a sea battle against the Turks again, we will have to cut back our exploration in the New World, and leave it open to the predatory Spaniards.”

Sir Thomas listened in dismay. “But the betrothal of children, that could not…” He stopped. “Yes, of course it could.”

“Indeed,” Damiano agreed. “I do wish my twin had survived. There is more than enough work here for both of us.” He tapped his long fingers together in an attitude of prayer. “You are to tourney through Poland, are you not, on your way to Muscovy?”

It was a moment before Sir Thomas answered. “Yes.”

“I see. I assume that your purpose is more than mere formality.”

“I can’t tell you…I’ve compromised my mission enough already. But what you surmise is not unreasonable.” There was a leather wallet attached to Sir Thomas’ belt and he opened it to draw out two small scrolls impressively sealed with ribbons and wax stamped with the Great Seal of England. “One is for Poland, the other for the Grand Duke.”

“I see.” Damiano brushed a straggling lock of dark hair from his brow. “I feared that this might happen, but I didn’t think that Henry was prepared to go so far.”

Lodovico had known Damiano long enough to recognize the worry in his voice, though there had been almost no alteration of tone. His brow furrowed in sympathy.

“Well.” Damiano stood at last, and walked to the fireplace. “I am very much in your debt, Sir Thomas. Without the intelligence you’ve given me …” He turned abruptly. “You may remain here in Firenze for the moment, though I would prefer you continued on with your mission to learn what you can of Poland’s and Muscovy’s reaction to Henry’s proposals.”

“You are asking me to spy for you,” Sir Thomas said very calmly, his face a polite mask.

“That’s true,” Damiano said tersely.

“Spying is ugly work,” Sir Thomas muttered.

“War is uglier,” Damiano snapped. “You’ve thrown yourself on my mercy, Sir Thomas. All right, I will take you in, though the Saints alone know how I will deal with my Papal cousin over it. But you’ve revealed a nest of demons where I thought there were only discontented children. And by God, Sir Thomas, you will aid me now.” His soft voice was urgent as he spoke. “If you need a sop to your conscience, consider what might happen if you remain here. Henry will realize that you have thrown in your lot with me, and he will have to press for more forceful arguments. If you continue on with the mission, and return by way of Italia Federata, what can he suspect? Particularly since I will send him my official request that you do so, and tell him that I look forward to your return.”

Sir Thomas regarded Damiano, respect in his angular face. “You make it difficult for me to refuse,” he said grudgingly.

“I should hope I make it impossible,” Damiano answered at once. “I meant what I said, Sir Thomas: I am in your debt. I trust you will forgive me what I ask of you.” Suddenly his grand manner was gone, and Damiano faced the Chancellor of England without any artifice at all. “Do you know what Italia was like before the federation? It could be like that again—a collection of petty kingdoms and dukedoms and counties and republics, all yapping at one another’s heels like curs in the street. The civil war in Germany is a good reminder of what could occur here. I love this country to the point of idolatry, and I would sacrifice myself, or you, or Lodovico or any other one I love before I would allow her to be torn asunder by war. If that means that I must make you a spy and myself a hypocrite, I will. If it’s any consolation to you, my wife and two of my daughters have been my spies before now, and Pia is a nun, Sir Thomas.” He spoke of his younger daughter, who had taken the veil some three years before. “If she could risk eternal damnation for the unity of Italia, why should you balk at a sensible mission like this one? You are known to be an intelligent man, Sir Thomas.”

“You possess a strange humility, Primàrio,” Sir Thomas said with a sour smile. “You give me no choice, which is doubtless what you intended.”

“Until you spoke, I had no reason to ask anything of you,” Damiano protested with perfect civility.

“I wonder.” Sir Thomas stood slowly and gave Damiano one long, measuring look. “I will go to Muscovy for you, and I will be your tool, Primàrio. When I return I will tell you what I have learned. In exchange, I expect you to send for my family at once, so that I will find them here when I return. I’m certain you can find a plausible excuse to offer my King for your invitation. If they are not here when I return…”—he put one hand to his head, as if to touch his thoughts and give them shape. “I would think that the Pope would find my story enlightening.”

“I see,” Damiano murmured. “Then we understand each other, Sir Thomas.”

“And may God have mercy on us both,” Sir Thomas answered heavily, and crossed himself.

Damiano kicked at the embers with the toe of his soft leather boot. He had said nothing in the half hour since Sir Thomas More had left the library of the Palazzo Pitti. Lodovico had sat watching him, compassion and distress struggling within him. He could find no words to express his emotions adequately, and kept his uneasy silence as the room grew cold.

Finally Damiano looked up. “He’s right. I had intended to ask him to gather information for me.” He struck the mantel with the flat of his hand, disgust marking his strong features. “He has contempt for me, but that’s deserved.”

“He doesn’t understand, Damiano,” Lodovico said, feeling the terrible superficiality of his words.

“And you do?” Damiano very nearly laughed. “Don’t protest, my friend. It’s useless to protest.” He came away from the fireplace and stood staring down at Lodovico. “My grandfather’s best friend was a poet. I hope I am not being a fool to emulate him.”

“Am I your best friend, Damiano?” Lodovico asked, his pleasure dulled by the suspicion that Damiano was mocking him.

“After what you’ve heard tonight, I pray that you are.” He smiled unpleasantly. “I meant what I said to Sir Thomas—I will sacrifice anyone I must in order to keep this country united. You will do well to remember that.”

Lodovico felt an instant of intense fear. He knew beyond doubt that Damiano was perfectly sincere, and he tried to bury the fear under self-deprecating laughter. “If the death of a poet will change anything, then my life is yours use as you will.” As he said it, he remembered that Damiano was a powerful man, larger and heavier than he himself. All he would have to do would be to lock those long fingers around his throat and that would be the end of him. He got quickly to his feet. “I haven’t betrayed you before, Damiano, and I will not do it now.” His voice shook, but it was from terror, not fervor.

“If you are not in earnest, you will regret it, my friend.” Damiano scrutinized Lodovico’s face, then, apparently satisfied with what he had read there, he put an arm around Lodovico’s shoulder. It was an effort for Lodovico not to cry out at this sudden, threatening familiarity. “It’s late, and you will want to seek your bed. Doubtless Alessandra is impatient to have you with her. If she is anything like Graziella, she will be pestering you until dawn about the kinds of shoes the English wear.”

Somehow Lodovico was able to snicker at this, and said with the assumption of sophistication he did not feel, “Wives are often so, Damiano. You know how curious women are.”

“None better.” Damiano gave a sage nod, then changed again with that mercurial temper that often baffled his associates. “That’s unfair. If my wife were not the woman she is, and had been willing to go to France for me to listen to the gossip at court, we might have had soldiers in Torino ten years ago.” His arm fell from Lodovico’s shoulder. “I am grateful to Graziella and Pia and my lovely Carità. They’ve been more loyal than my sons ever were.” As always when Damiano mentioned his sons there was a fleeting anguish in his face. He turned away from Lodovico, gesturing toward the door. “It’s nearly morning and if either you or I intend to be civil to our visitors, it’s time we were asleep. I don’t like to ask this of you, Lodovico, since I know you’d rather spend the time on that new work of yours, but do you think you might find a way to turn out some simple ballade lyrics? The musicians have been protesting at doing the same songs over and over. Maffeo says that he can set the words to tunes quickly.”