victory against the Tartars of the Green Cape. From England came word of more executions. Thomas More and old Bishop Fisher of Rochester lost their lives for refusing to accept the King as spiritual lord. The Emperor made plans to attack Tunis. The Jewish corsair beat Canaletto, captain of the galleys, in a great sea battle off Corfu. At home the cook died, throwing even more responsibility on Sandro. To make things worse, the French ambassador moved in at the same time.
Sandro, down in the kitchen late at night, made terrible declarations. He had been serving Pole for years: who were these newcomers and nobodies?
‘We now keep an open house,’ he said. ‘Contarini and M. Matteo are here every night after dinner. Bonamico, Lampridio, Bembo and Priuli come and go as if it they own the place. Priuli stopped a whole month – but then he’s obviously in love with my master: at the last place, he came and stayed and wouldn’t leave until he lured him to Padua. And then we all had to follow. Mind you, I myself haven’t set foot out of this kitchen for a month. You’ll see: some great ill will come of it, especially to us poor servants.’
‘Yes, Sandro, it is terrible, we are all in grave danger,’ we said, winking at one another. By then the winter was setting in, and Pole at last had set to work writing his book for the King. Days, indeed weeks, passed and there was no sight of him; he scarcely emerged from his chamber. Food was sent up to him and at night we gathered in Sandro’s kitchen so as not to disturb him.
‘What a work it will be!’ said Harvel, pointing upwards to indicate Pole’s whereabouts and genius. ‘Nothing like it will have been seen in our time.’
‘He has given himself up to meteorologezei : all the highest things in heaven and earth,’ said Friar.
‘The King himself is afire with impatience to read it,’ said Lily.
‘Yet only a short book was asked for,’ said Harvel. ‘I know that from Starkey, who writes from England to find out why it is taking such a time.’
‘It has to be long,’ said Friar. ‘It is written for the English. We are not Athenians. We do not like to be convinced only by what is relevant.’
‘Long or short, it will be a glory to England and posterity,’ said Lily.
‘A monumentum aeternum to his genius,’ said Harvel.
‘He is certainly one of the most learned men alive, and a very great friend of mine,’ said Morison, who by then had come to live with us. ‘My God!’ he added. ‘What would have happened to me this winter if Polonus had not taken me in? Look at me, in another man’s breeches and with all my books, good as they were, a prey to the cruel Jews, and for very little, truly. No man could ask for a better friend. Let me tell you’ – here he struck the table and tears started from his eyes – ‘there is no punishment good enough for a man who says “Oh yes, so and so used to be my friend, but is no longer”. Such an insult deserves to be wiped out in blood. Whoever has been a friend of mine is one still, and ever will be.’
Outside, an icy fog made halos around the lanterns of the few boats that were on the water. I was glad that Morison was with us in the warm kitchen and not in some attic with bare tiles over his head. On clear nights it was so cold that if you could have reached the stars and tapped them with a hammer the sky would have rung like an iron bell.
The new year came in, bringing more astounding news. The old queen, Katherine of Aragon, had died. And then, not long after that, we heard that the new queen, Anne, was also sentenced to die. The King revealed he had been under a bewitchment when he married her, the marriage was annulled and she was executed for many grave crimes.
Then we heard that Princess Mary was restored to favour. For two years she had been locked up without even pen and paper. She was now a young woman of eighteen, and, so it seemed, very beautiful. A poem about her arrived from
Sandro, down in the kitchen late at night, made terrible declarations. He had been serving Pole for years: who were these newcomers and nobodies?
‘We now keep an open house,’ he said. ‘Contarini and M. Matteo are here every night after dinner. Bonamico, Lampridio, Bembo and Priuli come and go as if it they own the place. Priuli stopped a whole month – but then he’s obviously in love with my master: at the last place, he came and stayed and wouldn’t leave until he lured him to Padua. And then we all had to follow. Mind you, I myself haven’t set foot out of this kitchen for a month. You’ll see: some great ill will come of it, especially to us poor servants.’
‘Yes, Sandro, it is terrible, we are all in grave danger,’ we said, winking at one another. By then the winter was setting in, and Pole at last had set to work writing his book for the King. Days, indeed weeks, passed and there was no sight of him; he scarcely emerged from his chamber. Food was sent up to him and at night we gathered in Sandro’s kitchen so as not to disturb him.
‘What a work it will be!’ said Harvel, pointing upwards to indicate Pole’s whereabouts and genius. ‘Nothing like it will have been seen in our time.’
‘He has given himself up to meteorologezei : all the highest things in heaven and earth,’ said Friar.
‘The King himself is afire with impatience to read it,’ said Lily.
‘Yet only a short book was asked for,’ said Harvel. ‘I know that from Starkey, who writes from England to find out why it is taking such a time.’
‘It has to be long,’ said Friar. ‘It is written for the English. We are not Athenians. We do not like to be convinced only by what is relevant.’
‘Long or short, it will be a glory to England and posterity,’ said Lily.
‘A monumentum aeternum to his genius,’ said Harvel.
‘He is certainly one of the most learned men alive, and a very great friend of mine,’ said Morison, who by then had come to live with us. ‘My God!’ he added. ‘What would have happened to me this winter if Polonus had not taken me in? Look at me, in another man’s breeches and with all my books, good as they were, a prey to the cruel Jews, and for very little, truly. No man could ask for a better friend. Let me tell you’ – here he struck the table and tears started from his eyes – ‘there is no punishment good enough for a man who says “Oh yes, so and so used to be my friend, but is no longer”. Such an insult deserves to be wiped out in blood. Whoever has been a friend of mine is one still, and ever will be.’
Outside, an icy fog made halos around the lanterns of the few boats that were on the water. I was glad that Morison was with us in the warm kitchen and not in some attic with bare tiles over his head. On clear nights it was so cold that if you could have reached the stars and tapped them with a hammer the sky would have rung like an iron bell.
The new year came in, bringing more astounding news. The old queen, Katherine of Aragon, had died. And then, not long after that, we heard that the new queen, Anne, was also sentenced to die. The King revealed he had been under a bewitchment when he married her, the marriage was annulled and she was executed for many grave crimes.
Then we heard that Princess Mary was restored to favour. For two years she had been locked up without even pen and paper. She was now a young woman of eighteen, and, so it seemed, very beautiful. A poem about her arrived from
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