The King's Agent by Donna Russo Morin Page B
Authors: Donna Russo Morin
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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see him. A fellow Florentine, a devoted subject, the young man rose, eyes wide with fervent adoration. “You spoke as God wished. There is naught in that to be redeemed.”
Clement sniffed a sardonic chuckle at the young man’s reverence; he had once been like him, once believed he could do no wrong as long as he invoked God’s name in the doing.
Pope Clement turned deep-set eyes upon his faithful servant, long wiry beard—long turned gray in a life stretching across half a century—hanging low upon his barrel chest.
“I am more confused than ever, my friend.” He sat then, and the mammoth walnut desk dwarfed him as few things could. He slumped over its carved polished edge and hung his head in his hands, the top of his scarlet cap pointing out to the room. “When François defeated Charles at Pavia, I saw my path so clearly. To give France my support served the Church best. I knew it to be true.”
“ Certamente, Your Holiness.” Marcello inched slowly forward.
“The Spanish ruler cannot regain his power. His grasp would exceed his reach. We all worried upon it. But it has all turned sour.”
Clement spoke of the other Italian princes, those of Venice, Milan, and of course Florence, who had joined him, the king of France, and the king of England in the formation of the League of Cognac. The official act had turned a cold, harsh papal shoulder to the king of Spain.
“You could not foresee the acts of the barons,” Marcello offered hopefully.
“No!” Clement slapped the hard surface before him. “But should I have turned so quickly back to Spain? Could I not have trusted François a little longer? I would not then have to turn back.”
The memories ravaged the man’s lined face, casting dark shadows in its many crevices. Not a month after he tossed his support to the French, Spain countered and regained the upper hand, taking Milan. As the Italian barons turned on Clement with dissatisfaction, he had had no choice but to turn to Spain for mediation. But it was not a sincere coupling, and the instant Charles released François from his prison the pope had realigned himself once more with his French ally.
“He called me a wolf then, Charles did,” Clement mumbled. “No longer the shepherd he had once followed.”
“He is not a man of his word, Holy Father. He is intent upon power, naught else.”
The pope looked up then, to the righteous young man before him. The urge to tell Marcello to run almost overwhelmed him. Instead, Clement crooked his finger at his secretary, who leaned forward with blatant vacillation.
“Days of hard reckoning are upon us, the Church and I. France and Spain are once again at war. And we are harassed more every day by the heretics screaming at us from the north.”
Marcello crossed himself at the vague mention of the German princes who allied themselves with Luther and the thousands of Catholics there and in Holland who abandoned their faith, more with each passing day that Clement refused to consider any of Luther’s ninety-five theses of reform.
Clement saw the revulsion upon his servant’s features and it brought him up sharply.
“I am sorry, Marcello.” The pope rubbed his long face, washing himself clean of his own angst. “You have brought me a message and I have long delayed you from your duty.”
Marcello’s brows knit and he did nothing to deliver the folded parchment into his master’s hands.
Clement swallowed; he recognized that face, the long moodiness of it forewarned dire news.
He reached forward and snatched at the missive, damning his own hands that shook the rattling paper.
Without looking up, he read the succinct yet stunning communication: “ ‘Charles and his troops have taken Piacenza.’ ”
He discharged the paper to the desk as if it burned him to touch it, and though he glared at it—willed it away—it would not depart.
Clement stood slowly, pain evident in the sluggish unbending of the long body, and turned back to the wall
Clement sniffed a sardonic chuckle at the young man’s reverence; he had once been like him, once believed he could do no wrong as long as he invoked God’s name in the doing.
Pope Clement turned deep-set eyes upon his faithful servant, long wiry beard—long turned gray in a life stretching across half a century—hanging low upon his barrel chest.
“I am more confused than ever, my friend.” He sat then, and the mammoth walnut desk dwarfed him as few things could. He slumped over its carved polished edge and hung his head in his hands, the top of his scarlet cap pointing out to the room. “When François defeated Charles at Pavia, I saw my path so clearly. To give France my support served the Church best. I knew it to be true.”
“ Certamente, Your Holiness.” Marcello inched slowly forward.
“The Spanish ruler cannot regain his power. His grasp would exceed his reach. We all worried upon it. But it has all turned sour.”
Clement spoke of the other Italian princes, those of Venice, Milan, and of course Florence, who had joined him, the king of France, and the king of England in the formation of the League of Cognac. The official act had turned a cold, harsh papal shoulder to the king of Spain.
“You could not foresee the acts of the barons,” Marcello offered hopefully.
“No!” Clement slapped the hard surface before him. “But should I have turned so quickly back to Spain? Could I not have trusted François a little longer? I would not then have to turn back.”
The memories ravaged the man’s lined face, casting dark shadows in its many crevices. Not a month after he tossed his support to the French, Spain countered and regained the upper hand, taking Milan. As the Italian barons turned on Clement with dissatisfaction, he had had no choice but to turn to Spain for mediation. But it was not a sincere coupling, and the instant Charles released François from his prison the pope had realigned himself once more with his French ally.
“He called me a wolf then, Charles did,” Clement mumbled. “No longer the shepherd he had once followed.”
“He is not a man of his word, Holy Father. He is intent upon power, naught else.”
The pope looked up then, to the righteous young man before him. The urge to tell Marcello to run almost overwhelmed him. Instead, Clement crooked his finger at his secretary, who leaned forward with blatant vacillation.
“Days of hard reckoning are upon us, the Church and I. France and Spain are once again at war. And we are harassed more every day by the heretics screaming at us from the north.”
Marcello crossed himself at the vague mention of the German princes who allied themselves with Luther and the thousands of Catholics there and in Holland who abandoned their faith, more with each passing day that Clement refused to consider any of Luther’s ninety-five theses of reform.
Clement saw the revulsion upon his servant’s features and it brought him up sharply.
“I am sorry, Marcello.” The pope rubbed his long face, washing himself clean of his own angst. “You have brought me a message and I have long delayed you from your duty.”
Marcello’s brows knit and he did nothing to deliver the folded parchment into his master’s hands.
Clement swallowed; he recognized that face, the long moodiness of it forewarned dire news.
He reached forward and snatched at the missive, damning his own hands that shook the rattling paper.
Without looking up, he read the succinct yet stunning communication: “ ‘Charles and his troops have taken Piacenza.’ ”
He discharged the paper to the desk as if it burned him to touch it, and though he glared at it—willed it away—it would not depart.
Clement stood slowly, pain evident in the sluggish unbending of the long body, and turned back to the wall