The King's Diamond (24 page)

The music throbbed and blared, faster, faster. The tune was of the kind called a
piva
, a peasant dance usually played on the bagpipes. It was a music of savage joy, employing strange tonalities unknown to the more refined musics.

‘You are a fool,' murmured Susan, taking my arm in turn. ‘Don't you see how dangerous we are? Isn't one wound enough?'

I whirled her round by her arm and spun her away from me, then twisted backwards in time to the baying of the shawm and the beating of the drum, back into the arms of Mrs Hannah, who smiled, and gripped my arm with a gentle pressure.

When John and I finally left that night we went reeling through the streets, drunk on music and wine, singing and dancing a
saltarella
. In the Campo dei Fiori we found half a melon left from the day's market and kicked it across the paving stones until it shattered in the gutter. We fell at last into each other's arms, laughing.

‘Where are you staying?' I asked John at last.

John shrugged, with his easy smile. ‘Wherever you recommend.'

‘Then you are lodging with me. Come!'

There was dinner, most days, in the Palazzo del Bene. We ate well, in spite of Lent. The Cages' chamberlain usually succeeded in finding us either a dozen lobsters, or a fat sturgeon with its little black eggs, or oysters, or crayfish, or turbot in honey and dates. Some days Mr Stephen procured a dispensation to eat
lacticinia
, the fruits of flesh, and then we had our seafood in cream and eggs. At other times the Cages took me with them to their grand connections in Rome, to Cardinal Campeggio's four-square palazzo over the river near Saint Peter's, or to Gregorio Casale, the resident English ambassador. Sometimes there was news of the war. Sir John Russell had broken his leg in a fall from his horse; the English peace embassy had faltered, and one man alone was left to mediate between His Holiness and the army of the Emperor, which was marching rapidly on Florence. That man was Cesare Ferramosca: clever, secretive and loyal only to the Emperor. Stephen and the rest frowned and shook their heads. But what did peace or war mean to me, as I drank a private health to Hannah, which she returned, and which no one else could see?

On other days we walked in the Pope's gardens, or else the Cages set up their crimson silk pavilion out among the ruins and we feasted
off their exquisite rustic maiolica, decorated with nymphs, pomegranates and cupids. Once we ventured into the grottoes, ancient banqueting rooms buried underground. We darted down those echoing caverns, holding our lanterns up to walls painted with coiling sea serpents, tritons, fishes, birds, scorpions, trick vistas of balconies and fountains, and golden statues looking down from arbours. Beneath their dead eyes Hannah and I stood and kissed.

On these expeditions John always accompanied me. It gave me an extra flush of pride to have a retinue of my own beyond just a single servant; a kind of gentleman-in-waiting, who bowed and eyed the company with a smile, and said nothing. There was a satisfaction, too, in being the leader and seeing my old friend in the position of loyal follower-on. Only his clothes were a problem. After several days I told him he must allow me to buy him a suit of clothes.

John smiled sheepishly. ‘When my goods come in from Florence I'll pay you back. Just wait.'

I waved my hand. Money was nothing. I was drunk with the success that would fall into my lap just as soon as I returned home to England. I had the connections, I had the cross, and the ship, and the swiftly growing garden that Cellini was fashioning out of gold, to house both the emerald and the white sapphire. All the same, I made sure John's clothes were not quite so glorious as my own. I let him choose a black doublet with a slender silver trim, a velvet hat with a curling white ostrich feather but no jewels. I took the opportunity to fit Martin out with some more suitable attire. Heads turned when the three of us walked down the Via Monserrato heading for the Palazzo del Bene. Always at my journey's end there were Hannah's smiles, and, when I was lucky, a kiss.

 

It was Laetare Sunday, the thirty-first of March, the midpoint of Lent when there are flowers on the altars of every church and the priests wear rose-coloured vestments instead of violet. There was a relaxing of the fast, too. We were invited to dine with the Portuguese
ambassador, and he promised us something to remember. Don Martin of Portugal, a nephew of Spicer King John himself, dwelt in a castellated mansion near the Corso. His house had a stone tower and a pair of cannon on its roof, and it was said to be the strongest place in Rome after the Castle of Sant' Angelo. We dined that day on capons, sugared and fried, pheasants roasted in the juice of oranges, and a baked young kid in cinnamon, wrapped in the thinnest pastry. Even Mr Stephen responded with a satisfied ‘Ah!' as the dishes were carried in. Don Martin, a sparely built man in his thirties, ate little himself, and watched his guests with a slight smile. As the meal ended, he turned to Stephen and said, ‘I have heard a disturbing report from England. I hope you will reassure me that it is untrue.'

Stephen glanced up sharply.

‘I have heard,' went on Don Martin, ‘that your King is seeking a separation from his wife. A wicked slander against a most pious and upright monarch.'

Stephen wiped his mouth on his napkin and put it back on his shoulder. ‘It is true.'

I was staring at them, listening intently. Here it was at last: the first admission from Stephen that the divorce was more than a mere rumour, more than a secret scheme of Wolsey's among a dozen others that might be disavowed at any time.

‘What?' said Don Martin. ‘After being virtuously married for close to twenty years!'

‘There were doubts all along as to the legality of our King's marrying his brother's widow. Remember Leviticus, Don Martin. Our King has grave scruples of conscience, which he can no longer in honesty ignore.'

Don Martin gave an exasperated laugh. ‘But Pope Julius II granted a dispensation allowing it!'

Stephen leant forward. His pale eyes had taken on a look of deep and incalculable menace.

‘There are questions here which your lordship overlooks. Whether the Pope has the power to dispense at all. Or whether, on the contrary, the prohibition against marrying within the degrees of consanguinity is a part of the law of God that not even a Pope can sweep aside.'

I glanced at Hannah. She too was listening hard, her eyes fixed on her father. It appeared that this talk interested her deeply. Don Martin rapped the table in irritation.

‘But, Christ Jesu! My own master, King John, is married under just such a dispensation! And last year the Emperor Charles married his sister-in-law, who is also his first cousin! Are their offspring to be bastards? You will destroy all the royal bloodlines of Europe!'

‘God's judgement against this marriage is plain,' responded Mr Stephen. ‘Our King's childlessness is proof of that.'

‘Childless?' Don Martin spluttered with amazement. ‘He has a daughter.'

Stephen waved his hand. ‘A daughter will not save England from civil war when King Henry dies. There must be a son.'

Don Martin suddenly smiled and leant back in his chair. ‘Ah! And so the point is not divorce, merely, but remarriage. And I hear your King's eye might light on … a French princess? King Francis's sister, the Duchesse d'Alençon, perhaps?'

‘You have heard more than I,' replied Stephen stonily.

I looked at Stephen in surprise. He had admitted readily enough King Henry's plans for divorce. So why this sudden reserve over his remarriage to the princess? Don Martin responded with a knowing smile, and the rest of the meal passed with that perfect politeness which courtiers know so well how to command. But I could see that Mr Stephen went away displeased. And myself? I did not like this talk of the King's new marriage. I saw all my plans for rising to wealth and rank wavering like smoke. I needed to finish the jewels, and get home fast.

 

I spent more time than ever with Cellini, urging him on to greater speed. It was the beginning of April. I resented the passage of time; but my casket held a good many gems still unset. Nearly a week after Laetare Sunday I was watching Cellini smoothing the gold for the emerald garden into its bronze mould when we heard the insistent beating of a drum. He laid down his scalpel and we went to the door. The sound grew louder. We ran to the end of the street. Down on the Via Giulia a column of men was advancing. At their head waved a banner, scarlet circles against gold: the Medici colours. Behind came four men with large drums strapped round their necks. After them came the soldiers. They were dressed in black: black puffed doublets and cloaks, and hats with red and yellow feathers in them. Over their shoulders they carried halberds or harquebuses. They came forward in a disorderly swagger, swords swinging, with a terrible, careless menace.

Cellini nodded grimly. ‘The Black Bands.' I had heard of these Florentine troops. They had fought against the Emperor last summer at Milan, where their captain, Giovanino de' Medici, had been killed. They were masterless now, and it had been rumoured for some while that if the danger grew great enough, Pope Clement would bring them south and pay them to guard his city. After them came a second column in blue-and-yellow cockades, marching rigidly in step: Swiss mercenaries, the elite of all soldiers. We watched both columns wind northwards out of sight. Cellini shook his head, and went sombrely back to work.

That night as I lay in bed I heard men shouting and singing, the crash of splintering wood, and the occasional clash of swords. Once there was a hammering at the door of an inn opposite ours, and from the window I saw three of the black-clad soldiers beating on the wood with their sword hilts. When it gave way they plunged in, cursing and wielding their swords. Next morning I hurried off along the Via Monserrato with John and Martin. Wreckage littered the streets, smashed furniture, pottery, broken window glass. But,
God be thanked, the Cages' mansion was intact, its door solid, its lower windows barred. Anxious for my jewels, I hurried on to find Cellini.

In the Vicolo di Calabraga debris was scattered thick over the stones. Outside the workshop a cart stood, with several men standing round it with drawn swords. I saw Paulino come out carrying a roll of papers, which he stowed inside the cart next to cauldrons and crucibles, bundles of tools and the great iron-bound chest where Benvenuto kept his gold and his jewels. As I ran up the men moved to block me.

‘Let him past! He's a friend.' Cellini appeared, carrying in his arms the Perseus statue, wrapped in cloth.

‘What in the devil's name are you doing?'

‘Doing? I am packing up, bag and baggage, that is what I am doing.'

‘But what about our work?'

‘It can continue in a few days when I have set up my new shop. Safe out of the goldsmiths' quarter, down by the river. By God, I'll not risk staying here, with the Black Bands out.'

I raged against the delay; but he was right. Those fiends of robbers loose among my treasures: it was not to be thought of. Somehow I must stomach this loss of precious time. I turned from him and strode quickly back through the streets to the Palazzo del Bene. Hannah must be my consolation. Inside the sala I was met by Mrs Grace.

‘So very frightful. And these are the very men who are meant to protect us! What would it be to meet the enemy?'

Around us the Cages' servants were passing to and fro, one carrying a candlestick, another some package, while Fenton, the chamberlain, barked instructions. A terrible foreboding struck me.

‘Surely, my dear Mrs Grace, you are not thinking of leaving?'

Grace gave a dainty sigh. ‘They say the war will not come nearer than Florence. But for my part, I wish we were at sea, or
better yet already in France. Stephen is in agreement. We stay only as long as it takes to conclude his business. But when that might be, the way His Holiness wavers, today one way, next day the other …'

I saw there was no longer any pretence at being pilgrims. The door to the loggia opened and Susan came in, followed by a servant carrying her lute wrapped in cloth.

‘With care, I said!' She looked up, saw me, and gave a quick nod back the way she had come. I bowed to Mrs Grace and passed through. Out on the loggia, leaning on the balustrade and wearing the crimson dress she had had on when we first met in Rome, was Hannah. I went up to her side. Behind us servants came and went.

I said, ‘And so time, after all, is against us.'

She turned to me with her mocking smile. ‘There is always time, if you grasp it with boldness.'

I darted at her meaning. ‘Then I shall come to you.'

‘Oh?' She smiled. ‘How?'

I nodded down at the garden.

‘You will climb the wall? Very gallant. Where?'

She was challenging me again. I scanned the garden wall. It was some fifteen feet high, built of crumbling brick. One-storeyed shops and sheds backed up against it.

‘There. Where that roof hangs out, and the vine reaches up on this side.'

‘And when will you perform this daring act?'

‘Midnight. Will you be waiting?'

Her eyes were alight. ‘You will have to try me and see.'

 

All the rest of the day I stewed with expectation. I saw moonlit arbours, embraces, kisses and more, much more. To keep busy, and to advance my jewels as speedily as possible, I went back and helped Benvenuto move his goods. Martin laboured alongside me, but of
John there was no sign. Cellini's new shop was on the very brink of the river, on the bend looking out towards the Borgo and Saint Peter's. The place had once been a blacksmith's, and so there was a useable forge. It was a quiet spot; there was no sign here of the soldiers.

‘Tomorrow we finish,' said Benvenuto. ‘Then we resume the work.'

Dusk was falling when Martin and I walked back to the inn. Already the Black Bands were out, swaggering through the streets in search of trouble. As we climbed the stairs to our chamber, a thin figure closely wrapped in a cape came out of our chamber and hurried down the stairs. My hand jumped to my sword and I half made to chase after him, but John called out to me from inside the chamber.

‘Richard! Leave him, leave him. Come in: I have good news.'

I found John sitting at his ease at the table. ‘My goods have come in at last from Florence.'

I looked at him in surprise. ‘And where are they?'

John tossed a leather purse across the table towards me. I picked it up: it was full of gold. ‘Already sold.'

I sat down. My suspicions were on the boil. These were dark sorts of goods that could change hands so quickly, and for so much gold. And I agreed with Benvenuto: John did not bear the marks of a man engaged in trade. I said, ‘That man on the stairs?'

John smiled his easy smile. ‘Cesare Ferramosca.'

‘Ferramosca!' Most trusted of all the emissaries of the Emperor: the man all Rome was relying on to negotiate the peace treaty with the Duke of Bourbon. I said, ‘And so these are the goods you have been trafficking in.'