The Cardinal's Angels (3 page)

He’d solved the problems of Henry’s two sisters—a divorce for the Queen of Scotland and removal of the bigamy charges for the ungrateful Suffolk, thus elevating his stature as the papal expert. Now … now was different. After the letter from Master
Casale
in Rome, three days ago, any hopes of an annulment from the Apostolic See were dust. The only remaining army on the Italian peninsula were beaten, and as a result, that master of equivocation, Pope Clement, had finally decided to commit himself once and for all to Charles V and the Imperial faction by recalling the annulment case to a Papal court. A disaster—it was a complete disaster. Why did Clement have to pick now to stick irrevocably to a decision? By reputation, former Cardinal Giuliano Medici never resolved to one course of action for longer than it took to eat a capon. It was often quoted as a wry joke within the
Apostolic
chambers that His Holiness could agree to several opposing suggestions between one sip of wine and another. This last reported rumour from his agents in Rome, hinted at the cause for his unaccustomed consistency—an illegitimate Hapsburg daughter was to wed a papal nephew.

Wolsey passed back the empty goblet and slapped one meaty hand into the other. This too public failure could break him! That damned harpy would be at her royal paramour every day, whispering and pouting, flashing those dark eyes, every word dripping with venom. ‘Our Lord Chancellor promised so much …’ Damn her and damn Clement!

As this thought brought on yet another surge of bile, his ire acquired a more
Romewards
direction. Clement, that Florentine ditherer, it was
all his
fault. He had even fowled up the appointment of Cardinal Campeggio to the Annulment Commission. Lorenzo Campeggio was supposed to be England’s agent in the Holy See, a cleric bought and paid for by English gold. The Italian received the income from a bishopric and hefty annual gifts and yet now, despite all this generosity, he was hedging and wavering just like his master. As slowly as was possible, Campeggio had travelled all the way from Rome—two weeks even to get from Dover to London. A blind, crippled snail on crutches could have managed a faster journey! Almost daily he was advised to
either halt and
wait, or to speed up as the inconstant Papal mind wandered along its meandering path. Finally, after months wasted on the journey, Campeggio arrived, and in his very first conversation with the King, revealed that within his luggage was a Papal decretal granting the divorce. A much prayed for solution to this bitter, bitter problem.

Ahh, but of course, it was not that simple. Unless Katherine agreed to go into a nunnery, it was to be
neither published or
displayed. This sly surprise gave Lady Anne all the ammunition to further undermine his standing. And then despite his best efforts, Katherine managed to smuggle out a letter to her nephew, Charles V, imploring his assistance. This had only magnified his problems, and since then he had kept his intelligencers and spies working at full pitch, both in England and across the Channel. Right now most of these were concentrated on the city of
Cambri
, watching that intricate dance between the Houses of Hapsburg and Valois over the culmination of their long wars. All his long–honed instincts told his that he must be there before the ink dried on any treaty. For Wolsey to prosper, then he must be seen with the powers of Europe. Instead Henry had chosen to send that preening ingrate, Suffolk, as well as the simpering would–be philosopher, Sir Thomas More. And what use were they? Neither had the reputation or weight of experience needed to gain for England a place at the bargaining table. How could either hope to get anything more than mere crumbs as a reward for His Majesty’s great
efforts.
How could they know of such subtle nuances as Margaret of Austria’s distinctive cough just before she yielded a point? How would they conduct those quiet but oh so useful talks at feast or hunt with important lords and princes? Yes, he’d seen it all before, Royal Ambassadors, puffed up in velvet and cloth of
gold,
and too blinded by huberous and glittering promises to see the traps clearly laid in their paths. For two men, supposedly so beholden to him for their titles and advancement, and previously so garrulous in his praise, he had received little regarding their embassy, scarcely a word or a letter in report. And as with His Royal Master’s, this infectious silence sounded a dread knock upon his heart. England would rue the day he was not present.

Frustratingly he was shut out, relying on minions, as the powerful made their own arrangements without him, reduced to the pitiful expedient of agents in the curtain shadows. And the King said nothing, refusing his requests.

His exclusion was a public slight and who knew what secret deals were being hatched, maybe even a compact bringing both the Valois and Hapsburgs against an isolated England? In an attempt to stem the stampede, he’d penned a missive to His Majesty as a reminder of his diplomatic expertise and in return received a curtly dismissive letter from Gardiner, his former secretary, asking him, the Chancellor of the Kingdom, to be more specific as to his inquiry.
Gardiner
! He had raised that ingrate to the position he now held. Bishop Gardiner owed him everything. It didn’t need an astrologer to interpret that sign. The King was drifting away, his ear full of the whispers and innuendoes of those at Court eager to gain preferment and wealth. The Duke of Norfolk was one rival already much too close to Henry and, as uncle of Lady Anne, he would relish any chance to gain the chancellor’s title. Thomas Howard already held the reputation as a man more devious than a serpent and twice as dangerous. And this situation was steering towards the perilous. Wolsey knew from du Bellay’s letter and other’s since that he wasn’t the only one at risk—the English Church was also in the butts as a target. Previously he had played up its vulnerability as a useful goad to Campeggio, and satisfyingly, the Italian’s letters to the Apostolic See had proved the worth of that tactic. He recalled one part with particular satisfaction:

“The Cardinal alone stood between the Church and its subjection. It was owing to Wolsey's vigilance and solicitude that the Holy See retained its rank and dignity. His ruin would drag down the Church!”

True, very true.
How could Pope Clement ignore the crisis? He snorted at the memory. That would be easy—the Florentine was quick enough to favour needed allies, though afterwards he had a discriminating tendency for selective ‘forgetfulness’. One prime example that still rankled was the English gift of ten thousand ducats. In desperation the Holy Father had begged for assistance, a petition to his faithful servant, the King of England and his valued loving friend, Cardinal Wolsey. Clement had pleaded that without it, the papal armies would wither away before the Imperials. That was not a happy recollection. The subsidy had come close to ruining him. The Commons in Parliament had almost revolted over openly shipping that much gold out the Kingdom. And of course later Clement had ‘forgotten’ his English friends—typical!

Then the deceitful Italian had pulled his culminating cony catcher’s trick. While Clement knew full well the Annulment Commission was in session, His Holiness sent several letters via Imperial messengers,
withdrawing
its validity and recalling the case back to Rome! Wolsey wasn’t a fool. He’d tried to misdirect the missives and his agents had stalked every route in Europe to forestall their posting. God’s blood, all to no avail! Why was it that his dealings with this Pope were so cursed by an ill star?

That thought didn’t solve his problems and concentrating on it only brought on a pounding headache. If only His Holiness had succumbed to that illness earlier this year. That would have left his apostolic legate free to declare judgement on the whole case
sede
vacante
before they’d elected a new pope. As he’d found before, the vacant period between pontiffs always brought up a host of possibilities and removed a legion of obstacles. If only Clement had died! Wolsey instinctively crossed himself at that remembered wish.

In normal circumstances such an evil thought would be roundly banished to the nether most parts of the soul, chastised and discarded. Suddenly an edge of frantic desperation gripped him and held the thought up to the light of speculation.
Perhaps?

Hmmm Perhaps?

Perhaps, it wasn’t so…evil?

Wolsey’s eyes narrowed and his fingers rubbed at the seal ring on his right hand. Was it a temptation from the arch fiend?
Or an angelically inspired revelation?

In the past, priests who had brought the throne of St Peter into disrespect had been opportunely removed by the provident hand of God. So, what if the Almighty chose to work through the agency of rebellious lords, conniving cardinals or convenient illnesses?

Sin or saviour?
As of this instant, it was well lodged in his thoughts. Not even a barrel of Gonne powder could dislodge it, as its suppleness, justice and symmetry beguiled him. He mused on the interminable failings of Pope Clement. It was a very long list that started with the Sack of Rome and Babylonian captivity of the Pontiff by the Imperial army, then descended through the pervasive spiritual spinelessness and calumny of political debacles. While no man could be perfect, that status belonging only to the Son of God, this Pope had taken the Patrimony of St Peter to a state lower in esteem than a harlot’s chastity. Clement had failed in his duty! He’d done little to reassure a distraught and desperate flock, made vulnerable and confused by the religious conflict between that heretic Luther and the Church. More importantly, he had shown niggardly regard for the true friends of the Holy See. Wolsey tapped his fingers on the heavy beam of the over mantle, almost a Te
Duem
in rhythm. It was a grievous sin to encompass the death of another. Dare he act on the impulse?

He had done so before in the case of the Duke of Buckingham, playing upon the King’s fears of a rival to the throne, and the suspicious links to Richard de la Pole’s Yorkist plots. It had taken little effort to tease and distort letters, confessions and coincidence until Buckingham fell to an executioner’s axe. But, temptation twitched another smouldering thought his way. A new Pope would solve an accumulation of problems, both here and for his potential backers. Francis of France would not be too distressed and the debts of several French prelates beholden to him now pushed the consideration onto firmer ground.

Of course in the current balance of power Charles V had to be considered. Wolsey had been promised the Emperor’s support at the very next Papal candidacy, not that the guarantee had held firm during the last Convocation of Cardinals. This time he’d make sure he had more leverage, like perhaps easing the vexations of Katherine of Aragon and bringing low her rival. But first, Pope Clement VII had to receive his heavenly reward for services rendered.

Wolsey made his decision in an instant. His high position had been attained solely by interpreting the Royal will and fearlessly acting on inspiration. He turned to Cavendish and snapped out a command. “Summon Master Smeaton at once!”

Then seized by the moment, he strode over to his table and began to draft a new series of letters. The first was to the English agent in Rome, Master
Casale
. The fellow had frequently mentioned that Clement had more enemies than a dog had fleas. The most useful among these would surely be Cardinal Colonna. He was a man with a finely honed sense of revenge. Reports had it that twice he’d tried to kill Clement. If not Colonna then Francesco
della
Rovere
, the Duke of
Urbino
, would welcome a chance to dispatch the former Medici cardinal. That Italian nobleman made it a point of honour to have no living enemies. Wolsey reflected on the long list of papal foes. One of these should be able to fulfil the deed if given enough incentive. As Chancellor, the wealth of the Kingdom was available at his discretion, but this required a more subtle touch. Several thousand gold angels withheld from the King’s recent devaluing were still at hand and were innocuously secreted for just such an emergency. A quiet chuckle and crooked smile broke upon Wolsey’s face at the aptness of this image. Yes, gold greased the wheels of state, and made men amenable to suggestion. Thus chests of golden angels could wing Clement to his eternal rest. Ahh choke on that Giuliano Medici. A Cardinal’s angels will bring you down! This, however, was only two sides of the triangle, a plan and a means to implement that plan. Still missing was a cat’s paw. Now who could be employed in this manner? The smile returned to his lips—ahh, of course, Campeggio.

Despite his wavering, Campeggio could be very useful. The Italian had frequently expressed his reluctant compliance with the instructions from Rome and had discretely conveyed his willingness to repay his good friend, the English Cardinal, for his generosity. The Italian was a martyr to two main afflictions, the first being gout. Always anxious to try any new remedy available, Wolsey’s own physician, Dr Augustino, was frequently called to attend him, and thus accordingly was privy to many complaints and “confessions” from a man in pain and suffering. So Wolsey now knew of the second and greater cross carried by Cardinal Campeggio—his insatiable pack of children and assorted relatives, all begging constantly for preferment or position.