The Courier's Tale by Peter Walker Page A

that if I had lost mother, wife and children, it could no more have done so . . . You have been so unnatural to so noble a prince from whom you cannot deny you have received all things. And for our family which was clean trodden under foot, he set up nobly, which showeth his charity, his clemency, and his mercy. I grieve to see the day that you should set forth the contrary, or trust your wit above the rest of the country. If there is any grace in you, now you will turn to the right way. It is incredible to me that by reason of a brief sent to you by the Bishop of Rome you should be resident with him this winter. If you should take that way, then farewell all my hope. Learning you may well have, but no prudence, nor pity but show yourself to run from one mischief to another. And then, gentle Reginald, farewell all bonds of nature . . .
     
    I saw that Pole, reading this, turned pale. Then he came to the third letter, which was from his mother.
     
    Son Reginald,
    I send you God’s blessing and mine, though my trust to have comfort in you is turned to sorrow. Alas that I, for your folly, should receive from my sovereign lord such a message as I have by your brother. To see you in His Grace’s indignation – trust me, Reginald, there went never the death of thy father nor of any child so nigh my heart. Upon my blessing I charge thee – take another way, unless thou wilt be the confusion of thy mother.
     
    Pole now had the look of a man who receives a violent blow out of thin air. The page stayed between his fingers, and he looked around at all of us:
    ‘I cannot go to Rome,’ he said.

Chapter 10
    At that, the others in the room cried out, as with one voice. They were the two bishops, Giberti and Carafa, both very learned men, who had also been summoned to Rome to prepare for the council.
    When they realised that Pole was determined not to go with them, they set out to change his mind with many arguments. But Pole was insistent: ‘I have already lost the love of the King. Not even the Pope would ask me to lose my family as well, and cast off all the bonds of nature . . .’
    The two bishops finally seemed to give way. ‘Very well, perhaps you are right,’ they said. ‘You must write to the Pope and ask for a remission. But at least ride with us some of the way, so we can discuss all these things. Your King would not object to that.’
    So we all set off together, with Carafa, Giberti and Pole leading the way, and a long train of friends and servants following behind. Apart from both being very learned, those two bishops were as unlike as night and day. Giberti short, stout, pallid – his stubby fingers grasped the bridle as if his life depended on it – had a down-turned mouth from which all his words departed reluctantly and had a kind of added force on account of their rarity. Carafa, on the other hand, was tall, fiery, voluble – he rode almost standing on his stirrups, straining ahead to spy out any foe. He was a true son of Naples, fond of that black wine they make there, and given to sudden eruptions of rage or joy.
    I rode just behind them alongside Marc’Antonio Flamminio, the poet. It was on that journey, I think, that our great friendship began. Flamminio nudged me as we rode along and pointed ahead: ‘Look at them,’ he said. ‘Carafa rides forward like Mars, and Giberti brings up the rear like Saturn. And poor Signor Reynaldo’ – as he called Pole – ‘moves between them sadly like Mercury. He doesn’t stand a chance.’
    It was soon clear that the two had not given up their campaign to win Pole back.
    Giberti was mild and thoughtful in his manner. He said nothing for a long time as we rode across the plains, and then he made one speech: ‘It may be unwise of you to come to Rome,’ he said. ‘You must make up your own mind. Yet I keep wondering to myself how you will now live. You can hardly expect your King to keep paying your allowance. I know him well, we are very good friends and I