The Courier's Tale by Peter Walker Page B

have often noticed (for I have the same fault) that he is always eager to cut costs. Now that you two have fallen out, he will say to himself: “Well, at least that saves me a hundred pounds a year.” And so you will be penniless. Nor will you be very safe, even in an attic in Venice. After all, Thomas More was killed for remaining silent, whereas you, as far as I know, have stated your opinions all too frankly. Do you really think that you will now be left in peace?’
    Carafa then took up the assault. He was all for fire and courage. ‘It is now many years since I was made a bishop,’ he declared at one point, when we had stopped to eat by a stream, ‘and I first went to visit a town which had urgent need of pastoral care. But my presence was insupportable to a petty tyrant of the place. He came to see me and in almost threatening form ordered me to have respect for certain ancient and devilish customs of the place. At that, I instantly departed and, outside the gate, following the holy precept of the gospel, shook the dust from my sandals, praying to God to provide for the inhabitants. When I was only two days distant, the people, unable to bear his tyranny any longer, rose up in a body against him, and the tyrant, having sought shelter in an oven, was found there and they tore him quite to pieces. Thus are evil-doers punished!’ At this recollection Carafa evinced the greatest satisfaction, shaking a fist, so to speak, at all tyrants.
    Further along the road, he addressed Pole again, saying that indeed it would be sad for him to lose the love of his family.
    ‘It would be a great loss,’ he said. ‘Yet some have given up more. In fact, they have given up their lives for what is right. Of course, not everyone can be expected to follow the path of the martyrs. And yet did not Christ himself say: “He who will not give up his mother or his father or his brother for my sake is not worthy of me”?’
    And then he spurred his horse on and galloped on ahead, forcing the whole party and the train of servants behind to pick up speed and follow.
    After two days of this, Pole looked not merely woebegone but puzzled, as if he could not tell how he had got himself into this position or how to get out of it. The wind had turned cold and that day, the third of our journey, I saw the sky filled with veins of birds flying south. The summer was over. When we reached Bologna, Pole announced he had changed his mind again: he would go on to Rome after all. He then wrote a letter to the King, saying that he would not give in to his or Cromwell’s threats, and he wrote to his family, begging their forgiveness, but saying he must follow his destiny. He handed me the packet, and I prepared to turn around and begin my fifth journey across Europe that year.
    Before I left, I mentioned the rumours that when he reached Rome he would be made a cardinal. I begged him not to accept this promotion while I was still in England, as nothing would infuriate the King more.
    Pole promised he would refuse as long as I was away, and so we set off in different directions, I turning back north while they went south into the hills towards the abbey of Vallombrosa. It was suddenly autumn; all the way across the plain the wind was blowing hard and leaves were streaming from the long lines of poplars. I should have taken more note of this, but I was young and full of confidence. I had ridden to England and back twice in the last three months, and I was so sure of myself I now decided I could afford a slight detour. I had it in my head to take back a gift for Judith. There was a bolt of blue silk cloth I had seen in a shop in Padua, faintly sprigged, as far as I could remember, with roses. What possible harm could there be in taking a few hours to go and buy a length of silk sprigged with roses? And what might not the effect of that be at Coughton, in Warwickshire!
    I arrived at the shop late in the afternoon. This was in one of those dark, vaulted arcades