boiling. Wolsey smiled at the remembrance of it. Even his French agent who had received the portrait had expressed his admiration. The most delicate operation, accomplished brilliantly. In what great secrecy he had had to work, to prevent a counter-scheme from being hatched against him by the English king’s father-in-law, the King of Spain, whose spies were everywhere!
Now, dinner having been planned and all his mind-compartments humming, Wolsey sent off the Master Cook. The King’s Almoner was expecting de Longueville shortly, with news from France, he hoped. Instead it was Master Ashton, the newest of his privy secretaries, and a priest whose name he ought to have remembered, but which seemed to escape him at the moment. As his servant and the strange priest were shown in, Wolsey made a point of looking up from some papers with which he appeared to be busy as if to say, Well, be quick about it.
“Your Grace, you have asked me to report any news that pertains to Longueville’s activities. I have come to you because I have reason to believe that he is carrying on a separate correspondence with France.” Ashton’s face was calm as he delivered this news, but in an unconscious gesture, he unrolled the tightened fingers of his left hand with his right. Wolsey noticed it. Ashton might as well have written his nervousness on a sign and hung it about his neck.
Ashton had good reason to be nervous; he was knowingly interrupting the great man at his labors. Being cast into outer darkness was the very least of the penalties that Wolsey imposed on those who annoyed him. And Ashton, in the course of his duties as a confidential agent, errand boy, and letter writer in four languages, had already become well acquainted with the utter ruthlessness that lay beneath the silky surface of Wolsey’s ambition. But Ashton, just twenty-five, was new to the bishop’s service and had no important family connections. He needed to take risks to rise. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, said Ashton to himself. I can’t let Brian Tuke spend all his time wallowing in the bishop’s favor. It’s Ashton’s turn for praise.
What Ashton would have been humiliated to realize was that he had been retained for the sake of an unfortunate gift that endeared him to Wolsey: to anyone with a mind to see, Ashton’s honest eyes signaled every thought that went through his head as clearly as if it were written on his forehead. It amused Wolsey to read the continual display of thoughts that passed through Ashton’s hazel eyes, and occasionally to give Ashton a prod, or even several, just to watch his face change. The fact that Ashton was intelligent made it even better. Reading Ashton made Wolsey feel older and cleverer, and was always a pleasant thing to do on a rainy afternoon, when reading documents cloyed. For this reason, he tolerated Ashton’s youthful brashness, his tendency to be too hasty and too passionate in matters he considered moral, his fits and moods, and the irritating little habits that signaled he had not been trained at court. Besides, the man was useful; he was courageous, he was nosy, he was persistent, and he was eager to rise.
Wolsey cast a long, purposefully shrewd stare at Ashton, taking in at a glance the strapping form, the mobile, intelligent face, the livery dusty with travel and hastily, hopefully, brushed. He measured with a glance Ashton’s overeager eyes, in which trepidation and calculation warred with triumphant delight at his own cleverness. Aha, thought Wolsey, whatever he has here, he’s planned a counterblow against Master Tuke. It is bound to be interesting. Brian Tuke pleased Wolsey for exactly the qualities Ashton had no hope of possessing: he was smooth, deferential, flattering, and pliant to his master’s least wish. Unoriginal and politic, his rise within Wolsey’s household was unhindered by the kind of embarrassing incident that Ashton was likely to entangle himself in. He had served longer than
Now, dinner having been planned and all his mind-compartments humming, Wolsey sent off the Master Cook. The King’s Almoner was expecting de Longueville shortly, with news from France, he hoped. Instead it was Master Ashton, the newest of his privy secretaries, and a priest whose name he ought to have remembered, but which seemed to escape him at the moment. As his servant and the strange priest were shown in, Wolsey made a point of looking up from some papers with which he appeared to be busy as if to say, Well, be quick about it.
“Your Grace, you have asked me to report any news that pertains to Longueville’s activities. I have come to you because I have reason to believe that he is carrying on a separate correspondence with France.” Ashton’s face was calm as he delivered this news, but in an unconscious gesture, he unrolled the tightened fingers of his left hand with his right. Wolsey noticed it. Ashton might as well have written his nervousness on a sign and hung it about his neck.
Ashton had good reason to be nervous; he was knowingly interrupting the great man at his labors. Being cast into outer darkness was the very least of the penalties that Wolsey imposed on those who annoyed him. And Ashton, in the course of his duties as a confidential agent, errand boy, and letter writer in four languages, had already become well acquainted with the utter ruthlessness that lay beneath the silky surface of Wolsey’s ambition. But Ashton, just twenty-five, was new to the bishop’s service and had no important family connections. He needed to take risks to rise. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, said Ashton to himself. I can’t let Brian Tuke spend all his time wallowing in the bishop’s favor. It’s Ashton’s turn for praise.
What Ashton would have been humiliated to realize was that he had been retained for the sake of an unfortunate gift that endeared him to Wolsey: to anyone with a mind to see, Ashton’s honest eyes signaled every thought that went through his head as clearly as if it were written on his forehead. It amused Wolsey to read the continual display of thoughts that passed through Ashton’s hazel eyes, and occasionally to give Ashton a prod, or even several, just to watch his face change. The fact that Ashton was intelligent made it even better. Reading Ashton made Wolsey feel older and cleverer, and was always a pleasant thing to do on a rainy afternoon, when reading documents cloyed. For this reason, he tolerated Ashton’s youthful brashness, his tendency to be too hasty and too passionate in matters he considered moral, his fits and moods, and the irritating little habits that signaled he had not been trained at court. Besides, the man was useful; he was courageous, he was nosy, he was persistent, and he was eager to rise.
Wolsey cast a long, purposefully shrewd stare at Ashton, taking in at a glance the strapping form, the mobile, intelligent face, the livery dusty with travel and hastily, hopefully, brushed. He measured with a glance Ashton’s overeager eyes, in which trepidation and calculation warred with triumphant delight at his own cleverness. Aha, thought Wolsey, whatever he has here, he’s planned a counterblow against Master Tuke. It is bound to be interesting. Brian Tuke pleased Wolsey for exactly the qualities Ashton had no hope of possessing: he was smooth, deferential, flattering, and pliant to his master’s least wish. Unoriginal and politic, his rise within Wolsey’s household was unhindered by the kind of embarrassing incident that Ashton was likely to entangle himself in. He had served longer than
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