Ashton; he did better than Ashton. Ashton resented it, and strove mightily to overtake him. Wolsey enjoyed the rivalry immensely, and every so often did something to overbalance it, first one way, and then another, just to watch the two of them circle each other like fighting dogs in the pit. Another amusement for those dull moments between plans.
The priest, who had let Master Ashton’s silver tongue, golden coin, and mention of the mighty bishop’s favor worm the secret from him, seemed suddenly to shrivel under Wolsey’s cold gaze.
“Surely, de Longueville is too cautious to bring any deep scheme to the confessional. Are you sure it is not some frivolous social correspondence?” Wolsey made his voice icy and was rewarded by the sudden fading of the expression of cocky cleverness in Ashton’s eyes.
“It was not he who confessed, but Mistress Popincourt, who was wild with jealousy that he had secretly procured the portrait of another woman,” Ashton broke in. Wolsey made his face darkly dubious. Ashton’s eyes were filled with a sudden, deeply gratifying, anxiety. “This priest here will bear me out,” said Ashton. The priest nodded in affirmation of Ashton’s words.
“Another woman? What other woman?” Wolsey’s curiosity was piqued, and he let it show. Good, thought Ashton, I’ve aroused his interest. Now we are safe. The image of Master Tuke’s snobbish, irritated glare danced delightfully in Ashton’s mind. Next time, Tuke, it will be Ashton who walks behind the bishop, carrying the dispatch case and record books to the council meeting, not Tuke. Wolsey noted the return of the rivalrous glitter to Ashton’s eyes, and was silent.
“Hear me out, and perhaps you will draw conclusions similar to mine.” Best not to let it out all at once, thought Ashton. Through hard experience abroad, much of it spent observing ruthless men of power, Ashton had become an expert at the timing of telling a good tale. In addition, he could, when sufficiently drunk, mimic the accents and affectations of others in a manner calculated to bring the company into fits of helpless laughter. These were skills of great value to a man who at sixteen had inherited ten pounds and a horse at his father’s death, almost as useful as his neat clerk’s handwriting, and the gift of languages he had discovered in his brief career as a mercenary abroad.
Wolsey sunk his chin in his hand as he listened. His right eyelid drooped in a way that seemed most sinister to the confessor, who seemed to have lost the power of speech. Ashton paused, and continued. “At a supper at Greenwich, de Longueville was enticed by the guests into telling a ghost story. It seems a certain lord offered a commission to paint a miniature from a stained canvas portrait in large to a certain painter in the city—”
“Yes, yes, go on.” Wolsey was impatient with long stories.
“When he returned to collect the miniature, he met a priest outside the house of the artist who had come to inform the artist’s wife that her husband had been murdered across town the night before. But to the lord’s surprise, the portrait was complete anyway. The wife, unknowing, gave out that in ghostly fashion her husband had returned and finished the work.”
“Ghostly fashion indeed,” snorted Wolsey. “The man had an apprentice who finished the job and the wife palmed off apprentice work for master’s wages.”
“That was my thought, too, Your Grace. The French are so excitable, you know. The picture, of course, was reported to be a masterwork of the highest order.” Ashton pulled his face into a droll imitation of a French connoisseur of art. Try as he might to be serious, he could not disguise the fact that he loved a good practical joke. This was another quality that had caused Wolsey to retain him, despite his other defects. It made him the perfect agent. Many of Wolsey’s finest schemes had the quality of practical jokes on the universe, and it was the
The priest, who had let Master Ashton’s silver tongue, golden coin, and mention of the mighty bishop’s favor worm the secret from him, seemed suddenly to shrivel under Wolsey’s cold gaze.
“Surely, de Longueville is too cautious to bring any deep scheme to the confessional. Are you sure it is not some frivolous social correspondence?” Wolsey made his voice icy and was rewarded by the sudden fading of the expression of cocky cleverness in Ashton’s eyes.
“It was not he who confessed, but Mistress Popincourt, who was wild with jealousy that he had secretly procured the portrait of another woman,” Ashton broke in. Wolsey made his face darkly dubious. Ashton’s eyes were filled with a sudden, deeply gratifying, anxiety. “This priest here will bear me out,” said Ashton. The priest nodded in affirmation of Ashton’s words.
“Another woman? What other woman?” Wolsey’s curiosity was piqued, and he let it show. Good, thought Ashton, I’ve aroused his interest. Now we are safe. The image of Master Tuke’s snobbish, irritated glare danced delightfully in Ashton’s mind. Next time, Tuke, it will be Ashton who walks behind the bishop, carrying the dispatch case and record books to the council meeting, not Tuke. Wolsey noted the return of the rivalrous glitter to Ashton’s eyes, and was silent.
“Hear me out, and perhaps you will draw conclusions similar to mine.” Best not to let it out all at once, thought Ashton. Through hard experience abroad, much of it spent observing ruthless men of power, Ashton had become an expert at the timing of telling a good tale. In addition, he could, when sufficiently drunk, mimic the accents and affectations of others in a manner calculated to bring the company into fits of helpless laughter. These were skills of great value to a man who at sixteen had inherited ten pounds and a horse at his father’s death, almost as useful as his neat clerk’s handwriting, and the gift of languages he had discovered in his brief career as a mercenary abroad.
Wolsey sunk his chin in his hand as he listened. His right eyelid drooped in a way that seemed most sinister to the confessor, who seemed to have lost the power of speech. Ashton paused, and continued. “At a supper at Greenwich, de Longueville was enticed by the guests into telling a ghost story. It seems a certain lord offered a commission to paint a miniature from a stained canvas portrait in large to a certain painter in the city—”
“Yes, yes, go on.” Wolsey was impatient with long stories.
“When he returned to collect the miniature, he met a priest outside the house of the artist who had come to inform the artist’s wife that her husband had been murdered across town the night before. But to the lord’s surprise, the portrait was complete anyway. The wife, unknowing, gave out that in ghostly fashion her husband had returned and finished the work.”
“Ghostly fashion indeed,” snorted Wolsey. “The man had an apprentice who finished the job and the wife palmed off apprentice work for master’s wages.”
“That was my thought, too, Your Grace. The French are so excitable, you know. The picture, of course, was reported to be a masterwork of the highest order.” Ashton pulled his face into a droll imitation of a French connoisseur of art. Try as he might to be serious, he could not disguise the fact that he loved a good practical joke. This was another quality that had caused Wolsey to retain him, despite his other defects. It made him the perfect agent. Many of Wolsey’s finest schemes had the quality of practical jokes on the universe, and it was the
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