The King's Man

by Tim Hanlon

Europe, 1545 C.E.

So it came to pass that, while the English forces were investing Montreuil, an Italian adventurer by the name of Colonel da l’Armi was allowed access to King Henry VIII’s encampment. He was a gaudy fellow, da l’Armi, even by the standards of a foreigner, vain and brash. Still, he was no stranger to the battlefield and no matter that he had, of late, been employed by the very enemy of the English nation, he was presented to the commander, Lord Russell.

“His Majesty believes, it would seem,” said Lord Russell, “that you are capable of contracting mercenary troops for us, Colonel da l’Armi.”

The colonel was a handsome man, his face framed by a dark, well-trimmed beard. His slashed doublet was in shades of red and of good cloth and cut. In his hands he clasped a flat cap with a feather that bordered on too large. He could have been taken for one of those lounging predators at court looking to catch the sidelong glance of a naïve lady-in-waiting, but the side-sword he had delivered to the sentry was forged for war and the hand that passed it over scarred and battered.

“His Majesty is a fine judge,” returned da l’Armi in almost unaccented English. “I can indeed gather some of the best fighting men in all of Europe to serve your king.”

Lord Russell poured himself some wine from a side table in his well-appointed tent but he did not extend an offer to the colonel. “At the right price, I would imagine,” said the commander as he looked over the rim of the wine glass.

Da l’Armi gave a slight bow, just deep enough to perhaps not be disdainful. “Quality does cost, my lord,” he remarked. “And I am sure a great king of war such as your Henry would not want a mob of scapegraces and scullions under his banner.” 

The Englishman set his glass down and frowned at the tone and vernacular. “Do you mock me, Sir?” he demanded. “By God, I will not be spoken to in such a custom by a foreigner. And a papist lackey, no less. I am of a mind to have my sergeant-at-arms teach you some manners!”

He was a bluff man, Lord Russell, and a warrior of the old stripe and he held his importance in high regard. His very English complexion flushed quickly and frequently when he felt he was not being given his due and now it was the colour to almost match his wine.

Da l’Armi bowed lower this time to hide a slight smile for he, in truth, admired the Englishman and their rough spun pride in their tiny island and he enjoyed teasing out a thread of it from time to time. “Please excuse my coarse speech, milord,” he said softly, “for I learnt your language around the campfires in the company of rough men and do some times, with great regret, misspeak.” 

“Just so,” agreed Lord Russell. “Well, keep a care when speaking to a true-born son of England and choose your words carefully. You may discuss remuneration with my secretary in a moment, Colonel, and dates for delivery and what have you. First however, there is a gentleman from His Majesty’s court who wishes to speak with you on another matter. And mind how you speak to him, Sir, for not all are as forgiving as myself.”

Da l’Armi bobbed his head again. “I will follow your advice, milord,” he said smoothly. “And I thank you for this opportunity to serve such a great king.”

Another figure appeared at the entrance of the large tent and approached. He was dark of hair and bearded like the Italian colonel and held himself as a military man. He had a jouster’s or a swordsman’s shoulders and da l’Armi was quick to take his measure. Here was an Englishman in his prime; not a species with which to be trifled.

“Sir John,” said Lord Russell with a sharp nod of his head. “Send this scoundrel to my secretary when you have finished your business. I bid you both good day.”

“Sir John Luttrell?” asked da l’Armi. “Your fame proceeds you, Sir. I hear the Scots quake at your name.”

Luttrell was the conservative mirror of the Italian mercenary.  An entirely loyal man where da l’Armi was definitely not, he was dressed in muted colours but of no less fine a cut. His boots were mud-stained as if he had only recently arrived but there was no sign of fatigue on his face or the set of his straight back.

“Colonel da l’Armi,” said Luttrell. He crossed to the same table and examined the wine and then found two fresh glasses below. He raised the jug and his brows and da l’Armi nodded. “We both know how fame works, don’t we, my friend. And infamy.”

Da l’Armi swallowed some wine and nodded his head in appreciation. Outside he could hear the tumult of an army camp, familiar to him in many different languages across Europe. It had been a part of his life since he was a young boy dragged around the continent by his camp-follower mother. 

“We do, Sir,” agreed the mercenary. “Mix hopes, fears and lies in various measures and see who will swallow the concoction. Most times it is most people.”

“That sounds correct. To business, Colonel? The King has given me orders and I am eager to see them concluded.”

Da l’Armi nodded agreement. He was intrigued by this development but had learnt to be wary when dealing with the whims of kings. They were men who did not think like the rest of humanity.

Luttrell returned his glass to the side table. With his back to da l’Armi he said, “His Majesty, as I am sure you are aware, is a man of strong principles. And these same principles have made him enemies of people he had once trusted. Enemies that seek to undermine him at every turn, to slander him, to accuse him of the worst crimes against God when he simply wishes to … captain … the church of his own country in the best way he deems fit. For the benefit of his people, not for a cabal of bishops in a far-off land who think they have exclusive rights to the patronage of our Holy Father. Do you follow me so far, da l’Armi?”

“I do, Sir John.”

“These enemies, these traitors to their own people, some whose very theological education was sponsored by our king, have sought to hide from their treason on the continent, but my king’s reach is longer than they imagine. And we would seek for you to be part of that reach.”

“I see,” said da l’Armi. “And is there a particular soul to which you would wish me to reach out?”

Luttrell paused for a moment and studied the mercenary colonel. He nodded his head sharply then said, “Reginald Pole.”

Da l’Armi drained off the last of his wine in one gulp. “The cardinal,” he said quietly. “And what manner should this reaching out take?”

“The King,” replied Sir John, “thinks the traitor Pole should face justice for his treason. But his majesty understands that returning the man to London may prove difficult. He has not, therefore, forsaken any options.”

A smile grew on the mercenary’s face. He stroked his beard gently and said, “Perhaps he could marry him, if the great and noble King Henry wished to deal permanently with Cardinal Pole. That seems usually to bring about the desired effect.”

Luttrell placed his left hand on the sword he still wore on his waist as he considered da l’Armi. The Italian looked back steadily. He had gotten himself in hot water many times by his seemingly ill-considered remarks but he had little care for the pretensions of his betters and he would always say what he thought and be damned. He did, in truth, admire the English king but he could not change his nature. 

The Englishman said, “You are as they told me, da l’Armi.” He went no further than that statement. “So are we clear on what is required of you?”

“Certainly, Sir John,” said the mercenary.

Sir John Luttrell crossed quickly to the other man. “So let us be finished with these games,” he said. “And I will outline to you what is known.”

So the two men sat and they talked and they schemed how one would kill a man at a king’s request. 

* * *

There are two cities called Venice, thought da l’Armi, both as different as what lies above the water and what lies below. One is magnificent boulevards where people in fine dress stroll, having alighted from boats bedecked in striking standards and colourful ribbons, and marvel at a clear sky that seems as permanent as a painting on the ceiling of the world. The other is narrow, dirty canals pressing against rusted water-gates where the carcass of a rat, a dog, even a human would float past, sometimes snagging against a down pipe for days until the smell drew someone out to push it on its way. A hard life is lived there, no different from any city across the world where the rich few make money and the poor squabble and scrabble for what they can to survive.

That was the Venice da l’Armi could see from the window of the rooms he had rented for himself and his men. The sun still shone but the high apartments cast premature shadows onto the first-floor window that da l’Armi looked out. Across the narrow canal, the colonel watched a man in a grubby undershirt beat his wife for complaining that he had lost their housekeeping money at dice. Da l’Armi could hear clearly the man as he interspersed his slaps with complaints of his own. When the neighbour saw the mercenary watching he paused for a moment and then gave the poor woman one final clout before dropping her to the floor.

Da l’Armi hawked a gob of spit out the window in the man’s direction then turned away. The room felt tighter than it had that morning and the mercenary wanted to be on his way. Word had come that the arch-traitor Pole was to attend a council in Trento to the north and an ambuscade could seal his fate. He waited for confirmation and he was, at these times, not a patient man.

“He is here,” said Mancino from the doorway.

“He comes himself?” asked da l’Armi.

Domenego remarked from across the room, “He likes the adventure, shall we say.” The Neapolitan curled his lip. “L’intrigo.”

His companions found waiting no easier. Mancino, the knife-man, was always on his feet, sidling up to people in an unconscious assault. Domenego, who was quite expert with the matchlock arquebus, was more solid and steady but he could become snide and sarcastic when bored.

Mancino showed the English ambassador through the door. Edmund Harvel’s brown, slashed doublet followed the latest Italian fashion and he cut an important figure. The colonel admired the man’s sense of style. Harvel nodded to da l’Armi as Mancino closed the door behind him. 

“You do not have to come all this way, Ambassador.”

“Perhaps,” said Harvel. “But I have heard rumours that the papists have hired a band of thugs to bring you to ground, da l’Armi. A Piero Maria de San Secondo is charged with the task and his man in Venice is a Jehan Cheron. A Frenchman, I am told.”

“I know him.”

“A rogue,” said Domenego and the three of them laughed.

Harvel waved their laughter away with a quick hand. “So I thought that if they had any sense they would be waiting at the embassy for your appearance.”

“Quite so, Ambassador,” said the colonel. He could hear a woman singing and he imagined it was the wife from across the way. He liked her voice and considered briefly if a garrotte around her husband’s throat would mean she would do it more often. 

They settled the ambassador with a cup of wine and outlined how the recruiting was progressing. Harvel nodded his head in surprise. “So you say six thousand men? That is quite a deal more than I imagined, Colonel. I have, perhaps, not given you your due. I’m sure His Majesty will be pleased.”

Da l’Armi raised his cup at the ambassador. “I hope that is the case. I hold great admiration for your King Henry. But more importantly, Ambassador, the traitor Pole? Will he be at the council?”

“I am told he is not going to Trento,” said Harvel. “You will have to make other plans.”

The room was darkening and Mancino sparked a candle. Da l’Armi looked at his men in turn and Domenego, the marksman, simply shrugged his shoulders. There would be another chance. Ambassador Harvel had nothing further to discuss and da l’Armi walked him downstairs to the door of the hostel. 

“I have a barge further down,” said the Englishman. “I can find my own way.”

Da l’Armi paused for a moment and studied the street as the brown clad figure was swallowed by the gloom. He was not surprised when he saw a shape move in the shadows down the way. It was slight, only a pulling back into the murk, but the Italian’s life was back alleys and duplicity and he knew the gesture. The ambassador had been followed. Da l’Armi closed the door but left a crack open and he waited too.

The figure emerged into the street and turned left and left again at the nearest corner. The mercenary grabbed a short cloak from a hook beside the door and threw it over his shoulders. An iron buckler and other weapons were there too and he hung the small shield onto his belt. He slipped out of the entrance gracefully, pivoting through the small gap like a dancer and striding in the opposite direction. Da l’Armi looked at the upstairs window of the discarded hostel with a frown creasing his handsome face; they had been solid companions. 

Behind him now, as he rounded the corner, he heard the crash of breaking wood and the roar of an arquebus and the shouts of men in conflict and he hoped Mancino and Domenego would understand that sometimes a man had to make his own luck.

Fickle luck it was, too, for as he strode up the street he heard a voice hail him from the first cross-street and his eyes caught those of a man he knew. A rogue he had just called him, but one with a good memory; Jehan Cheron studied the colonel for only a moment to be certain. Then Cheron turned into the street and ran at him, another man at Cheron’s heels. Da l’Armi watched them for a moment and saw that they were quick. 

He would rather see the blade that killed him then to get it in the back and he pushed his cloak aside and drew his side-sword into coda lunga e larga with the buckler extended in his left hand and waited for the arrival of hard, sharp steel.

Cheron struck at his head as he reached measure but da l’Armi brushed it aside with the buckler and stepped to the left and cut across his torso. His sword jarred his hand as it contacted Cheron’s hidden breastplate but da l’Armi did not pause. He took a long quick step past Cheron and, protected by the buckler, his out-thrust sword sliced into the second man’s neck as he ran behind. The colonel twisted the blade as the unfortunate’s legs collapsed and cut his sword through. The hole it left was ghastly to behold and blood washed the cobbles like a red Venice tide as da l’Armi turned to Cheron.

“How much is your life worth, Cheron?” he asked. “To play at being the pope’s executioner.”

Cheron drew a dagger with his left hand as he advanced like a duellist. “You’ll be playing your game in hell tonight, da l’Armi,” returned Cheron. “You strutting peacock!”

Da l’Armi laughed and he clashed his sword against his buckler. “You can have your pope, Cheron. I am Henry’s man,” he declared.

He went in fast with a low lunge and Cheron caught it on his dagger and cut at the colonel’s head but da l’Armi worked his buckler smoothly and covered that attack. He directed the other’s dagger hand across its owner’s body and pushed with his buckler and folded Cheron’s right arm over the other and the man’s arms were trapped under the insistent buckler and he was against a wall and could not move. Da l’Armi, too close but mongoose quick, released his sword and snatched his own dagger from his belt and it went into Cheron’s armpit and sliced blood vessels on the way to the lungs and the man was dying before the first gout of blood was coughed from his throat. It had not been a classical exchange but he was not a duellist, da l’Armi; he was a killer.

Da l’Armi let the other man slump to the ground. Cheron raised his hand as he drowned and da l’Armi held it in his own and he waited silently until the assassin was dead. Then he collected his weapons and went to find a boat. 

For he was The King’s Man and he had a Man of God to kill.

About the author

Tim Hanlon has been a History teacher since the dawn of time and has had a life-long interest in studying the martial heritage of both Eastern and Western civilizations. He hopes to one day apply the advice of Seneca or Marcus Aurelius in a real life situation. Just once. When not writing or reading, Tim likes to wax lyrical about craft beer with friends, take long walks on the beach, and help the elderly cross the street. 

About the artwork

The illustration is Portrait of a Man Holding a Book by Tiziano Vecellio da Cadore (Titian), oil on canvas, ca. 1540. In the collection of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Massachusetts. In the public domain.