Carta Marina.

 

Carta Marina.

 

 

Olaus Magnus

 

Rome 1539

 

     Constanza ran her fingers through his chest hair. Like a northern forest in late autumn, it was sprinkled with white. His beard showed winter too. But his frame was large. His body firm and manly, the blue green eyes cut from a glacier.

Here in Rome, in a crowd, he stood above the general run of men.

They were warm from lovemaking, the covers flung back.

 

     “What business do you have with the Pope?”

     “Bishop’s business,” he mumbled.

     “That’s not an answer. Is it about your map?”

     “Constanza why must you know everything?” He said, stroking her dark hair.

 

He ran his hand over her back feeling the smooth landscape of Italy under his fingers. The map was of a very different terrain.

Constanza had not told him yet her news; that she was pregnant and she knew it was a boy.

 

     “Your Holiness, Olaus Magnus is here “

     “Who?”

     “The Swede. Our exiled bishop of Uppsala.”

     “Oh yes.” Pope Paul recalled a tall burly bearded man, more of a Viking than a priest.

     “Show him in.”

 

     Pope Paul was concerned. The Reformation had sent this Swede here. One of his most loyal servants, a good earner of indulgences, pushed out by the Reformation, that like a slow plague was spreading all over northern Europe.

Pope Paul’s own conception of Europe beyond Germany was vague. The Pope had heard from the lips of others of frozen lakes, and endless forests. He had been given a white bear fur by Magnus when he first arrived. One of the Pope’s assistants had said it must be so cold there in the north that the bear had gone white with shock.

 

     Magnus had been in Rome for two years; to pass the time he had promised the Pope a map.

Olaus Magnus stood before him holding a large rolled scroll.

     “I have the map your Holiness.”

With a wave of his hand the Pope bade the Bishop proceed.

 

 

 

     It was huge; a patchwork of blue sea, and white land, etched onto vellum; it covered the enormous table. The sea was peopled with strange fearsome monsters and ships, the land drawn with rivers, towns and heraldic shields denoting countries.

The Pope marveled at its artistry. Magnus pointed out the different lands. Sweden, or Scandia, Denmark, the Orkney Islands the Shetlands, Iceland, the Baltic lands.

 

     The Pope had seen an ancient map by Ptolemy from the Roman period, but it was only of Britain and the Northern Isles.

His mind soon swung from wonder to immediate concerns.

     “Are all these lands now lost to us?”

    “Alas yes, your Holiness, the Reformation has taken deep root; gone are Sweden by 1537, Denmark, Northern Germany, England also by 1537. Many clergy like myself have been put off, the church lands seized by the crown or the new church. Many clergy now openly marry.”

 

     The Pope flinched. He had only just left the bed of his own mistress. Then he recalled that his spies had told him Magnus had a mistress too. So there, he had that in common with the giant Swede.

     “Only Ireland stands firm; there is trouble still in Scotland.”

     “How so?” Our Bishop in St Andrews has been diligent in suppressing Lutheran texts and preachers has he not? Not only burning books but men,” said the Pope, recalling the burning at the stake of a Scottish noble, Patrick Hamilton in St Andrews.

     “Yet I fear Lutheranism,” continued Magnus” is like the bramble, cut it back and it springs forth stronger than ever.”

     “Ireland faces another invader,” murmured the Pope, “the English. They suppress our worshippers cruelly.”

 

The audience over, Magnus rolled up his map and made to leave.

     “I hear you are to be a father.”

     “Your Holiness?”

     “I see she has not shared this with you yet.”

It did no harm to let your staff know that you watched them; it increased your hold.

     “Nevertheless, congratulations. Be assured we will find a place for the boy when he is grown.”

 

Rome April 1587 – 49 years later. Felippe Magnus

 

     Pope Sixtus the third has before him a mature man of medium stature. They are studying a map.

     “Your father drew this map for us when he was first exiled here in Rome. Now it is of crucial importance. I want you to take this copy to Phillip the second in Madrid.”

 

     The Pope had been incensed by the execution of Mary Queen of Scots in 1587. But this act of regicide was a last and most heinous straw. Spanish and Catholic ire had already risen when Phillip, as co-regent of England, was passed over when Elizabeth was appointed queen.

Phillip wanted not just revenge; he wanted England, and intended to invade in great force and to replace the English lords with Spanish nobility.

 

     As the Popes special emissary, Felippe had a good salary and small suite of apartments in Rome.

He knew Latin, Italian, Spanish and Swedish. He had trained as a priest but now lived and operated as a layman in the Pope’s service.

The Pope continued,

     “If Phillip approves I want you to go with the invasion fleet; I will need intelligence of what transpires.”

 

At the Via Barbagallo, Rome.

 

     “Felippe you look pained, what’s the matter?”

     “I have to go away again”

     “Again?”

His wife’s voice had risen. She was expecting another child soon. She wanted him here.

They had three children already, Chiara 19, Salvatore 17, and Francesca, 12.

     “Stefania, the Pope commands it and me. Something “molto importante.”

     “What could be more important than another child; your wife eight months pregnant and like a whale? Where does he want you to go this time?”

     “Spain.” He had not mentioned the order to accompany the invasion fleet.

     “All the way to Spain?”

 

     This had been the pattern of their marriage. Sometimes he was here; sometimes he had to go away. Sometimes he could not tell her where.

 

     For an Italian woman a husband who comes and goes can only mean another woman, but when things came to a head over this Monsignor Torriani had had a quiet word with Felippe’s wife, reassuring her that Felippe’s comings and goings were in the service of the Pope not of some Mistress.

 

     “Stefania, you have Chiara, she is more than competent around the house and the midwife is arranged.

     “You don’t understand; for a woman it is comforting, reassuring, to have her husband near at such a time.” She was wheedling now, stroking his cheek.

      “But your relatives will be here.”

It was true the Zingaretti clan, mother sisters, and aunt were due tomorrow for the final days of the confinement.

     “And I am taking Salvatore.”

     “No No NO!” She screamed at him.

     “Look Stefania, Salvatore is a young man now. He needs to see the world, test himself. If I leave him he will probably get into trouble in the taverns or with the Pellegriniis.”

 

     There was truth in this. Salvatore was active not studious. He had friends who loved the tavern and got up to mischief.

He could be unmanageable when her family was here.

     “Alora,” said Stefania, realising she was losing the argument and that the birth being an all female affair might be fine.

     “But,” she said, sensing an opportunity, and envisioning her return to a normal size,

      “I agree if I can have a new gown”.

      “Si, Si of course.”

 

     Salvatore was more Italian looking than his father. He did not have his blue eyes for a start.

He had the height but his frame was spare, the hair very black like his mother. He had the beginnings of a beard. He was well educated. Like his father, he spoke Swedish, Italian and had learned Latin at school. He wanted most of

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Texte: alastair macleod
Bildmaterialien: cover image; " furled sails, Spanish galleon," purchased from Dreamstime royalty free photos; "Carta Marina" purchased from Dreamstime royalty free photos; map of Wrecks and Routes of Spanish Armada, West Point royalty free publication
Lektorat: alastair macleod and oystercatcher
Übersetzung: cover typeset in goodfish
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 26.08.2013
ISBN: 978-3-7309-4573-5

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Widmung:
"To Olaus Magnus, of Sweden and his remarkable map. The Gulf Stream pushes up from the South West against Ireland and the Hebrides, then through the Northern Isles. But the Armada, going the other way, into the current, left a Rosary around the British Isles, a prayer of ships, and men, and Spanish gold; Phillip of Spain's necklace"