Be Ruled by Me, and Other Stories

About the Author

For more than 40 years, Nick worked as a librarian, mainly in educational and legal libraries. Writing short stories was one of his hobbies throughout his career and he has continued to write since his retirement in 2021. In his spare time, he also enjoys volunteering in his local parks, where he does conservation work.

Nick was born in Norwich. For the last 30 years, he has been living near Crystal Palace.

Copyright Information ©

Nick Fox 2024

The right of Nick Fox to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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First Published 2024

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Be Ruled by Me

Be ruled by me, and we will rule the realm.

Roger de Mortimer in Edward II by Christopher Marlowe

By the time they reached the final room, Alex was exhausted. He had enjoyed the exhibition. He had entered a world of flat, rugged landscapes, pitted with windmills; he had wandered over sand dunes by stormy seas; he had mingled with drinkers in taverns and shoppers in the marketplace; he had visited servants in their masters’ homes. For two hours, he had been living in Holland in the 16th and 17th centuries.

But the last room was devoted to portraits of dignitaries he had never heard of. Who was Emmanuel Philibert of Savoy, Prince of Oneglia? Did he need to study a picture of Diana Cecil, Countess of Oxford? Passing the portraits with only a casual glance, he was nearing the exit when he saw that Kath was lingering in front of one of them.

‘This can’t be right,’ she said as he returned to her. She was looking at a portrait of a plump, fair-haired man, standing on a rocky path at sunrise. It was an allegorical picture: angels circled his head, while he pointed upwards to a cross, suspended above the mountains. According to the notice, it was a portrait of Laurens II, King of Favonia, painted by Konrad Brassens in Nördlingen in 1634.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ asked Alex.

‘Well, it’s not Laurence. You must have seen Quorino’s portraits of him. He painted dozens. He didn’t look anything like that.’

***

‘Yes, here’s the Wikipedia entry for Quorino. It’s got links to almost all his paintings. Look.’

They were drinking tea in the gallery café. Kath held out her smartphone.

‘He must have painted Laurence just about every year. Laurencio II armado—Laurence in armour; Laurencio II in cavallo—Laurence on horseback; Laurencio II com la Enfanta, Maria Luisa—Laurence with the princess. Can you see any resemblance to the man in the exhibition?’

‘No, you’re right.’ Alex studied the face—darker hair, lean features with high cheekbones. ‘So, what do you think’s happened?’

‘Don’t know.’

There was silence. Alex had hoped they would have a relaxing chat in the café. It was meant to be a chance to get to know each other better. Instead, she was ignoring him, tapping on her phone, pausing only to brush her hair out of her eyes. He picked up the exhibition guide and skimmed through the entries. It served him right, he thought. He had been showing off to her by explaining what was happening in Horst’s Isaac blessing Jacob and in Rubens’ Mercury and Argus. His dilettante knowledge was insignificant beside her historical expertise. He had forgotten that her thesis had been on Favonia.

‘That’s interesting,’ she said at last. ‘Quorino was appointed pintoro del rego—the king’s painter. That meant he had to paint the king’s portrait whenever he was asked to. Plus, nobody else was allowed to paint him. You see what that means, don’t you?’

‘I suppose so. Brassens must have painted him before Quorino’s appointment.’

‘No, he was appointed to the post in 1614, when Laurence’s grandfather was still king. And he carried on until his death in 1649—fifteen years after the date of Brassens’ portrait. No, what interests me is that Quorino is our only source for what Laurence looked like. He created our image of him. How do we know he looked like that?’

‘You mean his pictures were propaganda?’

‘Yes, inevitably. Laurence would have wanted to project a particular image—somebody serious and statesman-like. Because in fact he was quite frivolous. He wasted vast sums of money. And as for his sex-life—he had no end of mistresses and lots of illegitimate children.’

‘So, you think Brassens might have painted a more accurate portrait?’

‘Mm, I wonder. I still don’t understand how he could have painted him. It wasn’t like today. You couldn’t have snapped a quick photo of him. And surely he wouldn’t have posed for Brassens. Perhaps the picture was wrongly attributed.’

‘But it’s not a naturalistic portrait. Couldn’t the king be representing something? I don’t know—victory or something like that?’

‘You think so? But wouldn’t he have painted a stronger, more powerful image—a god-like figure?’

‘I suppose so. Could it be the portrait of someone who claimed to be the king?’

‘A pretender? I suppose it’s possible, but I don’t think so. Laurence was the only son of King Mark—Marco IV. There was nothing controversial about his succession.’

‘Was it likely that Laurence would have been in—where was it?’

‘In Nördlingen? Yes, maybe. There was a battle there in the middle of the Thirty Years War. Two battles actually.’ She tapped at her phone. ‘Yes, the first was in 1634—the same year the portrait was painted. Favonia sent a small army to support the Spaniards, who won the battle. I don’t know if Laurence was there—I suppose he might have been.’

Alex could sense Kath’s excitement. Her first glimpse of the picture had changed her destiny. He knew that her temporary job at his workplace was inconsequential for her—just a break in her academic career with the aim of earning a little money. Now, suddenly, her PhD thesis was spreading out before her. Perhaps she was mentally drafting the summary already.

They parted ten minutes later—ten minutes of silence apart from the tapping on her phone.

‘Thanks ever so much for inviting me here, Alex. I loved the exhibition and now you’ve found me some research I can really get my teeth into.’

She kissed him. It was a friendly kiss, affectionate even. But it was also a dismissive kiss. Of course, they would continue to chat at work—for as long as she stayed there—but he could abandon all thoughts of any deeper relationship. He had shown her a path to her aspirations. Now he had served his purpose.

As he waited for the bus, he thought again about the portrait. If only he could help resolve the enigma. If only he had some of Kath’s specialist knowledge, her acquaintance with expert tutors, her access to the university library. It was arrogant to dream that he could contribute anything worthwhile.

He pondered why he wanted to help. Did he have a disinterested desire to find out the truth or did he merely want to impress Kath?

But even as he stood, glumly waiting, an idea was piercing through his self-pity. He still had a week’s leave owing to him. Perhaps he could book a flight to Favonia and see what he could find there in the galleries and museums…

***

‘Uni bigleti, favore.’

He looked up from his phrasebook. To his relief, the man at the desk understood and handed him a ticket for the gallery. As he counted out the unfamiliar money, he noticed an elderly woman just ahead of him, smiling. She must have heard his poor attempt at Favonian.

‘It is your first visit to the gallery?’ She spoke English perfectly, with only a trace of an accent.

‘Yes, I want to see Quorino’s portraits.’

‘You choose well. Follow me.’

Despite her age, his new friend almost ran up the flight of steps to the first floor. There she ushered him into the room facing them.

‘See,’ she said. ‘Favonia’s greatest painter.’

There must have been sixty paintings around the walls. Most were portraits, but there were two mythological scenes that attracted him. He looked at his companion to see if she intended to give him a guided tour, but she gestured him away.

‘Go. Look. But ask me anything.’

He approached Leda and the swan. The young woman’s expression mingled fascination, fear and sexual excitement as she surrendered to the arrogant power of the disguised god. Next to it was Orpheus and Eurydice. Here the anguish and disappointment on the woman’s face was heart-breaking. Yet it was her lover’s remorse, as he watched her recoil back into Hades, that was even more tortured. How could Quorino make a back view so expressive?

He had come to look at the portraits of Laurence. According to Kath, Quorino was a propagandist for the king and he could understand what she meant. In the early paintings, he was dressed in black; in one, he was holding a sealed document. The artist was emphasising his seriousness and his concern with affairs of state. In the later paintings, he wore a crown and was sometimes riding a horse. Always he stood against a bare background: no scenery, just grey brushstrokes giving emphasis to the figure in front. However, Alex didn’t think the portraits were flattering: despite his imposing figure, Laurence looked awkward and uncomfortable, as though he hated the role of monarch.

‘Favonia’s greatest painter,’ repeated his companion (how long had she been standing beside him?), ‘and Favonia’s handsomest king.’

He turned to smile at her.

‘It is rare that the English care about our Laurencio,’ she said.

‘Yes, but you see, I went to an exhibition in London recently where I saw a portrait of him by another artist. He didn’t look like that. I wanted to find out more about him.’

‘Ah yes, Konrad Brassens. I have seen that portrait. You liked the picture?’

‘It was very different. We call the style Baroque in English. A lot of swirling clouds and…’

‘And angels and trumpets. Yes, it amuses me.’

‘But who was he painting? It was a different man.’

‘Indeed. It is a mystery, no? But there is the man who could solve it.’ She pointed at another of Quorino’s portraits: a stern, middle-aged man, with a flowing black wig. Underneath were the words: Domenco Sevolles, Condo di Maronto.

‘Who’s he?’

‘He was Laurencio’s First Minister. I liked him once. Now I hate him.’

‘Yes, that can happen with historical characters. As you read more about them, you find out things you don’t want to know.’

He felt foolishly proud of that remark. It combined, he thought, a sympathy with the woman’s emotions and a reflective assessment of the effects of study. Her response disconcerted him.

‘Perhaps. But for me he is not historical.’

***

‘You know Laurencio better now?’

They were sitting in the gallery café. How different from the café in London. This woman didn’t fiddle with her phone. She asked questions and listened carefully to his answers.

‘Yes, I think so. But I still don’t understand about that other portrait.’

‘You have ideas about it?’

‘Well, I expect it was just a mistake on the notice. I did wonder if the two Laurencios were rivals to the throne, but my friend, Katherine, said there was no dispute over the succession. Laurencio was the only son of King Marco.’

‘Are you sure?’ She smiled.

‘No. But Kath said so. She’s studied the history.’

‘And Marco was the son of Laurencio I, who was the son of Eduardo III, but Eduardo was not the son of Marco III. He was his uncle. Marco had no sons.’

‘I see, but that must have been a long time before.’

‘Not long. Eduardo was an old man when he became king. He died two years later in 1601. Then Laurencio reigned until 1615. Then Marco IV was king.’

‘You remember the dates well. I’m impressed.’

‘Yes, I studied them much. Those three kings—Eduardo, Laurencio and Marco—were all older than the true heir to the throne: the child of Marco III.’

‘Hang on. I thought you said Marco III didn’t have any children.’

‘He had no sons, but he had one daughter—Juliana.’ Her eyes blazed with anger. ‘They said a woman could not inherit. But Domenco—the man in the portrait—he said the laws allowed it.’

‘So, Juliana should have been queen all the time?’

‘Indeed. And Domenco plotted all the time that she be queen. He was her chamberlain, you understand.’

‘So that’s why you used to like him. What made you change your mind?’

She was silent. Her agitation had suddenly aged her. At first, because of her grey hair, he had thought she was elderly, but her vivacity in the gallery had made her look younger. Now she seemed old again. He sensed a latent fear and anger in her blazing eyes, perhaps unexpressed for decades. He had to change the subject.

‘Where did you learn to speak such perfect English?’

‘My tutors taught me English. Then I travelled to England to meet the Prince of Wales.’

‘You met Prince Charles?’

‘Who? Carlo, the Enfanto? Yes, we met, but he was a boy. I knew Enriquo, his brother. I liked Enriquo. ’My little Henry,’ I called him. He was not little, but he was very young—two years younger than I.’

She was so thrilled about the memory of the meeting that he didn’t try to correct her confusion. Why should she have a detailed knowledge of the British Royal Family?

‘Of course, we were never alone together. Always Domenco was with me and the Sinor Challoner was with Henry.’

‘Who?’

‘Domenco Sevolles. You saw his portrait.’

‘Yes, but that was 400 years ago.’

‘400 years is not so long.’

‘And who was the other man you mentioned?’

‘Challoner? Thomas Challoner, the Chamberlain of the Prince and friend of the king.’

‘Which king?’

‘Jacobo, of course. King James I.’

What was she talking about? At first, he had been enjoying her company. After struggling to speak a few, stumbling words of Favonian at the airport, at the hotel reception, on the metro, he had succumbed to her easy command of English and her apparent concern to satisfy his curiosity about King Laurence. But her interest had veered off into fantasy—a fantasy which she appeared to believe. How should he respond? Perhaps he should simply stand up, shake her hand and leave her on her own. Eventually, he would have to do that, but in the meantime, he decided to humour her. There was something compelling about her confused, incoherent narrative.

‘And did you meet King James?’

‘Oh yes, he was very sympathetic. I know he preferred boys, but he wanted a good bride for his son. And I had a big dowry. My religion was wrong, but Domenco thought we could agree. I remember the king showed us the tigers in Paris Garden. He was proud of his savage animals.’

‘He took you to Paris?’

‘No, Paris Garden. In London.’

‘I think you had better start the story from the beginning. I’m getting confused.’

’I thought I told you already. All right, I begin again…

‘I was born in 1592 in the Royal Palace—here, in this building.’

Suddenly Alex remembered. He had read about it in the guidebook. After the civil war which led to the establishment of the Republic, the old palace had fallen into disuse and decay. Then, many years later, it had been restored and transformed into the National Gallery of Favonia. He had admired the majestic entrance: the large courtyard, the marble steps leading up to the main door, framed by Ionic columns. Once inside, he had forgotten all that in the midst of the modern interior.

He thought he understood now. This woman must be a tour guide, employed to bring to life the history of the palace in the guise of an important character in that history. But it was strange. Why had she adopted only one tourist? And why was she not dressed in costume? He looked at her green blouse, her black cardigan and trousers.

‘My mother died in childbirth. I was the only child. My father, King Marco III, always said I was heir to the throne. When he died, I was only seven. Domenco Sevolles, the Count of Maronto who was my tutor and my father’s chief counsellor, said I was now Queen of Favonia, but others said no—it was impossible because of the Lex Salica. You understand?’

‘The Salic Law? Yes, I think so. It meant that no woman could inherit the throne.’

‘Yes, but Domenco said it not apply in Favonia. But he had enemies who said yes. So, my father’s uncle became King Eduardo III. He was an old man. I don’t think he wanted to be king, but his sons insisted.’

‘Because the son wanted to succeed, I suppose?’

‘Yes, although it was the younger son who wanted the power: Federico, Cardinal of Montello. In effect, he ruled Favonia from the time of my father’s death until 1611—twelve years. He and Domenco were enemies, but Federico had the Pope’s blessing. No one could stop him.’

‘And what happened to you?’

‘I had to move out of this building. I lived in a small palace in the countryside—twenty-five kilometres from Montello. Domenco organised my education. Men taught me English, French, Latin, natural philosophy…’

‘I’m not sure if I know what that is.’

‘Science and magic. But do not worry. My tutor, Orostel, taught me little. Always he was in his workshop, surrounded by his equipment: crucibles, aludels, alembics. Trying to turn base metals into noble ones. Sometimes he showed me the different liquids: aqua fortis, aqua regis, aqua vitae. He taught me the stages from imperfection to perfection: projection, putrefaction, incineration and so on. It meant nothing to me. He taught me the names of the plants I could smell in the room: aconitum, mandragora, spigelia anthelmia. He showed me the egg of a cockatrice, the horn of a unicorn. But it was all nonsense… And then I learnt statecraft. Domenco taught me that himself, because he still wanted that I be queen.’

‘It sounds very serious. Did you have any fun?’

‘A little. I learnt dancing too. And horse-riding. I liked the grounds of that palace. They were more wild than here, without terraces or classical statues. But I played no games; I had no friends—only my chambermaids. They were sympathetic, but it was not the same.’

‘How long did this last?’

’Until I was fifteen. Then Domenco took me out in my carriage to show me off. He took me to banquets where I could dance. I was a success. People liked me. People cheered me. Courtiers danced with me. And Domenco was plotting with some of the ministers. Eduardo had died by now and his son, Laurencio, was King. He was not popular. His brother, the Cardinal, neither. They spent money on silly wars. They sent soldiers to fight with Spain against England. They were brutal with the Huguenots who had fled from France after the massacre. The Cardinal even introduced the Inquisition. It was a time of great fear.

‘And no one liked Prince Marco. He was an invalid. He had much pain—in the chest, the back, the legs. Sometimes breathing was difficult. Sometimes he had seizures. No one thought he would live long. He wore a smock with amulets pinned to it to ward off evil. I felt sorry for him, of course. But I couldn’t like him, because he liked no one—no one except his mother.’

‘So was Domenco plotting a coup?’

‘Perhaps. But first he wanted that I marry. I think he hoped that I marry Prince Marco, but the Cardinal would never agree to that. Then Domenco sent a delegation to Austria. He hoped that I marry Ferdinand, the son of the Archduke, but he married his cousin, Maria Anna. So Domenco arranged that I meet Henri de Bourbon. But no. Henri married Charlotte Marguerite de Montmorency. All the courtiers were excited about who I marry. No one cared about Prince Marco.’

‘The Cardinal must have been angry.’

‘He was furious. He forbade that I leave my palace. I was locked in there for six months, with the palace staff. Only Domenco was allowed out.’

‘You were a prisoner?’

‘Yes, my servants looked after me and I could walk and ride in the grounds, but the gates were locked and a guard was there always.’

‘So how did you get out at last?’

’Tradesmen and labourers were coming often to work in the fields or care for the horses. In February 1611, a wheelwright and his apprentice came to repair some of the farm vehicles. Domenco made me change clothes with the apprentice. I was dressed as a common man, with a jerkin, hose and beret. I left in the wheelwright’s cart. He took me to an inn far away. I stayed there for the night. Domenco came early next morning with horses. He was disguised too. He was dressed as a merchant. I became his male servant, with a short travelling coat with fur trimmings. We rode south along the main highway. We saw few people: a horse and cart, a farmer driving a flock of sheep to market, occasionally a carriage. Then we turned off on to a small track going north through a dark forest. We changed clothes again. Again, I was a peasant. We rode quickly until we crossed the border into France. I was exhausted, but Domenco had arranged everything. At the inn next morning, a small carriage arrived, with a coachman and maidservant. Now we could travel in more comfort and I was a woman once more. We travelled north again, staying at inns. I spoke little. People stared at us.