CHAPTER XI
1
THERE came to England in 1501 an Italian priest and writer named Polydore Vergil. He was a nephew of Adrian de Castello, who held the post of collector of Peter’s pence in England. This was one of the plums that Vatican appointees scrambled for, because they could stay in Rome and live on the stipend while a deputy in England did all the work, on very meager pay. It was to serve as his uncle’s deputy that Polydore Vergil had been sent. On first thought it is surprising that he was willing to accept such a subordinate post. He had been publishing books with great success. Two years before he had put out at Venice his De rerum inventoribus and it had been so eagerly sought after that in a course of years 102 editions came off the presses.
But further consideration makes it clear that the lot of an author was not a happy one from a financial standpoint. It was about this time that a ruling was made in Paris, allowing booksellers to keep for themselves no more than two per cent of the price of a book. (Yes, gentle reader, the percentage is higher today.) The author’s share, no doubt, was small also; even, dread thought, he and the bookseller had to share! Clearly it was the need for a regular income, no matter how small, which induced the talented Vergil to undertake the prosaic task of gathering in the pennies which each family had to provide for the Holy Father at Rome. At first he could not have enjoyed it very much. His uncle in Rome, waxing fat and wheezy, without a doubt, did not allow him more than a bare subsistence. And nothing was done immediately to get him a church appointment in England. It took some little time for pressure from Rome to obtain for him the living of Church Langton in Leicestershire.
In 1505 there was a turn in his fortunes. The king sent for him and made the suggestion that he write a history of England. The financial support which went with the offer must have been large enough to free him of all worries. Henry, in fact, must have wanted him quite badly, for it is clear that Master Vergil was well looked after, so well that he was able to devote himself from that time forward to the preparation of the history. The responsibility of collecting Peter’s pence still rested on his shoulders but it is likely he found someone, an Englishman, to perform the duties. The deputy of a deputy for a Roman absentee beneficiary! Could anything be less lucrative?
Vergil ceased to be a starveling churchman whose gift for putting words down on paper had paid him so badly. It is on record that he presented hangings for the choir of Wells Cathedral with his own arms stamped on them, a laurel tree supported by two crocodiles. He had become a man of property.
Historians have never made the mistake of underestimating Henry VII, not even those who like him little. He was above everything a longdistance planner. Nothing is more indicative of this than the steps he took to be sure of the verdict of time and of favorable notice on the pages of history. He knew what Morton had written in his book, or the nature of the notes he had supplied to More, whichever explanation of the much discussed History is accepted. No doubt they had gone over the story piecemeal. They had discussed all the ingenious inventions which were sprinkled through Morton’s version: the secret page, the dark happenings when the assassins invaded the Tower in such numbers, the unnamed priest who hid the bodies and died so conveniently soon after. But this was not enough. Corroborative evidence was required to have the story accepted in history, to assure a continuance of public belief. Another version, clearly, was needed, one which would follow much the same line of narrative. And who could do it better than this young Italian whose romanticized writings were proving so agreeable to readers?
Polydore Vergil’s part in shaping the records of English history has always been under suspicion. It has seemed that he allowed a lively gift for invention to color the events of which he told. He is often mentioned among those who have sponsored certain of the best anecdotes, sometimes as the sole authority. Take as an example that recherché story of the naming of the Order of the Garter: how the beautiful Countess of Salisbury lost her garter at a royal ball and how Edward III, who was said to be an ardent admirer of hers, picked it up and said, “Honi soit qui mal y pense” (Evil to him who evil thinks). Certainly the words were adopted by the Order, which ties the anecdote into a neat bundle and makes it one of the little gems that even the most sober historian feels called upon to relate, though with due warning of its apocryphal character. Of this story it is said, “First published by Polydore Vergil, a stranger to the affairs of England.”
A disturbing thought arises out of these considerations. Could it be that other anecdotes, for which he is given at least partial credit, are equally suspect? Has some of the liveliest color in English history been applied by the pen of this not too scrupulous Italian romancer?
One thing seems clear enough: he did not have to invent the legend of Richard Plantagenet and the princes. Morton had already supplied whatever inventiveness went into it. The latter, being much less subtle and much more willing to make use of any hasty bit of improvisation, had not been as expert as Master Vergil would have proven himself. But Morton was first in the field and what was required of Vergil was to strengthen the story with the power of repetition and by following the heavy-footed prints already provided by the churchman. His selection for the task was a late development, coming at a time when Henry was carrying the wrinkles of a deep worry on his face and was becoming concerned with what the future might say of him. It would take years for Vergil to complete his commission, but Henry had always kept an eye on the future. He would be content to have placed on his grave the tributes of Vergil’s pen. Which is what happened; for Henry died in 1509 and the first volumes of the history were not printed until 1534. They were published in Basel and were dedicated, ironically as it seems, to Henry VIII!
What rewards did Vergil reap? It is recorded that on one occasion he offered financial assistance to Erasmus. But the real test of his prosperity was supplied when he made one of his last trips back to Rome. He traveled “with six horses and six servants!” The servants, no doubt, were in livery of his favorite color of green with the slavering crocodiles stitched on their sleeves. Quite, in fact, like a fat rich abbot returning home from town.
The most serious charge alleged against Vergil is that he destroyed documents before returning permanently to Rome. According to one writer, Caius, “Vergil committed to the flames as many of our ancient manuscript volumes as would have filled a waggon, that the faults of his own work might pass undiscovered.” A French authority, La Poplinière, declares that Vergil caused all histories to be burned which by the king’s authority and the assistance of his friends he could possibly come by.” A third, Gale, says he shipped manuscripts to Rome and that the vessel on which they went sailed from Rochester Bridge. If all this is true, there might be another explanation for the destruction of the source material, that Vergil burned some of it so a lack of sources for his stories could be explained.
It is further alleged that Vergil borrowed manuscripts from Oxford and did not send them back. The university authorities were properly indignant and refused to send him more. He, accordingly, secured a mandate from the king for the use of anything else he needed. Presumably, the university had to give in. It is stated also that he borrowed from other libraries and was equally remiss about returning the material.
None of these charges can be either proven or dismissed at this late date. But one fact seems to be established: that Vergil fell under the suspicions of his contemporaries.