My father was suspicious that I had not immediately bought a farm near our home (farms being the only investment he understood), and he believed that my decision to leave the money in London was proof that I would soon be off on my travels again. Perhaps he was right, for although I was happy in Honiton with Dr Marwood, deep down I did feel that life held something more for me to experience before, finally, I settled down.
My father had recognized that I would be in the close company of Edward Courtenay for perhaps many months and asked me how well I thought I would get on with him. Courtenay was held in high, if distant, esteem in this part of Devon. Not only was he Earl of Devon, with large estates stretching from Tiverton and Exeter to Colcombe Castle in our home valley, but, as the last of the Plantagenet line, he still represented to the common people an old-established royalty, which, although replaced by the Tudors generations before, still had a place in English history.
‘You are right, Father,’ I replied. ‘It will be a telling time for all of us, for the earl is trying to find his role and position, since he appears to have been misled by Queen Mary and her husband.’
‘Bloody Spaniard!’ my father spat. ‘Nevertheless, you keep your place, for remember, the earl is your Liege Lord.’ I nodded, uncommitted, for I was not sure I owed that man anything. I felt that loyalty was something a man should earn, not simply demand as of right. Liege Lords were an old-fashioned idea; we were now in modern times – Tudor times.
‘And a good Catholic,’ my father added, for emphasis, as if that closed the conversation. But for me it did quite the opposite – for although I knew I could rely on Thomas Marwood’s tolerance of my religious attitudes, my limited experience of Edward Courtenay left me with the distinct view that he was likely to be less forgiving.
And so, whilst I was confident that it was indeed time to leave England, I also knew that the next few months were going to test all of us, in one way or another.
CHAPTER 3
November the 12th 1555 – Port of Lyme, Dorset
‘Need a bit more westerly in that wind before we can safely clear Portland Bill.’
We were standing on the Cobb wall at Lyme, leaning into the wind and watching the rollers as they surged north-east, deep into the bay and Charmouth beach a mile or so in front of us.
‘Take her out of harbour now and that’s exactly where we shall all finish up.’ The captain pointed at the beach and spat forcefully with the wind, as if to make his point.
We had been loaded and ready for many hours, but any ship that left Lyme harbour in this wind would be on the rocks before she had a chance to get under way.
The captain returned to his ship and Thomas and I chose to drop down in the lee of the huge stone wall and talk there. Hearing the howl of the wind only a yard or two above our heads made the spot almost cosy. How the arrival of that fateful letter from the earl had changed our lives. Yet for a long time the journey itself, although frequently discussed by Thomas and the earl in their regular exchange of letters, had seemed uncertain.
Prior to his release, the earl had been led to believe that he would be sent to the Court of the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, as Ambassador, and it seemed his expectations had been fulfilled, for His Grace had left England seven months previously, making passage to Brussels. Initially, it appeared, court life had pleased him. His letters to Thomas had described his position to be akin to that of Ambassador, and he hinted that he had strong hopes of making a good marriage amongst the royal personages at the Imperial Court. The journey to Venice had begun to look less likely.
But as the summer progressed, the tone of his letters had changed. First, discussions of his possible marriage to Christine, Dowager Duchess of Lorraine, had come to nothing; then, similar negotiations with Princess Elizabeth (back in England) were said to have been rejected; and finally it was made clear by Queen Mary and her new husband, Philip of Spain, that the earl was forbidden from returning to England. Now Courtenay realized that his position was not one of Ambassador at all, but of an exile. The visit to Venice became an objective once again – no longer as an enjoyable sojourn for an ambassador but as a means of escaping the influence of an England from which he had effectively been banished. Thomas had named me as his chosen companion, and reminded the earl that my responsibilities with the Duke of Suffolk had eventually been those of personal secretary, and that, under the tutelage of Lady Jane and her own tutors, I had learned to speak and write Italian. I was accepted, and we were to travel as the earl’s physician and personal secretary respectively.
Our status in this venture was clearly described. We would not be travelling as servants but as companions, with all our expenses paid by the earl.
His letter said that he planned to leave Brussels for Louvain soon: after completing some private business, he would commence the journey south from there on or about November the 20th. We had not been given much time to make our final arrangements but, having been forewarned, Thomas was already half-prepared. I myself had few possessions and fewer ties, and so my preparations were minimal.
Now we were on the brink of departure and I held my cloak collar up against the rain and grinned at Thomas as he stood, hat pulled down hard over his eyes, watching the waves and trying to discern any change in the wind-direction.
I envied him. Never had I known a man so at peace with the world and with himself. His peace, I knew, reflected a deep inner confidence. First, and foremost, he was confident in his God and the Catholic religion that represented Him. Second, he was confident in his skills as a doctor, whilst accepting the practical limitations of that calling. Finally, he had a calm inner belief in what he called ‘the order of things’; that somehow society as he knew it would face the various trials and tribulations the world threw up – wars, plagues, religious schisms, revolutions – and find a way through.
He was a strange mixture of contradictions. On the one hand, although in his middle forties, Thomas had a very modern approach to medicine. It was an approach he had learned from the professors of the Padua School; Dr Vesalius, who had, some years before been Professor of Medicine there, particularly influenced him. Vesalius believed in observation and pragmatic discovery based on evidence, and was not satisfied with those teachers who simply read and repeated the works of the ancients. He held the followers of Galen in particular disdain, and his disagreement with their methods had caused a rift within medical opinion throughout Europe.
In the course of the last six months, I had also learned that Thomas was a humanist, following what the Italian states were calling the rinascita or rebirth. He agreed that the worship of God need not be a dismal affair, as many priests still made it, but should involve admiration of His creation and in particular that crown of creation, humanity. Thomas loved people – especially ordinary people – and he took joy in understanding what drove them and in seeing them succeed.
In all of these things I agreed with him wholeheartedly. But at this point we parted company, for after so many years debating and analyzing with Lady Jane, I could not understand his stubborn and seemingly unquestioning loyalty to what her Calvinist correspondents had disparagingly called ‘the joint pillars of your traditional society’: the King (now the Queen) and the Church.
I had been too close to the wicked attempt to put Lady Jane, against her wishes and true belief, on to the throne of England to have blind faith in the ‘divine right’ of monarchs. Having seen the dreadful damage caused by the replacement of King Edward (whom I had loved) with Queen Mary (whom I had grown to loathe) I could no longer believe that kings or queens had divine powers, nor that what they thought and said were always right. After all, King Edward and Queen Mary could not both have been right, for they appeared to hold completely opposing views about nearly everything.
The same was true of the Church. As a committed Protestant, I was deeply troubled by the dogmatic inflexibility of the Catholic faith, and shocked by its persecution of those who did not share that faith. One further thought
concerned me: if the situation were to change and Catholics become the weak minority, would I be as tolerant of their views as I wished they had been of mine? The truth was, I didn’t know.
Now, as we stood in the wind and rain, awaiting the final stages of our departure, these thoughts were worrying me still. Thomas had seemed to express an automatic respect for Edward Courtenay, simply because he was an earl. But my short time as Courtenay’s riding instructor had left me with deep reservations about the man. One thing was certain: our journey would test both loyalties and friendships to the limit.
CHAPTER 4
November the 18th 1555 – Hotel de Blauwe Zalm, Louvain, Flanders
The wind continued to buffet us as we rode into Louvain. It had not stopped raining since we had finally left harbour and crossed Lyme Bay. The wind had turned westerly, then held for three days, and we had run before it under topsails and jibs, spray flying, with ropes trailing astern to stop us from gybing on a rogue wave.
Although the seas had been very rough for the first day, once we got accustomed to the surge as we lifted with a wave, and the stomach-turning drop as it eventually passed us, we had found the voyage quite exhilarating.
On the second day the wind had abated a little and we had run on what the captain called ‘a broad reach’, half-across the steady south-westerly wind, the ship heeling constantly over to the right as we made our way north-east and then north, up channel. They were good days and would have been thoroughly enjoyable if only the rain had eased, for there was precious little shelter on deck and visibility was severely reduced by the weather. Nevertheless, by the time our little ship had cleared Cap Gris Nez and we were running down to Flushing, both Thomas and I felt like born sailors, and the final quiet stretch into Antwerp had been disappointingly uneventful.
The mud between Antwerp and Louvain proved to be the worst part of our entire journey, for our horses, still sick from the sea voyage, slithered unhappily and the carts got stuck in ruts and threw wheels with relentless regularity. As a result, it was a sorry party that finally plodded its way into Louvain: the only parts of our clothing not covered in mud were those that the endless rain had washed clean. Then, just as we entered the city, the downpour finally stopped.
The streets were wet and gloomy and the low, scudding clouds continued to threaten, but at least we could look ahead of us without the rain lashing our faces. Somehow, our Devon accents did not find favour with the inhabitants, and we in turn seemed totally unable to decipher their speech. As a result, it took us some time to find the inn where we had agreed to meet.
Eventually we found it, de Blauwe Zalm, a warm, dry hotel with good stabling, blazing fires and a welcoming atmosphere, while a glass of brandy and the presence of an English-speaking innkeeper were unexpected luxuries. However, one thing was missing, and that was any trace of Edward Courtenay.
Then the landlord remembered: ‘Oh yes, the English Earl of Devon has been here. Yes, he is expected back again very soon, and has his room kept on.’ But apart from that, nothing was known. We decided to make ourselves comfortable, order a warm bath, have our clothes dried and brushed, and meet again for dinner in two hours. Only when Thomas gave his name again, this time as Dr Marwood, did the landlord show any sign of recognition.
‘Ah, the English doctor, of course, how stupid of me; Dr Marlwood. The English earl told me to expect you and to give you this letter.’ I saw Thomas frown at the mispronunciation of his name, but he took the letter without comment and opened it. The letter, addressed to Thomas Marwood, Physician, was dated a week ago and confirmed that the earl was travelling to Antwerp, but expected to return to Louvain on the 18th or 19th. He hoped we had had a good crossing and was sure that we, and our horses, would welcome an opportunity to rest and dry out before we recommenced our journey.
Finally, the pieces were falling into place, and each of us retired to his room to refresh himself before dinner. Judging by the smells emanating from the kitchens, it would be a good one.
CHAPTER 5
November the 19th 1555 – Louvain
It was the following afternoon when the earl finally arrived, with a flourish, accompanied by two gentlemen and a veritable army of attendants. He seemed very different from the thin, diffident twenty-seven-year-old I had first met exactly two years ago and taught to ride. He had put on weight – muscle, not fat – and he seemed stronger and taller than I remembered.
‘Dr Marlwood, how good to see you again! And Wichard, my dear boy, you have gwown even taller. How you tower above us all. Allow me to introduce my legal advisers, James Bassett and Dr Thomas Martyn.’ He turned to his companions. ‘Gentlemen, these will be my companions on our journey south – allow me to introduce Dr Thomas Marlwood and Wichard Stocker.’
No I hadn’t misheard; he had said it twice:Wichard! I looked at Thomas, who had clearly noticed but gave the tiniest shake of his head to indicate that I should say nothing.
‘James and Thomas have been invaluable since I awived in Brussels. The court of the Empewor is a most complex place and they have valiantly steered me through all its twials and twibulations with a deftness you would admire.’
I bowed to the lawyers and at the same time gulped to myself. Where had this speech mannerism come from? I did not remember him talking like this when I had given him riding lessons in his London home. His character had also changed. When first we had met, he had treated me with considerable respect; although very aware of his royal blood and privileged background, he had spoken to me as an equal. Now, he was very full of himself, and in addition to an exaggerated physical deportment (he seemed to find it necessary to hold his arms aloft with wrists hanging limply whenever he addressed anyone), he seemed also to have lost the ability to pronounce the letter R.
My heart sank. If this was an act, employed for effect, it was ridiculous, but on the other hand, if he was not conscious of the mannerism and maintained it all the time, then I for one was going to find his company very tiresome, very quickly.
The lawyers fussed around him for a further hour, largely ignoring Thomas and me. I noticed both advisers had adopted a form of presentation which left the earl with the burden of all responsibility, while most of their recommendations seemed to take the form of ‘What you need to do now, Your Grace, is . . .’
Thomas had noticed it too, and when an opportunity arose to speak unheard, he leaned over to me and whispered, ‘It would appear that they offer him every assistance.’
I was not sure I agreed, and frowned. Thomas began to laugh and leaned forward again. ‘Every assistance short of actual help, that is.’
Now it was my turn to smile, but as I did so it slowly began to dawn on me that there might be method in the lawyers’ madness, and that they had reason to construct their sentences as they did. It soon became clear, from the way he spoke to others, that in the two years he had spent at Court since leaving prison Edward Courtenay had developed the expectation that everyone was there to do his bidding: he expected those around him to satisfy his every whim without thanks or appreciation, as if it were enough to have the honour of serving the great man. It was looking unlikely that he and I would last very long together.
It was at this point that a messenger arrived with a communication for the earl, who took it into the light by the window to read it.
Whatever the letter contained, the earl’s mood changed instantly. Gone were the lofted hands, the arched back, the exaggerated striding about the room, the speech mannerisms. He seemed to collapse into despair, and he turned to his advisers like a lost child.
‘It’s from England; from Sir William Petre. They have refused my funds. They say there are difficulties with the paperwork and there will be delays. This may ruin everything. How can we travel without funds and without food and equipment? And horses? We must have more horses. It’s quite impossible. The man cannot be trusted. I always distrusted Petre.’
I sat and watched. There before our eyes was a transformation, and one I suddenly knew
we would observe again as our journey unfolded. ‘Refused’? ‘Ruin’? ‘Trusted’? Suddenly the letter R had refound its place in Courtenay’s alphabet. It was as if there were two different men in the same body.
Eventually the lawyers departed and the earl, Thomas and I dined together. A mood of despondency continued to hang over the earl, but at least I had my name back, for he seemed to be able to pronounce it perfectly well now.
We were all tired from our various exertions, and with little merriment to keep us up we retired early to bed. As we separated from the earl and climbed the stairs, I took Thomas’s sleeve and pulled him to one side. ‘Thomas, I have an awful feeling we have made a great mistake and that by attaching ourselves to this man we are at risk of being sucked into difficulties. Furthermore, I am not sure I can stand his moods for very long. This is not going to be a happy journey.’
Thomas, as always, calmed me. ‘You have not seen him at his best. He is a great man but also a man under great pressure. Sometimes that alters a man’s character. Persevere and I am sure it will all work out. In any event, would you want to return to England and argue his case with Petre?’
I shuddered. ‘Your point is well made. Goodnight, Thomas.’
CHAPTER 6
November the 20th 1555 – Hotel de Blauwe Zalm, Louvain
Despite the efforts of the hotel, my clothes were still damp when I woke. My depressed mood had not lifted, and overnight it appeared to have affected Thomas also, for we breakfasted in silence, both hoping to finish the sombre meal before the arrival of the earl lowered our spirits further still.
As expected, His Grace appeared, dishevelled and exhibiting no grace whatsoever. This was not encouraging, but we could hardly leave the table as he joined it, so we hung back, fiddling with last bites of food as he ate.
Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker) Page 2
