Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  He had finished and we were about to rise from table when the door opened and a wild-looking messenger burst in. ‘Are you, sir, the English earl, he of Devon, that is?’ His English was awkward but sufficient.

  Courtenay rose and lowered the very smallest of bows in his direction. ‘I am he. Do you have a message for me?’

  The man heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Danke Gott. Your supplies are at the warehouse, sir, and have awaited you there these five days. We have been looking everywhere for you, but you were not to be found. I have this letter also, sir.’ Urgently, he thrust a waterproof, canvas-wrapped parcel into the earl’s hands. Courtenay took a small knife and ripped it open eagerly. He had begun to read the letter with a nervous, hunted look, but as he progressed his very body seemed to rise, and by the time he had finished the colour had returned to his cheeks and he appeared inches taller. He waved the letter triumphantly.

  ‘My friends, all is well. Our communications must have crossed on the Channel and Petre must have understood I was seeking yet further funding. It is complete, as originally requested: money in hand, some plate, the full list of provisions, and credit in place at Padua and Venice on our arrival. All is well. God be praised.’ Thomas and I crossed ourselves in response and we could feel the mood in the room continue to lift.

  Servants were gathered and we sped to the warehouse anxiously, fearful that, even now, our hopes might be dashed. The supplies were all there, as the messenger had said, and we examined the equipment and provisions excitedly, believing, perhaps for the first time, that we were on the brink of a successful and exciting journey.

  The rest of the day was busy, with the earl announcing what needed to be done, whilst Thomas and I were kept busy doing it. Towards evening we were briefly introduced to Niccolò Berzi, who was to be our companion for the journey, and Thomas and I retired to our own personal arrangements. We left the earl dictating a gushing letter to James Bassett, to his agent in London, asking him to pass on thanks to the commissioners and especially the comptroller, who had authorized and arranged the transportation of our newly arrived bounty.

  That evening, we met with His Grace and Niccolò for supper and discussed the route we would take. Thomas was keen to join the river Rhine as soon as possible and thence to take boat upstream as far as Basel in Switzerland, where he knew he would be able to acquire a number of books he sought. Courtenay nodded absentmindedly and said he would consider the proposal, but shortly afterwards he changed the subject and I, for one, felt that no real commitment had been made.

  Only time would tell.

  CHAPTER 7

  November the 23rd 1555 – Cologne

  Cologne was bitterly cold – too cold even for snow. We arrived weary, but excited, as today we would get our first look at the great river Rhine, which marked an important step in our journey. The sight of it was a shock. It was huge beyond belief and running with a power I had never experienced. The river was bank-high and nothing floated upon it but the occasional drowned cow or pig.

  Niccolò took one look and winced. ‘Let us hope that the river has eased before we get to Speyer,’ he muttered, and I gathered that we would need to cross this great river eventually. In its present condition, that seemed completely impossible, but I assumed that by the time we got to Speyer the river would be smaller and we would cross by bridge. I looked back at our little line of carts, plodding along behind us, the drivers looking as bored as the horses, and wondered how the bridge, when eventually we reached it, would handle their lumbering weight.

  We were welcomed in Cologne by Hermann Ringe, who had been recommended to the earl by Sir Thomas Chamberlayne, Ambassador to Marie, Queen of Hungary. Ringe treated us most kindly, arranging for one or two additional provisions we had thought of since leaving Louvain, and, more importantly, promising to introduce us to another potential guide for our journey.

  ‘Eckhardt Danner is an English-speaking German, a professional guide and traveller, who makes his living accompanying travellers on this journey. You will find that Eckhardt is very precise, and appears somewhat humourless. However, every time you ask him a question, I am sure he will give you a direct and very complete answer, and you will quickly have confidence in him.’

  The description proved to be prophetic, for we all took to Eckhardt immediately, and although he took all remarks and questions somewhat literally, he was by no means without humour. Indeed, when the earl mounted a horse whose girth had not been properly tightened and slid gently, saddle and all, into a nearby hedge, it was Eckhardt who laughed loudest. Courtenay glared at him; he was not accustomed to being the source of others’ amusement. His horse, meanwhile, stood patiently above him, wearing what we all interpreted as a pitying look on his face.

  Eckhardt spoke very clear and accurate English, and as soon as I discovered that he was not only a Reformist but a Lutheran, I began to engage him in regular conversations on the subject. Courtenay, Thomas and Niccolò, all being committed Catholics, made no attempt to join in, but would ride a little way ahead, thus affording the two of us privacy and the opportunity to develop a friendship. I told Eckhardt how comforting I found it to feel that I was at last riding through countryside where men believed as I did, and not feel threatened.

  ‘Indeed,’ he replied, ‘it is comforting and important. One day our message will carry across the world, I am sure of it, for our position is not only fair, it is eminently sensible and must be true. You will find the same atmosphere for much of your journey, although the people of the mountains in Bavaria and into Austria are very backward and remain strongly Catholic.’

  What, I asked him, was I likely to find in Venice? He gave a belly-laugh, which, though rare, was infectious.

  ‘Venice? That’s another story altogether! The Venetians say, “We are Venetians first and Christians afterward.”’ He paused. I could see he was thinking.

  ‘In any case, you cannot separate politics from religion,’ he continued. ‘Venice depends for its wealth on its independence, and it has always maintained a fierce independence from Rome. Now it’s even stronger, for the papacy supports Catholic Spain and Portugal and, over the last fifty years, since the Portuguese discovered the sea route round Africa to the east, an increasing amount of the trade that was once controlled by Venice and the Byzantine Empire is sailing into Lisbon and Cadiz. They can’t afford to let Rome take any more control – it’s their very lifeblood which is starting to leak out.’

  He paused as his horse stumbled on loose stones. ‘Religion remains, but the daily bread of religion is, as I think you might say in your country, “thickly buttered with mercantile sensibility”.’ He smiled, showing just a hint of the self-satisfaction we all feel when we are able to find and place a well-chosen phrase in another language. ‘There is something else they say in Venice: “If it makes money, pursue it today, but if not, perhaps it can wait for tomorrow”.’

  I was surprised. ‘But what about eternal damnation? Do they have no fear of that?’

  Eckhardt laughed again. ‘In Venice they believe that the fastest road to eternal damnation is not making enough money while you are young. That way, damnation arrives in the form of poverty when you are old – you don’t have to wait to die.’

  Inwardly I laughed. It had a logical simplicity to it and, although rather blasphemous, something about what he said made me think I might feel quite at home when eventually we arrived in Venice.

  CHAPTER 8

  December the 5th 1555 – Speyer, Rhine Valley

  We had passed through the great gates of the city and were clattering along the broad high-street between overhanging wooden houses. No doubt the streets were bustling on market days, but today they seemed strangely deserted. Ahead of us we could see the tall cathedral spires that gave the city its name.

  ‘Gentlemen, we have arrived. Twenty-six years too late to influence matters, but at least we are here.’ Eckhardt winked at me, while the others, whose conversations had not recently been focused upon the Diet of Sp
eyer of 1529, looked at him blankly. But Eckhardt was not going to let the moment pass so easily.

  ‘Here, gentlemen, twenty-six years ago, was made the most disgraceful decision and pronouncement by the bishops gathered together. Here, also, began the protest against that decision, and the formation of the Protestant movement which has continued to gather pace ever since.’

  Thomas and the earl looked at each other and rolled their eyes. It was clear from their expressions that, while they might regard Eckhardt as a reliable guide for this journey, they thought his views on religion were wrong, dangerous and misplaced. ‘A plague on your views, sir.’ Courtenay had risen to his full height in the saddle and had clearly decided to exert his authority.

  I looked from one camp to the other. Eckhardt and I had talked about these issues often enough over recent days that he would not expect me to join in open battle against my mentor and the earl, and I decided not to turn the occasion into an argument, for the five of us had to endure each other’s company for some weeks yet, and there was no advantage in souring the atmosphere unnecessarily.

  Niccolò came to the rescue. ‘I fear, Your Grace, that your words may be more true than you intended. Look at the doors of the houses!’

  The reason for the street’s desertion quickly became clear: a number of the doors had plague marks daubed on them. This was most worrying, for not only would we be at risk of the dreadful disease, but strangers were always treated with suspicion when plague raged. It was mid-afternoon, and we had intended to stop here for the night, but the sight of the daubed doors made discussion unnecessary: we would have to move on.

  ‘Where is the bridge?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘There is no bridge,’ Eckhardt scowled. ‘We shall have to take a boat across.’

  This was not a prospect we relished, for the Rhine here was still wide and fast-flowing.

  ‘Then, before we make a final decision, I should like us to review our route,’ said Thomas. ‘For myself, I would prefer to travel south, to Basel, as there are a number of books I wish to purchase there. I had understood that we might take a boat upstream from here to that great city, but in the present conditions that is clearly impossible. Nevertheless, I would welcome a discussion.’ Thomas seemed to have recognized that if he was going to convince the party to take the southern route, then this was his last chance to get our agreement.

  As he spoke, we continued to ride down to the riverbank, where, as expected, we found most of the boats pulled high up the bank and away from the water. One large, flat-bottomed ferry remained, however, large enough to take us, our horses and the two carts, and Eckhardt began to bargain with the surly boatman. Not surprisingly, he did not relish the trip at all. It was not, he explained, the crossing that concerned him (every one of us would have to take an oar to make safe passage), but the return journey. Six burly youths were lounging against the wall of a bankside inn, and the game was clear – he would not cross unless we paid his relations to make the return crossing with him. No doubt it was a game they had played many times, and I was inclined to accept the price, exorbitant as it was. Courtenay, however, decided this was the moment to stand his ground.

  ‘Tell the peasant he is a rogue and we will pay a reasonable price and no more. And tell that rabble against the wall there that unless they come to our assistance immediately, I shall speak to the authorities and have them whipped.’

  Although they did not understand his English, the ‘rabble’ clearly understood his attitude and expressed their response with Germanic eloquence, two spitting in the mud before us while another stood and urinated, never taking his eyes from His Grace and clearly ready for a fight.

  The matter was resolved for us, however, as a crowd carrying cudgels and billhooks came through the gates of the town and walked boldly towards us; it was clear that at times of plague visitors were distrusted and unwelcome. Immediately, Courtenay’s nerve broke. ‘Come, there’s no time for arguing. Tell him we agree.’

  Without delay, he rode his horse straight on to the ferry, waving to the cartmen to whip their horses forward. Within seconds we had become the rabble, and we boarded pell-mell as the mob approached, the band of youths from the inn stepping aboard at the last minute with the measured laziness of experienced boatmen. We pushed off into the current and, as we left the shore, I could not help feeling the whole thing had a rehearsed feel about it, although I would not have wanted to say so in front of the apparently angry crowd.

  Although fast, the river here was wide and smooth. The boat was carefully designed for its task, and the skill of the boatmen clearly honed by generations on the river. We skimmed diagonally across, slipping downstream as we did so, although only by some two hundred yards. How they planned to return was not immediately clear, but as we approached the opposite bank I could see that stout poles had been driven in upstream, trailing long ropes. The intention was clearer now: we would pull in to the bank further downriver than we had left the other bank, but by attaching the ropes and pulling on them, the boatmen could skim the empty craft back upriver in the shallows until it reached a higher point, where passengers wanting to travel in the opposite direction were already waiting.

  The scheme was clever and would work as long as the press of the flood was not so strong that we missed the lower mark, where the ropes were tied off.

  Skilled as the boatmen were, the flood was very strong, and as we approached the bank I could see that Thomas, like me, was judging the angle and measuring our progress against the end of the longest rope, which trailed in the water some twenty feet from the bank. As we swept past, Thomas leaned heavily over the side of the boat and grasped the knotted rope-end for all he was worth.

  His judgement was accurate and his strength sufficient, but against the momentum of a loaded boat his weight was insignificant, and with horror we saw him swiftly dragged over the side. The boat swung on and Thomas, now upstream from us, clung desperately to the rope. The boatmen pulled us safely on to a sandbank, but it was clear that Thomas’s strength was failing him and, worse, that the bow-wave his shoulders were making against the press of the river was preventing him from breathing. He was beginning to drown. There was a coil of thin rope lying beside me and, almost unthinking, I tied two turns around a stanchion and, yelling to Niccolò to hold the knot firmly, jumped over the side and ran waist-deep out along the sand spit into the edge of the torrent.

  ‘Thomas, let go; I am below you!’ I cried, and somehow he heard me.

  His arms flew upward as he let go and, released from the suffocating bow-wave, he sucked in one huge gulp of air. It was a matter of seconds before he reached me and I grabbed him savagely, taking the rope around his chest as I did so and clinging on to the roughness of his jerkin for dear life. We swung crazily into the bank and I felt my knees grate on the sharp gravel. Strong arms pulled us on to the sandspit and we lay, coughing, exhausted and frozen, as the icy water drained from us.

  Thomas rolled over and looked at Eckhardt, who was staring down at him uncertainly. There was blood running down the doctor’s face where the rope had grazed his forehead, and his hands were cut from gripping tightly on to his lifeline. He coughed, and brown river-water dribbled down his cheek. ‘I presume, then, we shall not be going by way of Basel?’

  Somehow the question did not seem to require an answer. The rest of us burst into relieved laughter.

  We had dry clothes in the carts and, without shyness, stripped naked on the river bank and donned them, in front of the queue of prospective return passengers, who clearly viewed our manner of arrival as a worrying advertisement for their own journey in the opposite direction.

  We were tired but relieved when, late that evening, we arrived at the inn in Rhinehouse. Over a large and well-earned dinner, accompanied by more of the local wine than was perhaps sensible, we reviewed the route ahead.

  Our next major resting point was revealed – we planned to travel through Pforzheim before turning east, away from the river, and reaching the univer
sity city of Tübingen in time for Christmas. We would need the rest, for, as Niccolò and Eckhardt both now implied, the road we had travelled thus far was the easy part: the worst was still to come.

  CHAPTER 9

  Christmas 1555 – University of Tübingen, Würtemberg

  ‘Fröhliche Weinacht überall!’

  Professor of Medicine Leonhard Fuchs raised his glass and we wished each other a happy Christmas. His kindness and generosity knew no bounds. I had always believed foreign countries to be uniformly remote, their people unapproachable; yet our experience on this journey had proved that view to be quite wrong, and nowhere more so than in this ancient seat of learning.

  Herr Professor Dr Fuchs (as it said on his door) had not only greeted us kindly and given us access to the university buildings and library, but, hearing that we were planning to break our journey and rest over Christmas, had insisted that the whole party join him at his home, hidden away in the boundaries of the university precinct.What made it doubly pleasurable was the fact that this generosity had not formally been addressed to ‘the earl and his party’, as a mere diplomatic gesture amongst politically minded men, but instead to ‘Dr Thomas Marwood and his party’. It was an invitation from one man of learning to another.

  Niccolò and Eckhardt had excused themselves on the grounds that, being regular travellers along this route, they had close friends nearby whom they must visit during their short stay. Thomas, His Grace and I therefore found ourselves seated at a groaning table in the first-floor bay window of a large medieval house, whose wooden walls, doors, windows and ceilings encased us like some mighty ship.