Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  We all nodded our approval for, although most men believed a Queen to be a poor substitute for a King, Princess Elizabeth was the next in line and offered the prospect of a return to the religion we favoured. For all of us, the idea of reversing the damage that had been done by the accession of Mary Tudor was our greatest hope for the future of our country, and one we would fight for.

  ‘We must play a long game, gentlemen, one that ends with the confounding of the plans of our enemies and with Princess Elizabeth as Queen of England. Sir John, we all have to accept that your health is not what it was and we must not overburden you. Your role will be to influence the many English students who pass through this great institution, and also to convince our foreign neighbours that such an outcome would lead to peace and prosperity for all.’

  Cheke nodded, clearly saddened by the recognition of his condition but, nevertheless, accepting the reality of it.

  ‘Sir Peter, you are to travel to Venice and will, I know, influence many men in power there to recognize the merit of our cause. We have a potential problem with Doge Venier, for he is old and set in his ways. He is also a committed Catholic and trusts Sir Peter Vannes. Nevertheless, you must do what you can.’

  Sir Peter Carew lifted a soldierly hand, He was used to receiving instructions and to implementing them, and if the task required bravery, energy and drive, he looked like the man for it.

  ‘Richard, your task is a difficult one, for you will be tied to a loose cannon during your time in Venice. Edward Courtenay has been dealt a poor hand of cards and has experienced hardship and solitude beyond many men’s understanding or endurance during his short life. That being said, he has, since his release, proved himself to be vain, easily led and spineless. His involvement in Wyatt’s movement against Queen Mary with Sir Peter here in January 1554 made no contribution to the plan, and as soon as he was interrogated by Gardiner he let out the whole story, with names, including Sir Peter’s. That loose tongue nearly cost Sir Peter his life, and you will not be surprised to hear that the two are no longer friends.’

  I looked across at Carew, who nodded sagely to confirm this fact.

  ‘Since then, he appears to have become a greater braggart and a bigger fool. He is dangerous and cannot be trusted with any information, however unimportant. Richard, I fear that your ties to him will, in the end, be to your personal disadvantage.

  ‘Dr Marwood is less well-known. We know he is a committed Catholic and makes no secret of it, but that should not damn a man, and everything I have heard about him suggests he is a good man and might be trusted. But the journey upon which we are about to travel is a long and potentially dangerous one and I, for one, dare not risk the lives of others on the basis of a mere friendship.

  ‘You have described the doctor as an “honest Catholic”. All I can reply is that, in my experience, that is a very dangerous combination, and one I would be most wary of in the world in which we find ourselves today. I mistrust most Catholics, but the most dangerous ones are those who believe themselves honest, for being without guile (or, in most cases that I can recall, individual thought); they are likely to blurt out the most damaging information in the name of “truth”. I have nothing against the doctor, and would not ask you to terminate your friendship, but for all our sakes, we must ask you not to take him into your confidence about our meeting or the content of our discussions. Do you agree?’

  I had no choice, and although I believed they would all feel differently if they knew Thomas Marwood better, I could understand their concerns.

  ‘I agree and I accept. Thomas has been a good friend and mentor to me since I was eight years old, and I hope he will remain so, but the risk is, indeed, too high. I shall not divulge any of this to him. And as for the earl, I fully agree with your sentiments. I would not trust him one inch, neither his intentions nor his competence. I am tied to his party at the present time, but if I can extricate myself from that position, I will surely do so.’

  My words seemed to satisfy them and we moved on. There was little specific action to undertake at this stage: only to remain loyal, to maintain communication, and to try to influence events in England as they arose. It was, as Walsingham said, a long game, and I hoped I would prove as adept at it as he clearly was.

  There was one skill I had to learn. ‘We need to communicate with each other in code.’Walsingham was deadly serious. ‘There is a code I will share with you, but first you must tell me what books you carry with you.’

  I confirmed that, unlike Thomas, I owned few books. I did, however, have a copy of Bullinger’s Of Christian Perfection, given to me by Lady Jane herself.

  ‘I hoped you would say that. It has come to act as our common text and a key to our secret communication. Sir John has a copy here. Now look.’

  He took a piece of paper and wrote on it:

  12 4 7 36 374 66 8 2 72 8

  There, what does it say?’

  I looked at him blankly. I had no idea.

  Walsingham signalled to John Cheke with his open hand, fingers extended. Cheke grinned, took his book and began to turn the pages. From time to time he paused and wrote down a letter on the sheet before us.

  GOD BE WITH US

  ‘How did you make that out?’

  Walsingham smiled. ‘It’s a variable code and a powerful one. You can vary it by including code-words in your covering letter. In this case we need to know it’s four numbers, alternating. Show him, John.’

  John Cheke took the copy of Of Christian Perfection and read aloud: ‘Page 12, line 4, word 7 . . .’ He looked it up: ‘God’. ‘Page 36, word 374: “be”. Page 66, line 8, word 2: “with”. Page 72, word 8: “us”.’

  ‘There!’

  I was bemused. ‘I still don’t follow.’

  Walsingham took my arm. ‘We use a code with a variable pattern. If it’s two digits we specify page, then word; if it’s three we use page, line, word; if it’s five we alternate three then two, and so on. It means that code-breakers cannot decipher it easily, even if they know the book. Without the book, it’s impossible.’

  ‘Let me try.’ I took the book and worked through, number-group by number-group. It was laborious, but it worked. ‘What do you do if you want a word that is not in the book, or you can’t find it?’

  Walsingham winked at Cheke. ‘He’s getting better. I think he’ll do.’ He turned to me. ‘You find a substitute you think will be understood. On occasions you have to spell out the word and put clues in a covering letter, which you send alongside your coded sheet. It is our usual practice, as a casual observer may take the letter at face value and ignore the little scribblings that sit beside it. But to you, or to me, it is the scribblings that carry the heart of the message.’

  ‘What do you do at the end of the word?’

  ‘Just revert back again. The decoder will know when a word is complete.’

  It all seemed so complex. ‘Is this really necessary?’

  Walsingham smiled. ‘Wait until they are on your trail. Then, yes, it’s necessary. You only have to include a small part of the message in code, normally on a separate piece of paper from the main letter. It can either carry a separate message, or you can use it to tell the reader how to interpret the plain-language letter itself. You’ll get the hang of it.’

  As I left the room some time later, Walsingham’s voice followed me through the door. ‘Richard?’

  I paused and turned back.

  ‘Don’t lose the book!’

  I left the meeting with a mixture of sentiments. While I was pleased that they trusted me and that I was to be included in their future plans, I wondered just what I was becoming involved in. Why did it have to be thus? Why did there have to be intrigues and lies and obfuscation?

  I returned to my walk around the city. For the first half-hour I found myself looking over my shoulder to see if I was being followed, but then I decided I was being silly and stopped.

  I reviewed the earlier discussion. First, I did believe that Queen Mar
y’s reign was a disaster for my country, and yes, I would do what I could to change it. Furthermore I agreed with the others that Princess Elizabeth was the right choice to replace Queen Mary, and I accepted that Mary’s natural death would probably have to be the event which brought about the change.

  I also accepted that involvement in such a big game was fraught with risks and that, although my life was not in great danger as long as I remained outside England, by participating in this (what was it – ‘plot’, or ‘arrangement’?) I was increasing that risk.

  I knew that Courtenay was totally unreliable, and although I found it impossible to criticize Thomas Marwood, I could see that it would be unwise to tell him anything about our discussion.

  So why did I feel so uncomfortable?

  A cold wind was starting to pick up and I decided to seek shelter in the Basilica di Sant’ Antonio. The calm of the interior allowed me to think. In the end, I was left with only one conclusion: my head accepted the logic of everything we had agreed to do. It was my heart that felt uncomfortable with the idea of keeping secrets, of living a lie.

  I walked back out into the Piazza del Duomo, with part of my puzzle solved. Now I knew what it was that troubled me. The next question was what to do about it. Still uncertain, I walked back towards the university and our inn. What would Lady Jane have said? I did not have to walk far before her reply caught up with me: ‘You know what is right, and it is your duty to fight for what is right.’

  I smiled to myself. Why did I even need to ask? She would not have contemplated any compromise over an issue as fundamental as this. And what of my discomfort at living a lie?

  ‘Learn to live with life’s discomforts. Grow up. You are a man now. Think like one. Live like one.’

  I looked up at the clear blue sky and nodded my thanks. Was she there, watching me? In truth I didn’t know, but, as Walsingham had said this morning, why take a risk you don’t have to take? I would accept Lady Jane’s advice, as I always had.

  CHAPTER 14

  January the 26th 1556 – Brenta Canal and Laguna Veneta

  After seemingly endless travelling, our stay in Padua had been wonderful. Thomas had virtually disappeared into the Department of Medicine at the university, meeting old friends, borrowing books and attending lectures. On the few occasions we did meet for supper, he seemed like a man rejuvenated, and it was such a pleasure to see him so.

  Courtenay seemed to spend most of his time with the diplomatic set, and appeared to be developing a close friendship with Peter Vannes. After Walsingham’s warning, that worried me. I had no faith in the earl’s judgement and I could imagine a seasoned diplomat quietly getting Courtenay to tell him everything he knew. That did not concern me personally, as I had always been careful to keep my personal views and activities from the earl, but I did begin to wonder whether Vannes had, as Walsingham had surmised during our conversation, been given instructions from London to keep close to Courtenay.

  I had met and talked to Cheke once or twice since our first meeting. Most of our conversation had been about old times. Talking of Lady Jane was a pleasure, but it always left me feeling depressed afterwards. The memories were still too close and too raw.

  It was time to move on, however. None of us had wanted to leave Padua but, knowing we must, we had decided to leave early. As a result, it was not more than nine o’clock in the morning, and the heavy frost still everywhere, when we brought our carts to a standstill at Fusina, the end of the road, some twelve miles from Padua.

  Our road from Padua had been flat, running beside the Brenta Canal, and on a normal day we could have loaded everything on to a barge at Padua and taken our ease. But today was not a normal day and the canal had frozen. The advice from the barge-men had been given with a shrug:‘What’s the hurry? Wait another couple of days until we get a storm. The rain will warm it all up and the canal will be open.’ They appeared to have no sense of urgency.

  But having come so far, we felt honour-bound to continue our journey to its finish – and the finish we had agreed was Venice. Now we stood at the end of the road and looked across the last few hundred yards to the island city.

  ‘There it is. Venice. La Serenissima. Journey’s end.’ I could see that Thomas was going to take pleasure in acting as our guide and already his waved hand had the pride of a proprietor.

  We all nodded in satisfaction as our horses blew in the cold morning air.

  ‘How do we cross?’ It was Thomas, ever practical, who voiced the question we were all asking ourselves. Somehow, we had convinced ourselves that whilst the canal, with its fresh water, was frozen, the saltwater lagoon would remain open.

  The lagoon looked to be deeply frozen, a dirty white with no sign of the darkness below that would signify water. It appeared the ice was thick – thick enough to walk on and tracks seemed to indicate that men and carts had crossed on previous days. Still, it was one thing to theorize about the possibility of crossing safely, but quite another to launch yourself, your horse and your possessions, in a heavy cart, out across the expanse of ice. We waited, uncertain.

  Behind us, down the barren road, two little boys appeared, leading a mule and small cart. They greeted us in amusement, clearly realizing that we were wondering what to do. They began to remove small flat wooden boxes from their cart and stack them beside the road. We watched, bemused. Aware that they were the centre of attention, the boys continued without explanation until the cart was empty. Then the younger one, who had been looking at our foreign clothing and listening to our accents, spoke:

  ‘You cannot use horses. They will slip and panic. Horses are no good.’

  We asked what the alternative was.

  ‘Oxen.You must unhitch the horses and let the oxen take the cart. You can lead the horses across by hand, following the carts. That’s the only way you will get them to walk out on the ice – by following the carts.’

  We nodded, and the boy, all of six years old, swelled with pride at his superior knowledge.

  ‘Where will we find oxen?’ asked Thomas, in his kindly voice.

  The other boy now joined in, anxious not to let the younger one steal our attention. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘They are coming, look.’

  Sure enough, a dozen ox-drawn carts were trundling towards us, followed by another dozen or so loose oxen. They ground towards us and stopped.

  ‘These gentlemen require oxen,’ shouted the younger boy, full of importance. The man sitting on the leading cart shrugged, as if that news was of no significance to him. ‘And chopines,’ called the older boy, and they both burst into giggles.

  ‘Why do we need chopines?’ I asked. I had seen Lady Jane made to wear these platform-soled cork shoes at her investiture, to make her look taller.

  ‘For the horses,’ replied the younger boy. ‘They must wear them to prevent their hooves from slipping. Look, I will show you.’ He ran to one of the waiting carts and removed a sack, which he carried back to us on his shoulder. Although it was huge, he carried it easily and it was clear that the contents, although bulky, were light. He tipped it out on to the roadway in front of us. They were like boots, made of sacking, large enough to cover a horse’s hoof, with a drawstring to hold them in place. It was simple but ingenious.

  The boy counted our horses and began to count out the shoes. When the pile was sufficient, he put the remainder back in the sack. He counted our carts – five in total. ‘That’s twenty cart horses and seven riding horses, needing one hundred and eight chopines. Ten cartwheels, each requiring hire of one sled box, and you will need to hire ten oxen. That will come to . . .’ He counted on his fingers and looked at us carefully, ‘ . . .twenty-two grossi.’

  Just for an instant I saw the look of surprise on the other boy’s face and knew we were being cheated. Using my best Venetian accent I countered, ‘That’s robbery, we will pay fifteen.’

  The boy slapped my hand twice. ‘Done. And we will want two ducats’ deposit for damage.’

  I slapped
his hand back. ‘One ducat deposit only, and I expect it back if there’s no damage.’ He shook my hand. ‘Agreed. Hand over the money, and I will fetch the oxen.’

  ‘How much does he want?’ shouted the earl.

  ‘Fifteen grossi’, I replied, irritated, since, right or wrong, I had already come to an agreement.

  ‘How much is that worth?’ asked the earl.

  Thomas came to the rescue. ‘It may have changed since I lived in Padua but in those days there were thirty-two piccolo to one grosso and twelve grossi to a soldo. After that there were twenty soldi to a lira. It’s effectively the same as at home; just think of grossi as pence, soldi as shillings and lire as pounds.’

  The earl remained confused and shook his head. ‘What about ducats?’ he responded, his irritation growing.

  ‘A ducat is two soldi or one-tenth of a lira. They use it for legal transactions such as wills and dowries.’

  ‘Like our florins?’ I suggested. Thomas winked at me and nodded.

  ‘What is it worth, though?’ Courtenay was still confused.

  ‘It’s hard to compare. Last time I was here, I seem to remember that wages and prices were four times those in England.’

  Courtenay called to the boy, waving at him rudely. ‘We will not pay. The amount you ask is exorbitant.’

  The boy shrugged his shoulders and stuck out his bottom lip. ‘Suit yourself. You have no alternative, unless you want to walk back to Padua, or wait three weeks for the thaw.’

  Courtenay mounted his horse as if to return to Padua, but the rest of us stood our ground. He glared, then dismounted again, annoyed that we had not automatically followed his example. ‘Very well, I agree, but only because you have already shaken hands on the bargain, Richard. I still believe you have been robbed, and so have I.’