Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  My companion had noticed my instinctive movement and laughed. ‘You are right, although the worst of the waste is removed by special boats and spread on the fields across the lagoon. That’s why they grow such good vegetables over there. As for drinking-water, most of the houses are built around a courtyard and each of these has a cisterna – a well, used to collect the rainwater and from which good, fresh water emerges.’

  I felt relieved, and returned to the architecture, but without putting my fingers back in the water. We passed the Palazzo Loredan and began to turn east, the breeze freshening as we approached the open sea, the smell of marine air assailing our nostrils and the gondola bobbing for the first time, on light waves. The shadow of the Palazzo Contarini shielded us from the sun, but only for an instant; then we were back out in the bright sunlight and passing the Ca’ Grande, heading for open water and smacking into the growing waves as we did so.

  Finally the canal widened, and as we reached the open sea we saw the campanile of San Marco reaching high into the sky to our left. This, I knew from walking here days before, meant we were approaching the Doge’s Palace. We prepared to go ashore. The gondola deposited us on the Molo San Marco jetty and as we stepped ashore the bells of the campanile rang two o’clock; we were early, and had an hour to wait before we attended the earl’s presentation to the Doge.

  We found a small tavern beside the Piazza San Marco, ordered some fish, bread and wine, and waited. For much of the morning, a question had been flitting in and out of my mind and now I had to ask it. ‘Thomas, this may be a silly question, after spending so many weeks travelling to get here, but how long do you expect to stay here with His Grace? What do you think we are going to do here?’

  Thomas had a particular smile which he adopted when replying to my more stupid questions, and he wore it now.

  ‘The truth is, Richard, I don’t know. When Edward Courtenay first mentioned his desire to travel here, it set my mind to thinking of all the learned people I had met whilst in this part of the world – especially at the university in Padua – and I developed a strong desire to see them once again in my life, and to renew my learning, while I still have the energy to make the journey. When I returned to Devon, I talked about it to Dorothy, and was surprised to find her very supportive. She agreed I should make the journey if I wanted to, but asked me, if possible, not to be away from home for longer than six months. I told her that might be difficult, that I would do my best, but promised that on no account would I remain away from home for longer than a year.

  ‘As for what we do while we are here, you have your freedom. I know the earl wishes to take up a long-standing invitation from Duke Ercole d’Este in Ferrara, and he knows that I will want to spend some more time in Padua before I eventually return home. Apart from that, we have made no specific commitments to each other. For your own position, I should be pleased to introduce you to the many friends I still have in the university in Padua, should you decide to follow my example and apply to take a degree in medicine there. I still believe you are well suited to my profession, and as you have heard me say very many times, I believe there to be no finer place to learn it than Padua.’

  The food arrived and we began to eat. Thomas continued, between mouthfuls.

  ‘I believe the earl will continue to pay our major expenses while we remain with him, but once he – or we – decide that we shall go our separate ways, we will be on our own and fending for ourselves. Do you have anything specific in mind, Richard?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. Nothing at all. When we left England I had a purpose. It was, I suppose, largely a negative one – to escape the oppression I felt was worsening in our society and to breathe the fresh air of freedom elsewhere. I had a dream of Padua and of Venice, but apart from visualizing an exciting new country, endless warm sun and, in the latter case, a lot of water, I really had no end in mind, save getting here. Now we are here, I feel a bit at a loss, and – well, itchy.’

  ‘Itchy?’

  ‘I feel unsettled. I like to know where I am and where I am going to, and at present I know neither, and furthermore I cannot even guess what, or who, will decide those things for me. Nominally, I am the earl’s personal secretary, but since all his letters seem to be in English and he prefers to write them himself, I seem to have no purpose.’

  Thomas wiped his plate clean with the last of his bread. ‘Give it a month, and then we will talk about it again. We shall not be here for long and then you will regret not making the most of the visit while you had the time. There is much to see here and I am sure you will soon meet a number of interesting people. If at any time you decide you want to travel to Padua, I will accompany you. In the meantime, let us enjoy the city. We are starting at the top, for we shall meet the Doge himself in less than half an hour.’

  He was right, of course, and we made our way back into the sun of the piazza to join our companion for his presentation.

  CHAPTER 16

  Evening, February the 4th 1556 – Outside the Palazzo Ducale

  ‘Courtenay has become very friendly with Peter Vannes, wouldn’t you say?’

  The earl had been treated like royalty, for Doge Francesco Venier, a frail old man but with eyes that still burned bright with intelligence, had referred to Edward Courtenay as ‘the last of the ancient and mighty Plantagenet kings’, whilst the Council of Ten had welcomed him with the fullest honour. The presentation had lasted for an hour and the earl had clearly enjoyed every moment of it, and his opinion of himself had quickly recovered. When, as we were leaving, Thomas had remarked how well the Council of Ten and the Doge had greeted him, Courtenay had replied, ‘No more than my status deserves.’

  It seemed the other Courtenay had returned; would he be calling me ‘Wichard’ again soon, I wondered?

  Finally, our companion had chosen to join Vannes for dinner and Thomas and I decided to walk home slowly, enjoying the evening. We struck north through the narrow lanes of San Marco until we reached the Fondaco dei Tedeschi, a huge warehouse near the Rialto, where the German traders worked and lodged and where we thought we might find some of the German food we had so enjoyed during our journey. We were in luck and, for the second time that day, settled back at a table with food and wine, this time with a great deal more to talk about.

  Once we had stepped through one of its great arches, the structure and purpose of the building became clear, for the centre was one huge courtyard, perhaps fifty yards across, which obviously served as a great trading floor during the day. Now, as evening drew on, the day’s trading had all but finished, and the space had been filled with tables, at which exhausted German merchants and their equally exhausted customers settled their day’s work over a drink or two and something to eat.

  As we sat at our table, we looked around us. The walls of the courtyard inside the fondaco were covered by frescoes, two of which, the waiter told us, were by Giorgione and another by Titian. Opposite them, displayed in a temporary framework, was a quite different painting, an oil painting on heavy board entitled Our Lady of the Rosary, depicting Our Lady, with the child presenting wreaths of roses to church and state dignitaries. It was a powerful painting and as we waited for our food to be cooked, we examined it.

  ‘Do you like it?’ A well-dressed German merchant stood beside us, clearly proud of the picture. ‘It has an interesting story It was painted fifty years ago by a German artist, Albrecht Dürer, and shows how the German community here represents an outpost of the Holy Roman Empire. You can see Pope Julius II with the Emperor Maximilian I. It was commissioned by the Imperial Secretary – that man there, in blue; he is a Croat, by the name of Jakob Bannissuus Dalmata. It’s powerful isn’t it? The painting is due to make an altarpiece in the German Church of St Bartholomew, but is resting here while work is completed in the church. I like to remind Venetians that not every good painter is Italian.’

  We shook his hand and agreed the work was indeed fine. ‘Herr Dürer is not the only great German painter known to us,’ I
teased.

  ‘No?’ His interest was clearly aroused and he waited for my explanation.

  ‘I should explain, we are English, not Italian, and we are familiar with the portraits of Johannes Holbein.’

  Our friend arched his back proudly. ‘Holbein. Oh yes, another good son of Augsburg. You have been there?’

  We smiled. ‘Indeed, on our journey here from England. A fine city, and wealthy.’

  He nodded his satisfaction. ‘Did you see the Fuggerei?’

  We shook our heads.

  ‘It is, I believe, the best of German social thinking. An example of how our wealth should be used to the benefit of the community. It is a large dwelling house, built by the Fugger family, where the poor can reside at a fixed annual rent. You must ask to see it on your return journey.’ His invitation sounded more like an instruction. We thanked him and turned back to our table as our food arrived.

  ‘You like German food also,’ he said. ‘Clearly men of judgement. I will wish you good day, gentlemen, and mahlzeit!’ – he leaned forward for emphasis – ‘good appetite!’

  The stranger walked away, clearly proud of his little piece of English, and we sat at the laden table. I was keen to ask Thomas what he had thought of this afternoon’s presentation. Thomas, it seemed, was equally eager to discuss the day’s events.

  ‘Well,’ he began, ‘what did you think of the way they welcomed Courtenay?’ It was the very question I had intended to ask him.

  ‘I thought the setting was magnificent. If ever there was an example of how to use a building to support diplomacy, the Doge’s Palace must be it. Everything was beautifully arranged, like a dance, and everyone knew his place and performed as required. I could not fault them for that, but having seen the process in reverse, with King Edward setting out to impress the French ambassadors, and with my master at that time explaining each step to me as it unfolded, somehow I felt the whole thing was too choreographed, and as such, meaningless and insincere. I lost interest completely when they were doing all their diplomatic flummery and excessive praise – it’s all meaningless bluster – and, instead, I started looking at that map on the wall behind the Doge. I am not sure you noticed it; the one of the whole Mediterranean Sea.’

  Thomas laughed out loud, his voice echoing loudly from one wall to another, so that a number of the German merchants around us looked up to see what the joke was.

  ‘Yes, I know – I was thinking the same thoughts, and looking at the same map. I could not help thinking, as I looked at it, that the world of trade is changing fast.’

  ‘As is the world of religion.’ Perhaps it was the Lutheran surroundings here in the German trade centre, but the words had leaped from my mouth before I had fully considered them. I saw Thomas’s eyes level as he looked back at me. I knew he did not share my view about the inevitability of the religious revolution that was sweeping through Europe.

  ‘I am not sure you are right about that, Richard, but for the benefit of my digestion, let’s stay with the original discussion.’

  I was embarrassed, and sorry I had let that awkward thought escape. ‘I agree. Another thing that has undoubtedly changed is the Council of Ten’s response to Courtenay. He was studiously ignored when we first arrived here. I cannot believe anyone arrives in the city – certainly not nobility taking rooms at the Leon Bianco – without the council knowing, so they must have ignored his arrival intentionally.’

  Thomas chewed his food carefully and after a few moments nodded his agreement. I continued, more confidently.

  ‘But today their attitude to the earl had changed entirely. Why do you think that was? Something must have happened to influence them since we entered the city. We have not been involved in any event here, nor have we caused any trouble, so it must have been triggered by the arrival of information from outside. Do you agree?’

  Thomas shrugged his shoulders, apparently uncommitted, but I knew from his eyes that he was still listening.

  ‘Well, the obvious source of such information is an envoy or ambassador.’

  Thomas looked at me, sharper now. ‘Do you mean Peter Vannes, the English Ambassador here in Venice?’

  I nodded, trying not to disclose anything Francis Walsingham might have told me. ‘Yes, or Federico Badoer, the Venetian Ambassador in England.’

  Thomas shook his head, appearing to lose interest again. ‘I have no idea. I have never met him.’ His politics seemed limited to people he had met personally, but having spent some time at Court in England, I knew the intrigues that went on every day as one man of power jostled for position with another. This was not a dry argument – our own lives might eventually be affected by it. Whether Thomas was interested or not, I continued.

  ‘Of course, there is also the Venetian Ambassador at the Imperial Court in Brussels, Giovanni Michiel. He knows the earl well and no doubt has some interest in the matter.’

  Thomas seemed finally to have lost all interest in my concerns and instead was concentrating fully on his supper. ‘Does it matter who is influencing Venetian policy? How does it affect us?’

  I could not understand why he could not see it. Walsingham would have been there in a flash, but that was a name I dared not mention. ‘Of course it matters, for then we can surmise their objectives and in so doing, understand how best to protect ourselves. I saw this in the way King Edward handled foreign ambassadors – he treated them as the best of friends to their faces, but in truth he did not trust a single one of them. Something is going on. Today’s show of friendship was too slick, too rehearsed and, I believe, totally insincere. I have no idea what the Emperor thinks of Courtenay – he certainly made no attempt to keep him in his court in Brussels. In my view everything points back to England.’

  Thomas kept eating. I seemed to be on my own now, but to a degree I was no longer talking to him, but to myself – trying to get my thoughts to fall into some sort of logical order.

  ‘The only country in which Courtenay has any real significance is England, where his name has been used on a number of occasions as a vehicle for those who would overthrow Queen Mary. As soon as she rejected any possibility of marrying him and tying the Tudors back into the old Plantagenet line, he became a threat to her. As a result, his name has on more than one occasion been linked to Princess Elizabeth as a marriage prospect.’

  ‘This meat is really good.’ Thomas not only appeared to have completely lost interest in my line of argument, but was beginning to resent my continued intrusion into the comfort of his meal. Nevertheless, I continued.

  ‘There can be no doubt about it: word has reached Venice from England, either through their ambassador or ours (or both), and as a result they have decided to appear friendly. Yes, that’s it.’

  I was happy with my conclusion and turned back to my food – now half-cold – with the enthusiasm that comes from overcoming a problem and putting it away in the back of your mind.

  Thomas munched on, and I was left to my own thoughts. I looked at him, across the table, happily eating and seemingly content. He did not seem to care about the wider world of politics and religious revolutions as I did. Perhaps that’s what happens when you get old, I thought. Perhaps older people no longer believe they can change the world, and so withdraw into the comfort – or simply the inevitability – of the one they live in. Is that what ‘old’ is? When you give up fighting?

  Still Thomas continued eating. I watched him for a minute and another thought began to develop in my head. Our relationship was changing. Ever since I had known Thomas he had acted as my mentor, and I had looked up to him. But today, for the first time, our usual roles had been reversed and I had explained something to him. Not that he had listened.

  In one respect it was a frightening realization but, in another, it gave me a feeling of manhood. I cut into my meat. I must be growing up, I thought.

  CHAPTER 17

  February the 11th 1556 – Steps of the Provveditori, Palazzo Ducale

  ‘Don’t let’s wait for him, Thoma
s. Let’s go on together, for you know he may remain talking for hours.’ Thomas and I left Courtenay and walked down the steps of the new government offices together, considering the events of the previous week.

  ‘I hate to have to say this, Thomas, but it seems I was not too far from the mark.’

  Thomas had not spoken again about my theory regarding the Venetian government’s sudden embrace of Courtenay, but I was increasingly confident that my suspicion had been correct.

  It had started on February the 6th, only two days after our conversation in the Fondaco dei Tedeschi, when rumours of the attempted murder of an Englishman by bravi – local thugs – began to circulate. In itself, that was not so significant, for whilst Venice had fewer Englishmen than Germans, my countrymen were by no means rare in the city. More worrying was the name being whispered – Carew. I began to feel that this event was closer to home than was comfortable.

  The following morning, a messenger had come to the albergo bearing a note – for hand-delivery to me only. I had opened it with some trepidation. It was a single scrap of paper, bearing a pattern of numbers in shaky handwriting, and immediately I feared the worst. I took it to my room, closed and locked the door and took out my copy of Of Christian Perfection.

  Slowly, and carefully, I deciphered the pattern of numbers.

  MORTAL RISK LEAVING FOR DRY LAND.

  DO NOT TRUST MARY ENVOY HERE PETER

  It must be from Peter Carew. It appeared he was alive, but fearful of his life, and intending to cross to the mainland where he could hide himself among friends – probably in Padua, I thought. ‘Mary envoy’ must refer to Peter Vannes. How he must have struggled to find the right words amongst the pages of our common text. If my analyses, or my prejudices, were right, then the English ambassador was implicated, and that suggested the attack had been orchestrated from London. Now perhaps Thomas would understand my eagerness to decode the council’s new-found friendliness towards the earl. What a nasty little world we lived in.