Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  The atmosphere was quite different from Titian’s workshop: there were fewer assistants and fewer paintings in preparation, and the whole place had a much more relaxed feel about it. The apprentice apologized that his master was absent, but asked if I would speak to Giovanni, the maestro’s assistant. He joined me in the corner of the room, wiping paint from his hands with a rag.

  I described the earl and the portrait he required and Giovanni wrote it all down carefully. His writing was slow and awkward, but eventually he had all the information he needed, and he began to relax.

  ‘I am sorry he is not here at the moment. He is on the mainland for a few weeks, at Maser, with Andrea Palladio. Palladio is to build a great villa there for Marc’ Antonio Barbaro. Veronese has secured the contract for the frescoes and also for some large oil paintings to go in the house. Once work starts, we are likely to move our whole workshop there for two or three years, and to live on site, but the design is not yet complete. Unfortunately, until Paulo returns, I cannot really give you any commitment about when we might start; it all depends on Marc’ Antonio Barbaro.’

  I liked this workshop, the tidiness and the gentle good manners of Giovanni and the apprentice. There was none of the fear that seemed to rule Titian’s house.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ I asked.

  ‘Paulo came to Venice three years ago, and I joined him about six months later. This workshop is only temporary as we can’t commit to anything until we are sure about Barbaro. But don’t let that put you off: Paulo may only be twenty-eight, but he is very, very good. I am sure we can make a nice portrait for you. The cost for head and shoulders with hands would be fifty ducats, maybe sixty if the subject has difficult features; and we would need an advance for materials of, say, ten – or twenty, if he wants a lot of ultramarine, which is very expensive to import from Asia. It’s hard to be more precise until Paulo returns and sees your friend, but that will give you an indication.’

  I thanked him for his friendly response and said I would pass the information on to the earl. As I left, he called after me.

  ‘Come back in a month. Paulo should have returned by then. Of course, if you are in a hurry, there’s always Tintoretto. He will make a bargain with anyone rather than lose the work, but if you come back to us, and we are available, I promise you will not be disappointed.’

  I returned home with mixed feelings. I liked the straightforward truthfulness of Veronese’s workshop, but a month, with no certainty? The earl would not like that. I had to keep looking. Perhaps this man Tintoretto? They said I could make a bargain there, and fifty ducats, a year’s wages for a skilled man, was not a small sum, even for an earl.

  CHAPTER 26

  February the 26th 1556 – Venice Rialto, beside the Grand Canal

  ‘Richard, calm yourself We were standing beside the Grand Canal at Rialto, watching the men arguing over the new designs for the bridge, and once again, Thomas was trying to cool my blood.

  ‘Is that what he said? Exactly those words?’ I had stormed out of the house in a rage and Thomas had followed me, hoping I would not do anything rash.

  ‘His exact words were, “If you value my sponsorship, try harder.” I have had enough of this self-important posturing fool. He can find his own bloody “artisan” and I hope the painting makes him look like a bloody monkey.’

  Thomas put his hand on my arm. ‘Lady Jane?’ It always worked. I stopped fuming and started thinking again. If only she were here to talk to.

  Thomas led me to a tavern beside the canal. Here we could drink some wine, sit in the sun and (in my case) calm down. Thomas ordered some prosecco and put his feet up on a spare bench opposite us. For a moment he sat quietly, absorbing the warmth of the early-spring sun, but I knew he was preparing to talk, and I waited.

  ‘I know how you feel, Richard. From a physician’s point of view, he is unwell and getting worse. All I ask is that you consider him as a sick man, not as a bad one. I share your frustration, but I feel strongly that I cannot abandon him, as so many others have done in the past. The armed guards may have been reduced, but he is still in danger. Somehow – I am not sure how – I think this thing will resolve itself fairly soon. We have only been here for six weeks. Give it time. Do as I do and escape from his presence by finding other activities in the city. There is so much to do here, and so many good people to meet.’

  I knew he was right, but at the same time I did not see why I should always retreat. ‘The issue that really concerns me, Thomas, is his bringing sponsorship into the conversation. We agreed to accompany him as companions and he for his part agreed to pay our expenses. It was an agreement that we undertook at his request. There is no question of sponsorship, and I resent the suggestion that there is.’

  Thomas nodded. ‘You are half right. However, to be precise, we agreed to join him on this journey of our own free will and in response to his invitation, not his request. However, it’s a lawyer’s point and I, for one, do not want to spend a sunny day trading words with you.’

  I nodded. Once again he was right.

  ‘And as for sponsorship, well . . . As far as I am concerned, I will judge the man by his actions. His words, as we know, are often mere bravado. How many times have we seen him take up a brave stance of mighty principle, only to back down two minutes later in the face of stark reality? The man is a dreamer, Richard, but while he continues to meet the terms of the bargain and pay all the expenses, I for one will put aside the niceties of detailed terms and conditions and satisfy myself with receiving the cash.’

  ‘And if he stops paying?’

  ‘Then I shall consider myself released from the bargain and travel to Padua.’

  We watched as a large plank of timber fell from the bridge, much to the consternation of a gondolier who was passing below at the time.

  ‘Perhaps you are being over-sensitive, Richard. He’s right. There must be other artisans. They can’t all be designing that bridge.’

  I felt my heart sink. From my point of view, the whole purpose of this conversation had been for Thomas to agree that the problem was Courtenay’s unreasonableness and to indicate a way out of this imprisonment. Yet all he seemed to be doing was taking the earl’s side. Sometimes I found his balanced reasonableness more infuriating than any argument. I lifted my glass. Thank you, Thomas; I thought you were on my side. The words echoed through my head, but I stopped myself from saying them. I needed one friend in this city and arguing with him now was not going to help my cause. Perhaps he was right. That was what was so maddening about Thomas: he usually was right. I glared at him and he smiled back, as if he could hear every thought going through my head.

  Thomas raised his glass back to mine in mock-salute. ‘Life’s a bugger. Then you die.’

  This time we both laughed.

  CHAPTER 27

  March the 1st 1556 – Convento di Sant’ Alvise, Cannaregio

  I had remembered correctly; it was the right day and the right time of day. The young men were, once again, milling about on the bridge beside the Convento di Sant’ Alvise and calling to their companions who were standing in the boats or clambering up to the convent windows.

  A number of them, including Marco and Angelino, recognized me and waved me forward into the boats. I was greeted like a friend and I quickly relaxed into the gang.

  ‘Sebestiano is coming in a minute. He has pinched a barge from his father’s business and is bringing it round. It is much bigger than our boats and we will be able to stand higher – opposite the windows.’

  It sounded like a good idea, and when eventually the barge appeared, punted along the canal by two strong youths, a cheer went up. There was a loud giggle from within the convent; it appeared someone had told the nuns of the plan and they, too, were waiting in keen anticipation.

  Sebastiano drove the barge against the flaking yellow stone of the convent wall and tied it fore and aft to the window bars. Clearly the boys felt secure in their game and no attempt at concealment appeared
necessary. Excitedly, we climbed upon the barge and stood on the curved hatch-covers. Most of those present still had to crane their necks a little to look into the convent window, but for me, being perhaps a foot taller than anyone else, there was no difficulty and I had a direct view into the convent.

  The afternoon sun was on the other side of the building, throwing our wall into deep shade, and although the light was poor, it was sufficient. I counted seventeen nuns, aged from perhaps fourteen to nearly thirty, gathered around the large window and jockeying for position. My height advantage made it unnecessary to crowd forward, and I stood at the back of the crowd of men, watching the proceedings unfold.

  Today there were no roses to present, but a number of the boys were taking it in turns to cling to the bars and whisper to whichever of the nuns had taken their fancy. The nuns, in turn, changed positions so that new faces came and went at the front.

  They were like no nuns I had ever seen in England. Their hair was carefully piled upon their heads in ringlets, with silk ribbons intertwined. In many cases, they sported lavish jewellery as well. They were not wearing the traditional nun’s black but instead gowns of sumptuous velvet and brocade. Indeed, as far as I could see, they were dressed as well as the noble ladies I saw tottering across the piazzas in their chopines, trying to keep their gowns away from the muddy flagstones.

  One difference was noticeable, however: whilst many of the noble ladies seemed hardly more modest than the courtesans who paraded themselves across the piazzas and hung wantonly from balconies and bridges above any canal that carried full gondolas, the nuns were at least modest in the way they wore their clothing.

  Some of them however, especially the younger ones, were rather less chaste in their manner, and flirted outrageously with the boys at the window. But behind these chattering few were a number of more sedate nuns, still young – perhaps in their twenties – but more thoughtful in their manner. One of these immediately caught my eye; she stood out from her crowd as obviously as I did from mine. She, like me, was a full head and shoulders taller than those around her, but while my hair was yellow-blond and wavy, hers was white-blonde and straight as an arrow, hanging unadorned past her delicate shoulders. I had only seen such hair twice before, when Baltic traders had been visiting Bridport Fair to buy ropes for their ships in exchange for the long, straight timbers they brought from their pine forests. Not only had the sailors’ hair been the same (the colour of birch bark), but their skin had been the same golden colour and their eyes the same pale but piercing blue.

  What caught my eye in particular was the way she faced away to one side, rather than looking straight at me, only her eyes following my movements. There was something in the shy indirectness of that look which captured my attention, and I, for my part, looked directly back at her.

  She did not laugh when the younger ones laughed, but merely smiled, gently, ever careful and ever watchful. I thought her face the most characterful I had ever seen. Her cheekbones were high and angled towards the top of her ears, her nose long, narrow and straight, the nostrils slightly flared, like an Arab mare. Her mouth was small, but always changing, with tiny movements at the corners, making little mobile creases as if she were mouthing words or controlling an inner desire to laugh.

  She must, I thought, have come from the most noble of families for her neck was very long and her stance and expression held such elegance and character that she would immediately have stood out from all the others, even if she had not been so much taller than they were. The younger nuns continued to scramble for position, but she stood back from the main mêlée, maintaining a look of great reservation and suspicion. In my mind, I named her Ghiacciolo, the Icicle, and I wondered what her real name was and what story lay behind that reserved expression.

  Most of the nuns’ faces had a simple happiness and straightforward kindliness, but Ghiacciolo’s expression seemed to contain within it a deep sadness, which, when I looked carefully, came from those pale blue eyes. That face was not the true face of the person inside, I thought, but the public expression of an inner prisoner: a person who perhaps, like me, found themselves in a comfortable prison, but a prison nevertheless. Did we, perhaps, have this in common? Could we, I wondered, help each other to escape? Somehow I felt it was important to speak to her, and, despite her unwillingness to face me directly, I gained a distinct impression that she had something to say to me – something important.

  I had noticed a number of the young men passing surreptitious notes to their chosen nuns, but it was clear from her reserved position at the very back of the crowd that Ghiacciola would not take a note from me even if I proffered one. Instead, I opened my sketchbook and on a clean page wrote:

  RICHARD – INGLESI

  I held the sketchbook up and stared at her. For the first time, she looked directly at me and I thought I could see her mouth the word ‘Richard’. She nodded. I felt the look travel through me to my inner soul, as if our eyes were joined together by some invisible force. For a moment she held the expression, and then dropped her eyes.

  The bell began ringing and the nuns started to drift away, but she remained until the last moment, watching me, as if trying to decide if I could be trusted. Eventually, she too turned and walked away, and I joined the rest of the young men as they untied the barge and began to take their boats home again.

  Thanking two of them for their offered rides, I decided instead to walk back. I needed to be alone. That face! Even if I were never to see it again, I knew it would remain with me. Who was she, and why was she there?

  I wandered back slowly, intentionally taking a longer route than necessary, putting off my arrival. I had to gather my thoughts. Had Neville got it right? Were these young women being held in the convent purely for their own benefit and protection? Or were they truly prisoners? If so, then surely there was a way to get at least one of them out. I felt I had to try.

  CHAPTER 28

  March the 2nd 1556 – Ca’ da Mosto

  I lay sweating in the prison cell, tossing and turning, trying to block out the sound. I covered my ears with my hands, but they were dragged away again and still the sound came from the next cell, a terrible moaning, a person at the end of their tether, all hope lost, just pain and despair. A woman’s voice, insistent, inescapable, crying for help.

  I dragged my weary body to a standstill and forced myself to reach up to the small slit joining our cells. I scratched the plaster to indicate my presence, and waited for a face to appear. Finally she did so, hair matted and filthy, face covered by scratches, blood running down her cheek. She only had the strength to stand for a few seconds and in that time the eyes, bloodshot yet piercing blue at the same time, begged me, willing me to help. But my strength failed and I slid down the cell wall, weeping at my weakness and impotence.

  ‘Oh!’

  I shook my head hard and gasped huge breaths of air, then got up and washed my face in cold water, but still the dream would not leave me. Although it was before dawn and the air cold, the sweat continued to run from my body. Finally, I went downstairs, left the house and crossed the courtyard to the pump over the cisterna, soaking myself in freezing water until my head cleared.

  Returning to my room, I dried and dressed myself. This would not do. I must return and try to establish some sort of contact.

  To Golden Hair,

  My name is Richard and I am an Englishman, at present living nearby in Venice with my employer, an English earl, who has influence with the Doge.

  Who are you and why are you in this place? Are you truly a devoted nun or have you another reason to be held in this convent?

  Is it possible we can talk?

  I shall return in one week, at the normal time.

  Richard Stocker

  I arrived at the convent by gondola to find it deserted.

  ‘You must be a stranger.’ The gondolier looked at me pityingly. ‘The nuns do not appear until mid-afternoon. Everyone knows that.’

  I nodded at him angrily
. I knew well enough, but I had felt such a sense of urgency to deliver my letter that I was here, alone but for the gondolier, in the cold morning mist.

  We waited by the window for perhaps half an hour, until I heard footsteps inside. Standing as high as I could, I held on to the bars of the window. A young nun was passing and nearly fainted when I hissed to her from the window. I held up the note and she read the name. For a moment she frowned and I made a sign indicating shoulder length straight hair. She brightened and nodded, signalling me to wait, then ran off.

  For another quarter of an hour I waited, until she came, padding quietly in flat slippers and wearing a black nun’s habit. For a moment I did not recognize her, but she threw back her hood and her pale hair tumbled down. She looked at me, fear, anger and confusion sharing her expression. I passed her the note and to my relief she took it. I waited, hanging precariously on to the bars, while she read it. She finished reading and looked up. I could see she was trying to decide whether she could trust me or not. Finally she appeared to make a decision and nodded.

  ‘Next week. Normal time,’ I whispered and she nodded again. It was a start. It appeared we had an assignation, of sorts.

  CHAPTER 29

  March the 6th 1556 – Fondamenta dei Mori, Cannaregio

  ‘Ehi, Riccardo! How are things? Where are you off to?’ Pietro, the young fisherman, had escaped his usual position in front of his parents’ trattoria and instead was trying his luck where a side canal joined the Rio della Sensa further along the Fondamenta dei Mori.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ he repeated, leaving his fishing rod on the bank and running to accompany me. ‘How are you getting on at Sant’ Alvise? Have you screwed that blonde nun yet?’