Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  ‘What a beautiful house. Has it been in your family for long?’

  She turned right round, facing upward, as if seeing it for the first time. ‘If you mean, do I own it? The answer is no. But it is, in a sense, in my family, and I am comfortable here.’ It was a clever answer. It would have been rude of me to pursue the matter further, yet in truth I remained uninformed.

  ‘Richard, please take some wine to refresh yourself, and some of these biscotti. They are made especially for me. Now, please excuse me for a few moments. The view is ever-varying; please enjoy it.’

  I took a glass of wine and a biscuit and pushed the shutters wider. We were in the crook of the elbow of the Grand Canal, on the north side, with clear views south-west and south-east. Everywhere was activity. We were too far up the canal to see the great trading ships, but smaller vessels scurried hither and thither, each on its own mission to turn a profit from the day’s activity.

  Veronica returned, dressed now in a loose gown and looking cooler and refreshed. We stood next to each other at the window, eating the biscotti and sipping the Malvasia, which somehow her servants had kept chilled. She stood to my right, very close, and moved with fluid and easy movements, indicating this and commenting on that.Whenever she drew my attention to something to her far right, it always seemed to require my leaning right across her to see it properly, whilst objects of interest to our far left seemed to require her to lean hard against my chest, her fresh perfume rising from her.

  She took my hand and held it between hers. The top of her head was at the level of my chin, and as she lifted her head to speak to me, tipping it to one side, the line of her neck, her throat and her cleavage presented one continuous invitation.

  ‘You are warm. Perhaps uncomfortable. I am forgetting my manners. Come through here where it is cooler.’

  She led me to the next room where the shutters were firmly closed, the light reflected through their slats from the waters of the canal sending flickering beams of gold and silver on to the painted ceiling. In the centre of the room was a large bath. Beside it, a chair held towels; another awaited discarded clothes. Before me, alongside the bath, ran a deep crimson Turkish rug; the whole resembling a composition for a painting by one of the maestri.

  Gently, she led me forward.

  ‘Please, don’t be shy – undress and step in. It will cool you.’

  For a moment I hesitated, but she waved me on and I did as I was invited, feeling like an actor in a play. My jerkin fitted over the back of the chair. Turning, I sat on the chair and removed my boots and hose, then stood on the perfectly placed rug and put them in place, the boots below the chair, my hose upon its seat. Now I was standing opposite her, with only my long shirt remaining. Again I hesitated.

  ‘Let’s do it together. I will use this chair and you that one.’

  She slipped off her gown and folded it carefully across the back of the opposite chair, leaving the towels in reach. I looked at her nakedness, shimmering in the flickering light through the shutters. Titian and Tintoretto had not exaggerated: she was as beautiful as they had painted her.

  I followed her example and folded my shirt over the nearer chair. She looked at my body, unembarrassed and appraisingly, as I had just done hers, then reached out her hand across the bath and took mine.

  ‘Come, I have bathed already. It’s your turn now.’

  I stepped in and lay back in the cool water. She knelt beside the bath and stroked my hair.

  ‘Let me wash your hair. Close your eyes.’

  I obeyed. As if without a will of my own, I bent my knees, sank down into the water until it closed cool above my head, then raised myself again, water streaming off my hair, with my eyes firmly shut. Never in my life could I remember submitting myself to the will of another person – man or woman – since I was old enough to walk.

  I felt her pour water over my head and begin to soap my hair. Her movement must have made me open my eyes again, and I must have lifted my head, for she ran the palm of her hand downward, over my nose and eyes, as if closing the eyes of a dead man for the last time, and eased me backward. For a moment, that thought made me want to fight her, and regain my self-control, but she left her hand on my forehead and whispered.

  ‘Don’t fight me. Let go. You are safe here. Just relax and feel the water. If you concentrate, you can move your mind from one sense to another. Try to think as a blind man does. Listen.’

  I listened. I could hear the water in the bath lapping. Slowly, I began to distinguish between the sound of the bathwater and the noises from the canal below. Music came to me, at first very quietly: a lute, played slowly, cadences rippling gently with the water. Always calm, played not sharply with the fingernails but softly with the fingertips alone, caressing the strings, as she caressed my hair. I felt so safe; I began, quietly, to cry.

  ‘What is it called?’ My words were only a whisper, my throat constricted with emotion.

  ‘It is a Venetian melody. Laudato Dio. Written fifty years ago by a musician called Juan Ambrosio Dalza.Alessandro often plays it at this time of day. Keep your eyes closed.’

  I lay back and let the music wash over me as the water did the same. The music stopped and I began to return to my other senses. She put her hand over my eyes again.

  ‘Don’t open your eyes. You have put sight to one side. Now do the same with hearing. Let the sounds disappear and concentrate on feeling. Feel the water. Feel the warm breeze coming through the shutters. Now feel the difference in temperature between the water at the bottom of the bath and that near the surface.’

  I felt her wrap a towel around my head, like a turban, gently but effectively covering my eyes and my ears. As she did so, her touch never left me and when the turban was in place her hand dropped gently to my shoulder and remained there, as if comforting me.

  ‘What can you feel?’

  Her words were faint through the towelling. I concentrated hard. I had stopped fighting and was happy simply doing as I was told. Yes, I could feel it.

  ‘The cold water has sunk to the bottom. The surface water is warmer.’

  ‘Correct. Feel it.’

  Her lips were close to my ear as she spoke.

  ‘Feel the air moving over the water.’

  I lay still, concentrating.

  ‘First it is hot.’

  I felt hot moist air on my chest.

  ‘Now it is cool.’

  This time the flow of air was cool, and further down my belly. I felt my skin tighten and realized she was breathing hot breaths then pursing her lips and blowing cold ones across me, probably watching the reaction of my skin as the temperature changed. The thought that she was watching me so closely, lying here, naked and only partly covered by water, began to arouse me. Another warm breath, then she blew cool air again. This time there was no mistake where the draught was directed, and I felt myself harden, until my manhood began to lift clear of the water.

  She nuzzled my ear through the towelling. ‘Mmm. Sandro Botticelli would have been proud of you. Hardly Venus rising from the sea, but worth pursuing.’ Her hand moved from my shoulder, and unwound the turban. She kissed my ear, then, taking my hand, gave me a dry towel. ‘You can open your eyes now.’

  I opened my eyes and as I stood in the bath she wrapped the towel around me. Taking my hand, she led me onward, into a further room. ‘I think you need a little attention.’

  She was everything I had dreamed of. She did not dominate, nor was she the subservient maiden. Instead she led me into a world of shared pleasure, a true partnership, in which one signalled a pleasurable thought and the other, instinctively, delivered it.

  She moved like a cat – slowly, as if there was all the time in the world. The skin of her breast was the skin of a peach, and when finally she opened to me, it was as if the peach itself had opened, at the moment of its ripeness, and invited me to enter into its rich and scented goodness. She showed me pleasures I would not have dreamed of, taking me to the peak of raw, hungry tensi
on, then back again to a spent relaxation in which time itself stood still. I learned from her example and began to signal and respond as she did. All afternoon we offered and took and offered again, until the last shafts of light through the shutters were no longer enough to see the sparkle in her eyes and the first chill of evening had us reaching for the sheets for the first time.

  We lay in the dusk, the sounds of the Grand Canal drifting through the shutters, the evening air caressing us. Beneath us the lute began to play again

  She put her tongue in my ear. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It is called Laudato Dio, a popular piece by Juan Ambrosio Dalza,’ I replied, lazily.

  She ran her hand down my belly, teasing me with the pretend promise of more to come. ‘I didn’t think you’d remember.’

  I rolled towards her and teased her in return. ‘How could I ever forget?’

  We lay back and dozed. My mind floated out of the window and observed us from outside, then rejoined us and relived the warmth and companionship of our love-making. It had never been like this for me before. In my youth I had stolen many quick moments of lust with easy-going village girls, especially after the harvest when last year’s cider was at its most potent. I remembered little Agnes, who wriggled like a puppy and giggled at every movement I made, but would not let go of me until dawn.

  I thought of Lady Frances Grey, the mother of Lady Jane. She had chosen me as her birthday present to herself, and almost dragged me to her bed, taunting me when I held back, until, angry, I had mounted her and ridden her hard until she cried out in greedy satisfaction. I thought, too, of Lady Catherine; how, in the days after the death of her sister, we had clung to each other with an urgency born of shared grief and long-standing love.

  I turned over and smelled Veronica’s breath on my face, sweet and sensuous.This was so different: so calm, so mature; a partnership in pleasure and mutual regard, but without implied promises or commitment to the future. Was this why courtesans were so popular in Venice?

  We woke and drank one more glass of wine, and I prepared to leave. Now, once again, I was back in control and it was my responsibility to make the appropriate moves. I must not cling to her and act like a callow youth. I must understand the realities and enjoy them as they were – a shared moment only. Turning away from her, I reached across the bed towards my clothes, looking for my purse.

  She sat up, watching me. ‘What are you doing?’

  I held the purse. ‘Should I—?’

  Pushing my wrist until I dropped the purse on the floor, she shook her head.

  ‘No, not at all. You need no money, caro. I am a courtesan, not a common whore.’

  I fell back against the pillow, embarrassed and distraught. How could I have ruined such an afternoon so easily? ‘Please excuse my ignorance. In England, I am not sure we recognize the difference.’

  As soon as I had said it I knew I had piled clumsiness upon stupidity. She might have lost her temper then, and thrown me out, or burst into tears, but she did neither. She simply smiled at me, as if instructing a child.

  ‘You will learn. The Republic of La Serenissima is a much more sophisticated place than your London. Here, our distinctions are more careful, more precise. A common prostitute is paid in hard cash; but a courtesan finds her reward in the relationship itself. It’s much nicer, don’t you think?’

  I was grateful for her understanding, but too embarrassed to know what to do or say next. She saw my predicament and came to my rescue. ‘It’s also much slower.’ Smiling, she pulled me back to her.

  I buried my embarrassment in the scented softness of her bosom, and let time stand still for a little longer.

  CHAPTER 39

  March the 24th 1556 – Ca’ da Mosto

  The warm weather continued and I truly began to believe that the Venetian spring had arrived. Back home in England it would still be cold and windy. I paced up and down, anxious about Veronica’s arrival.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ Dr Thomas Marwood gave me his most professional stare. In return, I made my expression as opaque as I could and smiled back at him.

  ‘Nothing of any significance. Why do you ask?’

  He continued to look at me with his penetrating gaze. ‘You look different.’

  This was the first time I had seen him since my afternoon with Veronica. Did her effect on me still show so clearly? ‘Really? I can’t think why.’

  ‘Why are we summoned by the earl this morning? Who is this person we are to meet?’

  I tried to look as calm and matter-of-fact as I could, but I could feel my heart racing at the thought of seeing her again. ‘Oh, I believe her name is Veronica Franco. She is a Venetian lady and I met her at Tintoretto’s bottega. She asked if she could meet the earl and I agreed to introduce them.’

  Thomas looked at me again. ‘Why does she want to meet him? Perhaps his reputation amongst the Venetian nobility is higher than we realized.’ He looked out of the window, and then turned rapidly. ‘You don’t think she’s a courtesan on the prowl do you? He would make an easy target. He is so gullible.’

  I swallowed hard. This was going to be more difficult than I had thought. I was saved by Courtenay’s manservant, Carlo, who announced Veronica’s arrival. She floated into the room dressed in the height of Venetian fashion and looking as perfect as always.

  ‘Thomas, allow me to introduce Veronica Franco.’

  She took his hand and made the smallest dip of courtesy. Thomas inclined his head and led her to a chair. She thanked him but remained standing, the light by the window showing off her clothes perfectly. Perhaps modelling for Titian and Tintoretto taught her something about catching the light.

  ‘Signora Franco, you and Richard have met before, I believe?’ Thomas was up to his old tricks, playing the simpleton, but she was his match.

  ‘Indeed, once or twice. At the artist Tintoretto’s, was it not, Richard?’

  I looked at her, smiling in the sunshine, and I could smell her and taste her again. I felt my face flush at the memory, and wanted to take her hand and lead her to my room at this very moment. Concentrating hard, I tried to play my part. ‘I believe it was. Ah, here is the earl now.’

  Courtenay swept into the room, also dressed as if he was about to attend a state banquet.

  ‘Veronica, allow me to introduce Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon and a member of the ancient and royal house of Plantagenet.’

  I knew he would want me to pile it on thickly and he beamed his best smile. ‘Madame Franco. Enchanted, I am sure. What a pleasure it is to meet you.’

  Taking her by the elbow, he led her nearer to the window, their backs pointedly turned to Thomas and me. He was talking loudly and rapidly and I knew he was immediately smitten by her. Veronica, in turn, had eyes only for the earl, and the two of them stood like a pair of lovers reunited after a long separation, hands clasped, faces close together and animated by their total absorption in one other.

  Thomas and I were clearly irrelevant and he drew me into a far corner. ‘Now I understand that look of expectation on your face. She’s quite a lady.’

  I looked across at the couple, lost in each other’s eyes, and nodded. She was doing her job, and doing it to perfection. It was clear to me now that a great courtesan must be like a diplomat, able to move comfortably amongst the nobility upon which she feeds, and possessing that facility I had seen so often at Court in England, of being able to lock on to her subject and make him or her believe they are the most important person in her life, if only for that critical moment.

  ‘You are going to find this difficult, aren’t you Richard?’

  I swallowed hard and nodded. ‘I already am.’ Seeing her with him, of all people, was indeed hard. But even harder was the need to face the question I had been keeping in a locked box at the back of my mind. How much of the recent afternoon’s activity had been personal on her part, and how much professional? Did she care anything for me, or was I simply a convenient cog in the mechanism of her ambition?<
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  Walking home from being with her three days before, I had begun to salvage my embarrassment. I had decided that she had refused my money simply because our relationship was personal, and that she might, perhaps, have interpreted my reaching for my purse in a favourable light – as an indication that I had not impertinently presumed that to be the case.

  Now a different interpretation occurred to me. Our love-making was not (at least on her part) a personal thing at all, but part of a trade, in which she pleasured me and I secured her introduction to a rich and gullible English earl, who might replace or supplement the other nobles whose patronage she needed to survive. I had been paid and I had delivered.

  ‘However, dear lady, I am committed to visiting the Duke Ercole d’ Este in Ferrara for a short time. Do you know the duke at all?’

  Courtenay was name-dropping, as usual. I saw Veronica pretend to search her memory, then shake her head. ‘Not well – not, as you might say, closely.’

  ‘I look forward to seeing you immediately upon my return.’

  She looked at him longingly. ‘I shall count the days.’

  The earl called for his personal servant to escort ‘the lady’ home, and she left, looking back over her shoulder at him and smiling as she went.

  Thomas took my elbow. ‘Come, let’s go for a walk. We are not needed here.’

  I not only felt I was not needed; I felt I was invisible. She had not even bidden me farewell.

  PART 4

  Freedom

  CHAPTER 40

  March the 27th 1556 – Ca’ da Mosto

  I sat beside the great working doors of our palazzo as the grumbling tradesmen brought down the chests. Thomas had one medium-sized chest and a leather satchel for his personal possessions, whilst the earl had found the need for seven of his nine large chests to be loaded on to the barge.

  With each box that was loaded, I felt some pressure lift. It was not until I faced the prospect of having the house to myself that I realized how oppressive I had been finding Courtenay’s company. Thomas was much easier to live with; and he and I had settled into a comfortable co-existence, meeting when circumstances arose but sometimes not seeing each other for two or three days.