Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  We did not shake hands, but greeted each other quietly and got straight down to business. As on the previous occasion, Walsingham took the lead.

  ‘Gentlemen, we are gathered here today to formalize our party into a society. I suggest we call ourselves the Sons of England. Our long-term purpose is known: to hasten the end of Queen Mary’s reign and to ensure that she is replaced by none other than the Princess Elizabeth. But that, in itself, will not suffice, for even when that has been achieved, and achieved it will be, Queen Elizabeth will be surrounded by unreliable men, not just active Catholics, but weak men and backsliders, who are in many ways more dangerous to our cause.’

  Sir Peter Carew growled his agreement. ‘Damn their eyes the lot of them.’

  Walsingham continued. ‘Sir Peter, perhaps you will acquaint Richard with your recent experiences?’

  Carew growled again. ‘I was in Venice, visiting friends, when I was attacked. There were five of them: bravi – paid thugs. It was no robbery and no accident. I heard one of them say, “There he is, with the black beard,” and they came straight at me. They made two mistakes – underestimating a professional soldier, and giving me those few seconds of warning. My sword was out before they reached me.

  ‘I ran the first attacker through the throat with my sword and went for the ringleader. In my experience, when attacked by a group, always go for the biggest first. It worked; I cut him across the face, blinding him, and he fell, screaming. The other three wavered and I cut one hard in the neck. He dropped like a stone, silent and dead within seconds. It was the blood on the pavement that saved the other two, for as I went after them I slipped in it and staggered. By the time I had recovered my balance, they were gone.’

  I found myself gripping the edge of the table. ‘Who were they?’

  Carew hissed, his temper raised by the memory of the fight. ‘Nobody Paid thugs. But I got to the bottom of it. The blinded one was screaming in pain, half his face hanging off, and begging me to finish him off. He told me who paid them before I cut his throat. “The old reverend gentleman from Lucca,” he said.’

  Walsingham and Cheke nodded together. ‘Peter Vannes. What way is that for an ambassador to act?’ Cheke was visibly shaken, but Walsingham was calm.

  ‘We have to accept we are not dealing with honourable men. We can trust no one who is, or may be, in the pay of Queen Mary or, especially, of Felipe of Spain.’ He used the Spanish pronunciation as if speaking of a dog.

  ‘Cheke, here, and Sir Peter are returning to Antwerp. Sir John’s wife awaits him there and has written to ask him to return. We only hope it is not a trap. Sir Peter will look after him on the journey and will then proceed to Ireland to argue his case for the return of family lands. That is why we meet today, to formalize the formation of the Sons of England. Our purpose I have stated, our tactics will be to confound our enemies on every occasion and to build a series of reliable alliances with individuals who will remain silent, as “sleepers”, until the princess is crowned Queen. Only then will we appear at her side – to strengthen her position and to do her bidding.’

  We all nodded our agreement and put our hands together like arm wrestlers, in a united grip, to signify our allegiance. But Walsingham had not finished.

  ‘What is our greatest vulnerability, gentlemen?’ There was confusion around the table. ‘I will tell you. The Princess Elizabeth herself

  At this Cheke shook his head feebly. ‘No! I really can’t accept that . . .’

  Walsingham put his hand on Cheke’s. ‘What I mean is, the only person in our plan known to Queen Mary and Philip of Spain is Princess Elizabeth herself, and if we allow ourselves to be discovered and our purpose becomes public, not only will we be beheaded for treason, but the princess will surely follow Lady Jane to the Tower and the axe.’ The significance of his statement took us all aback, and we looked at each other in concern.

  ‘On no account must we be discovered,’Walsingham continued. ‘If any of us is arrested, he must ensure he gives nothing away. There will be nothing in writing, except our letters in the agreed code, and as soon as they have been deciphered, they must, I repeat must, be burned. Is that clear?’

  We all signalled our agreement and I made a mental note to burn Walsingham’s note as soon as I returned home. I, in turn, described the search of our house in Venice by state agents and told of Courtenay’s visit to Duke Ercole in Ferrara. Walsingham was disparaging.

  ‘The man’s a dangerous self-inflated fool. Keep your distance from him if you can, Richard. He will remain an active target for Queen Mary’s agents – with Vannes the most immediate threat. They will almost certainly assume the visit to Ferrara is part of a plot to join the French. Your very association with him is fraught with danger. Be very careful who you meet and what you say to them. Your own life is at risk, Richard, but if I may say so, another, more precious life might also be put at risk by your actions: the Princess Elizabeth’s.’

  There was a pause while we all took in the magnitude of what he had said.

  ‘Go now, in quiet and secrecy. Do everything slowly and carefully. There is no great hurry. Only write to each other if it is essential and then always in code. Richard will return to Venice and try to observe the actions of the ambassador and their effect upon the state. Peter and John will travel to Antwerp. For myself, I am going to move to Switzerland to try to develop alliances there. God’s speed, gentlemen, and take care.’

  We left quietly, one by one, subdued by the burden of what we had heard and agreed to.

  I found Sebastiano at the fish quay, our boat full of those varieties of fish that were hard to find in our northern part of the lagoon.

  ‘Good, was she?’ He grinned conspiratorially.

  I had told him the purpose of my journey was to visit a young married woman and that secrecy was essential. It had been the first excuse that came into my head, but Sebastiano had accepted it enthusiastically. Now he rubbed his finger against the side of his nose. ‘You must have been busy. You have been gone hours.’

  I nudged his elbow with mine, and winked. ‘I had to wait until her husband had left. It was worth it, though.’

  We jumped down from the quay into the boat and pushed off. The sails were dry and the jib and mizzen hoisted easily. Sebastiano steered her across the harbour and we raised the mainsail as we reached open sea. He looked back at Chioggia. ‘Better get some speed up in case her husband comes after you.’ I did my best to laugh, but I was very aware that the city of Venice was likely to become a good deal more dangerous for me than the fishing port we were leaving.

  CHAPTER 48

  April the 5th 1556 – Ca’ da Mosto

  I was keen to move into the new house I had found in Cannaregio but could not do so until the lease had been signed. I had now received four warnings: the first in the form of the visit of the State spies, the second direct from Veronica, the third the attempted murder of Sir Peter Carew, and now my friend Tintoretto was sufficiently concerned to add his voice to the warnings.

  ‘I have a friend in the government – not high up, it is true, but with access to information. Sometimes the information from the top does not allow you to know exactly what is to happen, but my friend is at what you might call the operational level and hears specific instructions being given. I knew that the bravi had been sent to the Ca’ da Mosto the other day, but did not associate it with me, or with you, so I said nothing. It was Veronica who made the connection and she prompted me to ask a few questions.

  ‘It appears there is an argument going on within the Council. One group wishes to support the English and get rid of your earl as a potential troublemaker. The Council has been approached by a representative of the English government, asking them to arrest the earl and deport him to England. However, the other group argue that such action would be inconsistent with Venice’s reputation as a free independent state and risks damaging our trade abroad.

  ‘This second group is angry at England’s attempts to interfere in the aff
airs of an independent state and they want Peter Vannes withdrawn as ambassador. They say he has acted beyond his authority and capacity and it is only his diplomatic position that prevents him from being arrested for attempted murder.

  ‘I have no idea which side will win the argument, but whatever happens Courtenay is at risk and will be closely watched upon his return to Venice. It is almost certain his papers will be examined to determine his intentions. My friends tell me that you are not on their list of suspects, Richard, but they are suspicious of the doctor, as he has accompanied Courtenay to Ferrara and may be an active participant in any plot that is unfolding.’

  I had been back at the house for two hours since Tintoretto had given me the warning, but even now I felt agitated and indecisive. In truth, I did not care much what happened to the earl. He had always looked after his own interests and, apart from paying my costs as companion and secretary, he had not shown me any personal consideration. I really did not feel I owed him anything beyond what he was paying for. If he wanted to visit known allies of our enemies the French, I did not think it was my responsibility to protect him from his country’s wrath.

  Thomas Marwood was another matter altogether, and I was determined do what I could to prevent him from being associated with anything that might put him at risk.

  I felt no desire to write to the earl, and if I did, my communication was likely to be intercepted and might signal my own complicity in whatever dangerous plan he was getting sucked into. If that happened, my own freedom – perhaps even my life – was at risk. On the other hand, if I wrote to Marwood, and couched my letter in personal but distant terms, my letter, even if intercepted, would be interpreted as a warning to a friend to distance himself from potential wrongdoing. It was a tightrope to be walked, but the alternative – doing nothing – was probably even more dangerous.

  I gathered paper, ink, pens and drying-sand, and made myself sit at the table and concentrate. How could I signal an early warning in my letter so that Thomas would understand its full significance? We had no codes between us, for we had never had need of them. An idea entered my mind. I had made no promise to write, and Thomas knew how infrequently I could be cajoled into writing home. That would be my clue.

  Dear Thomas,

  As promised, I am writing to inform you of recent progress here in Venice. I am searching for a new house for us to live in, as the atmosphere at Ca’ da Mosto has turned sour.

  On March the 29th the house was broken into by a gang of men who wished to search our papers. They took nothing, but left suspicious that the earl should have taken so many of his personal possessions with him on his short visit to Ferrara.

  I have also heard locally that a fellow Devon man, apparently by the name of Peter Carew, was attacked and nearly murdered by a gang from Lucca. Why they should travel all this way to attack an Englishman is a mystery, but that is what the rumours say.

  I hope your companion is enjoying his visit to Ferrara and that the rumours of Duke Ercole’s active relationship with the French are false. I should be unhappy if the earl were to become involved in anything which might be misinterpreted here in Venice or back home in England. Perhaps you might warn him of this risk, although, as we both know, he rarely takes any advice from us.

  Please confirm when you expect to return to Venice.

  Your trusted companion,

  Richard

  I walked round the room three times; trying to think of any better way to convey my message, then sat and re-read what I had written.Yes, Thomas would be more than able to read between the lines and know that I was warning him, but wording the letter in such a way that it might appear innocuous to a third party.

  He would read the warnings about Duke Ercole, and understand that what the letter really said was: ‘Distance yourself from involvement in any intrigue and, if possible, pull the earl away from it also.’ He would realize that the statement of the earl’s unwillingness to take advice was addressed to a potential interceptor.

  It would have to do. I sealed the letter and left for the Rialto. Somewhere there I would find a merchant about to travel to Ferrara, who could, I hoped, ensure a rapid and safe delivery.

  CHAPTER 49

  April the 8th 1556 – Arsenale, Castello

  I shivered again, but whether from cold, or fear, or both, I could no longer tell. The darkness in the prison cell was so absolute that it seemed to prevent rational thought. But the dark and the damp and the cold were nothing compared with the feeling of loneliness and subjugation. I did not know where I was or why I was here, and as far as I was aware, nobody knew of my imprisonment, apart from my captors. Moans and cries of despair from nearby cells told me that others felt the same sense of isolation and deprivation, and although their cries told me I was not alone, they gave me no comfort.

  Apart from the occasional passage of heavy, studded boots from outside, nothing broke the endless ebb and flow of despairing calls. I had lost all sense of time, and had to work hard not to panic.

  My cheek hurt and, judging by its wetness, was still bleeding.

  Concentrate, I told myself. You have only yourself to rely on to get you out of this place.

  I realized that I must find out where I was, and set about surviving the ordeal as best I could. Once I had stopped going backwards, I could start to think about moving forwards – either by securing my release on my captors’ terms, or by escaping.

  I was in a cell, and judging by the smells, close to the open sea – although that smell was common enough throughout Venice. The dark and the damp gave few clues, for the basements of many houses felt like this, but the cries around me suggested that I was in a public prison, and a large one.

  My clothes had not been taken: I still had my cloak, my shirt, my jerkin and hose, and my boots were still on my feet. I felt around on the floor for possessions, but nothing came to hand. Where was my notebook? Drawing. That was the key. I had been drawing when they came. Yes, it was beginning to come back to me.

  I had been sketching by the gates of the Arsenale, watching the men and drawing them as they fitted out a recently completed boat. That was when I heard the cry: ‘There he is – the spy!’ I had not had time to stand before a blow to the head felled me. I could remember no more.

  The only conclusion I could come to was that the Sons of England had been infiltrated. Who, I wondered, had given us away? Walsingham was so careful, and Cheke and Carew would by now be well on their way to Antwerp. I was sure I had not been careless enough to put the others at risk, but squatting there in the dark, my confidence was already much reduced.

  For an hour I sat there, trying to think. Eventually I heard footsteps, purposeful and getting closer. I stood and prepared myself.

  I was pulled, pushed and almost dragged along cold stone corridors and up a staircase into what looked like a torture chamber. Chains and flails hung from the walls, but I was merely told to sit on a small stool in the centre of the room.

  They stood all round me so that it was impossible to face them all. Whichever way I faced, the next question always seemed to come from behind me. I could not understand them. I did not even know what language they were speaking: Arabic, perhaps, or Turkish? I had heard similar in the markets.

  I must have responded blankly, for they changed language. I recognized Spanish and French, but spoke neither. Eventually, risking a beating, I interrupted them in Italian. ‘Why do you not speak to me in Italian? I am English but I do speak it a little.’

  They looked at each other, clearly surprised. ‘Who are you, spy?’

  ‘My name is Richard Stocker. I am an Englishman, presently living in Venice. I came here to accompany the earl of Devon and my other companion, Dr Thomas Marwood. My colleagues are at present visiting Duke Ercole d’Este in Ferrara and I am living at the Ca’ da Mosto.’

  ‘Do you have anyone in Venice who can speak for you?’

  I thought for a minute. Who did I know in Venice who might carry some weight with the authoritie
s? My companions were on the mainland and I was nervous about dragging my Venetian friends into what might be a compromising situation. One name did, however, spring to mind. I was sure John Neville would remember me and be able to vouch for my good standing.

  ‘Yes. John Neville. He is an Englishman, a merchant and banker, and is well known on the Rialto. He knew me in England, at the Court of King Edward VI, and has met me again since I arrived here.’ Someone was dispatched in response to this information, and I felt a small glimmer of encouragement.

  ‘Why were you spying in the Arsenale, and for whom?’

  ‘I was not spying. Why do you say that?’

  ‘You were seen observing our shipbuilding activity, making notes and drawing pictures.’

  ‘I have been learning to draw and paint at the Bottega of Tintoretto, on the Fondamenta dei Mori. He is instructing me, and told me to go out and draw what I saw for practice.’ I was aware of another nod and a second man left the room, hurriedly.

  ‘Why did you choose the Arsenale?’ The voice remained suspicious.

  ‘Because the men were busy and would ignore me as I drew. Besides, it was not the only place I drew. I drew merchants on the Rialto and prostitutes on the Riva degli Schiavoni as they called to the sailors. Bring me my sketchbook and I will show you. I am only interested in people; there are no buildings, no machines, no ships and no state secrets.’

  The book was brought and one of them gave it to me grudgingly. ‘Show me.’ I showed them my drawings, including three of Veronica, done in Tintoretto’s studio. ‘Who is she?’ His voice sounded more interested than suspicious now.

  ‘Her name is Veronica Franco. She is a well-known courtesan and acts as a model at the studio of Tintoretto.’