Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  ‘When you get to painting, you can pay for the materials, but at the moment I value your friendship as much as the paper and charcoal are worth.’

  He would say this in a deprecating manner, as if both were worth nothing. Nevertheless, I knew that he had taken a liking to me; he had made me a member of his painting family, and it in turn had accepted me to the point where the studio now felt more like home than did the house I shared with Thomas and the earl. In return, I helped around the studio and acted as a model whenever I was required, and worked hard to fulfil any promise Tintoretto thought I might have as an artist.

  I thought about that sense of belonging as I sat at my table and began to draw the study of the day, a marble bust copied from a Roman original and carefully lit to give us every challenge of highlight and shadow. Thomas had told me he felt the same about the community at the Oratorio dei Crociferi where he now spent most of his days. Both of us had been driven from our lodgings by the clammy sense of imprisonment engendered by living so closely with Edward Courtenay day-by-day. But while we had both escaped, and found some meaningful activity with which to pass our days in Venice, Courtenay had still found nothing. Or nothing that Thomas and I were aware of.

  ‘Excuse me, Richard, but Yasmeen told me to tell you she can see you when you are ready.’ Little Augustino, the youngest of the apprentices and still, on occasions, uncomfortably shy, tapped me on the shoulder. I looked up, wondering whether I should leave my place or continue until the class broke up. Jacopo, seeing my expression, jerked his head sideways, as if to say, ‘Off you go.’

  I went to the courtyard meeting table, but there was no sign of her, so I ventured towards the door beside the fretwork screen which had been the source of so much mystery to me. I knocked gently. Already I found myself acting: playing the role of Richard Stocker, honest and decent English gentleman; kind, thoughtful and whatever else a young and beautiful Arabic girl would want him to be.

  ‘Please, come in and sit here.’ In her own office she was more confident than she had been at our first meeting, but still somewhat shy.

  ‘I have come about the portrait for the earl of Devon. He is keen to commence the sittings and Jacopo said you were the one to talk to.’

  She smiled, and for the first time that day looked straight at me. I felt her eyes burrowing inside me, as if looking for fault, for weakness, for something undeclared and unpleasant that would make her look away.

  ‘This is my sitting diary. Do you think the earl would want to sit here in the studio or in his own house?’

  For a moment I felt relieved, as the focus of her attention moved away from me, although she maintained her gaze. ‘He normally likes people to visit him. It makes him more comfortable. The light is quite good in his rooms; I do not believe that would cause any difficulty.’

  Again she smiled. It was like opening another shutter in the studio and letting in more sunlight. ‘Most of our patrons do. The more exalted their position, the more they tend to cling to their own familiar places.’

  ‘Are there exceptions?’

  She considered, her long eyelashes sweeping downward like the tail-feathers of a peacock, then lifting to reveal the rich red-brown of her eyes again.

  ‘Explorers. Soldiers.’

  She looked at me, as if for inspiration, and for the first time I felt my energy moving towards her. ‘Men who are measured by their achievements rather than by their positions of office?’

  She laughed, apparently delighted that we had found common ground. ‘Yes, exactly. Achievers, you might say.’

  ‘People who do, rather than people who simply are?’

  Again, she laughed, louder this time and more relaxed. ‘I like that.’ As if to emphasize the point, she put her hand on mine, and I clasped it eagerly. We sat for moments, seemingly unable to break the bond between us.

  ‘The sitting diary,’ she said, eventually.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I need my hand to turn the pages of the sitting diary.’

  Reluctantly, I let her go.

  ‘This week is full, but next week the maestro could visit you on Tuesday, Thursday or Friday, in the afternoon. He likes to work here in the studio during the mornings. How far away do you live?’

  ‘Just along the canal – the Fondamenta della Sensa, perhaps three hundred paces.’

  ‘I’m sure he could manage that. Will you talk to your earl and return to me?’

  ‘Always.’

  I thought she might snort in derision at such a crassly flirtatious retort, but she took my hand again.

  ‘If only you meant it.’

  Once again I found myself desperately trying to play the role of my sincere self. ‘I did mean it. I do mean it.’

  ‘Well.You two seem to be getting on very well.’

  It was Tintoretto. We jumped apart, embarrassed.

  ‘I did not realize the sitting diary was such a serious affair,’ he continued. ‘I am sorry to break up your discussions but there is a patron in the courtyard, Yasmeen, with quite a lot of money, and he would like a receipt. I would not want to keep him waiting.’

  Yasmeen brushed her hair back with an automatic movement. ‘Tuesday, Thursday or Friday. Early afternoon.’ She looked at me seriously. ‘Let me know.’

  I nodded.

  ‘I will. By the way, did you attend the Festival of Saint Mark the other day?

  She looked at me, surprised. ‘Yes, with my father. Why do you ask?’

  I shrugged, relieved. ‘Nothing.’

  CHAPTER 55

  May the 4th 1556 – Convent of Sant’ Alvise

  ‘Excuse me, Suor Faustina; your legal adviser has arrived.’

  I heard the voice down the cold stone corridor and thought I recognized her voice in reply.

  ‘Please tell him I shall join him in minutes. I have family papers to collect.’

  She certainly was making an effort with the part she was playing; I hoped I would not let her down. As I waited, she appeared through the archway, talking earnestly to a young nun, who watched her with big brown eyes, nodding as Faustina gave her instructions. They whispered for a few more minutes, the young nun once looking up towards me, as if my name had come into their conversation, then she slipped quietly away down the corridor and Faustina turned to me.

  ‘Signor Frescobaldi, so good of you to come. Can I offer you something?’ She swept into the room, a picture of natural grace. She was dressed formally, in a nun’s habit, but even my limited understanding of women’s clothing told me this was no ordinary habit issued from the convent stores. The bodice was waisted, and the skirt below carefully pleated, so that when she walked the ensemble swung gently around her, emphasizing the slimness of her body and the straightness of her posture. I declined her offer and waited for her lead. She appeared to be playing to an audience, but I was not clear who that audience was, until she called out.

  ‘Suor Angelica, Suor Maria-Elena, it would be good manners if you met my legal and financial adviser before withdrawing. I have already spoken to the abbess; you may confer with her if you wish, but she has confirmed to me that no listeners are to be present at today’s meeting.’

  Two tired and unforgiving nuns appeared sheepishly from behind a grille. For a moment I was reminded of the first time I had been aware of Yasmeen’s presence, but between them they could not suggest one-tenth of the warmth that I had felt from Yasmeen when first she had appeared. They looked at me, appraising and hoping to find fault, and I tipped my head back, straight-necked, and looked along my nose at them, trying to appear more confident of my position than I felt.

  Suor Faustina smiled sweetly. ‘Thank you, sisters. That will be all. I shall call if I need anything.’

  They glared at her and left. I could see how a wave of resentment might be building up against her, and how badly she would fare if her family’s status were to collapse.

  ‘You received my message, I see. You certainly look the part.’

  I smiled and gave a small bo
w. Somehow it seemed appropriate. The message from Hieronimo at the trattoria had said I should present myself as Enrico Frescobaldi, the family lawyer, and to dress formally. That had been something of a challenge. I had chosen one of the black jerkins and black hose I had become so used to at Court in England, but I had not worn them for nearly three years. The jerkin, in particular, was tight beyond belief.

  ‘Do you mind if I loosen it a little? It has been some time since I wore it.’

  My question was sincere and necessary, but served to loosen the conversation also, and she let out a high, bell-like laugh which echoed in the austere parlour of the convent. I wondered if the laugh was in part meant for the departing discrete to hear, as if to rub salt into their wounds.

  She put her head on one side and walked round me, appraising. ‘I can see that. You play the part well, and look quite like a lawyer, but not, in truth, like a Venetian. Perhaps they will think you are from Bologna or some backward city where the fashions are behind those of Venice.’

  I bowed my head in acceptance. She may not have meant to be unkind, but there was a sharp edge to her words. Now, however, she mellowed, as if confident for the first time that the listeners had departed.

  ‘Thank you for coming. Perhaps it would be appropriate if I began by retelling my story. ‘

  She motioned me to a large but formal chair. I sat and she walked up and down in front of me. ‘As I have told you, my name is Faustina Contarini. My childhood was very happy and even when I reached the age of seven and was sent here, it was agreeable, for I had a sister and an aunt here. I was led to believe that I was to stay only for my education – as an educanda – and would get married when I was fourteen or fifteen. It was at that age I found out that one of my elder sisters had been chosen as the last family bride and that I would not be leaving. At first I was content with that prospect, for life was comfortable and I had learned many skills, but within a year I began to feel imprisoned.’

  I looked around us. The room was of marble, and impressive, but it offered no warmth of any kind, and if the rest of the convent were like this, or, as I suspected, even sparser, the word ‘prison’ was not inappropriate. Suor Faustina stopped walking and stood before me, as if to emphasize what she was about to say next.

  ‘Then, towards the end of my sixteenth year, one of the older nuns who acted as my mentor and guide died suddenly, and I inherited her position in the Chapter House. It was not given to me out of family preferment, but because nobody else had the training – but few of the other nuns saw it that way. Now that my family can no longer pay for my upkeep, those nuns who resented my sudden rise to power and authority over them are waiting to take their revenge. My future here is dire.’

  She looked at me imploringly, but I felt impotent. She came and sat beside me and leaned towards me, in order to whisper.

  ‘There are nuns here, in positions of authority, who decide who has committed offences against the rules of the convent. The mechanisms of retribution are ready and waiting.’ She shook her head, close to tears. ‘As soon as my position is reduced, I know that they will pounce and will make my life a misery. I fear for my very life.’

  For minutes she sat and trembled.

  ‘If you were to leave here,’ (I had considered the word ‘escape’, but rejected it as too dramatic) ‘what would you do with your life?’

  She shook her head, uncertainly. ‘I don’t know. I have learned many things here in the convent, and have been able to be useful, but I have little knowledge of life outside these walls.’

  ‘What are you good at?’

  For the first time since we had begun our conversation, her head lifted and she replied with confidence and self-respect. ‘The Chapter House. I receive the money, I pay all the bills, I am responsible for ensuring the building is repaired before it falls down on our heads, and I control the issuing of the nuns’ personal funds. I believe most of the nuns, excepting those who would see me dragged down, recognize the value of what I do in that capacity and respect me for it.’

  I felt encouraged. Her confidence had begun to lift. Now was the time to lift it further. If I was going to help her, I had to push her forward, so that she could help me to find a solution.

  ‘With those capabilities and that experience, you could surely work anywhere in this city – with an architect, with a merchant, with a tradesman, managing their businesses and keeping their books. It is specialized work and few have the skill or experience. And as a former nun, surely no one would doubt your honesty and integrity.’

  But I had gone too far, too quickly. She shook her head. ‘What you say may be true. But to accept a position in trade would bring dishonour on my family. They would never allow it.’

  I could not understand her line of reasoning. ‘Your family has already failed you. Who are they now to tell you what you can and cannot do?’

  Again she shook her head. ‘You don’t understand Venice and Venetian society. It’s a tight-closed world, where position and honour mean everything.’

  This was frustrating. I decided to push her harder. ‘Could you not marry? A man of your own choice?’

  She snorted. ‘No.’ Her reply was so absolute that I did not pursue it, and we sat in mournful silence for a few minutes. She was like a hedgehog, which, frightened, had curled itself into an inaccessible ball. And so, as I would have done with a hedgehog, I waited, silent. Slowly, she uncurled again and spoke, changing the subject as she did so. ‘Tell me of your position. What do you do with your time here in Venice and how long do you plan to stay?’

  I had hoped to avoid this question. ‘I came here on a journey, accompanying an English earl – almost, you might say, on a voyage of discovery.’

  She waited. Now it was my turn to be probed, and she used her silence cleverly. ‘And what do you do now, day by day? Apart from standing outside convent windows, that is. How many other nuns like me are looking forward to your visits?’

  As she said it I saw she regretted letting out that little piece of her inner self, and although my heart gave a little lurch at her expression of interest in me, I decided not to hurt her by pursuing it.

  ‘I have not yet chosen my final career or vocation. I began in the household of a great duke in England, and rose to be his personal secretary and companion to his daughters. But it all came to an end.’

  She put her head on one side and for the first time I felt the gentleness in her. ‘How?’

  ‘The Duke of Suffolk and his eldest daughter, Lady Jane, were imprisoned and beheaded for treason. She was only sixteen when they executed her. It was very bad. I still see it at night.’

  ‘Were you there?’ She seemed genuinely interested.

  I nodded, the memories coming back. I had to take a number of deep breaths before I could speak again. ‘I stayed with her in prison for the last seven months of her life, and I was with her when she was executed.’

  Suor Faustina leaned forward. ‘That is terrible. What treason had she committed that they should treat her so?’

  I was finding it increasingly difficult to talk. ‘She was made Queen of England. Only for nine days – and against her will – but it was enough.’

  Still she held my arm. Our positions had reversed: now she was supporting me. ‘Now I understand why you left your country. Also how hard it is to find a new life without – without the shadows.’

  ‘I left the Court in London and went back to the country, where I began to study medicine. One of the reasons for coming here was to visit the university in Padua and consider enrolling there, if they will have me. But at the moment I remain here in Venice because I may be needed by the earl.’

  ‘Once again you are in the service of another?’

  I considered what she had said. I had not thought about my present position as being in any way like my time with Lady Jane or Lord Henry Grey. For all my thoughts of independence, the reality was that much of my future did still seem to lie in the earl’s hands.

  ‘How do you
spend your time here in Venice?’

  ‘I spend most of it in the studio of the painter Tintoretto, drawing and helping.’

  She smiled, nodding her recognition. ‘I have heard good things of this Tintoretto. My cousin Giovanni is only seven years old, but already he is showing a skill with drawing and wants to be a great painter. He likes the work of Titian. In my view it would be better if he went to your Tintoretto than learning the ways of the other man.’ She laughed, looking high in the room, as if remembering. It was the first time she had done so since the beginning of our conversation, and her face lit up. ‘Perhaps you could put in a word for him?’

  Delighted by her laughter, I smiled and said I would see what I could do. Somewhere, at the very back of my mind, a tiny bell rang, but why, I had no idea.

  I left, as I had arrived, as the haughty and confident lawyer, but inside I felt anything but confident. I felt morally committed to saving her from the future that I was sure awaited her in this cold place, but I still had no idea how I was going to achieve it.

  CHAPTER 56

  May the 27th 1556 – Fondamenta della Sensa

  The storms arrived, and in three days blew themselves out, taking the humid weather with them and leaving behind a refreshed and re-energized Venice.

  We had now been in our new home (which Thomas had christened ‘Palazzo Devona’) for a month and had settled into a steady routine. Thomas had returned to the Oratorio dei Crociferi and was more immersed than ever in the needs of the sick. The measles epidemic was showing signs of abating, but as the weather warmed up, new problems seemed to emerge, and the calls upon the services of the ‘dottore inglesi’ and his local colleagues seemed endless.

  I had established myself with a semi-official position as assistente to Tintoretto, using my English and Latin to help with foreign patrons, and assisting Yasmeen with the administration of the bottega. Not that she needed any assistance, for she was more than capable of running the office by herself. Tintoretto, grinning widely, left us to it.