Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  The hall was enormous, stretching across the entire front of the palace. It was decorated throughout with huge frescoes and oil paintings, but the whole room was dominated by a monumental fresco of The Coronation of the Virgin covering the east wall, and which the servant told me had been painted by Guariento in 1365.I had to tear my eyes away from it as the servant waved us forward and we stood before Doge Lorenzo Priuli himself, with members of the Council and their officials lined up on either side of us.

  There was no invitation to sit, and indeed no chairs; all present except the Doge were standing. We waited for his pronouncement.

  Judging by the paintings of previous Doges, the last three or four had all looked very alike. Perhaps it was the horn-shaped ceremonial headgear or the official robes that made them look similar, but even their beards were of near-identical length and shape. Although Doge Priuli was by no means a young man, his drawn face looked strong and tough next to that of his predecessor. His beard was almost pure white, with just one or two grey patches, but his black eyes penetrated in contrast. I looked at him as closely as was permitted by his raised position on the dais.

  Do not expect generosity or mercy from this man, I told myself. His primary motive is to protect himself.

  Doge Priuli raised his hand and the murmur of conversation in the room fell silent.

  ‘You are Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon in England?’

  With a flourish, Courtenay swept off the rather large and ornate hat which he had decided suited the occasion, and bowed low.

  ‘I am he. May I say it is a great pleasure to meet Your Ducal Highness.’

  Doge Priuli looked at him with the bored stare of a man who has just had three seconds of his precious life wasted.

  ‘My ambassadors abroad and my advisers here have told me much about you.’

  Courtenay visibly stiffened. It would have been correct protocol to address an English earl as ‘Your Grace’, but Priuli seemed to have dispensed with all protocol.

  ‘Your presence in this city and state has been observed. We are of the opinion that your presence is not conducive to the common good or to the peace of our city. We have requested guidance from the English ambassador, and he has made no request on behalf of the English government for hospitality to continue to be extended to you or your party.’

  Courtenay took a step forward, as if to begin an argument, but the Doge silenced him with the flat of his hand. ‘We have not invited you here to speak, but to listen. We have been informed of the considerable expense my predecessor’s council incurred in protecting you during the last six months. Such expenditure can no longer be justified and all such protection is immediately withdrawn.’

  Courtenay looked round the room, aghast, as if what he was hearing was a terrible mistake. The Doge continued.

  ‘Your welcome in this city and the State of Venice is withdrawn and you are hereby instructed to leave. However, in view of your former position in your own country, you are given one calendar month from today in which to depart this place in an organized and gentlemanly manner. This decree extends to the whole of the Republic of La Serenissima, including all the islands and terra firma. You are at liberty to travel to other countries within our empire, but your status will be that of a non-person and you will be afforded no protection. This is our order, issued this fifteenth day of August 1556.You may leave.’

  Edward Courtenay, surviving member of the royal house of Plantagenet and Earl of Devon, looked around him dumbfounded. He had just lost every shred of the status that was of such importance to him. He was now persona non grata, a non-person within the Republic, with no rights, privileges, authority or protection – lower than even the popolani who at least, were entitled to the last of these.

  He stood at the bottom of the three steps leading up to the Doge’s throne and visibly swayed. It looked as if he was going to collapse, but an official signalled two of the ducal guards forward and he was walked back down the staircase and out into the courtyard. I followed, keeping a few paces behind the guards in case a fight developed, but the earl was a broken man, and put up no resistance.

  The fresh air seemed to revive his self-respect and he shook off the guards, who signalled me to join him and remained behind us as we left the building.

  Head held high, but without speaking, Courtenay led me across the Piazza San Marco and continued north, pushing his way through the crowds, unspeaking, until we reached the Rialto. There his control finally broke and we sat beside the broken bridge while he tried to come to terms with what had happened to him, shaking his head and banging his fist against the stonework.

  ‘Did you hear what he said?’

  I made no reply.

  ‘ “In view of your former position in your own country . . .” That can only mean that Queen Mary has revoked my earldom.’

  I clutched at straws. ‘Perhaps he simply meant the position you held before you journeyed here?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I am sure the Doge would not speak loosely like that. All is undone, I can feel it.’ He felt for his purse, and shook it. ‘Have you any money on you, Richard? I forgot to refill my purse before we left home.’

  I opened my purse and gave him half of the money left in it. I knew where it would end up: first the taverns and then the whorehouses. It would not be the first time, but if he was not careful, in his new situation it could well be the last. I gave him the money. It was hard to see any human being destroyed like this, and besides, I simply could not face a night of the maudlin self-pity which I knew was coming. Let someone else listen to him for a change.

  I walked to the Trattoria Sensazione for something to eat. At least I would not be alone there. Pietro the Fisherman would keep me company, and he was always in a good mood.

  CHAPTER 73

  August the 18th 1556 – Calle del Fonte

  The hammering on the door was so loud I thought it must be the Ducal guards, come to arrest the earl. It was hard luck on them if it was, for he had not returned home since our visit to the Doge’s palace three days before. The rest of the house was silent: Thomas was still in Padua and the servants had gone out. I opened the door carefully, ready to defend myself.

  Little Augustino, the youngest of Tintoretto’s apprentices, was still holding the door knocker and gasping for breath. ‘Richard! The English doctor, he must come quickly. Yasmeen’s father has had a terrible injury.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ As I spoke, I was looking for Thomas’s medical bag which he normally left near the door. Here it was; Thank God he had not taken it with him to Padua.

  ‘In the house where he and Yasmeen live.’

  When we reached the house the door was open. At the foot of the stairs lay Ayham, his face pale. Next to him, holding his hand and equally pale, was Yasmeen. She looked at me imploringly. ‘Is the doctor coming?’

  I looked from her to Ayham and then to a man standing over them, wringing his hands in despair. ‘I am a barber-surgeon, sir. I have told them, the leg is tumoured and must come off or there will be blood poisoning and he will surely die. I am prepared to cut him if you will hold him still.’

  Ayham was silent, but Yasmeen gave a small cry of anguish.

  I looked at the leg. There was something familiar about the great white lump halfway down, and the cavity in the knee joint confirmed it. I took a deep breath. This was it. This was the test God had sent me. If I could pass it, then I was destined to become a doctor. Furthermore, something told me that my future with Yasmeen also hung on what I did in the next few minutes.

  I tried to focus her attention on a useful task. Her anxiety was not helping her father. ‘Make him some tea. It will calm him. And have some yourself, for the same reason.’ She stood, letting go of her father’s hand. ‘Is the doctor coming?’

  I shook my head. ‘Dr Marwood is in Padua, but do not worry, Yasmeen, I know what to do. Go and make that tea.’

  Reluctantly, she walked slowly into the back room. I think she feared I was going to
remove the leg while she was absent. She returned quickly. ‘The water is boiling. It will take some time.’

  I put a hand on her shoulder, but spoke to Ayham. ‘Will you trust me? There may be some pain.’

  Ayham looked at me fearfully. ‘Will you cut me? Will you saw the bones?’

  I shook my head. ‘There will be no cutting and no bones will be sawed. There is no tumour or abscess and no poison. The bone is displaced. I believe I can restore it, but in the process, you must try to relax even though there may be some pain.’

  Yasmeen’s eyes were bigger than I had ever seen them, but the trust in her face gave me confidence. ‘Ayham means “courageous”. He will not fight you, and he will endure the necessary pain.’

  She nodded to her father, who nodded back, although less certainly.

  I turned to the barber-surgeon. ‘Please sit behind him and hold his shoulders. I am going to bring the leg round and I do not want his body to twist as I do it.’

  The man did as I bade and squatted behind Ayham’s shoulders, holding them firmly. Very slowly, I brought the leg around until the pressure was off the knee. Squatting, I put his heel on my shoulder.

  ‘Now, Ayham, relax your leg. Let it go as loose as you can.’

  I saw his shoulders slump as he made the attempt. Sweat broke out on his forehead, but he remained limp and did not fight me. Holding the leg straight against my shoulder with my right hand, I put the butt of my left hand against the white lump on his leg and pressed steadily.

  Nothing happened.

  I tried again. This time I pressed harder, and from further down. The white lump began to slide across his leg and then it happened.

  The ‘pop’ was loud enough to make Yasmeen gasp. I ran my hand gently over the kneecap.

  ‘Does that hurt now?’

  Ayham looked at me uncertainly, considering his reply. ‘No. There is no pain. Just a deep throbbing.’

  ‘Good.Then it is done.’ I looked across at the barber-surgeon, who was staring at the leg, bemused. ‘Help me get him to his feet.’

  Gently, making sure the knee did not come under any pressure, we lifted him to his feet. Ayham stood, favouring the damaged leg at first.

  ‘Will I be able to walk again?’ He stood, holding on to the wall.

  I stepped backward, giving him room to move forward.

  ‘Yes, Ayham, you can walk. Take it slowly and stop if it hurts.’

  He walked towards me, gingerly at first and then with growing confidence. He turned to the barber surgeon. ‘Thank you, sir, you may go.’

  The man bowed to Yasmeen and Ayham and then to me, and left without a word. Ayham turned to me, putting his hand out to shake mine.

  Yasmeen looked at me, a dozen expressions on her face at the same time. I jerked my head in the direction of the door. ‘Is that tea nearly ready?’

  CHAPTER 74

  August the 28th 1556 – Island of Lio, Castello

  ‘There he goes! What a stoop!’

  Edward Courtenay looked alive for the first time in a week. He raised his gloved hand and whistled and the peregrine rose, a dead pigeon clutched firmly in his claws, and turned its head to catch the direction of the sound. It saw us as it reached the top of its climb and rolled, the prey cartwheeling around its sleek body and coming free at the top of the roll.

  ‘He’s let go of it!‘

  I could not believe the falconers would let one of their birds get so out of practice. Both birds and men were, it was true, kindly loaned to the earl by the Duke of Ferrara, but nevertheless standards were standards and I expected him to be furious. But today I was with a man renewed, and he simply laughed excitedly.

  ‘Do not believe it, Richard. Watch him. He is playing with it for our sakes.’

  The pigeon began to fall slowly, loose feathers streaming behind it. The peregrine turned again and watched it, climbing as it did so, until the pigeon was less than a hundred feet from the surface of the lagoon. Reaching the top of its climb again, the peregrine rolled once more – perhaps the most elegant movement in any sport – and folded its wings. It did not seem to look at the dead prey, but hurtled, wings folded and legs hidden, for a point well below it and just off the surface of the water. As the pigeon tumbled out of the sky and reached the moist air just above the wave-tops, the peregrine swooped below it, faster than a loosed arrow and just as accurate. At the very last minute, it lifted its head, flared its wings, brought its feet ahead of it, and hit the pigeon at full tilt with both talons. The bird exploded in a flurry of displaced feathers and the peregrine, two feet above the water and still travelling faster than a galloping horse, rolled skyward again and arced over our heads, screeching.

  Courtenay lifted his gloved hand again and this time the bird landed, one talon catching the wrist of his glove and the other still holding the now almost naked pigeon.

  ‘Well done indeed!’ Courtenay’s face was pink with excitement.

  The peregrine looked at each of us in turn, its yellow eyes impassive yet imperious, and began methodically to rip its prey to pieces.

  The bird was handed back to the falconer who placed it on the stand next to the other three hawks and tied it on with the short jesses. He would not fit the plumed hood to calm the bird until it had eaten. Courtenay removed his glove and rubbed his aching shoulder. This was the first time I had seen him smile for a week.

  For fully three days and nights, the earl had been absent. On the morning of the fourth day he had reappeared, looking like death. His beard was filthy, his face bruised, his clothes torn and his purse empty. ‘I had to come back. I ran out of money.’ His voice was forlorn, all pride gone.

  He stank of rough wine and even rougher women. Tutto had had the questionable pleasure of bathing him and putting him to bed, where he had remained for a further two days. Finally he had emerged, as I had known he would, maudling and self-obsessed, blaming the world’s unfairness for his troubles.

  Thomas, in the meantime, had written from Padua to report encouraging progress. Two of his old friends, both professors, had promised their support for my cause and had suggested I travel to Padua as soon as convenient within the next four weeks to be interviewed. He had explained in his letter that the interview panel would comprise three professors and the chairman of the interview panel was another personal friend, so Thomas would wait a further few days to try to speak to him.

  Unless Thomas returned with a change of position, my obligation to Courtenay was ended and I would leave for Padua, only pausing to tell Yasmeen where I was going and why

  I looked across the lagoon to the shores of Venice, six miles away How the last half year in that city had changed my life. I was decided on my new career, and in my head had already moved on from any influence the earl of Devon might ever have had on me. I turned to look at him. His wistful expression had returned. Poor man. Without speaking, and already back in the cocoon of his self-absorption, he left me standing there with the two servants and the falcons and began slowly to walk away from us, along the water’s edge. I no longer had the compassion to follow him and try to cheer him up. I had tried, so many times, but I was outside his self-made prison-cell and he would not let me in. Who cared? Tomorrow, with luck, Thomas would be back and I could leave for Padua and be rid of the man.

  Suddenly my nose caught a change in the wind and I turned to look behind me. Sure enough, the weather was turning, and fast. A huge squall was blowing in from the sea. I turned back towards the gondola which had brought us across to the island. The gondolier was pointing to the storm and signalling he must leave. Courtenay was some distance along the beach and rapidly walking away from us, seemingly unaware of the danger.

  I called to the falconers to get into the gondola and put the falcons into the little cabin. They were Arabian falcons and used to the sun; if they got soaked and were not warmed quickly, they would chill and be dead within an hour, and Courtenay would be heavily in debt to the duke. The boatman helped the falconers aboard and began to push of
f. I pointed to Courtenay and signalled that the gondolier should take the boat along the shore while I ran to catch the earl, but he would have none of it.

  ‘My boat will not take a storm like this in the open lagoon. We must go. I will send a bigger boat to fetch you both. I cannot risk it.’

  He pushed off, the servants and the falcons well-covered in his little hoop-cabin, but the gondolier himself already resigned to a soaking, and rowing to save his life and his boat.

  The storm worsened rapidly. The waves were growing bigger every minute. I began to run after Courtenay, wondering how he could possibly be unaware of the storm building around him. Eventually I caught him at the end of the sandy bay and tapped his shoulder, shouting against the howl of the wind.

  ‘We must go back! This storm will engulf us and there is no shelter on this island.’

  I was not exaggerating. The island of Lio was some ten miles long and perhaps a mile wide, yet nowhere did it rise more than two feet above the level of the lagoon, and the only vegetation was coarse marram grass. If this wind continued to pile up the waves like this, the island would disappear and we would not only be soaked, but drowned.

  Courtenay looked around us in shock. ‘My God! Where has this tempest come from?’ He said it as if it were my fault. ‘Where are my falcons?’ It was the first time I had heard him think about another living creature before himself.

  ‘Gone already. With the servants. The boatman would not stay any longer.’

  By now the rain had started to fall in torrents and the wind was rising even further. Both the earl and I were in shirt-sleeves and already soaked to the skin, so at least we did not have to waste energy trying to keep the rain out. It was growing increasingly cold, however.