Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  ‘How are we going to get back?’ He seemed suddenly to have understood how serious our plight was.

  ‘The gondolier said he would send a bigger boat to save us.’ I had to cup my hands to his ear and shout to be heard.

  We made for a headland which seemed the highest point on the island, and, being downwind, might perhaps be the last to flood completely. The gondola had disappeared long ago and even the surface of the lagoon was by now almost invisible; there was nothing separating the teeming rain from the surging waves.

  I was beginning to fear the worst, when I heard a cry. A heavy fishing boat was running before the wind, only one small jib sail visible, and that starting to shred in the wind. The fishermen were gesticulating wildly.

  ‘Wade out ahead of us! We cannot turn. Your island will be gone in minutes – it is your only chance.’

  Courtenay held back, shaking his head, but I wasted no time in argument. This was not a moment for concerns of manners, or status, or precedence, or any of the courtly things which formed the core of my companion’s existence. We were fighting for our lives. I grabbed the collar of his shirt and forced him chest-deep into the waves. The fishing boat was upon us now, and as they swept past a fast-thinking fisherman threw a large net over us.

  We clutched it with our fingers, gasping for air.

  The fishermen pulled, gasping with effort.

  Slowly we were dragged closer to the boat, and eventually they secured the net and manhandled us up, one after the other, while two of the fishermen leaned over the far side to prevent our weight from capsizing the craft.

  Finally we lay in the scuppers of the boat, alongside that part of the catch that had not been washed overboard again. The fishermen made for the city and we cowered in the lee of the stern for, although more robust than a gondola, the boat was small and had no cabin.

  The lee shore beside the Riva degli Schiavoni was white with crashing waves and our only way to safety was to run straight into the Grand Canal and to keep going until we turned the corner near San Samuele. There, at least, the full force of the wind and waves had abated and the fishermen could regain a degree of control over their small craft. For the first time since the storm broke, luck was on our side, for the boat was based in the Sacca della Misericordia, on the north side of the island. We turned from the Grand Canal just past the Ca’ d’Oro, along the little Rio di San Felice and close to Tintoretto’s workshop and staggered the last few hundred paces home. Cuoca had anticipated our state on arrival and had heated lashings of hot water, and had soup and fresh bread waiting for us, whilst Bimbo had laid out fresh clothes. Never had a bath, dry clothes and simple soup felt so welcoming.

  Courtenay took to his bed, and I might have done the same had not Thomas fallen into the house close behind us, having survived a similarly frightening crossing from the mainland on his way back from Padua. We shared the bathwater, we shared the soup and the bread and we shared a bottle of red wine. Then he shared his information.

  There were disturbing rumours in Padua. With his increased power in the Low Countries, Philip II was said to be getting more confident. Thomas’s friends warned that his spies were already in Padua, asking about Courtenay. Worse still, Neville had heard they were recruiting bravi, with specific instructions to kill the earl. ‘They say the price on his head is fifteen ducats.’

  Thomas had just uttered the words when Courtenay rejoined us, looking much the worse for wear. He had been lying in bed, he said, recovering, and had overheard Thomas.

  ‘Why am I valued so low?’ He seemed offended, but Thomas placated him by explaining that, with the famine this year, prices in general had fallen and ‘starving men will do anything for a very small amount of money’. He winked at me as he said it, suggesting that his reaction, like mine, had been that fifteen ducats (three months’ wages for a skilled mason) was quite a lot of money to a poor bravo in the gutter, and on those days when he was being a pain in the backside, not an unreasonable price for an English earl.

  Thomas’s words seemed to satisfy Courtenay. He announced he was exhausted and returned to bed. Thomas and I settled down to exchange experiences.

  The rest of the news from Padua could not have been better. Thomas had, indeed, seen the third professor and their conversation had been more than encouraging. I told him about Ayham, and my successful treatment of his injury. Thomas was delighted; the more so when I confirmed that the experience had finally removed any residual doubts I might have had about my future. In lowered tones, remembering Courtenay’s proximity, I admitted that I was ready to break from my obligations and planned to leave for Padua as soon as I had spoken to Yasmeen. Thomas agreed.

  ‘I am sure the earl will have recovered fully by morning and you will be able to take your leave.’

  Encouraged that this part of the plan was finally falling into place, I began to think about Faustina. I was starting to explain to Thomas the outline of my proposals for her and Felicità when my nerve failed; somehow, there were still too many variables. On balance, I decided, it was safer to tell people of your achievements, rather than share your dreams.

  I could tell by the expression on Thomas’s face that he had noticed my mid-sentence change of mind and guessed, but true to form he said nothing and didn’t pursue me on the matter. Somehow I felt he approved of my prudence.

  CHAPTER 75

  August the 29th 1556 – Fondamenta della Sensa, Cannaregio

  The storm abated, to be replaced by heavy, continuous rain. The sea level fell and the flooding subsided.

  Upstairs, oblivious to the damage around him, Courtenay laid in bed, racked with a fever. There was a huge bruise on his forehead, brown and livid.

  ‘I don’t know where he got that, Thomas,’ I had explained. ‘We were both thrown around in the water and especially when the net was pulled aboard. He probably did it then. I can promise you one thing; it was not me that gave it to him, although I was minded to once or twice yesterday.’

  Thomas signalled me to speak more quietly, in case the earl overheard. ‘You will soon regain your precious freedom, Richard. Just wait here until he is well enough to travel and we will take him to the hospital in Padua together. I will be able to care for him better with their help and support.’

  Somehow the earl had managed to have his usual dampening effect upon my plans. I said as much to Thomas, but he only laughed, nodding out of the window at the downpour.

  ‘Come, Richard. Do not exaggerate the situation. No man could make a day like this any damper. Let’s go upstairs and see how he is, then I will stay with him and you can brave the weather and walk down the canalside. Who knows? You might bump into somebody you recognize.’

  He winked at me and I grinned back. We both knew I was desperate to drop in to Ayham’s house to see how my patient fared. And if I happened to see his beautiful daughter? Well, that would be an added bonus. We trailed damply up the slippery steps to the floor above.

  The earl looked exhausted, beaten and bruised. His face was ashen, and he complained of the shivers although he was hot to the touch. Thomas began to look more serious. ‘I would be happier, Your Grace, if we could transport you to Padua, where my expert friends can assist me in your cure.’

  Courtenay groaned. ‘In a few days, Thomas. Just let this storm abate and we will do as you suggest. For the moment, I should prefer to rest here and try to warm myself. I am mortally cold.’ The phrase rang ominously from a man running with sweat, and Thomas and I exchanged uncertain glances.

  ‘Go and see your patient,’ Thomas whispered. ‘I shall remain here with this one. But if possible, return by nightfall, for I may need you to replace me here on watch. I am uncomfortable about his fever. It does not bode well.’

  As I went to leave, he caught my sleeve. ‘Don’t worry about your visit to Padua. It will come soon enough. There is no rush – they are expecting you.’

  Despite a heavy cloak and stout boots, I was soaked by the time I had splashed the few hundred paces to
the house Yasmeen shared with her father. They welcomed me in and drew me in front of a comforting fire.

  I had not really taken in any details of the house on my previous visits, as I had been too nervous on the first occasion and too preoccupied on the second. Now, as I dried out, I looked around me. The house was small and simply furnished – in many respects it reminded me of my own home in Devon. Like my mother, Yasmeen kept the place spotlessly clean, and although the house was dark it was welcoming.

  So, too, was Ayham, who kept patting me on the arm and reminding me how well his leg had mended. ‘Good as new, thanks to you, young man.’ He turned to Yasmeen conspiratorially. ‘He’s a very clever young man, this one.’

  Yasmeen looked at me and smiled. It was the secret, special smile she shared with me when she was feeling confident about our relationship.

  ‘I know he is, Father. And honest. And brave.’

  The look she gave me, shielded from her father, contained even more pleasing adjectives. My confidence lifted. Something, perhaps simply the process of time, seemed to have mellowed the doubts she had presented to me nearly three weeks ago.

  ‘How is the earl? I heard you were in a storm and nearly drowned?’Yasmeen looked concerned, but something told me that my answer should be formulated for the benefit her father as well as her.

  ‘He remains unwell. He was injured when the fishing boat rescued us and has a bad fever also. Dr Marwood wishes to treat him in Padua, but the earl says he does not yet feel fit to travel.’

  ‘And will you go with him?’ Ayham asked quickly.

  ‘If he travels in the next few days, yes. If not, I may travel alone to Padua, for I have been invited to attend an interview at the university, to study medicine.’

  Ayham’s face was impassive. ‘And if you are offered a place, what will you do?’

  I looked at Yasmeen and decided to take the chance. ‘I shall accept the place and study medicine. I have enough money to buy a good farm nearby, and to make that my home. The rest of my plans remain – uncertain.’

  ‘Uncertain?’

  I looked him straight in the eye. ‘They would be dependent upon you, sir.’

  In the corner of my eye I saw Yasmeen’s shining, and I knew I had responded correctly.

  ‘How upon me?’ Ayham’s face had the impassivity of a market trader, yet I knew what he was thinking. It was as if he was holding his cards away from me while Yasmeen stood behind him, holding up a mirror for me to see them.

  ‘I would need your agreement, sir.’

  ‘My agreement?’

  Perhaps this was what life was like in the souks of the Medina. Perhaps it had to run its course and not be hurried. Perhaps this was the Arab way. I did not mind. I knew my objective and no time was too much to achieve it.

  ‘Your authorization.’

  I saw his eyes flash, his competitive nature rising, as if the game itself was taking over. ‘What action must I authorize?’

  I remained calm. ‘My request of your daughter.’

  Now we both knew where the game was leading, but we were locked into this combat of words and gestures. His eyes were black with concentration.

  ‘You are very forward. What request do you wish to make of my daughter?’

  We were there. I could say what I had wanted to say for ages. ‘With your permission, sir, I would humbly ask your daughter to marry me.’

  He went to speak, but I held up my hand and continued. ‘I know full well that there are great difficulties and I do not underestimate or undervalue them; I recognize problems of religion and problems of family, but if the prize is large enough, then no problem is too big to be overcome.’

  I saw the smallest hint of a smile on his lips and knew he liked my answer. But at the same moment, a shadow passed over his face and I knew a problem remained. ‘You have told me what you will do if you are successful in your mission to the university in Padua. But what will be the outcome if you fail?’ His look told me this was the real issue.

  ‘First, I shall not fail, for if they choose not to accept me, then I shall conclude that Fate did not intend me to study medicine and wishes to guide me in an alternative direction. In that event, my alternative purpose is clear to me: I shall study painting here in Venice.’ I looked at him hard. ‘In any event, whatever future fate has in store for me, I will ensure that it will be in the Republic of Venice and not more than thirty miles from where we stand now.’

  He did not move. ‘Not in England?’

  I shook my head emphatically. ‘In no event in England.’

  ‘And if I give you my permission, my authorisation, to ask my daughter to marry you and she refuses?’

  It was a test, but a simple one.

  ‘Then I shall remain within the Republic of Venice, either as an unhappy medical student, or as an unhappy painter.’

  Ayham turned to Yasmeen and embraced her. ‘You were right. He is good, very good.’

  He offered me his hand. ‘You have my approval, my permission and my authorization. Now you will need to polish your words again, I fear, for she is much more difficult than I am.’ He turned to his beloved daughter, smiling, but with a tear in his eye. ‘Much more difficult.’

  CHAPTER 76

  August the 30th 1556 – Fondamenta dei Mori

  I should have felt reinforced by my conversation with Ayham, but as I stepped through the door of Tintoretto’s workshop the following morning, I was nervous.

  Courtenay remained too ill to travel, but Thomas thought he would improve in another day or so and asked me to delay until then. I decided that the next step was to find out whether, in the event of my marrying Yasmeen and taking her away to Padua, there was any possibility of Tintoretto accepting Faustina as her replacement.

  As soon as Jacopo came into the studio I asked him if it would be possible to have a private meeting later that morning, and he promptly agreed. So promptly, indeed, that I began to wonder whether he had anticipated my approach. We met at eleven, when the sun no longer lit the studio directly and the model had left. I followed Jacopo into the courtyard and automatically flicked my eyes towards Yasmeen’s office.

  ‘She’s out seeing a client. I made sure it would be a long meeting.’

  Jacopo’s remark convinced me that this game was running ahead of me. I explained my desire to marry Yasmeen and he nodded sagely, completely unsurprised. I told him I had been trying to choose between medicine and painting and had decided on the former if the University of Padua would have me. This information, too, was casually received.

  ‘My concern, Jacopo, is that if I am accepted by both the university and Yasmeen, and she comes with me to Padua as my wife, then I would be leaving you with a serious problem.’

  He nodded. He bit his lip. He scratched his head. He even bit a fingernail for effect.

  ‘Who told you?’ I asked.

  Tintoretto laughed like a naughty schoolboy. ‘Oh, just about everybody except you! And now you want to fix me up with a blonde-haired nun who walks and talks like a queen, looks like a princess, is a qualified book-keeper, and has known all the nobility and the senior churchmen in this city since she was a child?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, something like that.’

  He smiled. ‘Sometimes life is so tidy that it seems unreal. Last week, I was invited to the Convento di Sant’ Alvise, to quote for a new altarpiece. The invitation came from a certain member of the Contarini family, the Chapter Clerk in the convent. The family are very good customers of mine. She suggested that I might be the right man for the job and we negotiated a price. Sixty ducats. I wanted ninety, but she beat me down. She can certainly negotiate. She introduced me to the abbess, who told me the convent would soon come into some money; not a lot, but for this reason she felt the convent could now afford to replace its damaged altarpiece.’ He looked at me quickly. ‘Let me guess at the ransom you are paying to release this young nun. Would it, by any chance, be in the vicinity of sixty ducats?’

  I shook my head in a
mazement. ‘How did this Chapter Clerk come to choose you, Jacopo? To do this work, I mean?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It appears she is on speaking terms with a certain fallen lady. You may have seen her; she models here quite often. Apparently, she was talking to Yasmeen and heard that she may have to leave here. Nothing certain, you understand. Anyway, this fallen lady thought it would be tidy if your sixty ducats found their way back here, and suggested that, if the Chapter Clerk agreed, well, it would be, how shall we say. . .?’

  I could hear Veronica’s voice as I spoke. ‘Tidy? Perhaps even symmetrical?’

  He spread his hands. ‘Ecco! Architettura pura. The lady is an architect.’

  ‘And in your view, is this architecture robust? Is the building just pretty, or will it stand up to the weather?’

  ‘I think it will be a fine building, a cathedral.’

  I stared at him in amazement. ‘Then you agree?’

  He spread his hands and shrugged again, as if he had no responsibilities in the world. ‘Yes, I agree, but the decision is not mine.’

  I looked at him, confused. ‘Not yours? Then whose decision is it?’

  He turned in his chair and pointed towards the door behind him. ‘We, Richard, are now the observers. The decision is Yasmeen’s. If she rejects you, the whole edifice, the whole cathedral, falls apart.’ He looked at me conspiratorially and whispered. ‘And in any case, first we need to be sure the nun agrees. I heard a rumour she was talking to Titian . . .’

  CHAPTER 77

  September the 1st 1556 – Convento di Sant’ Alviseo

  Tintoretto and I arrived at the convent together and asked for the Chapter Clerk. There were angry looks from the old discrete who ushered us into the parlour, where we were joined by the abbess herself. She gave me the careful smile I expected, but seemed on much more friendly terms with my companion. So the abbess had been involved in the previous week’s discussions? It seemed that Venice was (as always) looking after its own and I, as the outsider, would play catch-up as best I could.