Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  We had not long returned from our rooms and were sniffing for food in the main gathering room, when there was a shout. A man in his fifties, perhaps older, sitting beside the roaring fire with a glass of wine, seemed to recognize the earl and called out to him in English.

  ‘Your Grace. Well met indeed! Come, sir, join us, with your companions.’

  I knew instantly I had met the man before and tried to place him. It was his voice that eventually took me back. I remembered John Cheke, who had, for those sad and terrible nine days, been Secretary of State to ‘Queen’ Jane. I had watched him hover by her elbow and cajole her quietly into signing the papers he held. Jane had trusted him, as I had, for we both remembered his service as tutor to King Edward VI and believed him to be a trustworthy and honest Reformist. We had been told he had travelled to Padua for his health and was teaching Greek here at the university for his living. Now he was dragging himself to his feet to greet the earl.

  ‘Courtenay You must have arrived this very minute, from Brussels, perhaps, for I saw you there in— When was it? Last summer?’

  His Grace became the courtier in an instant, and seemingly without effort. ‘Cheke! Good fellow. We have indeed arrived within the hour. Allow me to introduce Thomas Marwood, physician of my county of Devon, and Richard Stocker, who was with the Duke of Suffolk until his demise and helped me when first I rejoined the sunlight from my days of incarceration.’ Once he would have kept quiet about his time in the Tower, but I had noticed that, away from England, he referred to his imprisonment almost as a badge of honour.

  He turned to us. ‘Gentlemen, this is Sir John Cheke, who is, I am sure, far too distinguished to require any introduction from me.’

  ‘And this, if I am not mistaken, is Dr Giovanni Carluccio, who taught me medicine here all those years ago.’ Thomas Marwood’s voice interrupted the introductions. A distinguished-looking man was approaching our table with his hand held out, as Thomas, who must have recognized him across the room, reached forward in the same fashion. The newcomer patted Cheke on the shoulder as he passed him – a sign of friendship from one colleague to another no doubt – and tilted his head in a self-deprecating manner.

  ‘Now Dottore Professore Carluccio.’ He patted his generous stomach. ‘I have been enlarged. It is the years, Thomas. They award us medals for surviving here! Which reminds me, have you eaten yet?’

  ‘Supper in Padua!’ Thomas’s enthusiasm bubbled up again, although he spoke in English not Italian.

  The professor switched languages immediately. ‘Oh Thomas, oh Thomas. Your memory is going.’ Professor Carluccio wagged a friendly finger at him, smiling as he did so. ‘I thought we had taught you as a civilized Italian, but you have deserted us. I think you would say “dinner”, Thomas, in the evening and perhaps also, but smaller, in the middle of the day. Remember?’

  Thomas beamed back at him. ‘I had forgotten. We are in a civilized country now, where the warmth of the sun changes our eating patterns. Pranzo in the evenings, and pranzo a mezzogiorno in the middle of the day.’

  Courtenay was observing the conversation with interest, for his Italian was very good, if learned largely from books. ‘When do you find time to eat supper then, professor?’

  Carluccio considered, translating both language and culture. ‘Supper? We would call it chena. And when?’ He winked at Thomas. ‘Maybe when you get back from your woman and you have a late hunger?’ He faced the group, perhaps concerned he might be embarrassing some members of our party ‘Or, of course, when travelling.’

  ‘Or, indeed, when travelling.’ Thomas gave a small bow, as if acknowledging a draw; honour was satisfied and we all trooped into the dining room for supper together.

  I looked around me. Journey’s end, with little travelling remaining; comfortable surroundings, a good fire, a smell of cooking you could write poetry about, and the prospect of good company for dinner. What more could a man ask for?

  The promise of a good dinner was well met and the promise of good company exceeded. We sat long (and sometimes noisily) at table, with the warmth of the wine adding to our feeling of satisfaction, and talked: of travel, of medicine, of men and politics and of the challenges brought to us all by a changing world.

  Towards the end of the evening, I excused myself and made for the lavatories, to find I was being accompanied by Cheke. When we were out of earshot, he spoke, more quietly and in a more clipped manner than he had been using all evening. ‘Richard. It is good to see you again in these troubled times. Over dinner I was remembering the times I have seen you before. You were with the King – on his Progress in Portsmouth, was it not?’

  I confirmed that I had been there when Cheke joined the King as he inspected the harbour and laid plans for improvements to the fortifications.

  ‘Did he ever reward you for that situation which arose with the pearl brooch?’

  ‘Indeed yes, he did, and handsomely. He made me a gift of a Spanish stallion complete with gold-embossed saddle.’

  ‘Ventura? He gave you Ventura? He was his favourite horse.’

  I nodded, remembering. ‘I know. He knew he was dying and he wanted him to have good home.’

  ‘Do you have him still?’

  I had seen the question coming and hoped to avoid it. ‘No, after watching Lady Jane die and then Lord Henry, I wanted to escape, to put that world behind me, and to start again. I sold Ventura to a good home and for a good price. I miss him sometimes. He was very special.’

  He seemed to understand.

  ‘You were held in great regard by Lady Jane. She described you to me as the only constant friend she had, and the only one who treated her as a person and not as a mere symbol of authority.’

  Tears came to my eyes and my throat constricted until I thought I would choke. ‘I loved her dearly, as a true friend. She taught me so much.’

  Cheke took my arm. ‘They were bad times, and times continue to be bad under Queen Mary. Wicked things are happening in our country. Things we must not allow to continue.’

  I nodded my agreement. ‘What can we do? With Philip on the throne beside her, the Spanish Inquisition will surely come to rule the country?’

  Cheke looked carefully around him before replying. ‘There is someone I want you to meet. But only you. Do not tell Marwood or Courtenay. As committed Catholics they cannot be trusted.’

  I tried to defend Thomas but Cheke would accept no argument. ‘It is a risk we cannot afford to take. If you are unable to separate your life from his, at least occasionally, then I must ask you to forget this conversation and withdraw.’

  I shook my head in turn. ‘No, John. I can make that separation, and knew that one day I might have to. I will travel with the doctor, and we shall remain friends, but I shall not divulge your secret.’

  He seemed satisfied. ‘Then make your excuses and come alone to the university tomorrow at noon. Come to the Department of Greek and ask for me. You will be expected.’

  We finished our business and returned to the table separately. I wondered what tomorrow would bring.

  CHAPTER 13

  January the 15th 1556 – Department of Greek Studies, University of Padua

  Another cold morning, and the prospect of another crisp but sunny day to come. After eight weeks together, the three of us seemed to have made an unspoken agreement, and we quietly went our separate ways, perhaps seeking the solitude we had been denied since leaving Louvain.

  Thomas breakfasted early and crossed the road to the university, intent on ferreting out old friends, and we did not expect to see him again for the rest of the day The earl had learned that Peter Vannes, English Ambassador to the Republic of Venice, was in Padua on a visit and expecting his arrival. He set off to meet him shortly after Thomas’s departure.

  After completing a hearty breakfast, I took to the city streets to explore. The Via San Canziano led me into the open space of the Piazza delle Herbe, crowded and noisy with the enthusiastic cries of the vegetable market, and I picked my way
through the stalls to sit in the morning sunshine against the loggia of the Palazzo della Ragione opposite, where, they told me, the courts of justice sat.

  There was no wind, and the walls around me seemed to have held the warmth from yesterday’s sun, so that, early as it was, there was no chill, although the fields outside the city walls had been ice-bound when we arrived yesterday. The winter sun soaked into me and made me feel alive. I began to think about Venice. Would it be like this, I wondered: the sun, the architecture, the frenetic but humorous activity and the general feeling of well-being? Having escaped the chill of England under Queen Mary, I looked forward to spending some time – who knew how long? – in this most civilized part of the world.

  As my thoughts drifted to my planned meeting with Cheke at noon, my mood changed and I felt troubled again. Somehow, I thought, today’s meeting would lead me back towards conflict and not away from it. I trusted Cheke – his honesty, his competence and his judgement – but I did not know who else would attend the meeting, nor the subject we would be discussing. It was exciting but also disturbing, and I felt the need to walk once again.

  Circling left around the building behind me, I passed the tall tower of the Palazzi Communali and the city offices. The doorway was like the entrance to an ants’ nest, with endless arrivals and departures, yet each individual had an apparent sense of purpose, so that none dithered, but each made his way hurriedly in a clear direction. I decided I liked this city, and began to understand why Thomas had felt such a sense of homecoming as we had approached it yesterday.

  I wandered on, left again, across the Piazza dei Frutti and into the Piazza dei Signori. Before me stood the Corte Capitaniato, another imposing building, from which a lute sang sweetly in the morning air. Even the bustle of the people around me did not spoil the music’s charm but somehow enhanced it; as if a solitary bird was singing high above a marketplace, waiting for the opportunity of dropped food.

  To my left was the Loggia della Gran Guardia – quite a new building and, I was told, the meeting place of the Council of Nobles. Once again, the stonework was a golden yellow and the roof tiles a warm terracotta. It was like having summer cornfields and autumn foliage in the middle of winter. How well the people of this city ordered their lives, I thought. It was no wonder that wealth was growing in this part of the world and that, with the notable exception of Hans Holbein, the great painters were now to be found here in the Italian states – in Rome, Florence and Venice.

  There was so much I wanted to see and experience, but the world of painting was perhaps the most important. Thomas had drilled into me the need to record accurately the things we encountered in our medical profession, and it had become my regular practice to carry a small sketch-book with me all of the time, but ever since I saw my first painting by Hans Holbein, hanging in one of the state rooms in the Palace of Westminster, I had marvelled at the limner’s skill; the ability not only to make a recognisable image of a person’s face, but at the same time to be able to portray the character of that person (or at least to portray the character the subject wanted you to show to the world). Now, I knew, I would be able to study the painter’s skill to my heart’s content, and who knows, I might, one day, even meet one of the painters whose names so represented the reputation of the Venetian Republic abroad.

  The bell rang in the tower and I realized I had one hour before my meeting: time to turn back and begin to make my way towards the university. I turned left and left again, until I could see the university building at the far end of the road and across the piazza.

  I arrived early, as is my habit, and asked for the Department of Greek Studies. A wide, stone staircase carried me to my destination and I found myself at the back of a large room with vaulted ceilings and frescoes on the walls. My footsteps echoed on the hard stone floor and I was conscious of making a disturbance in this quiet place of learning.

  Voices could be heard from the next room and, as quietly as I could, I walked towards them. The language was unknown to me, but occasional familiar words put me in mind of my medical studies. I thought I recognized Cheke’s voice. The talking ended and there was a scrape of chairs being moved, followed by a growing murmur of younger voices. A dozen young men strode past me, carrying notebooks and pens, and the place returned to quiet.

  Now I stood, alone and in silence, awkward, not knowing whether I had intruded or was expected to move forward. I heard more footsteps – just one man’s – and froze, wishing I had held back until the agreed time. Footsteps again, and Cheke, looking old and tired, limped into the room. He saw me and his face lit up.

  ‘Good morning, Richard. On time, as expected. Come to my rooms and we will meet the others.’

  As we climbed more stairs, Cheke had to pause for breath more than once, but he brushed off any offer of help from me, and soon we reached a small book-lined garret. Two men stood with their backs to us, pointing through the window at something in the courtyard below. They turned as we entered and smiled a greeting. Cheke introduced me to the first.

  ‘Richard Stocker, this is Sir Peter Carew – another of your Devon men, I do believe.’

  A short, powerful man of about forty stood before me, hand outstretched in greeting. His face was swarthy, his hair and beard short and black, and his eyes had the distant hardness of someone who has witnessed many of life’s horrors. In short, he looked like a soldier.

  I knew him by reputation, for he had been Sheriff of Devonshire eight years before and made Member of Parliament for Devonshire only three years before. Although we had never met, I had him marked down in my memory as one of the MPs who had opposed Northumberland when he put forward Lady Jane for the crown. I had not forgiven him for that, believing it identified him as a hidden Catholic, and although he had changed his position when Queen Mary married Philip of Spain and was an active participant in Wyatt’s rebellion, I was not yet ready to accept him as a friend. Those who change sides once can do so again, I thought.

  He shook my hand, seemingly aware of my reservations, and stepped back to allow his companion to be introduced. ‘And this is Francis Walsingham.’

  Walsingham was younger than Carew, but still older than me – perhaps twenty-five. He was wearing the clothes of a student at the University, but his face was not a student’s; indeed the eyes behind the beak-like nose were those of an experienced lawyer, one who misses nothing and gives nothing away. He shook hands with a firm grip, but hardly smiled, and I felt sure he would bide his time before making his judgement about me.

  ‘Sir Peter joins us with good credentials, Richard, for he has, like you, volunteered to leave his country out of conscience. The difference is that you, Richard, have escaped what you considered to be a potential threat against your well-being, whereas Sir Peter was pursued and lucky to escape with his life.’

  Cheke continued his speech, clearly trying to build bonds of trust and friendship between us. He described Carew’s fluency in French and Italian and his love of mathematics and architecture. Like me, he planned to move on to Venice, but he distrusted Peter Vannes, the English Ambassador, and warned me against him.

  ‘But my companion, Edward Courtenay, is today arranging a meeting with the ambassador,’ I blurted out.

  It was Walsingham who replied. ‘Exactly, that is what we expected. We knew that Vannes was planning to introduce himself to the earl and to invite him to a ceremony in Venice next month. All I would say is beware, for Courtenay is perceived by Queen Mary and her husband’ (I noticed he would not say King Philip) ‘as a loose cannon and safer got rid of. Do not fall into the trap of believing that “my enemy’s enemy is my friend”, for your companion is a self-regarding fool and your association with him puts you at risk.’

  I shivered. Perhaps my time in Venice was not going to be the pleasurable sojourn I had dreamed of, after all.

  Cheke came back into the conversation. ‘Walsingham is right. Trust him with your life. I have known Francis since he came up to King’s College, Cambridge, nin
e years ago when he was sixteen. I was Provost at that time and even then I recognized his potential. He will not sing his own praises to you, not because of modesty, but because, more than any man I know, he is careful. Francis will tell you: “Never take a risk you don’t have to take”, and he is right. Trust him and learn from him, for he may turn out to be your greatest friend.’

  It was a strong commendation and I looked across at its subject. He remained impassive.

  ‘Now, gentlemen, it is time I gave you my reasons for commending Richard Stocker to you both.’ Cheke once again took control of the meeting. He signalled us to comfortable chairs and then continued. ‘Richard comes to me with two recommendations and they are strong ones. The first is that of the late King Edward, who watched Richard while in the service of the Duke of Suffolk, and later had cause to witness his deep honesty and to reward it handsomely.

  ‘His second referee has also been taken from us, for the recommendation comes from no other than Lady Jane Grey Richard studied under Lady Jane, and if you debate rhetoric with him, I believe you may recognize her style. You will both know that one could not spend three years in the company of Lady Jane without being influenced by her. I commend him to you. I would trust Richard’s intentions, his competence, his honesty and, if it comes to it, his bravery. He is a young man, but he has had a long life, and an eventful one.’

  I could only conclude from the generosity of John Cheke’s words that both the King and Lady Jane had at some stage spoken to him about me. I was not sure I could live up to the accolades, but knowing from whom they had been drawn made me twice as determined to do so.

  Walsingham now rose and regained control of the meeting. ‘Gentlemen. As we know, we live in hard times, and although each of us has fled the country in his own manner, we have all done so for, essentially, the same reason. In truth, with Philip of Spain all powerful, and taking control of more and more territory every day through his father Emperor Charles V, we have little prospect of arranging an uprising against either him or Queen Mary. But the marriage is failing. Philip has left England, and will not, I believe, return while he has his eyes on the Low Countries. Queen Mary, meanwhile, is barren; we can safely expect her to remain so, and that points to one thing.’