Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  The interrogator looked carefully at the drawing and showed it to one of his colleagues. ‘Nice tits.’

  I nodded, my face remaining serious, trying to look like an artist. ‘She is a very beautiful woman and an excellent model.’

  ‘Let’s have a look at the rest.’ Slowly they turned the pages, and I described each drawing. When they reached the drawings of the prostitutes on the nearby embankment they increased their interest. ‘Ehi! Look, Vincente! That’s Francesca, and there’s Paola, the one who said your cock looked like a plucked chicken leg.’

  The interrogator looked again, snorted contemptuously and threw the book across to me.

  ‘Put him in a top cell until the witness arrives. Give him some water and let him wash that cut on his head.’ He turned his back on me and left the room. The mood had changed. Still sniggering at their leader’s embarrassment, they led me carefully to a small but dry cell with a window. My possessions were returned to me, with the exception of my dagger, which they said I would get only when I left the prison.

  Two hours later they returned with John Neville and Jacopo Tintoretto.

  Neville winked as he saw me.

  He spoke to the guards, confirmed that he knew me and gave me a good character reference. Jacopo went further and not only said that I was one of his apprentices and learning to draw and paint in his classes but agreed that he had sent me out into the streets to study the form and character of people. Between them, they seemed to convince the interrogators.

  ‘You are lucky, Signor Stocker. Your friends have corroborated your story. Next time you want to go drawing, keep away from the Arsenale. It is a secret place. Only registered state workers are allowed in there. You could easily have been killed on the spot as a spy and your precious notebook burned.’

  My friends led me out and made sure I was given my dagger as promised. They took me for a meal and insisted I drank some good red wine – ‘to restore your blood’. I was grateful to them both, and angry at my silly mistake.

  The food, the wine, the company and above all the fresh air seemed wonderful. My ordeal had been a frightening reminder that we were visitors, here on sufferance and, still, sometimes unaware of the subtleties of Venetian society.

  CHAPTER 50

  April the 13th 1556 – Fondamenta della Sensa, Cannaregio

  Dear Richard,

  Thank you for your recent letter, which I received and took in fully. I am pleased that you made a decision to find us a new place to live. The recent experience of the break-in must have been unpleasant, to say the least. I told our companion, who said he was very pleased that he was not present at the time, and would heed the dangers for the future.

  He asked me to tell you that the tear in his breeches has been carefully sewn up and not to worry about it.

  We have moved on to Padua. Michael Throckmorton, who is now living in Mantua and was recommended to us by Reginald Pole, has spent eight memorable years in Padua, and has kindly agreed to join us here and act as our guide.

  Before leaving Ferrara, the earl had a bronze medal of him made by the duke’s court artist and remains undecided about the need for a portrait as well. However, he will make a final decision when we return.

  We expect to arrive on or about the 26th of this month.

  Your friend and companion,

  Thomas Marwood (Dr)

  I picked through the letter with amusement. It might as well have been in code: Thomas had relied on the unlikelihood that any interceptor would read English well enough to pick up the references hidden within it.

  ‘I received and took in fully.’ I took that to mean he understood the hidden messages in my letter and was responding in similar manner. The next part clearly said he had discussed the various dangers with Courtenay, who would heed them in the future. Did this mean he had had the sense to avoid any entanglement with France? That was the implication, but I could not be certain.

  ‘He asked me to tell you that the tear in his breeches has been carefully sewn up and not to worry about it.’ I read this sentence many times before the meaning jumped out at me. A rent in his breeches would have exposed his most private parts: Thomas was saying that Courtenay had taken steps to hide his papers and anything else potentially incriminating.

  Having got into the habit of decoding, I spent a considerable time trying to work out the hidden meanings in the rest of the letter, but finally had to conclude that they were what they appeared to be – helpful information about their return. The part about not having made a decision on the portrait certainly rang true.

  The other letter on my desk was from Walsingham and in the usual code. I worked through it carefully.

  MOVED TO ZURICH SEND LETTERS TO DEPT OF LAW AT THE UNIVERSITY W

  So his plan to move to Switzerland had come to fruition and he had chosen the University of Zurich. It was a strong Lutheran city and he would be safe and thrive there. I was pleased for him, and pleased to know he was my ally. One day, I thought, I might need him.

  I put the letters on one side. It had been a good day. I had signed a lease, initially for three months, at a rent of 250 ducats a year, and Andrea would move my meagre possessions and what few items the others had left behind to the new address on the Fondamenta della Sensa this afternoon. I would not weep to see the back of the Ca’ da Mosto.

  There was just time to send a note to Thomas in Padua, giving him the new address. Quickly, I penned a reply. It appeared I still had two weeks left to myself and I must use them productively.

  CHAPTER 51

  April the 18th 1556 – Fondamenta dei Mori

  As I walked the short distance from our new house to Tintoretto’s studio, I was in high spirits. It was one of those beautiful mornings when everything seems to be right. The tide was high enough to clean the canals without flooding the houses. The sun was warm but the breeze was just enough to make my walk comfortable, and the light in the studio would be ideal by the time I got there. And on top of all that, I still had a week to myself.

  Veronica had arrived early and was already sitting for Tintoretto when I arrived. I managed to sneak quietly into my apprentice seat without disturbing the others. Most of the apprentices were drawing, but Jacopo himself was using the good light to finish an allegorical scene. It was a difficult and dynamic pose, requiring Veronica to lie on a couch, arm outstretched to cling to some drapery being pulled by another person.

  The pose was so tiring she could only maintain it for ten minutes at a time. This morning the drapery was being pulled away from her by Gentile, and I noticed how Veronica managed to look at him with the direct and lustful invitation that formed such an important part of the painting. She played the part so well; I could easily have believed that she and Gentile were lovers. Veronica could play these parts to perfection, and it was clear why all of the artists in Venice wanted her as their model.

  ‘What happened to Biffo?’

  ‘The maestro sacked him.’ One of the apprentices next to me hissed the words from the side of his mouth.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The maestro told him to hold that pose with Veronica the other day, as Gentile is doing now.’

  I remembered the way Veronica’s body was elongated before me when I had held that drapery and somehow I knew what was coming.

  ‘Biffo went to fondle her. La Franco slapped his face and the maestro sent him home and told him not to return.’

  ‘Wasn’t that a bit harsh?’ I knew Biffo was useless, but he was only fourteen.

  ‘Not really. Jacopo could not risk Veronica’s willingness to model for him. She had endured enough of Biffo’s gawping. When he put his hands on her it was simply too much.’

  I nodded my agreement. It did seem hard on the lad, nevertheless: her look was so real I had wanted to do the same thing myself.

  Veronica’s arm dropped on to the pillow. ‘Sorry, Jacopo. I shall have to rest. This really is a tiring pose.’

  Jacopo nodded in understanding. ‘Of cou
rse, my dear. Everyone! Fifteen minutes.’

  We broke up and Veronica slipped on her robe and joined me. ‘Has the absence of your companions made you lonely yet, Richard?’ It was typical of her opening remarks, flirtatious yet probing.

  ‘The presence or absence of my companions makes no difference to my desire for your company, Veronica.’ This was like being back at court, with the word games of the courtiers. She smiled, knowing it was just a game, yet both of us knew that it would only have taken a little invitation from her to make it serious on my part. I decided to take a chance: ‘Next week is the Festival of Saint Mark. Would you accompany me to the festivities in the piazza?’

  I saw a shadow pass across her face. ‘That is very kind of you, Richard, but I already have an invitation from a member of the Council of Ten. We will be at the head of the procession.’ She must have seen my face fall, for quickly she continued. ‘He is an old friend, since our childhood. It will be a very traditional procession, lots of formality and largely for the Libro d’Oro families.’

  I was embarrassed to have asked her. How could I, a recent visitor to Venice, presume to invite her to one of the city’s great annual occasions, when she had been born and bred here? I tried to think of something else to say, to change the subject. ‘Have you had a chance to find out anything about the matter I discussed with you?’

  Always discreet, she took my arm and led me into the courtyard, where we sat at the single small table. Instinctively, I looked up at the carved grille, but there was no sign of life behind it.

  ‘So, have you been able to find out anything about Faustina Contarini?’

  Veronica arranged her robe and settled herself.

  ‘She is high-born, very high indeed. She is from the Porta di Ferro branch of the Contarini family, whose palazzo is in Castello. It is true the family fortunes have collapsed; her father has lost four ships this season.’

  ‘Would other branches of the family help?’

  She shrugged, uncertainly. ‘Possibly, but they are all fiercely competitive. The dei Cavalli branch are said to look after themselves, but the other branches may help. However, sending money to your nun would be low on their list of priorities.’

  Veronica paused, as if waiting for someone, but then continued.

  ‘They say she is an able girl – well educated, speaks languages, plays music and acts as the book-keeper for the convent, a position of authority and responsibility. It is likely that, having risen to this position young in life, she is resented by some of the older nuns, and if her allowance has now been terminated, and she is demoted, they may get their revenge on her.’

  ‘Why should they want revenge?’

  She stuck her bottom lip out; a mannerism I had noted before when she needed time to think. ‘Possibly she did nothing and it was the families outside who were squabbling. It happens.’

  ‘She spoke of risk – of possible danger.’

  Veronica leaned forward, now whispering. ‘There are rumours of young nuns being misused at Sant’ Alvise. Some of the older nuns are said to enforce discipline for their own . . . gratification.’ Veronica nodded in emphasis as she said these last words.

  ‘Do you mean . . .?’

  ‘Yes, sexual pleasure. It happens more often than the convents admit. Sometimes it is simply in the form of partnerships between nuns, but occasionally we hear rumours that dominant nuns begin to prey upon the younger ones.’

  I was beginning to get angry at the unfairness of it all.

  ‘Can’t we just get her out where she will be safe?’

  ‘It may be possible to arrange the removal of this young nun from the convent; without finances, she will be a drain on the community. But they may strike a hard bargain if they think you will pay. Do not forget her family also. In their shame, they will not want her released to tell her story publicly. Getting her out is not the end of the matter; you have to decide what she is going to do thereafter.’

  ‘There must be something—’

  Veronica put her hand on my arm in gentle restraint. ‘It will not be easy. In essence, you have three choices: one, forget about her; two, sponsor her in an outside career, possibly fighting her family all the way; or three, marry her, accepting that she will have no dowry and her family will almost certainly oppose marriage to anyone outside the Venetian nobility. I can see no other alternatives in this closed society we call the Republic. You cannot simply bring her out of the convent and throw her to the wolves.’

  Again Veronica lifted her head, and now I understood why.

  Behind her, a slight, dark-skinned girl emerged from the door I was facing. It was the door behind which I had seen the movement on previous occasions and now she (I was sure it was the same person) had emerged and was walking carefully towards us, carrying a tray with two steaming glasses.

  As she walked, she kept her head down, although whether from modesty or because she was watching the tray, to prevent the glasses from slipping, I could not tell. She reached us and leaned forward, putting the tray on the table. Inside the glasses was some sort of hot sweet infusion, giving off an aromatic smell.

  Veronica smiled. ‘Thank you, Yasmeen.’

  Slowly, ever so slowly, the girl raised her eyes towards me. Fascinated, I watched and waited as long, dark eyelashes swept towards me and lifted to reveal deep eyes, their colour alternating between burnt sienna and Venetian red.

  She would not look into my eyes, but seemed to be looking at my chin. For a moment I wondered whether I had forgotten to shave, and touched my face apprehensively. At the movement I saw the slightest of smiles from her dark lips and finally, shyly, her eyes lifted and looked into mine.

  Instantly, I felt as if I was hollow, my insides rigid and echoing like a drum. I felt she could see right through me and I took on an awkwardness I had not felt since childhood. I became strangely aware of myself, as if watching my own body taking part in a play.

  Without taking her eyes from mine, she lifted one of the glasses and reached towards me, placing it carefully in front of me. I did not want her to be my servant and reached forward to assist her. As she placed the glass on the table, my hand met hers. Instantly, as if my hand had been hotter than the infusion in the glasses, she snatched hers back.

  Gently, I reached forward and again took her hand. This time she did not flinch, but left it there. I had expected it to be on fire but it was cool to my touch. I held her fingers as gently as I could in mine and gave them the tiniest squeeze.

  ‘Hello. I am Richard Stocker. I did not mean to frighten you.’ My mind raced, but I could not think of anything else to say.

  ‘My name is Yasmeen. This is mint tea. It is from the Orient. I hope you like it.’ She smiled the smallest of shy smiles, turned and was gone.

  I sat, facing the empty door through which she had disappeared, willing her to return.

  ‘Pretty, isn’t she?’

  I dragged my eyes from the door and towards Veronica. ‘What?’

  ‘I said, pretty isn’t she?’ Veronica was laughing aloud as I sat with my mouth open.

  My mind was empty. ‘Yes, very. Who is she?’

  Veronica waited patiently until my eyes left the door and returned to hers. ‘That is Yasmeen Ahmed. Her father is a spice trader and her mother died when she was young. She works here. Jacopo says she is his book-keeper but in truth she is his manager and runs the bottega as a business. But take care. The apprentices look after her like a sister and are very protective.’

  Veronica sipped her infusion of mint tea. I did the same, looking at the door across the courtyard. Silently we finished our tea, then I heard Jacopo inside calling us to begin again.

  We rose and turned towards the studio door, Veronica grinning as she led the way inside. ‘I thought you’d like her.’

  CHAPTER 52

  April the 25th 1556 – Festival of St Mark, Piazza San Marco

  Piazza San Marco was crowded. The buildings had all been specially cleaned and shone in the fresh morning
air. Some of the people, too, seemed to have had their annual wash, and with their best clothes on, the smell of the crowd was almost bearable. The alcoves around the square were full of hawkers selling food and drink, many cooking their wares on braziers. The wind was fresh and for most of the time, the smell of cooking meat, fish and spices overcame the smell of the crowd, but every now and again, the wind changed and many of us found our hands going automatically to our noses.

  No peaceful crowd this; for with everyone in holiday spirit and wine made freely available by the Consiglio, most of the crowd were chattering like a cage full of monkeys. They had also clearly decided that they would not be outdone by the processions when they came, and the crowd itself showed every conceivable colour that the tintori could conjure up in their steaming vats of dye.

  I had found myself a good position on a raised stand, and although I was three or four rows from the front, my height allowed me to look over the heads of the people in front of me.

  As befitted the waterborne city, there was as much activity on the water as on land. There appeared to be thousands of small boats on the lagoon and anyone who had hoped to hire a last-minute gondola to join the festivities would have been disappointed. There were so many boats that the whole basin between the island of San Giorgio Maggiore and the granite columns forming the entrance to the piazza was impassable.

  Even on the water the supremacy of the ruling nobility dominated the proceedings. The navi or trading ships had been banished to the outer moorings and the area was surrounded by the galee of the Venetian navy. Within this semicircle, status was maintained as the gondolas gave way to the wider and flatter barges of the nobility. These were ornate but cumbersome affairs, mainly kept for state occasions, with square, open cabins made of gold-leafed timber with crimson curtains, manned by servants dressed in silver and brocade.