Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  In return for general duties in the latter half of the morning, I was allowed to attend the early morning drawing and painting classes, without cost except for the paints, which were very expensive. It was all based on trust: I kept a note of any pigments I used and Yasmeen gave me an invoice for the cost at the end of each week. The arrangement worked well, and I was as happy as I had been for years.

  I saw little of Thomas and less of Courtenay, a situation that suited me nicely.

  With the passage of time, and with my increasing focus on Yasmeen, the ache of seeing Veronica with other men had disappeared, and we had fallen into a much easier friendship. She and Yasmeen had known each other for nearly three years, since Jacopo had begun to court Veronica into leaving Titian and modelling for him instead. It slowly dawned on me that my first meeting with Yasmeen had been no accident, and remembering Veronica’s behaviour that morning, I was sure that she and Yasmeen had engineered the whole situation between them. The mint tea had simply been an excuse.

  The earl, meanwhile, appeared to have lost himself in Venetian society, for he was rarely in the house in the evenings when we returned, and was still abed (no doubt recovering from his social exertions) when we left in the morning. It was something of a surprise, therefore, when on one particular morning he caught me taking a quick breakfast before walking the few paces to my art lessons.

  ‘Good morning. You must be Richard Stocker! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon, traveller across Europe and recognized throughout the city of Venice as a member of the true and ancient English royal family. You may be interested to know that I am at this time in active pursuit of a noble Venetian lady, and intend to open marriage negotiations with her in the near future.’

  I laughed. It must have been three weeks since I had last seen him. He bowed low, waving his right wrist as he went and holding a silk handkerchief to increase the effect.

  I played along with the pretence that we had not met. ‘Marriage, Your Grace? May I know the name of the lucky lady?’

  Again he bowed, flourishing his handkerchief, and I began to wonder if this was, after all, an elaborate game or whether he had lost control of his senses. Was it possible that Thomas had been right? Months ago, when the earl was experiencing one of his mood swings, Thomas had hinted that he might be suffering from an advanced case of syphilis. Had it returned? Since we had commenced our journey together, Thomas and I had noticed on a number of occasions that when his mood of despair was replaced by elation, he would absent himself, often all night, to the local brothels in whichever town we were travelling through. Whatever the explanation, I watched and waited for his response with interest.

  ‘Why, La Franco of course. She has of late been inaccessible, on account of a great painting nearing completion. So great is the work that she needs to remain on her modelling couch for twelve, sometimes more, hours a day, as the final stages are completed.’

  My heart sank. Poor fool. Did he not realize that I saw each and every sitting Veronica did for Tintoretto, and that I knew for certain that she was not modelling for him, nor for Veronese, Titian or any of the other painters in the city?

  The only explanation was that, as she had warned me while the earl was in Ferrara, he was considered dangerous and she was using the painting story as an excuse to avoid him. But how did that explain his frenetic social life, moving, as he had implied, from one great house to another and treated like royalty at every turn? I cast my mind back to my years at the English Court and asked myself how they would have handled such a situation. The answer made sense; until the moment came when the authorities arrested and imprisoned the man or exiled him from their country, the ‘great and good’ would have responded with exaggerated courtesy, passing him from one to the other, smiling, flattering, but ensuring their actions remained well short of giving any recognizable help.

  I found it hard to know what to say next. Finally I blurted something out.

  ‘Indeed, Your Grace. Such a gracious and noble lady must be in very great demand. It is to her credit that she shows such commitment and loyalty to the artist at this critical moment.’

  He slapped his thigh. ‘Exactly. Just what I said. Now, there’s more good news. Everything has been happening while you were away, Richard.’

  Surely it was I who had remained and he who had been away. Perhaps I had misunderstood, and the very centre of the world travelled with him, leaving me, and the great city of Venice, on the periphery during the last month. If so, this was a fact that should be brought to the attention of all followers of Nicolas Copernicus, for they appeared to be unaware of it. I thought of making a jest to this effect, but Courtenay was already continuing.

  ‘You may remember that I wrote to Sir John Mason, a sharp note complaining that he had been intercepting my letters and opening my parcels. I also took the opportunity to deny any rumours that I was secretly planning to marry the Princess Elizabeth and to bid for the throne of England. I am pleased to be able to confirm that he has written to deny opening any packets and he assures me that both I and the Princess Elizabeth have the Queen’s good will; as he says, “both having too much wisdom, honour and truth to be parties to any conspiracy”.’

  As he spoke he found the letter on the table beside him and waved it triumphantly.

  ‘Fine words, are they not, Richard? And from the Queen herself, no less. I am relieved that I am not misunderstood. Would you believe there were those who feared that my visit to Duke Ercole in Ferrara represented the beginning of a plot whereby I would travel to France and thence invade England at the head of a French army, marry the Princess Elizabeth and see off Felipe and the Spanish menace, as they called it? But Queen Mary has more sense than they understand. She has seen the man behind the reputation and she knows she can trust me.’

  He waved the letter again, and leaned forward conspiratorially, now whispering. ‘Have it from me, Richard: the Queen will have me back in England before Christmas and in a position of authority in the new year. She needs good men and I am as good as she can get. I hope you are not too committed to your activities here in Venice, whatever they are, for we may have to leave for England at any time, and at short notice.’

  He reached down to the table, dropped the letter which had changed his mood so strongly and picked up the bronze medallion. ‘That is why I must present this to dear Veronica as quickly as possible. We must be betrothed before any message of recall comes from England.’

  I nodded vigorously, trying to look convinced by his arguments, but in my mind I kept seeing the reverse of his interpretation. I did not believe the Court in London thought of him as anything but a loose cannon, unreliable and incompetent. And as for the Queen’s likely response to the news that an English earl from a royal family even older than the Tudors was to return to England married to a Venetian courtesan – it didn’t bear thinking about. The man was, quite simply, deranged.

  The earl picked up an unopened letter and handed it to me. ‘Oh, by the way, this came for you the other day. I forgot.’

  He saw my glare. ‘I have not opened it. You have my word.’

  How many people in Venice, Antwerp, Brussels and London had received this man’s word and discounted it as worthless? I wondered.

  The letter was from Eckhardt Danner, sent from Cologne only ten days before. It had made good time.

  Cologne

  May the 16th, 1556

  Dear Richard,

  I hope life is good for you in Venice and that the cosmopolitan city-republic allows you to continue publicly your pursuit of the true Protestant path without suspicion.

  It would appear that the situation which you described in your home country has not changed and its effect is spreading abroad. This morning I heard that two Englishmen, Sir Peter Carew and Sir John Cheke, were arrested in Antwerp on May the 15th by men under the orders of the English Lord Paget, authorized by a summons issued by the Holy Roman Emperor.

  The men were last seen being bun
dled blindfold into a small fishing boat, bound for England. Both were alive, but the older man, Cheke, was reported to be unwell and responding unhappily to his detention. Both appeared fearful for their lives.

  If you have any plans for returning to England, I would counsel caution. Similarly, you cannot believe yourself safe in any country where the Emperor is in authority and supporting Felipe, his son, who is often referred to here as ‘King of Spain and England’.

  Look after yourself and trust in God. If you do return and travel this way, and if you have the time, I should be very pleased to see you.

  Your sincere friend,

  Eckhardt Danner

  I folded the letter. So much for any change of attitude or policy on behalf of Bloody Mary. So much for Courtenay’s deluded reading of the stars. Given the chance, he would lead us all to perdition. The news was important and I had to prepare a coded letter to Walsingham as soon as I could get away from the earl.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ As usual, the earl had no sense of the privacy of others.

  I put the letter in my pocket, as if to make the point. ‘Just domestic bits and pieces. My life does not have the strategic interest that yours has.’

  He smiled disparagingly, as if to confirm that my position was indeed as trivial as I had suggested. For a few minutes we stood in awkward silence.

  I turned to go. ‘Give my regards to the lady.’

  ‘I shall indeed, Richard. I shall.’

  CHAPTER 57

  June the 4th 1556 – Church of San Salvador, Sestiere di San Marco

  Together, Thomas and I watched from the very back of the crowd as the funeral procession of Doge Francesco Venier brought him to his final resting place. The Earl had decided to leave us, and had pushed his way to the front of the crowd, anxious to gain an indication of who the next doge might be.

  I remembered the last time I had seen Francesco Venier – at the St Mark’s Day celebrations. The frail body had struggled, but the eyes still showed the steel of the mind within. Finally, the body could no longer keep up with the will to continue, and he had died just a few days ago. Although he had been Doge for less than two years (his second anniversary would have been next week), Venice mourned the loss. The office of doge represented continuity of the city-republic, and anything that weakened its sense of strength was unhappily received, particularly in these days of growing competition and diminishing power.

  I found the atmosphere in the church overpowering. The choir, the colour, the incense, the ceremony, the paintings, the sculpture, the very architecture of the church screamed at me. I found it hard to breathe and felt the need to talk, as if to hang on to my sanity

  ‘Thomas?’ I whispered in the vaulted church. He looked round expectantly, leaning towards me to hear. ‘Do you ever think about dying?’

  His face remained impassive, but for the smallest twinkle in his eye, and I knew he was about to take advantage of me. He put his hand to my ear and whispered back. ‘I have no immediate plans. Why do you ask?’

  My face must have fallen and he realized that my question was serious. His tone of voice changed as he continued. ‘Yes I do, Richard.’

  He looked to left and right to satisfy himself that our whispering was not disturbing any of the mourners and onlookers around us, but they too were also talking to each other, seeming to treat it as a social occasion. Thomas continued, no longer whispering but still talking quietly. ‘First we should address the fact of dying which, in a sense, is the same for all of us, being simply a change of status from living to dead, which is irreversible and, in that respect, awesome.’

  He looked round again, but we were still being ignored. ‘Second, and a subject close to the physician, is the process of dying, and that is almost infinite in its variety: expected or unexpected, fought against or welcomed, short or extended, painful or even, yes, comfortable. Blessed is the man who dies without pain, with sufficient time to prepare himself, but no more, and with the satisfaction of knowing he has done most of the things he hoped to do in life – for, in truth, I suspect none of us achieves all of his ambitions.’

  ‘And surrounded by his or her friends?’ I wanted to show I understood.

  Thomas considered my question carefully. ‘Strangely, I don’t believe that is true. In my experience, the actual moment of death is often a private one, and most people seem to slip away unnoticed during an unwatched moment or when their relatives have left the room. It is strange how often this is the case. Even though their eyes may be shut, they seem somehow to know when they are being observed, and at the final moment there seems a sort of dignity in being alone. Perhaps it is finally being at peace with yourself, or at least resolved that the battle is over and you can leave the field with honour.’

  I bit my lip and considered what he had said. At first I found his words hard, mechanical and uncaring. But then I realized that he had stripped away the sentiment and had spoken truthfully of what he knew as a physician, and I felt privileged to have shared it.

  The Catholic mass made me feel awkward, but Thomas seemed to have a relaxed attitude to the proceedings, and did not seem to mind answering me here in the church. It was as if the dominating presence of the priesthood between God and congregation relieved the latter of some of their responsibilities, and allowed them to respond more as an audience than as participants. Lady Jane would have been appalled, but Thomas seemed to take it all for granted.

  ‘And what is old age? In the absence of murder or an accident, what finally brings about death by what we call natural causes? Which goes first, the body or the mind?’

  ‘I believe the human body is designed to take a lifetime of wear and tear. Those who look after it may make it last longer, whilst those who punish their bodies surely shorten the span of their lives. Some people subject one part of their body to more punishment than others and that may be the reason it fails first. The glutton subjects his belly to a lifetime of excess, and the drinker his liver. The tiller of the soil loses his back, the weaver his fingers, the laceworker her sight, and for those who are subject to mental torment the mind is likely to go first.’

  ‘Do you believe, then, that all people are created equal at birth?’

  Again, as so often in such conversations, I had to wait whilst Thomas considered his answer and weighed his words.

  ‘If you ask that as a moral philosopher, I believe they should be considered so, and certainly every man should in fairness be offered the same opportunities in life. However, if you ask me as a medical practitioner, I will tell you that my experience is that they are not. Some babies are born strong and healthy and others are weaklings from birth. Perhaps the rich are better-fed and – housed, the country dweller gets more fresh air; it does appear that some diseases are hereditary – as, for example, consumption among the Tudors.’

  He paused as we watched the coffin being carried the length of the church. ‘It may not be fair,’ he continued, ‘but it is true. I believe the raw material of life is uneven, but the stresses to which different people then subject that raw material are also uneven.’

  I nodded towards Courtenay, standing five rows in front of us and well out of earshot. ‘How would you judge the earl?’

  ‘When I look at him, I consider two factors. First, he was born of good strong stock. His mother is built like a warhorse, so that counts in his favour. His father was beheaded for a questionable treason, but no less dead for that, so we cannot judge his longevity fairly.

  ‘Secondly, I look at the influences of a man’s life. In his case, he was, no doubt, brought up well fed and well looked-after, in a household that built his self-confidence. That is a good start. But I have to ask myself what did seeing his father executed and his own long imprisonment do to his body and his brain? And since then? He exhibits many of the signs of a man with the pox or Naples disease, and if that is the case, the months immediately after his release are likely to have been the source.’

  I raised an eyebrow at Thomas. He had hint
ed before that he believed Courtenay to be ill and not wicked, but he had been reluctant to confirm the illness openly. I had assumed that he was referring to some degree of mental trouble, the result of Courtenay’s long imprisonment, and had not pressed him on the matter. Yet as soon as he suggested the diagnosis, a number of my own thoughts from the past seemed to fall into place, and I could not help but believe he was probably right. One thing was certain: Courtenay had certainly exposed himself to the risk of disease frequently in the period immediately after his imprisonment; to the extent that this had been named by many as one of the reasons Queen Mary had rejected him as a suitor.

  Thomas continued. ‘As for his prospects in the future, and which of his weaknesses will get him first, much depends on the life he goes on to lead. If he married a strong and wealthy woman, one who would remove his worries and continue to mother him as his own mother has done, then perhaps that would be to his advantage. But if my medical diagnosis is right, his likely infection of her body would show little gratitude for whatever she might do for him.’

  I was well aware of my growing bitterness towards His Grace, but the situation which Thomas described, even if hypothetical, showed what an unkind world this could be. Looking across at the coffin of the old Doge, now on its stand before the altar, I began to wonder how long we all had to live – the earl, Thomas and, of course, myself. The answer, I knew, was God’s gift, not our own, and not for the first time I asked myself how a kind God could take away from us so brutally someone like Lady Jane, who, to my knowledge, had never done an unkind thing to anyone in her life. She had studied hard, eaten daintily, hardly drank alcohol and prayed regularly and with complete sincerity. And for these acts her head was hacked from her neck by an axe at the age of sixteen.

  I listened to the orations to Doge Venier given by the ten members of the Council. One after another they listed his many achievements, venerating him for his learning, and for the many great offices of state he had held in his sixty-seven years: Chief Magistrate in Brescia when still a young man, Deputy in Udine, Chief Magistrate in Padua, Venetian Ambassador to Pope Paul III, minister, councillor and Chief Magistrate in Verona and finally, at the age of sixty-five, Doge.