Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  The Earl had replied strongly, saying that on his previous visits to Padua people had said he was more French than English, and as soon as he was recovered he proposed to take action against such men, defending his honour with his sword.

  Why then, Vannes had persisted, insisted, on travelling by coach, when taking a barge all the way would have been so much more comfortable? Did your companions, he asked, try to save money by taking the coach? This was a scurrilous suggestion, and clearly designed to further a claim of negligence, but again Courtenay would have none of it. Quite the opposite, he had replied, it was we who had pressed for a barge and even brought one to his door. ‘No, my own pride as an Englishman was the motivation; I did not want to appear to be leaving the city with my tail between my legs.’

  It was all very unnecessary and uncomfortable, but consistent with all the reports we had received about Vannes. I decided to write in code to Walsingham about our experiences as soon as the opportunity arose.

  ‘No improvement.’ Thomas had returned from his visit to the hospital looking drawn and tired. ‘It is not good. Our first diagnosis is clearly confirmed now. The broken ends of his ribs have created internal bleeding. In addition, the slime where he fell has infected his wounds and he has a heavy fever. He is eating nothing and sinking fast.’

  My mind went back to the last days of King Edward – such a terrible experience for us, and how much worse for him? Much as I disliked Courtenay, I would not wish this on anyone.

  ‘What are his chances of recovery?’ I knew the answer before I asked the question.

  Thomas sighed and wiped his face wearily. ‘He does not have the will to live and has become delirious. Sometimes he thinks he is the King of Hungary and Veronica Franco his queen. At least, in his delirium, he appears happy, and I believe he is past pain.’

  We crossed ourselves. ‘God have mercy on his soul.’ I hoped those words did not seem premature.

  ‘Amen to that. It will not be long now.’

  We went to eat. There was no pleasure in it, despite the quality of the food, but those who look after the sick learn that they must keep their strength up.

  CHAPTER 83

  September the 18th 1556 – University Hospital, Padua

  We waited at his bedside for the next two days, taking it in turns to eat and sleep.

  At noon, Thomas went to eat and to consult one of the professors. Over the last week they had discussed a number of alternatives. These had included direct intervention to try to stop the internal bleeding, but with infection already present, the risks were too high. It was hard, simply to do nothing: doctors are trained to take action where they can, but as one of the professors said, ‘We are not gods, only men with limited knowledge, and sometimes we must accept that the cure is likely to be worse than the cause.’

  Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon and last of the Plantagenets, lay small, grey and insignificant in his bed. At least the room was clean and warm, and the sheets white.

  I sat back in the corner, helpless and disappointed. It did not seem the right way for an earl to end his days. I had never really liked the man, but he deserved a better death than this, alone in a foreign land, without friends and rejected by his own country.

  The room was silent. I heard the slightest sound and looked across at him. He was licking his lips, trying to say something. A prayer, perhaps.

  ‘Mother . . .’ It was the only word I could catch.

  He gave one dry, rattling breath, deep down in his throat. Then he was gone.

  I found a doctor in the corridor and brought him for confirmation. He felt for a pulse, listened for breath, and nodded.

  ‘Please, tell your friend: he’s gone from us.’

  I found Thomas and brought him back to the small room. Together we stood, silent.

  A wasted life. He had been defined, formed, limited and eventually destroyed by his status; he was a product of his inheritance. I bore him no grudge, but in truth I would not miss him.

  CHAPTER 84

  September the 21st 1556 – Albergo Il Bo

  They came like vultures to pick over his papers, Vannes and his team of supporters, waving their letters of authority and insisting on being given the keys to his chests.

  ‘But his chests are at our house in Venice,’ Thomas had replied, to be greeted with laughter.

  ‘Think again, doctor. The house has been opened and all of your possessions have been brought here on my authority. But the chests are locked. Please give us his keys.’

  Thomas, disgusted, handed over Courtenay’s keys, but we refused access to our own chests – Thomas feared that his precious books might be damaged, whilst I was concerned that some forgotten communication from Walsingham might still linger amongst my paperwork.

  Vannes had written to inform Queen Mary that he had brought a Catholic priest to Courtenay’s deathbed and that Courtenay had received the last rights willingly, despite his weakened condition. It was an outright lie, but I could understand that Vannes might not be too keen to inform his queen that the earl had died in the sole company of a Protestant.

  Vannes’s next move was to insist on an inventory of the earl’s possessions, both those things which had been transferred here from the house in Venice and those that we had brought with us. We were distrustful of his motives, but when he discovered that the earl’s personal servants had not been paid and that we, too, were owed money by him, he immediately wrote to the Queen, requesting funds to make amends. I decided that I had to alter my appraisal of the man. I had marked him down as a bastard, but now I decided he was at least an honest bastard.

  Predicting the inevitable charges of poisoning, Vannes had insisted that four of the eminent Padua doctors signed a medical certificate, giving the causes of death. Thomas, to his chagrin but not entirely to his surprise, had not been invited to sign the certificate, although each of the doctors in turn asked for his personal agreement to the wording before they themselves signed it.

  Vannes had petitioned the Municipal Council in Padua to have the earl’s body buried in St Anthony’s Church. Such was his authority that this petition was immediately granted and the funeral had taken place the following morning. For reasons not clear to any of us, the oration had been given by a Thomas Wilson, an unknown Englishman, but at least he had done his research, summarizing the earl’s life at length and, in the process, turning the event into something of a sermon.

  We had expected to process outside and to watch the body being interred in the graveyard, but the Council had given instructions that two heavy iron bars be driven into the walls of the San Felice Chapel and the coffin placed upon them. The whole thing had an impermanent feel about it, which was greatly disturbing, but it was clear that Vannes and the authorities had a purpose behind their instructions and no argument by Thomas or by me was going to change it. Somehow, even in death, Courtenay’s position was still bringing out the nastiness and petty meanness in men and in governments. I was appalled.

  By the end of the day, when I sat down to write to Yasmeen, I felt drained.

  Dearest Yasmeen,

  Finally Courtenay is gone from us, but even now there is no peace. It is as if everything attached to this man attracts envy, distrust, meanness of spirit and dishonesty.

  There is no more we can do and I shall be returning very soon. Thomas bids you and all of our friends goodbye; his possessions have already been brought here, so he has decided to leave quickly and to travel home to England while the recent spell of good weather lasts.

  One piece of good news: tomorrow is my interview at Padua University. Please pray for my success. Thomas will wait for the result before leaving.

  Your loving Richard

  CHAPTER 85

  September the 22nd 1556 – Department of Medicine, University of Padua

  It was done. I had been accepted.

  The previous night, having written to Yasmeen, I had sat alone, lost in my thoughts, while Thomas dined separately with some of his old friends
. I was more nervous than I had been for years. Halfway through the evening it suddenly hit me – tomorrow’s outcome would be the biggest turning point in my life.

  Strangely, once I had risen the next morning and was preparing myself, the fears vanished, and I felt my spirits lift as I looked forward to the challenge of the interview. Thomas must have prepared them carefully, for they knew my background fully and had immediately asked to see my notebooks. The skills I had acquired during my time with Thomas had been added to by those I had gained in Tintoretto’s workshop, and even I was impressed with some of the images as they carefully turned the pages and read my notes.

  Signor Stocker, it is with great pleasure that I am able to inform you that the Department of Medicine at the University of Padua has decided to accept your application to study with us – eventually, if successful, to become a doctor of medicine.

  I shook with relief at the words. I ran to tell Thomas at once. His bags were fully packed and he was simply awaiting my confirmation before he departed.

  CHAPTER 86

  September the 24th 1556 – Fondamenta dei Mori

  How strange is the pattern of life. I had left Padua early on the morning after my interview, promising to return in time for the new term at the end of October, and had hurried back to Yasmeen.

  The rent of the house I had shared with Thomas and the earl had been paid until the end of the month, and the furniture, what there was of it, remained, so it had seemed natural to return here. But now, sitting here alone, with little in the way of food or comforts, with Tutto, Cuoca and Bimbo gone together to Padua to try to secure the wages owed to them, with Thomas on the road to England and with Courtenay dead and buried, I felt terribly alone. The memories of the last year seemed to echo around me.

  Peter Vannes and the diplomats had still been arguing when I had left Padua. It appeared the city-state of Venice had demanded Courtenay’s papers, as had the English government, but Piero Morosini, the Bailiff of Padua, was holding steadfast. I was pleased to ride away from it all and hoped none of it would reappear when I returned to Padua as a student. I was about to start a new life and I wanted it to be just that, not under the shadow of someone else.

  I sat in the house alone, writing to Walsingham about Peter Vannes and coding the results. Would I be able to do this once I was married to Yasmeen? I had no intention of having any secrets from her, but the more I thought about my whole involvement with Walsingham, the more concerned and uncertain I became. Yes, I wanted Princess Elizabeth to succeed to the throne, and of course I would do anything moral and legal to help bring that situation about. But participation in Walsingham’s schemes was not without its risks. The attempts on Carew’s life and the threats to Courtenay were evidence enough that this was no light-hearted children’s game.

  Foremost among my concerns was not the threat to myself, but the dangers that might arise if I involved Yasmeen in any way. By even telling her of the very existence of the Sons of England, I might be risking her safety. But lurking behind these thoughts was my real concern, half-hidden until I forced it out into the cold light of day: if I admitted to Yasmeen that I had committed myself to an organisation whose very purpose was to remove Catholic Mary and to bring Elizabeth to the throne, what conclusion might she draw?

  I tried to look at myself from her point of view. The image was black: here was a man willing to risk life, limb, and the future of his new family for a venture whose objectives were centred entirely in England. If it failed, then her life might be ruined, her family put at risk and her husband killed. But if it succeeded, then surely her new husband would want to return to his country, dragging her into an unknown land and away from her father.

  For what seemed an age I stared at the coded note, unsure whether to tear it up or to continue with the covering letter. In the end, I sacrificed my principles and decided to try to slide between the two; I would keep faith with Walsingham, remain available to him if required, but make no mention of any of it to Yasmeen. It was an uncomfortable conclusion and I was unhappy with it. Finally, I decided to swing the balance further in Yasmeen’s direction. I made it clear to Walsingham where my priorities lay: I would not put my marriage at risk.

  Having coded the sensitive information in a separate note, my covering letter could be more personal. I wrote easily, in longhand, unfettered by codes, telling Walsingham of my plans for marriage, business partnership and education, saying I remained committed to the Protestant Church, but also to staying in Italy.

  It seemed strange to see the words down there in front of me – confirmed, final, committed and committing. Yet at the same time it was also very comforting, and a milestone in my life.

  I had been invited to eat with Veronica, to stay with Tintoretto, to spend the evening with Ayham and Yasmeen, yet I had chosen to reject all of these invitations; something had decided me to remain by myself tonight. It was as if I needed time to say goodbye to my old life before marching into my new one.

  CHAPTER 87

  September the 26th 1556 – House of Tintoretto, Fondamenta dei Mori

  ‘Ehi, Maestro! It was so good of you to go to so much trouble for us.’

  Fausbina Robusti, Tintoretto’s wife, leaned against the wall and giggled. ‘Don’t think he did all this for you, Richard. Popular as you are in this household, Jacopo just loves a party and Yasmeen’s betrothal was the perfect excuse.’ She waved her arm around the studio, its walls hung with unsold paintings and one or two sold ones yet to be delivered. ‘You may have noticed a certain attention to business in the preparations. Jacopo will be disappointed if he has not sold all of these by the time the party finishes.’

  I looked at Jacopo, who winked conspiratorially. ‘You should have displayed some of your drawings, Richard. You might have sold some of them; they’re good enough.’ He nudged his wife’s arm. ‘But I suppose he is too important now to bother with such things. Soon we will have to call him “dottore” and bow before a man of letters.’

  Fausbina bowed to me, a large grin on her face. ‘Please remember us when you are rich and famous, Richard. The poor painter and his growing family.’

  Tintoretto looked at her smartly. ‘You don’t mean? Surely you’re not . . .’

  Fausbina laughed. ‘Hardly! Marietta is still breast feeding. But next year perhaps? And again after that. With Felicità to help me it is all so much easier.’

  It was good to hear.

  ‘How is Faustina settling in? I am so sorry to steal your manager. What a way to thank you for all your kindness.’

  Jacopo refilled our glasses and put the bottle back on the side-table. ‘It will work out well. She is very intelligent and learning fast. The arrangement for her and Felicità to stay with Ayham and Yasmeen seems to be working out well. She has plenty of time to learn from Yasmeen before you finally take her away from us, Fausbina has Felicità just along the canal-side when she needs help with the children, and I have a new model.’

  I was surprised. ‘Is Felicità sitting for you?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes indeed. Veronica is quite jealous; she is so young and innocent, perfect as a Madonna.’

  ‘Will you miss Yasmeen?’ I remained concerned that by marrying Yasmeen I was harming the smooth running of his business.

  ‘Of course. But I am delighted to see her progress so. You should have seen her the first day she came to us. She was about fourteen, skinny as anything. The boys called her scricciolo.’

  I must have frowned; the word was new to me. Jacopo saw my expression immediately. ‘What is this in English?’ He picked up a piece of charcoal still lying on the table and quickly drew a little wren hopping about, picking up pieces.

  I nodded. ‘A wren. Scricciolo. Yes, it’s suitable. I can imagine that. I hope her days of scratching around are finished. I shall look after her.’

  Tintoretto nodded. ‘I know you will. She deserves it.’

  I had to move on to talk to other people, but before I left there was one question I wanted to as
k him. ‘Tell me, Jacopo, was it true that Faustina was talking to Titian?’

  He looked at his wife, who laughed and set off across the room to talk to someone else. ‘No. All lies. Veronica told me that to make me interested. She knew I would want to take her from him. But of course I would have chosen her anyway.’

  Across the room, Veronica heard her name and waved. We both waved back.

  ‘I have no regrets. She will be excellent, given time.’ He grinned at Faustina who joined us as he spoke and smiled regally at his little joke. She took my elbow. ‘Can you spare this young man for a few minutes? He is so popular.’

  We walked into the courtyard and were joined by Felicità. Winking at Felicità, who, like her, seemed to have had quite a few glasses of wine and was unusually animated, Faustina asked her question. ‘Have you forgiven me, Richard?’

  ‘For what?’ Felicità’s close presence somehow warned me this was a prepared speech.

  ‘For not being as you presumed – available to you.’ She looked at Felicità and grinned conspiratorially.

  I looked from one to the other. They were teasing me, and in the process teasing each other.

  ‘I never thought you misled me . . .’

  Faustina stretched her long neck and pursed her lips, dismissing my reply. ‘I didn’t need to – you misled yourself. I could see the look on your face even before we spoke. You were so confident. “I shall have that tall blonde one,” your expression said. I could feel your lust through the bars of the window.’

  I looked round to ensure Yasmeen was not listening, and Felicità stepped forward, putting a hand on my arm. It was the first time she had ever dared to touch me; either it was the wine or her self-confidence was growing. ‘In any case, you are spoken for Richard.’