She took Faustina’s arm with her other hand, linking us momentarily. ‘And so is she.’
They were so happy together; it was a pleasure to see. I kissed them both gently on the cheek and moved on. It was a good party. I went to look for Yasmeen.
CHAPTER 88
October the 24th 1556 – Fattoria Costante, above Treponti, Euganean Hills
‘Do you think he will sell?’
Yasmeen clutched my arm as we looked down from the patio behind the yellow stone farmhouse. A golden autumn glow hung over the hillside and the valley below. The depth of colour would have made Titian proud. Behind us, as the hillside steepened, rose the Monte Grande, its sides covered with sweet chestnut trees. Here, where we stood, the fall of the land eased to a gentle slope, catching the sun throughout the day. A tributary of the Scolo Degora supplied the constant water that gave the farm its name.
In front of us and below, we could look right across the plain to Padua – quite a ride, especially if I was to do it daily. But if I had the stamina, the fresh air here on the higher ground would make it worthwhile. The farm was a perfect place for Yasmeen to live and, God willing, bring up our children, while I pursued my medical studies.
I hugged her shoulder. ‘I am sure he will – he needs the money. And with his wife’s death and no children to follow him he cannot continue alone. The notary said it is certain, and we have offered the full asking price. He is just hanging on for pride. Look at him talking to the vines – he is saying goodbye to them.’
I could see the fruits of Niccolò’s life’s work – and no doubt his father’s and grandfather’s before him. The carefully pruned olive trees on the scrubby hillside opposite would provide more than enough oil for our daily needs – and excess to sell in the market. And directly below us, the golden Fior d’ Arancio grapevines would produce a good crop of the region’s rich yellow Moscato wine. Catching the sun in the cleft of the small valley, protected from the wind, were apricot and almond trees.
It was a magical place.
The farmhouse was dry and spacious. There was fresh water in plenty running down the stream and a pipe had been installed to bring it into the house. Dry logs were already stacked roof-high against the end of the barn, which was well-provided with sweet hay for the winter. I could see us being very happy here.
Yasmeen and I talked about our wedding plans. Understandably, she had wanted the Muslim wedding to come first, and the mullah had suggested their New Year’s Day, the first day of Muharram, 964 Anno Hegirae in the Muslim calendar. She had explained to me that the Muslim year was eleven days shorter than the Christian one, which meant that their days of celebration moved round our seasons year by year. This year the Muslim new year would fall on Wednesday November the 4th 1556 in the Christian calendar, and would allow us to remarry in the presence of a Christian priest well before the Christmas period was upon us. Everybody was happy with the arrangement, not least Yasmeen, who seemed to glow with pleasure at the prospect, now that the initial strangeness of the double ceremony had worn off.
‘Is your father now really content?’
Although he had given his authority for me to marry Yasmeen, I still worried about the effect on him, deep down, for in many respects he was a lonely man and kept his feelings to himself.
‘Do not worry, Richard. You have no idea how happy he is that at last he has a son to continue the business. Make no mistake, he will have you working hard, for he has great plans for expansion, and no longer fears the decline of Venetian influence upon his business prospects.’
‘And Jacopo? He has always been generous to me and took the news of your departure and replacement by Faustina remarkably well. In truth, was he upset by being put under pressure to agree?’
‘Jacopo is more than happy. I was making a good attempt at managing his affairs, but I know my religion was beginning to get in the way when we approached Church customers. He never mentioned it, but I knew. Now he has a pious Contarini to represent him. With her looks and her brains she will have them eating out of her hand. Have no fear, the change will be strongly to Tintoretto’s benefit.’
She smiled, as if remembering something; it was the smile women use when thinking of children. ‘And Felicità is an added bonus. She loves little Marietta, and the child loves her, too.’
She smiled out over the valley, and then turned slowly to me. ‘You never told me the full story. How did you and Faustina meet? What happened in your assignations? Did you ever. . .? You know.’ She nudged my ribs with her elbow. I shook my head, vehemently.
‘I have told you before, she is not like that. She was a nun. In any case, she has Felicità. I never touched her.’
‘Yes you did. She told me so.’ I stared at her in disbelief, and she shook her head. ‘Not physically, I know that, but you touched her heart and you changed her life.’
Relief flowed over me, but at the same time, a concern. ‘But have I sinned? Have I taken her away from her God?
It was clear they had discussed the whole thing. ‘No. Quite the reverse. You have enabled her to rediscover her God as of choice. Such is her independence of spirit that she would have continued to fight against a God thrust upon her. But now that she is in a position to choose, she has been able to reach out and embrace God for herself. And for that I am sure she will remain truly grateful.’
‘Truly grateful.’ I could not tell Yasmeen that it was not I who had identified the opportunity.
Yasmeen had not finished. ‘But in seeing her predicament, in seeing that beauty, that spirit, captured in that place, did you not love her a little – in your heart – even if she was unattainable?’
I put my arm tightly around her shoulders. We were in love and about to be married, and yet there was much I did not know about her. The last thing I wanted to do now was threaten our relationship.
‘Perhaps a little, as I would love a young colt, with long legs and knobbly knees, but with spirit in its eye and its whole life before it.’ I could not look her in the eye as I gave what I thought was a safe reply. Perhaps, by now, it was a truthful one also; I had to admit to myself that my reaction to Faustina might have modified as her circumstances became clearer.
Yasmeen looked at me carefully. I knew she was thinking what I had just been thinking, and that there was much she did not know about me. We were feeling our way towards each other, both scared of losing the joy we had so recently found.
Then she smiled and, for a moment, looked out again across the valley. ‘I will tell her you think she has knobbly knees.’
She turned back to me, watching my expression, and I saw a look in her eyes, as if she had finally put a worry behind her. We leaned on the wall and looked across the lovely valley before us. Yasmeen was silent and I knew she was thinking again.
‘And Veronica? Did you love her? ‘The words were muffled, but not unexpected.
I looked away. ‘No, of course not. I was never in love with Veronica, nor was she interested in me.’
Once again, Yasmeen pushed me to arm’s length and looked at me as levelly as our respective heights allowed. ‘Come on. I can feel it whenever you are together, the easy way she touches you as she passes. I can always tell. I accept that you no longer sleep together, but once, at least? But don’t fool yourself. It means nothing to her, it’s Veronica’s way of saying hello to someone she likes. It’s also a powerful tool for manipulating men she thinks may be useful to her.’
I blustered, and Yasmeen smiled.
‘I am not as simple as you think, Richard. I may have been brought up by a strict father and saved myself for marriage, but for years I have worked in the art business, where sex is as common and casual as eating and drinking. Particularly with Veronica. Do you think Tintoretto hasn’t? And Titian? He has quite a reputation.
Everybody in the trade knows that Titian says: “I cannot paint a woman unless I can taste her.” But what he really means is, “I cannot paint a woman until I have tasted her.” He’s a randy old goat.�
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I was surprised at her worldliness, which I had never seen before. She was normally so demure.
‘Does it upset you? About Veronica?’ I watched her face carefully.
‘Strangely, no. I have talked to other women about it. Veronica is so likeable, and so much on our side, that somehow we know she is no threat to us.’
I kissed her. It was good to have these things out in the open, and I was quietly relieved.
‘Come,’ I said, ‘let’s go down to Niccolò and see if we can get him to sign those papers.’
CHAPTER 89
October the 30th 1556 – Fattoria Costante, Treponti
It was a rare, quiet moment in my new life. Yasmeen had returned to Venice and I was alone in the farmhouse, writing to my parents in England. Autumn had set in fully now and the leaves were a deep gold and russet. The first frosts had arrived and I had welcomed them as a milestone in the year’s progression. After the heat of the summer, it was comforting to be able to sit indoors and light a fire.
Somehow, the process of writing to my family (for the first time, I no longer thought of it as ‘writing home’) was helping me to marshal my thoughts.
Dear Father and Mother,
It is one year today since I took my leave of you, in preparation for my journey with Dr Marwood and the earl of Devon. Much has happened since then, and I shall do my best to tell you of my most recent adventures in the time available. You will, I know, be happy and proud that I have finally followed in the footsteps of Dr Marwood and have enrolled at the University of Padua, to study medicine.
The earl died at the end of September, of a fever and of complications to injuries sustained in a fall. We brought him from Venice to Padua and the best doctors were at his side, but none could save him. His last weeks were not happy ones: he felt betrayed and rejected by the authorities in Venice and, finally understanding he could not return to England, knew he had no clear path forward. He led an unhappy life, unhappily ended.
You will remember how often, since my time with Lady Jane, I have argued the case for religious tolerance. In recent months my commitment to that view has been well tested, for I have met and agreed to marry a wonderful girl of the Muslim faith. Her name is Yasmeen and she is as beautiful as that word sounds. We are very much in love and are agreed that, whilst our religious differences will remain, we must not let them stand between us. We may face opposition from both churches, and from some of our friends and relations, but we have agreed to face those tribulations together . . .
I sat back from the page. My love for Yasmeen. So impossible to describe adequately in simple words. It was like trying to value a Tintoretto painting by its weight.
For many years I had wondered what true love felt like. For a moment I cast around, trying to find the right terminology. There was something missing.
Then it came to me: it was not perfect. That was the missing piece: love was not soft; love was strong, almost hard. Nor was it kind, or slavish, for in time it took as much as it gave.
To me, in the end, it was about worth; it was the recognition that the person I loved was worth more than the value I gave to myself, and when the day of reckoning came, I knew I would be willing to give up my life for hers, not as an act of generosity or kindness; not as a heroic act by which to be remembered, but in the simple belief that the world would be better-served by her survival than by my own. The thought, when it came to me, surprised and consumed me and I felt almost frightened by it.
There was a sigh of wind through the open window and the candle on the table flickered and guttered. For a moment the page lifted and I trapped it with my hand. Then I returned to my writing.
Yasmeen’s father is an importer of spices and I have entered into partnership with him in that activity. We intend to expand into the import and sale of painters’ pigments and herbal medicines. At this moment, Ayham, for that is his name, is remaining in Venice to secure new trade agreements. We have already secured a licence to import lapis lazuli from Afghanistan. A good friend helped us buy the licence from the artist Titian, who held it previously. It will be good business, especially as we already have established customers in place.
You will remember I wrote to you about a nun by the name of Faustina, who was being held in a convent. Happily, my plans worked out fully and she is now acting as manager for the painter Tintoretto. Her close friend Felicità has also joined Tintoretto’s workshop, so they can be company for each other.
Father, you will be pleased to learn that, at last, I have bought a farm. It is in country quite similar to our part of Devon, but warmer and drier in summer. Yasmeen and I will live here when we are married, although we will visit Venice regularly to help Ayham with the spice business. The farm grows olives, grapes, chestnuts, apricots and almonds. We have a few milk cows, a dozen pigs and many chickens, but no sheep; the land is too dry for them to thrive. We might, however, try some goats on our higher ground. I am already living here and Yasmeen will join me after our marriage.
By the time you receive this letter, your son will almost certainly be a married man. I could not be happier, unless you were with us here to witness the event. I journey to Padua from here each weekday to study. It is a long ride, but an easy one. Niccolò, the man who sold the farm to us, has no surviving family, and we have therefore agreed that he will stay on and help run it for at least a year, and we will pay him a salary. He has taken a liking to Yasmeen, who reminds him of the daughter he lost years ago, and he will do anything for her.
Dr Marwood decided to travel home and departed on September the 21st. With God’s speed he should be nearing the Low Countries by now and home well before Christmas. I expect he will call on you before this letter reaches you, so much of my news will be old by the time you read this. Thomas has continued to be a strong influence on my work and my life and I shall be eternally grateful to him. He bought me a wonderful leaving present, a copy of Dr Fuchs’ book on plants and medicines, and I hope to develop my skills in this area. I have a strange interest in studying poisons.
I looked at the page before me, suddenly realizing that I had not mentioned Veronica. For a moment I paused, wondering how I could ever explain someone like her to my parents, far off in another world. In the end I decided the task was impossible. I and my friends in Venice knew the role she had played and she would never be undervalued by my parents’ ignorance of her. I had said enough. It was time to end.
My enduring love to you both and to my little sister Kate, who is no doubt a grown woman by now. I so hope that one day you may make the long journey to visit us here and see how well we fare. Yasmeen and I also hope, one day, to visit England and to see you there.
Thank you, Mother; thank you, Father, for all you have done. I have tried to fulfil the promise that you believed was in me and to make the most of the opportunities you gave me.
Now I am grown. From now on, this will be my life. I shall, in the future, be answerable to others, so in a sense this is farewell. I doff my cap to you for helping me to reach this point and I thank you both once again. Look after yourselves and until we meet again, in this life or the next, God’s blessings be upon you.
Your loving son,
Richard
I put down my pen, sipped a glass of Niccolò’s good wine, and read back through what I had written. For most of my childhood, I had longed to become a ‘grown up’, to become my own person and to fly the nest. Yet now, when it came to the moment, it was hard to say goodbye.
But it was time. Childhood lay behind me, and there would no longer be anyone to lean on. Soon I would be a husband, and perhaps one day a father, and others would lean on me. The new responsibilities that I would face did not appear as a burden, but as an exciting opportunity to make my own mark on the world. My world.
Swallowing hard from emotion, but feeling a strange sense of release, I put down the letter and gazed into the fire.
Acknowledgements
First, a wonderful accident. I was sitting i
n my office in the medical practice where I was working at the time as practice manager, and my mind kept wandering to Daughters of the Doge and how I could get the first chapter started and reintroduce two of my main characters, familiar to those who had read my first novel, In the Shadow of Lady Jane. The office doubled as the practice’s medical library and my eye fell upon The Paradox of Progress (1995), in which Dr James Willis shares his interpretation of what it is to be a GP and those moments of achievement that make all the frustration worthwhile. The book opens with ‘My New Trick’, the true story of a night-time visit to a chef who had fallen on stairs and popped out his kneecap in an agonizing dislocation. Thank you, Dr Willis.
Sorrowful Captives – The Tudor Earls of Devon, by Horatia Durant (1960), ends with a five-page overview of the last journey made by Edward Courtenay from Louvain to Venice and on to Padua. Local Devon history books had already attached Dr Thomas Marwood to the earl’s journey, giving me the basic scaffolding for this essentially true story.
In recent years, it seems, the task of the historical novelist has been aided by the increasing accessibility of historical research. Whereas in my schooldays, historical analysis seemed largely dull as ditchwater; some of today’s historians manage to achieve a freshness of style that makes their ‘stories’ a pleasure to read. Two of these contributed particularly to Daughters of the Doge. Virgins of Venice: Broken Vows and Cloistered Lives in the Renaissance
Convent, by Mary Laven (2003) brought me to the Convento di Sant’ Alvise and an intriguing character opportunity The Honest Courtesan: Veronica Franco, Citizen and Writer in Sixteenth-century Venice, by Margaret F. Rosenthal (1992) inspired me to recognize the significance and personality of a fascinating woman. She was so good I had to move her life forward by a few years to get the story to work. The fact that Tintoretto really painted her was a bonus.
Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker) Page 38