The Spy of Venice

by Benet Brandreth

  ‘I have not, Sir Henry,’ replied William.

  ‘A complicated place.’

  ‘I understand it so.’

  ‘Leaving small Stratford for London has broadened your horizons, Master Shakespeare. Think what sight of Europe may do for your vision.’

  Sir Henry gestured to where a tankard sat. William did not reach for it. He was too full of thoughts. Sir Henry studied him.

  ‘You love our Majesty?’

  William stiffened. He tried to peer into the darkness of the booth.

  ‘Of course, Sir Henry,’ he said.

  ‘She is not loved of many in Europe. There are those bitterly opposed to the course our Sovereign lady takes.’

  ‘These are matters too high to concern one so lowly, Sir Henry.’

  ‘All things concern the playwright. What lessons may our enemies teach, Master Shakespeare? Take Philip of Spain. The man is struck with a holy fervour for England’s destruction. His only thought is to bring England’s people back under the Pope’s control and England’s land under Spanish rule. He would tear down every tree in his lands, leave not a forest standing cross Spain and Holland and Italy, if only he could build a bridge with them to get his armies to England. There’s a study of a man.’

  William looked at Sir Henry’s composed and tranquil face. When he spoke his former heat was coloured over with the cast of thought. ‘Why set men on me and then call them off?’

  Sir Henry shook his head. ‘I do not know what you are speaking of, Master Shakespeare. Neither the setting on nor the calling off.’

  ‘You think I do not know that it was you that warned Hemminges and Oldcastle to be at Cornhill?’ said William. ‘Who else would know the time and place of my undoing but the man who set it in motion?’

  ‘Who indeed?’ said Sir Henry. ‘I think you sugar o’er my compassion and rate yourself too little in the eyes of others.’

  It was William’s turn to shake his head in lack of understanding.

  ‘These are troubled times,’ Sir Henry said. ‘Philip of Spain makes common cause with the Catholic League at Joinville, his assassin strikes dead William the Silent in Delft, the Jesuits slip into England like rats.’

  Sir Henry turned and gestured at William’s face.

  ‘What is a red face against these terrors?’

  ‘To him that has it, much,’ answered William. ‘Of my face I know a great deal. Of Spain and Delft and the concerns of great men, nothing.’

  ‘Shakespeare, the state of Europe is fluid. Great powers shift and seethe with alliance and betrayal. As you rightly say, these are not matters of your concern. They concern me. In Venice the Doge is old and ill. Venice is not a single mind but many. It is a place divided against itself. People matter. They pull in one direction and in another. The Pope in Rome pulls with some and we with others. Do you know of the Pope? It is said he spends more on spies than the other princes of Italy spend on all their soldiery.’

  It was not clear to William how much of this was spoken to him and how much thoughts spoken aloud. Sir Henry finished his drink.

  ‘Into this maelstrom of intrigues our Sovereign sends my embassy,’ Sir Henry said. ‘What do you consider will be the greatest obstacle to our success?’

  ‘I do not know, Sir Henry. I do not know the object of your embassy.’

  ‘Why, to add our weight to the scale till the beam turns in Her Majesty’s favour,’ answered Sir Henry. ‘What will obstruct us most in this purpose do you think? The machinations of the Pope? The rigours of the journey? The needs of the Venetian Senate? Come, Master Shakespeare, though report speaks of you for hot-headed rashness, yet have I seen in you a mind. Use it.’

  ‘I confess, Sir Henry, all these seem like great obstacles as you say them. Yet they would not be my first concern.’

  ‘And that would be?’ asked Sir Henry.

  ‘That the scale we place our weight in was not defective to begin with,’ replied William.

  A small chuckle from Sir Henry accompanied a roaring from the crowd at the action below.

  ‘If you were worried that the scale was not true, what would you do?’

  ‘Test it against a known weight first,’ said William.

  ‘A good idea, Master Shakespeare. I shall try it.’

  In the ring they changed out the first bear, broken at his post, for new.

  ‘You have done well with my patronage, Master Shakespeare. I can use a man with your talent. Come to Venice. There are opportunities in this embassy for one of ambition.’

  ‘Your manservant, Sir Henry?’ William ventured.

  ‘Watkins?’

  ‘I feel I have met him before.’

  ‘Perhaps you have. He’s been with my family many years. When I find men I trust, men I have been given reason to trust, I value them. I shall hope to have good service from you in Venice.’

  Sir Henry smiled as he turned his head back to the fight in the ring below. After a moment he realised William still studied him. The ambassador watched him for a breath before breaking his reverie with a question of his own.

  ‘Tell me, do you, an actor, expect all men to be as they first appear?’

  ‘No,’ answered William.

  ‘Nor do I.’

  ‘My worry, Sir Henry, is always that I do not know when I am looking at the player or just the part.’

  Sir Henry chuckled again and William’s lips bent to a smile. Thus did the two men begin to come to an understanding.

  Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady

  A carriage waited for Sir Henry further along Bank Side where the press of the departing crowd outside the Paris Garden lessened. Sir Henry ambled towards it with William, Watkins and Hemminges in his train. He stopped at the carriage door and turned to William and Hemminges.

  ‘Tomorrow, at my house? We depart as early as our preparations will allow.’

  Hemminges nodded. Sir Henry looked to William, who, after a moment, inclined his head in agreement too.

  ‘Your company, ready?’ Sir Henry asked.

  ‘It is. The baggage stowed. At least as much as your steward would allow. The rest we’ve sent ahead by ship,’ Hemminges answered.

  ‘Good. Till the morning, then,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Do not forget my poem, Master Shakespeare.’

  ‘Poem, Sir Henry?’

  ‘Indeed, perhaps something that alludes to my courage in the face of Spanish treachery. That should burnish my armour in the sight of my lady.’

  ‘You jest, Sir Henry.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘The prank is up, Sir Henry, we both know there was no lady,’ William said, ‘only a test. After this evening’s entertainments I have had my fill of pranks.’

  Sir Henry raised an admonishing finger. ‘Oh, there is always a lady.’ He signalled to Watkins, who held open the carriage door.

  ‘Doubt not that I shall want the poem, Master Shakespeare. In the morning, if you please. That it might be delivered before we depart.’

  Sir Henry climbed in. Watkins shut the door behind him. He signalled to the driver for the off and pulled himself onto the footboard. As the carriage pulled away the curtain of the door twitched. Behind it William caught the briefest glimpse of the smiling face of Constanza Briaga as the carriage clattered away.

  William’s thoughts flowed back over his talks with Sir Henry and with Constanza. Hearing them again, understanding them again, puzzles unlocking themselves.

  ‘Was that –’ said Hemminges behind him.

  ‘It was,’ William said.

  ‘Well, well, well.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Come, you must pack.’

  ‘And write a poem too.’

  Interlude

  Venice, April 1585

  The instruments of darkness tell us truths

  There are not many gardens in Venice. A city plucked perilously up out of the waters of a lagoon does not spare land lightly. Such gardens are, in consequence, precious jewels jealously guarded an
d carefully hidden behind high walls. It was, therefore, an understandable curiosity that allowed Isabella Lisarro to accept the anonymous invitation to visit one.

  She went knowing it was against her better judgment. At thirty, she had passed enough years in this world to be wary, but hers had never been a backward spirit, to hide from the prospect of adventure at the mere thought of risk. She paused only long enough to inform her maid of her departure and to gather a green cloak about her. Then she stepped into the gondola that accompanied the invitation and was taken away.

  Isabella rarely had cause to come to this part of the city. Cannaregio lay in the north-western corner of Venice beyond San Polo and San Marco. The gondola slipped along the shadowed canals. On its cushioned seat she sat with cloak pulled closely around her against an unexpected morning chill. The gondolier behind her oared them forward in silence. Apart from the words that accompanied the invitation he said nothing more until the gondola pulled alongside a small gate set in a long, high wall against the canal’s edge.

  ‘We have arrived, signorina,’ said the gondolier.

  She stepped lightly from the gondola onto the steps. Her cloak fell back, revealing auburn hair whose rich colour the cloak artfully complemented. She did not know who invited her but it never hurt to go armed. Isabella’s beauty had ever been one of her strongest weapons. That the gondolier still called her signorina showed that age had not blunted its edge yet. She adjusted the fall of her ruff and with a shrug she climbed the steps. The gate swung easily open. With only a moment’s hesitation, she pushed and entered.

  The walls enclosed a triangle of land edged with bushes bright with spring flowers along two sides. The third was the front of a palace, its windows shuttered against the sun. At the centre of the garden stood a single tree, old and thick, its canopy covering near half the garden in its shade. A blanket was spread across the ground at the base of the trunk. On it a child of four or five years played with a wooden horse.

  Isabella looked about but could see no other person. She crossed to the child.

  ‘Hello little one,’ she said.

  The child, a boy with blue eyes so pale they seemed almost devoid of colour, gazed up at her and slowly held out the horse. She looked about her. She recognised the boy instantly. It was her maid’s son, Angelo.

  ‘Is this your horse?’ she asked.

  Angelo nodded. Isabella gestured at the blanket. Receiving a nod of permission from the boy, she sat beside him.

  ‘It’s a noble beast,’ she said solemnly to the boy.

  ‘It is,’ a voice spoke from behind her.

  Isabella started. It was not just its sudden appearance that shook her but the voice itself.

  ‘Giovanni Prospero,’ Isabella said, ‘I should have known that your return to Venice would be as shrouded in mysteries as your departure.’

  The Count of Genoa walked around to sit across from her on the blanket. He laid a silver salver of fruit down. Smiling, he leaned across to pluck a bottle and two glasses from their hiding place behind the tree.

  ‘I left unwillingly and only sent my body,’ he said. ‘My thoughts remained behind. With you.’

  He poured two glasses of prosecho and proffered one of them to Isabella. She took it with both hands and brought it to her lips. Her grey-blue eyes held his black ones for a moment. Her lips drew back to reveal perfect white teeth behind the red. She took a sip. She was glad she had not trembled as she did so; though she had been wise to use both hands for fear that using only one would have let the dark man see the sparkling wine shiver in its glass just as she shivered within. Fearing the bitterness of poison, she tasted only the sweetness of the prosecho. With relief she saw him take his own sip.

  Isabella studied his face. It was changed from her remembrance. The skin a little rougher and touched about with lines at the eyes’ edges. The proud nose as sharp as ever. The scar across his face was still there, a little more faded. He smiled and she saw again the young wolf she had known. She wondered how he saw her now. As if reading her innermost thought, he answered.

  ‘You look unchanged, Isabella.’

  ‘I think that unlikely,’ she replied. ‘How many years has it been?’

  ‘Ten?’ he ventured.

  ‘I think fourteen.’

  ‘Impossible.’ The Count waved away the idea. ‘There are not that many years in your life,’ he said. ‘You must have made a bargain with the Devil himself. There can be no other explanation for you to look so untouched by time.’

  ‘Oh not so, Giovanni. As you must know.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Prospero.

  ‘Why, because you were not here to negotiate the deal on the Devil’s behalf,’ she replied.

  ‘I am the Devil’s lackey, then?’

  ‘Say rather his lawyer.’

  ‘Which is worse,’ Prospero said.

  Isabella pretended to take his answer for a question. ‘The worse of a devil or a lawyer? Easier to answer which is the heavier, the weight of sin or old age.’

  ‘Sin, of course,’ the Count answered, ‘for old age drags you to the Earth but sin drags you all the way to Hell.’

  ‘Then the lawyer is worse. For knowing that you speak with the Devil may give you the chance to be saved from Hell if not from death, but knowing you speak with a lawyer will save you from neither death nor Hell.’

  ‘You reason as sharply and as prettily as you ever did,’ said Prospero. He put down his glass. ‘I have missed that.’

  The little boy reached across to try and take a piece of fruit. Prospero’s hand whipped out and smacked the boy’s.

  ‘Patience, Angelo,’ the Count admonished to the sound of the boy’s cry of pain.

  Prospero plucked up the salver. He proffered it to Isabella, who waved it away. He set it down again and took an apple from it. Producing a knife from his shirt he began to peel and slice the fruit. It was a tool ill-suited to the task, a knife made for other work.

  ‘Tell me your latest poem,’ Prospero said.

  ‘I have none,’ said Isabella.

  ‘None? That is not the Isabella Lisarro of my memory,’ he said. ‘To let her pen rest idle.’

  Isabella shook her head. ‘I am not that woman and my life, of late, has not lent itself to verse-making.’

  ‘I had heard of some travails you endured.’

  Prospero let his comment fall to silence without glancing at her.

  The quiet of this Arcadian scene belied the tumult within Isabella’s mind. Of all the people in her life, of all the people in the world, she had thought to see Giovanni Prospero last of all. And least of all was his presence welcome. Foolish, foolish was I when I was young, she thought. And no better now, her rash acceptance of the invitation bitter in her mind.

  Prospero cut the first slice from the apple. He held it out to the boy. Just as he reached to take it, the man laughed and popped it into his own mouth. At the child’s hurt look he held up his hand in apology. He began to cut another slice.

  ‘Why are you returned to Venice?’ Isabella asked.

  Of the two questions in Isabella’s mind this was not the most pressing. She feared to ask the one to which she most desired the answer. She feared to know what Prospero wanted with her.

  ‘Perhaps I am here to see you,’ said the Count.

  ‘If you wanted that you could have achieved it at any point these last fourteen years,’ said Isabella. ‘No, I think not. Which prompts me to question why you have brought me here to this secluded garden. I warn you, I am not the innocent I once was, to be seduced by you again and set aside.’

  ‘Seduced and set aside,’ said Prospero. ‘Such a cruel description for our love affair.’

  ‘I realise now there was no love in our affair, Giovanni. At least not on your part. A lover does not depart taking with him the better part of his love’s affection and leaving behind only the scorn and contempt of society for her to feed upon.’

  Isabella could hear the bitterness that crept into her voice and wa
s angry at it. She did not want to give anything of herself to this man again, least of all an opening into her feelings into which he might once again stick his knives.

  Prospero proffered another slice of apple to the boy and, once again, plucked it away to his own mouth before the boy could eat. He laughed at the boy’s distress before turning his eyes on Isabella again.

  ‘Have you suffered so terribly, Isabella?’

  She did not deign to give his question answer. He had heard, he had said. He must know then, of the state he left her in, of how she clawed her way from it, of the plague that drove her from Venice, the penury she returned to, the false accusations and the inquisition that followed. She had been tested in the fire. Her metal had glowed brightly against the coarse background of her troubles. She had not broken.

  The silence built. It was Prospero who broke first.

  ‘Business and affairs of State bring me back to Venice. It is pleasure that brings me back to you.’

  ‘I tell you truly, Giovanni, I want no part of your pleasures any more.’

  ‘You hurt me, Isabella. You did not always answer so.’ He spoke lightly but his eyes glittered.

  ‘I see you still wear the ring I gave you,’ he said.

  Isabella looked down at her hand. She twisted the heavy gold ring with its dark red stone away from sight.

  ‘I understand you better now, Giovanni,’ she said. ‘What once I was pleased to take as passion I see now was always madness. There is in you something broken. The mechanism turns but to what effect? Not what its maker intended.’

  ‘If so, the fault is not mine. I was born in sin,’ said the Count.

  ‘Maybe so. Yet to be a bastard is not all there is to you,’ Isabella replied.

  ‘By my own hand is that so.’

  ‘What might that hand do if it were set to honest craft?’

  ‘There’s a question to which I have no answer,’ Prospero said. ‘Nor ever will.’

  ‘You have the answer,’ she nodded. ‘For well you know, your sin’s not accidental, Giovanni. It is your trade.’

  On that note their argument paused again. The boy continued to stare eagerly at the apple in Prospero’s fingers and the dark man continued to cut slices that he dangled before the child only to consume them himself. This time it was Isabella who broke the silence.