‘You think I do not realise that?’ Vittoria Accoramboni cried. She clenched her fist in front of her, her rage making the tendons of the slender hand stand out as stark as battlements.
‘Do you think I am a fool, Antonio?’ She forced out the words against the set of her teeth. ‘Do you think I have not considered the danger Prospero presents?’
Antonio saw the rising anger in his mistress. In such a mood, to say more to her was provocation only. He bowed and left.
The tremors within Vittoria began to subside. She finished the wine in the glass beside her and fanned herself to cool a little of her choler. She cast her mind out to more pleasant thoughts.
The feast had been every bit as delicious as she had hoped. To see the anger provoked in Prospero by mere sight of Isabella Lisarro. To witness his struggle to control himself. Sweet delight, she thought. How Prospero had pressed her hand as he spoke. Vittoria had felt the passion pass along it to her breast. One delight among many.
Even the Tiepolo boy, whose attention to Vittoria since she came to Venice had been alternately flattering and dull, had justified his inclusion at the feast by his hapless jousting with Isabella Lisarro. The glorious moment when it had seemed he would be pushed to violence there, at her feast, the scandal it promised. She thrilled at the thought of it; how close it had come. Such games were enough to satisfy even her wanton spirit.
And Lisarro, such courage, such wit; they were so alike, the courtesan and her. It hurt her that Isabella did not see it but treated her still as a child. Well, Vittoria would be pleased to see how the courtesan’s maturity handled the English suit. She thought Isabella’s judgment of their merit much clouded. Poetry, faugh! What a standard by which to judge the world.
Vittoria Accoramboni waited for the moment that Isabella Lisarro understood that love could be made to rhyme with murder.
The news from the Signoria was a dark blot amid all this. The talk of plots and murderers had seemed more sport than threat till this confirmation; now a cold fear thrilled through her veins. Cruel tokens of real consequence had been placed onto the betting table. So be it. She would not stand idle. As she had done before, as she had warned Isabella she would, she would act.
Love all, trust a few
The invitation to attend the gathering at the Ca’ Venier had come at breakfast one week after they arrived in Venice and two days after the feast at the Ca’ Bracciano.
The previous day of walking had revealed much of the city to William. He began to have some feel for the relationships and rivalries that formed the currents and unseen eddies in the lagoon. Yet on returning to the House of the White Lion the night before there had been no moment to speak of what he had learned before Oldcastle had turned again to his plaintive requests that they leave for England. William was in no mood to listen.
When the invitation came William did not trouble to wake Oldcastle. He went alone.
The tailor of Venice still laboured hastily on William’s behalf but quality will not be rushed. Therefore, William was once again dressed in motley: half the work of Venice’s workshop, half the work of England’s stage. The whole, William hoped, would suffice. There was a part of him that thought it madness to expose his false status to examination. That part was shouted down by a desire to see the wonders of Venice. That he had not been revealed as false at Vittoria Accoramboni’s feast had given him confidence. If he behaved modestly, he thought, and shunned the light, he should be safe.
William stepped from the gondola to the canal entrance of the Ca’ Venier. Where the Ca’ Bracciano had impressed by dint of its scale and sumptuous decoration, this palace intimidated by its reek of ancient power and privilege. The noon sun struck a multitude of statues and the circular plaques that William now recognised as Byzantine. The tattered naval banners hung from the ceiling showed their source, the plunder of Constantinople.
‘Sir William Fallow,’ called a voice.
William turned at his name. A man bore down on him dressed in the black robes of a Venetian senator.
‘You are very welcome, Sir William,’ said the man.
The man’s broad smile of welcome was accompanied by two hands that reached out and engulfed William’s own.
‘Marco Venier,’ he said. ‘Welcome, welcome to my house. Delighted to meet you. We have been warned already that you will be a potent addition to our contests.’
William struggled to keep up.
‘Forgive me, sir,’ he said. ‘You’ve lost me. I am no knight but plain William and I do not know what contests you talk about.’
‘You are not Sir Henry’s son?’
‘Well, yes,’ said William recalling his part as Oldcastle’s bastard, ‘but no knight, sir.’
Marco Venier shrugged.
‘No matter,’ he said. ‘We are not ones for titles here in Venice.’ He laughed. ‘Well, not those kinds of titles.’
He reached out his arm and swept it round William’s shoulder. ‘As for the contests, I mean, of course, the contests of wit and poetry for which my house is famous.’
Marco Venier ushered William into the palazzo and up marble steps to the piano nobile. When the invitation had arrived William had been anxious to be out, desiring to avoid Oldcastle, and had taken no time to consider further. Now here, he realised he had no idea what lay behind the invitation.
At Marco Venier’s approach two servants pushed open the doors to the great room. A dozen of the nobles and finer people of Venice stood there already. They turned as one at William’s entrance. The collective weight of their gaze pressed him to a halt. Marco Venier, ahead of him by some paces, turned, held out his arms and announced, ‘Sir William Fallow, of the English Embassy.’
William winced to hear the undeserved title repeated. He made a bow. Marco Venier was beckoning him forward to make introductions. William tried to take in the names. He recognised no one save one, Isabella Lisarro. She was as beautiful as he remembered. Daylight showed her older than he had thought. She smiled. He saw that one of her teeth was slightly crooked. He thought her more beautiful still. The slight flaw showing him the perfection of the rest.
‘Hah!’ Marco Venier clapped him on the back. ‘I see you have already met the beauteous Isabella.’
Venier leaned in and in a whisper more suited to the stage than discretion said, ‘Do not worry, Sir William. We are all caught staring when Isabella is present.’
William blushed and the rest of the company joined with Marco Venier in laughter. Venier clapped his hands, servants scurried, a glass of wine was put in William’s hands. William turned to remind his host that he was no knight. He found Marco Venier already three strides across the room greeting a new arrival.
Isabella watched William twist about. The young man was strangely dressed. His hose and shoes were new and finely made. His short cloak the fashion of fifty years past. William and Isabella’s eyes met and the pattern of her smiling and his blushing rewove itself. If he was an assassin he made good hiding of it, Isabella thought.
She counselled herself to caution. The flattery of a young man’s attention was not new to her. That did not mean, even after all these years, it was unwelcome. Nor that it was incapable of distracting her from a true appreciation of his merit.
As William stood, daring to admire Isabella, he was approached by one of the noblewomen, a tall, dark-haired woman in a red dress.
‘Pay Marco no mind,’ she said to William. ‘His nickname in our little society is “the Ladle”. He so loves to stir the pot.’
‘I thought we called him “the Witch”, Faustina.’ A fat little man in black, his belly draped with a thick gold chain, stepped over to join William and Faustina. ‘Since he is always brewing trouble.’
‘Oh very good, Andrea,’ Faustina said to the fat man. ‘That little jibe must have been weeks in the preparation.’
Andrea played with his chain. ‘It’s for remarks like that, Faustina, that you are known as “the Cat”. ’
‘As well as for he
r whiskers,’ he hissed at William.
Faustina scowled. ‘Cat I may be, Andrea, but you are simply a burr beneath our seats. Save your jibes for the contests, Andrea, you have few enough to spend as it is that you should so waste them.’
‘Now, now good madam, good sir,’ William said to the pair. ‘I can scarce believe either name deserved. For your height, your colour and your far-sightedness, madam, I am sure you’re styled the “Campanile” of this society. You, sir, by your quiet contemplation and your obvious wealth must be the “Patriarch”. ’
‘Excellent, excellent well.’ Marco Venier returned bringing with him a new guest. ‘You see, Francesco, this Englishman, Sir William, is quite the equal of us all in wit. And worth two of you in flattery.’
Venier spoke to the new arrival, Francesco Tiepolo, the surly young man from the feast at the Ca’ Bracciano who had battled with Isabella and lost. His attire was as gorgeous as before and his manner as ugly. Francesco bowed his head low in greeting, which did not quite disguise his sneer. On raising his head he looked around the rest of the room with studied disinterest in William. Save that any praise of others savoured sourly to this Francesco, William could think of no reason for this surly show. Marco Venier seemed not to see the insult. He clapped his hands and gestured.
‘Come, my friends, it is time for the contests of wit, the courts of love,’ he said as he ushered his guests to the end of the room.
The company began to move towards a circle of chairs.
William felt his arm caught and scented violets.
‘So it begins, Englishman,’ Isabella said. ‘Are you ready for the battle?’
‘I thought to play not fight. I’ve come unarmed and unarmoured,’ William said.
‘Sadness,’ Isabella said and looked aside at him as they walked together towards their seats. ‘Then you are not likely to remain unhurt.’
By Heaven, I do love, and it hath taught me to rhyme
Marco Venier stood before the fireplace. Arranged around him were his guests. William sat between the tall woman, Faustina, and a swart man who, by his dress, hailed from the East. He had been introduced to William as he was shown to his seat by Marco Venier. ‘This is the great Iseppo da Nicosia. Careful with this one, Sir William. Make no bargains with him if you wish England to stay wealthy.’
Francesco Tiepolo had refused a seat. He prowled the outside of the circle. Isabella had moved to sit near where Marco Venier stood. By Isabella sat fat Andrea, playing with his chain and whispering at her. Isabella paid no attention to him or to the rest but gave attentive ear to her host.
Marco Venier swept his arm out to encompass them all. ‘Welcome, my friends.’
As the arc of his arm reached Francesco he paused his hand and signalled, ‘maybe’. A gesture that received the sought-for laugh from those assembled and a mocking bow from Francesco.
‘I had not thought we would have the pleasure of a meeting such as this for another month,’ said Venier. ‘Not till our new doge is elected.’
He turned to Isabella. ‘However, the muse has prompted me to thoughts of poetry. Hah, you see – I speak in rhymes already. The muse does not wait till the time is right. The time is right when she is ready.’
He bowed to Isabella. ‘I offer a poem on the theme of love. Your forgiveness for its part-formed state will flow towards me as naturally as your loves.’
Venier coughed to clear his throat, then spoke.
As a general does, my muse commands me,
‘Advance. My love be ground for your glory.’
I, unwilling of danger, yet obey.
Though shot flies, cannons roar, you’re all I see.
Marco Venier bowed at the polite applause that followed.
‘Delightful, Marco,’ Faustina said.
Her neighbour, the Byzantine Iseppo, turned to her.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said in his thick Latin, ‘I agree.’
Iseppo turned back to Venier. ‘I thought the conceit well chosen.’
‘And you?’ Marco Venier looked down at Isabella.
‘As always, Marco, you have an ear for rhyme and a heart for metre. It wanted for only one thing,’ she answered.
Venier looked hurt. ‘What did it lack?’
‘More. A quatrain is too little for such a theme,’ Isabella said smilingly.
‘To offer too little in matters of love was ever your problem, Marco,’ said Francesco from the side of the room.
A comment accompanied by an expressive wiggling of his little finger and the laughter of those gathered.
‘You speak very shrewishly, Francesco,’ said Isabella. ‘Marco’s pen is mighty enough. Though, ’tis true, it’s shorter than it was. No wonder. For it has been worn down with much practice. Whereas yours, I am told, is its original length, never having been used.’
More laughter followed. Andrea applauded. ‘A hit, a most wicked hit.’
Isabella bowed her head in acknowledgement.
Iseppo spoke. ‘Tell me, Sir William, what did your English ears think of our host’s poem?’
It took William a moment to translate the tortured Latin that left his ears full of thoughts.
‘I admired it, excellent expression.’ William blushed to be asked and to realise the whole gathering waited on his answer.
‘But?’ asked Venier. ‘There’s a reservation to your praise.’
William cursed his betraying cheeks.
‘I would not presume to judge one far more experienced than I am,’ he said.
He looked about. He saw attentive faces.
‘Were it me, I should have used a different theme,’ he said.
‘Show us.’ Marco Venier pointed to the centre of the circle.
‘No, no –’ William waved away the idea. ‘I lack that power of invention to speak extempore.’
‘No backward fellow now,’ admonished Faustina.
She was joined by the urgings of the other guests till William felt driven to stand. His breast prickled with fear and anticipation. So much for cautious modesty, he thought. He reached for part-formed ideas and words to see if they might be fashioned to the theme. His heart was spurring his mind on, to the gallop and the jump.
If will were all then I, a Will, might speak.
Simply obey a muse’s call to verse?
Better silence than words devoid of heart,
Such words are to the ear not sweet but curse.
Lovers hear as owls, taste with Bacchus’ tongue,
Lovers see with far-sighted eagles’ eyes.
So never would I dare to cry a word
Until my tongue were touched with Lover’s sighs.
From woman’s eyes this doctrine I derive
They sparkle with the right Promethean fires.
No book, no school, no learned men can teach
That passion which a woman’s love inspires.
‘Not bad, Sir William,’ Marco applauded.
William blushed. His verse seemed to him a schoolboy’s dabbling.
‘Very good, Sir William. In Latin too.’ Faustina patted his knee proprietorially as he sat again.
‘We give praise where none is due,’ Francesco said. ‘For one thing, too many wings flapped through the verse. It was a veritable aviary of poesy.’
Marco Venier turned to him. ‘You’re in a sour mood, Francesco.’
‘Say rather that I lack a flattering tongue,’ said Francesco. ‘Nor praise a verse as mere seduction of the speaker.’
‘You can do better?’ said Venier.
‘Yes, give us your poem,’ said Isabella. ‘You can be certain that any praise it earns will not be spoken simply out of love for you.’
Francesco looked around the company. Then shrugging he stepped into the ring.
Venice is at war. Heaven for whores.
Her tongue raises all, rich cost for sweet breath.
Beware England that you have coin enough,
Large is the cost of this, the littlest death.
Some th
ink themselves tall though truly they lie low.
But that her wanton words proclaim her trade,
But that her ill-mannered pride is sign enough,
I’d warn you, have a care, for she’s no maid.
A silence had fallen over the room at Francesco’s first line. None dared look to Isabella. The poem’s wounding intent apparent from the first words that punned in Latin on her name. Save for a slight shift as she recognised herself the target, Isabella had sat steady throughout. When the speaking of the poem was done no applause followed. The guests looked about searching for safe harbour for their gaze; not with Francesco nor with his target Isabella nor with their host Marco Venier, whose guest had so venomously overstepped the bounds of humour. At last the fat little man by Isabella turned to her.
‘Did you hear?’ Andrea spoke in hushed tones.
‘Heard and more than heard,’ said Isabella. ‘Heard more than I thought to do. For some of the verse had more feet than the verse would bear.’
Her eyes were fixed on Francesco. If looks were claws her gaze would have raked his face from its mounting.
‘No matter, for the feet bear the verse,’ said Francesco.
‘Not these feet, being out of the verse, they went lamely by,’ replied Isabella.
‘Yet had such strength to kick as they passed,’ said Francesco.
‘It was cleverly rendered,’ whispered Faustina to William.
Then, in response to the shocked look from Iseppo that greeted her remark, she said, ‘What? I didn’t say I approved, only that the poem was well made.’
‘That was neither gentle nor gracious, Francesco,’ Marco Venier said.
He was interrupted by Isabella standing. She walked to the centre of the circle.
‘Forgive me, Marco,’ she said. ‘Your gallant defence as much ennobles you as the ignoble attack debases its maker. But what answer would it give if I left my defence to another? And a man at that. In defending me you would give credence to the poem’s words.’
She turned to face Francesco. ‘Besides, I need no help with one like this,’ she said.
The Spy of Venice Page 26