The Spy of Venice

by Benet Brandreth

  Amid all this turmoil sat Venice. A city of wonders, it was an object of fascination in England. Venice was rich beyond the dreams of Croesus but, perhaps unbeknown even to its citizens, in decline. The terrifying Ottoman Empire had begun to snatch its Mediterranean possessions from it one by one, cutting it off from its unique position at the heart of trade between Christendom and the East. The great naval victory over the Ottomans at Lepanto in 1571 had been preceded by the loss of the last Venetian outpost on Cyprus. At the same time, Spanish and Portuguese ships had opened up new routes to the East around the coast of Africa. The edifice of Venetian mercantile power was crumbling.

  Venice was proud of its unique republican political system, to which it attributed much of its success and which caused it to look with disdain on other, less fortunate, nations. Venice revered the law and would, in 1605, choose to defy papal excommunication rather than compromise the principle that all, even priests, were subject to it. It was also a city of license and remained a place where all religions met in relative freedom.

  Prized among Venice’s wonders were the cortigiana onesta, the honest courtesans, women of great beauty and refinement. Of all of them the most famous is Veronica Franco – Isabella’s inspiration. In any time she would have been remarkable; in a world and an era when every die was loaded against women, she was astonishing. That she was beautiful is clear from the portraits that Tintoretto painted of her. That she had a matchless mind and a generous heart emerges from her poetry and from the record of her charity to others. The battle of poems at the Ca’ Venier in my story steals from the historical battle between Veronica Franco and one Maffio Venier, in which Maffio had punned off Veronica’s name and she responded defending herself and all women in words similar, but better, than those I have given Isabella. Some of Isabella’s words when she speaks of the horror of being a courtesan are also Veronica’s, taken shamelessly from her letters, which speak to us movingly from across five hundred years. I do not find it difficult to believe that William met her in Venice, or that it was her inspiration that led him to write characters like Hermione or Volumnia or Isabella.

  Veronica is not the only remarkable figure to have been in Venice in 1585. Vittoria Accoramboni is as my story has her. The vengeance of the monstrous Pope Sixtus V was as terrible. It was, indeed, said of this Pope that he had as many spies as others had soldiers. The tragic tale would become a play by John Webster in 1612 called The White Devil. I like the idea that he was inspired by William’s recollection of events.

  The history of Europe in 1585 contains more adventure, tragedy and romance than any novel. I recommend A History of Venice by John Julius Norwich to those wishing to know more of that amazing city. Better yet, visit; February is a good month – the carnival is over and the city is relatively quiet. For those wanting to know about England at the time, they would do well to read The English and Their History by Robert Tombs, a book that contains many pleasurable discoveries. More specific to the period is A Brief History of Britain 1485–1660 by Ronald Hutton. Mention of Sir Francis Walsingham and the spy network of Elizabethan England is very hard to avoid in any novel set in this time, but I suggest that you come at him through his role in Christopher Marlowe’s life in Christopher Marlowe: Poet & Spy by Park Honan. As for Veronica Franco, her own Poems and Selected Letters edited by Jones and Rosenthal are worth reading for their insight and beauty.

  Meanwhile, what of William and his companions? They are still in Venice and far from home. Dangers gather, for this Pope is not one to let his white robes stay his hand, and meanwhile the Signoria will not welcome the attention that England has brought on their city. Above all else, William must find his way home. It is not in Italy that he makes his name . . .

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern. Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz

  This is a book of long gestation.

  It begins with the support and encouragement of Robert Hudson, a fine writer and wonderful friend. It travels through various versions during which other good friends and great minds like Claire Broughton, Edward Docx, Mark Booth and Bash Doran steer me towards some kind of sense.

  Then my sister Saethryd Brandreth provided invaluable editorial assistance. I have always been envious of her writing skill and judgment but I am nothing but grateful that she lent those talents to me to turn a tyro’s effort into something worth reading. (Without her there would have been five times as many bird metaphors. All that remain are my fault entirely.)

  Thanks are due to the readers of early and much worse versions of this book: my sister Aphra Brandreth, Nick Falk, Susannah Pearse and Sally Watson. I am also hugely grateful to the artist Sally Spector, who has forgotten more about the history, places and people of Venice than I will ever know. Sally read the book and corrected many errors, and guided me around Venice and taught me almost all I know about that wondrous city.

  Finally, I was extraordinarily lucky to catch the tide of affairs that is Bonnier, Twenty7 Books and Joel Richardson and his colleagues. Everything they touched made the book better.

  Throughout the process several people made it all possible. My clerks and in particular my senior clerk, Ashley Carr, found the time for me to have a secret life as a writer even as they propelled me to greater heights as a barrister. I am grateful. I stole the names – but nothing more – for many characters from people in my chambers. I would have used Ashley’s name too but, it turns out, that wasn’t a very common name in Elizabethan times. At least, not for a man.

  My parents, Gyles and Michele, read early drafts, encouraged further work and offered advice drawn from their own experience. All of which was invaluable, and yet as nothing compared to the contribution they have made over many years to my love of language and writing. To them thanks and love are owed for many things, this book but one of them.

  Special thanks are due to my agent, Ivan Mulcahy. It is no exaggeration to say that this book would not have come to be without his encouragement and faith in me, nor had one fraction of that merit to which it aspires. I count myself very lucky to have said something bumptious in his presence and caught his eye.

  Finally, my children, Cornelius and Atticus, and my wife, Kosha. My sons endured a father who tried to have two full-time jobs when all his focus should have been on them. I’m sorry. I’ll try to make it up to you; meanwhile think of the royalties. My wife endured the same and did so uncomplainingly, reading early versions of the book, giving invaluable advice on all aspects, on plotting, writing and marketing. Why a woman so talented, so beautiful and so busy puts up with me I shall never know but I shall always be grateful. I love you.

  Don’t miss the brand new Will Shakespeare novel, coming 2018 . . .

  All is not well in Venice.

  Threatened daily by Papal assassins, William Shakespeare and his close friends Oldcastle and Hemminges are increasingly isolated - the lies that have protected them so far beginning to wear thin.

  His companions want desperately to leave, but Will is tied to the city - his lover, the beautiful Isabella, is growing ever more sick. As tensions reach breaking point, their company is forced to split...

  Once more full of swaggering charm, breathless action and rapier-sharp dialogue, this is the second novel in Benet Brandreth's highly acclaimed series reimagining the lost years of William Shakespeare.

  AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER IN HARDBACK AND EBOOK NOW

  Read on for an exclusive first look . . .

  The small group gathered before the wooden statue of the Christ. It was a plain and simple thing, no great master’s work. Yet it was the reason for their journey. The statue stood at the centre of a private chapel on an estate two leagues outside Rome. At the centre of the group stood the Pope with his Secretary beside him. Behind them stood four men in the robes of various orders and with faces whose skin bore the colouring of several nations. The four men, each of whom had been loyal to the Pope even when he had been merely the Cardinal Montal
to, had been called to the estate for conference, each making a journey far longer and more arduous than that of the Pope and his Secretary. None understood why they were to meet here, so far from the comforts of the Vatican Palace, until the Pope began to speak – and then the value of this secluded meeting place and its seeming other purpose in the statue became clear.

  The little group of priests stood alone in the chapel save for the owner of the estate, who stood nearby shifting from foot to foot. Th e man’s delight at the great honour of the Pope’s visit had been transformed. Pride had turned to concern and concern to fear. He did not understand all that passed between the Pope and his confederates, but he understood enough to know that this was discourse on matters political, not wise or safe for one such as him to hear, and it frightened him that none seemed to care that he did hear it.

  Outside, beyond earshot, held back by the Pontifical Guard, were pilgrims. They had come in their hundreds this past month, paying the owner of the estate well for food, for water, for beds. They came to view the miraculous statue that wept tears of blood. The statue that the Pope now stood gazing upon. The pilgrims had left rich offerings to be washed by those tears, the stain of whose path could be seen on the statue’s roughly carved face, which now was dry. Their excitement to have arrived at the same time as His Holiness was great. Would the Pope witness the miracle himself?

  The Pope turned back from contemplation of the statue to the four men behind him.

  ‘You understand the importance that I place on your mission?’ he asked.

  All four men bowed their heads.

  ‘Have you any questions?’

  ‘Does your Holiness have a description of the English agents?’ asked the tall, gaunt priest who stood a little apart from the others.

  Cardinal Azzolini answered for his master.

  ‘Little more than that they are English, Father Thornhill. Of the Embassy there are two: an old man, tall and round, the Ambassador, and a younger one, who plays at poet and lover in Venice. These two may be innocents who serve to distract us from the true agents of the English crown. There is a third that we know of also, of middle years, a true killer if rumour be believed. Three at least, yet all must be taken. How many English can there be in Venice?’

  ‘Do not concern yourself overmuch with the Ambassador and his men, Father Thornhill,’ said the Pope to the tall priest. The Pope turned to the pink-faced man that stood next to the priest. ‘It will be your task, Monsignor Costa, to deal with the English Embassy while it remains in Venice. Your roles,’ he gestured to the other three, ‘are in the north. You, Father Thornhill, to Verona, you, Father Montanio, to Padua, and you, Father Fiorucci, to Mantua. There is a disease in the north that must be cut out before it rots the healthy body. Root out heresy where you find it, purge it with fire. I must have quiet if France and Spain are not to be diverted from their path to fruitless battle in the northern duchies. If in your mission you find any messenger that may have evaded Monsignor Costa in Venice, well then, I trust that you will attend to it with—’

  His speech was interrupted by a shout from the pilgrims at the door. It was echoed by a sigh that went up from the four men facing the Pope. Cardinal Azzolini placed a hand upon the Pope’s arm to draw his gaze back round to the statue, from whose eyes there now dripped bloody tears. The owner of the chapel and the statue fell to his knees and began praying loudly for the mercy of Christ the Redeemer. The Pope stared at the statue for several moments until he realised that only he and the gaunt priest, Father Thornhill, were not kneeling. Thornhill’s pale eyes were not fixed on the statue as the others’ were but on the praying figure of the owner of the chapel.

  The Pope turned and called to his guards’ commander at the chapel’s door. The man ran to him.

  ‘Your sword,’ the Pope commanded.

  ‘Your Holiness?’ his captain asked, eyes flicking to the statue, unsure what the Pope sought.

  ‘Give me your sword, Captain,’ the Pope demanded again, his irritation clear.

  The captain hurried to pull the long sword from its scabbard and placed it in the Pope’s hand. The Pope now strode to the statue and crossed himself.

  ‘As Christ, I worship you,’ he proclaimed loudly. Th en, lifting the sword above his head with both hands, ‘But as wood, I break you.’

  Cardinal Azzolini watched in horror as the Pope brought the sword crashing down on the miraculous statue, which split asunder with a loud snap. A hush entered the chapel followed by a moan of disbelief from the crowd pushing at the door. Then the Pope held out the sword to his captain, shaking it to grab the attention of the stunned man. Just as the captain reached out to take it, the Pope snatched it back to move the wooden pieces with the blade’s tip.

  ‘You see?’

  The captain bent forward. The head of the statue was hollow and within it sat a sponge soaked in blood. Wrapped round the sponge was a thread that, drawn, pulled tight about the sponge. The trail of the thread led to the rear of the nave. The captain strode to the back and dashed aside a curtain that hung there to reveal a cowering woman, one end of the thread grasped in her hand. She dropped it as if it had become hot and fell to her knees imploring forgiveness and pointing at her husband, the owner of the estate.

  The Pope gestured to the owner of the estate with the sword he still held.

  ‘Seize them. Take them to Piazza di Ponte. Take his head as a warning to others not to abuse Christ’s name by preying on the credulous. Her flog.’

  Ignoring the couple’s cries for lenience the Pope turned back to the four men.

  ‘The names of our agents must not reach England. The heretic Queen Elizabeth must be deposed. Without England there is no Philip, without Philip there is no Jerusalem. Our plans turn on our men in England. They must not be exposed. You understand? Cast mercy from you. Do whatever must be done to keep them secret.’

  AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER IN HARDBACK AND EBOOK NOW

  First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Twenty7 Books

  Twenty7 Books

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  www.twenty7books.co.uk

  Copyright © Benet Brandreth, 2016

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  The right of Benet Brandreth to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-78577-7035-7

  This ebook was produced by IDSUK (Data Connection) Ltd

  Twenty7 Books is an imprint of Bonnier Publishing Fiction, a Bonnier Publishing company

  www.bonnierpublishingfiction.co.uk

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