Daughters of the Doge (10 page)

After completing a hearty breakfast, I took to the city streets to explore. The Via San Canziano led me into the open space of the Piazza delle Herbe, crowded and noisy with the enthusiastic cries of the vegetable market, and I picked my way through the stalls to sit in the morning sunshine against the loggia of the Palazzo della Ragione opposite, where, they told me, the courts of justice sat.

There was no wind, and the walls around me seemed to have held the warmth from yesterday’s sun, so that, early as it was, there was no chill, although the fields outside the city walls had been ice-bound when we arrived yesterday. The winter sun soaked into me and made me feel alive. I began to think about Venice. Would it be like this, I wondered: the sun, the architecture, the frenetic but humorous activity and the general feeling of well-being? Having escaped the chill of England under Queen Mary, I looked forward to spending some time – who knew how long? – in this most civilized part of the world.

As my thoughts drifted to my planned meeting with Cheke at noon, my mood changed and I felt troubled again. Somehow, I thought, today’s meeting would lead me back towards conflict and not away from it. I trusted Cheke – his honesty, his competence and his judgement – but I did not know who else would attend the meeting, nor the subject we would be discussing. It was exciting but also disturbing, and I felt the need to walk once again.

Circling left around the building behind me, I passed the tall tower of the Palazzi Communali and the city offices. The doorway was like the entrance to an ants’ nest, with endless arrivals and departures, yet each individual had an apparent sense of purpose, so that none dithered, but each made his way hurriedly in a clear direction. I decided I liked this city, and began to understand why Thomas had felt such a sense of homecoming as we had approached it yesterday.

I wandered on, left again, across the Piazza dei Frutti and into the Piazza dei Signori. Before me stood the Corte Capitaniato, another imposing building, from which a lute sang sweetly in the morning air. Even the bustle of the people around me did not spoil the music’s charm but somehow enhanced it; as if a solitary bird was singing high above a marketplace, waiting for the opportunity of dropped food.

To my left was the Loggia della Gran Guardia – quite a new building and, I was told, the meeting place of the Council of Nobles. Once again, the stonework was a golden yellow and the roof tiles a warm terracotta. It was like having summer cornfields and autumn foliage in the middle of winter. How well the people of this city ordered their lives, I thought. It was no wonder that wealth was growing in this part of the world and that, with the notable exception of Hans Holbein, the great painters were now to be found here in the Italian states – in Rome, Florence and Venice.

There was so much I wanted to see and experience, but the world of painting was perhaps the most important. Thomas had drilled into me the need to record accurately the things we encountered in our medical profession, and it had become my regular practice to carry a small sketch-book with me all of the time, but ever since I saw my first painting by Hans Holbein, hanging in one of the state rooms in the Palace of Westminster, I had marvelled at the limner’s skill; the ability not only to make a recognisable image of a person’s face, but at the same time to be able to portray the character of that person (or at least to portray the character the subject wanted you to show to the world). Now, I knew, I would be able to study the painter’s skill to my heart’s content, and who knows, I might, one day, even meet one of the painters whose names so represented the reputation of the Venetian Republic abroad.

The bell rang in the tower and I realized I had one hour before my meeting: time to turn back and begin to make my way towards the university. I turned left and left again, until I could see the university building at the far end of the road and across the piazza.

I arrived early, as is my habit, and asked for the Department of Greek Studies. A wide, stone staircase carried me to my destination and I found myself at the back of a large room with vaulted ceilings and frescoes on the walls. My footsteps echoed on the hard stone floor and I was conscious of making a disturbance in this quiet place of learning.

Voices could be heard from the next room and, as quietly as I could, I walked towards them. The language was unknown to me, but occasional familiar words put me in mind of my medical studies. I thought I recognized Cheke’s voice. The talking ended and there was a scrape of chairs being moved, followed by a growing murmur of younger voices. A dozen young men strode past me, carrying notebooks and pens, and the place returned to quiet.

Now I stood, alone and in silence, awkward, not knowing whether I had intruded or was expected to move forward. I heard more footsteps – just one man’s – and froze, wishing I had held back until the agreed time. Footsteps again, and Cheke, looking old and tired, limped into the room. He saw me and his face lit up.

‘Good morning, Richard. On time, as expected. Come to my rooms and we will meet the others.’

As we climbed more stairs, Cheke had to pause for breath more than once, but he brushed off any offer of help from me, and soon we reached a small book-lined garret. Two men stood with their backs to us, pointing through the window at something in the courtyard below. They turned as we entered and smiled a greeting. Cheke introduced me to the first.

‘Richard Stocker, this is Sir Peter Carew – another of your Devon men, I do believe.’

A short, powerful man of about forty stood before me, hand outstretched in greeting. His face was swarthy, his hair and beard short and black, and his eyes had the distant hardness of someone who has witnessed many of life’s horrors. In short, he looked like a soldier.

I knew him by reputation, for he had been Sheriff of Devonshire eight years before and made Member of Parliament for Devonshire only three years before. Although we had never met, I had him marked down in my memory as one of the MPs who had opposed Northumberland when he put forward Lady Jane for the crown. I had not forgiven him for that, believing it identified him as a hidden Catholic, and although he had changed his position when Queen Mary married Philip of Spain and was an active participant in Wyatt’s rebellion, I was not yet ready to accept him as a friend. Those who change sides once can do so again, I thought.

He shook my hand, seemingly aware of my reservations, and stepped back to allow his companion to be introduced. ‘And this is Francis Walsingham.’

Walsingham was younger than Carew, but still older than me – perhaps twenty-five. He was wearing the clothes of a student at the University, but his face was not a student’s; indeed the eyes behind the beak-like nose were those of an experienced lawyer, one who misses nothing and gives nothing away. He shook hands with a firm grip, but hardly smiled, and I felt sure he would bide his time before making his judgement about me.

‘Sir Peter joins us with good credentials, Richard, for he has, like you, volunteered to leave his country out of conscience. The difference is that you, Richard, have escaped what you considered to be a
potential
threat against your well-being, whereas Sir Peter was pursued and lucky to escape with his life.’

Cheke continued his speech, clearly trying to build bonds of trust and friendship between us. He described Carew’s fluency in French and Italian and his love of mathematics and architecture. Like me, he planned to move on to Venice, but he distrusted Peter Vannes, the English Ambassador, and warned me against him.

‘But my companion, Edward Courtenay, is today arranging a meeting with the ambassador,’ I blurted out.

It was Walsingham who replied. ‘Exactly, that is what we expected. We knew that Vannes was planning to introduce himself to the earl and to invite him to a ceremony in Venice next month. All I would say is beware, for Courtenay is perceived by Queen Mary and her husband’ (I noticed he would not say
King Philip)
‘as a loose cannon and safer got rid of. Do not fall into the trap of believing that “my enemy’s enemy is my friend”, for your companion is a self-regarding fool and your association with him puts you at risk.’

I shivered. Perhaps my time in Venice was not going to be the pleasurable sojourn I had dreamed of, after all.

Cheke came back into the conversation. ‘Walsingham is right. Trust him with your life. I have known Francis since he came up to King’s College, Cambridge, nine years ago when he was sixteen. I was Provost at that time and even then I recognized his potential. He will not sing his own praises to you, not because of modesty, but because, more than any man I know, he is careful. Francis will tell you: “Never take a risk you don’t have to take”, and he is right. Trust him and learn from him, for he may turn out to be your greatest friend.’

It was a strong commendation and I looked across at its subject. He remained impassive.

‘Now, gentlemen, it is time I gave you my reasons for commending Richard Stocker to you both.’ Cheke once again took control of the meeting. He signalled us to comfortable chairs and then continued. ‘Richard comes to me with two recommendations and they are strong ones. The first is that of the late King Edward, who watched Richard while in the service of the Duke of Suffolk, and later had cause to witness his deep honesty and to reward it handsomely.

‘His second referee has also been taken from us, for the recommendation comes from no other than Lady Jane Grey Richard studied under Lady Jane, and if you debate rhetoric with him, I believe you may recognize her style. You will both know that one could not spend three years in the company of Lady Jane without being influenced by her. I commend him to you. I would trust Richard’s intentions, his competence, his honesty and, if it comes to it, his bravery. He is a young man, but he has had a long life, and an eventful one.’

I could only conclude from the generosity of John Cheke’s words that both the King and Lady Jane had at some stage spoken to him about me. I was not sure I could live up to the accolades, but knowing from whom they had been drawn made me twice as determined to do so.

Walsingham now rose and regained control of the meeting. ‘Gentlemen. As we know, we live in hard times, and although each of us has fled the country in his own manner, we have all done so for, essentially, the same reason. In truth, with Philip of Spain all powerful, and taking control of more and more territory every day through his father Emperor Charles V, we have little prospect of arranging an uprising against either him or Queen Mary. But the marriage is failing. Philip has left England, and will not, I believe, return while he has his eyes on the Low Countries. Queen Mary, meanwhile, is barren; we can safely expect her to remain so, and that points to one thing.’

We all nodded our approval for, although most men believed a Queen to be a poor substitute for a King, Princess Elizabeth was the next in line and offered the prospect of a return to the religion we favoured. For all of us, the idea of reversing the damage that had been done by the accession of Mary Tudor was our greatest hope for the future of our country, and one we would fight for.

‘We must play a long game, gentlemen, one that ends with the confounding of the plans of our enemies and with Princess Elizabeth as Queen of England. Sir John, we all have to accept that your health is not what it was and we must not overburden you. Your role will be to influence the many English students who pass through this great institution, and also to convince our foreign neighbours that such an outcome would lead to peace and prosperity for all.’

Cheke nodded, clearly saddened by the recognition of his condition but, nevertheless, accepting the reality of it.

‘Sir Peter, you are to travel to Venice and will, I know, influence many men in power there to recognize the merit of our cause. We have a potential problem with Doge Venier, for he is old and set in his ways. He is also a committed Catholic and trusts Sir Peter Vannes. Nevertheless, you must do what you can.’

Sir Peter Carew lifted a soldierly hand, He was used to receiving instructions and to implementing them, and if the task required bravery, energy and drive, he looked like the man for it.

‘Richard, your task is a difficult one, for you will be tied to a loose cannon during your time in Venice. Edward Courtenay has been dealt a poor hand of cards and has experienced hardship and solitude beyond many men’s understanding or endurance during his short life. That being said, he has, since his release, proved himself to be vain, easily led and spineless. His involvement in Wyatt’s movement against Queen Mary with Sir Peter here in January 1554 made no contribution to the plan, and as soon as he was interrogated by Gardiner he let out the whole story, with names, including Sir Peter’s. That loose tongue nearly cost Sir Peter his life, and you will not be surprised to hear that the two are no longer friends.’

I looked across at Carew, who nodded sagely to confirm this fact.

‘Since then, he appears to have become a greater braggart and a bigger fool. He is dangerous and cannot be trusted with any information, however unimportant. Richard, I fear that your ties to him will, in the end, be to your personal disadvantage.

‘Dr Marwood is less well-known. We know he is a committed Catholic and makes no secret of it, but that should not damn a man, and everything I have heard about him suggests he is a good man and might be trusted. But the journey upon which we are about to travel is a long and potentially dangerous one and I, for one, dare not risk the lives of others on the basis of a mere friendship.

‘You have described the doctor as an “honest Catholic”. All I can reply is that, in my experience, that is a very dangerous combination, and one I would be most wary of in the world in which we find ourselves today. I mistrust most Catholics, but the most dangerous ones are those who believe themselves honest, for being without guile (or, in most cases that I can recall, individual thought); they are likely to blurt out the most damaging information in the name of “truth”. I have nothing against the doctor, and would not ask you to terminate your friendship, but for all our sakes, we must ask you not to take him into your confidence about our meeting or the content of our discussions. Do you agree?’