Daughters of the Doge (41 page)

He would read the warnings about Duke Ercole, and understand that what the letter really said was: ‘Distance yourself from involvement in any intrigue and, if possible, pull the earl away from it also.’ He would realize that the statement of the earl’s unwillingness to take advice was addressed to a potential interceptor.

It would have to do. I sealed the letter and left for the Rialto. Somewhere there I would find a merchant about to travel to Ferrara, who could, I hoped, ensure a rapid and safe delivery.

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April the 8th 1556 – Arsenale, Castello

I shivered again, but whether from cold, or fear, or both, I could no longer tell. The darkness in the prison cell was so absolute that it seemed to prevent rational thought. But the dark and the damp and the cold were nothing compared with the feeling of loneliness and subjugation. I did not know where I was or why I was here, and as far as I was aware, nobody knew of my imprisonment, apart from my captors. Moans and cries of despair from nearby cells told me that others felt the same sense of isolation and deprivation, and although their cries told me I was not alone, they gave me no comfort.

Apart from the occasional passage of heavy, studded boots from outside, nothing broke the endless ebb and flow of despairing calls. I had lost all sense of time, and had to work hard not to panic.

My cheek hurt and, judging by its wetness, was still bleeding.

Concentrate, I told myself. You have only yourself to rely on to get you out of this place.

I realized that I must find out where I was, and set about surviving the ordeal as best I could. Once I had stopped going backwards, I could start to think about moving forwards – either by securing my release on my captors’ terms, or by escaping.

I was in a cell, and judging by the smells, close to the open sea – although that smell was common enough throughout Venice. The dark and the damp gave few clues, for the basements of many houses felt like this, but the cries around me suggested that I was in a public prison, and a large one.

My clothes had not been taken: I still had my cloak, my shirt, my jerkin and hose, and my boots were still on my feet. I felt around on the floor for possessions, but nothing came to hand. Where was my notebook?
Drawing.
That was the key. I had been drawing when they came. Yes, it was beginning to come back to me.

I had been sketching by the gates of the Arsenale, watching the men and drawing them as they fitted out a recently completed boat. That was when I heard the cry: ‘There he is – the spy!’ I had not had time to stand before a blow to the head felled me. I could remember no more.

The only conclusion I could come to was that the Sons of England had been infiltrated. Who, I wondered, had given us away? Walsingham was so careful, and Cheke and Carew would by now be well on their way to Antwerp. I was sure I had not been careless enough to put the others at risk, but squatting there in the dark, my confidence was already much reduced.

For an hour I sat there, trying to think. Eventually I heard footsteps, purposeful and getting closer. I stood and prepared myself.

I was pulled, pushed and almost dragged along cold stone corridors and up a staircase into what looked like a torture chamber. Chains and flails hung from the walls, but I was merely told to sit on a small stool in the centre of the room.

They stood all round me so that it was impossible to face them all. Whichever way I faced, the next question always seemed to come from behind me. I could not understand them. I did not even know what language they were speaking: Arabic, perhaps, or Turkish? I had heard similar in the markets.

I must have responded blankly, for they changed language. I recognized Spanish and French, but spoke neither. Eventually, risking a beating, I interrupted them in Italian. ‘Why do you not speak to me in Italian? I am English but I do speak it a little.’

They looked at each other, clearly surprised. ‘Who are you, spy?’

‘My name is Richard Stocker. I am an Englishman, presently living in Venice. I came here to accompany the earl of Devon and my other companion, Dr Thomas Marwood. My colleagues are at present visiting Duke Ercole d’Este in Ferrara and I am living at the Ca’ da Mosto.’

‘Do you have anyone in Venice who can speak for you?’

I thought for a minute. Who did I know in Venice who might carry some weight with the authorities? My companions were on the mainland and I was nervous about dragging my Venetian friends into what might be a compromising situation. One name did, however, spring to mind. I was sure John Neville would remember me and be able to vouch for my good standing.

‘Yes. John Neville. He is an Englishman, a merchant and banker, and is well known on the Rialto. He knew me in England, at the Court of King Edward VI, and has met me again since I arrived here.’ Someone was dispatched in response to this information, and I felt a small glimmer of encouragement.

‘Why were you spying in the Arsenale, and for whom?’

‘I was not spying. Why do you say that?’

‘You were seen observing our shipbuilding activity, making notes and drawing pictures.’

‘I have been learning to draw and paint at the Bottega of Tintoretto, on the Fondamenta dei Mori. He is instructing me, and told me to go out and draw what I saw for practice.’ I was aware of another nod and a second man left the room, hurriedly.

‘Why did you choose the Arsenale?’ The voice remained suspicious.

‘Because the men were busy and would ignore me as I drew. Besides, it was not the only place I drew. I drew merchants on the Rialto and prostitutes on the Riva degli Schiavoni as they called to the sailors. Bring me my sketchbook and I will show you. I am only interested in people; there are no buildings, no machines, no ships and no state secrets.’

The book was brought and one of them gave it to me grudgingly. ‘Show me.’ I showed them my drawings, including three of Veronica, done in Tintoretto’s studio. ‘Who is she?’ His voice sounded more interested than suspicious now.

‘Her name is Veronica Franco. She is a well-known courtesan and acts as a model at the studio of Tintoretto.’

The interrogator looked carefully at the drawing and showed it to one of his colleagues. ‘Nice tits.’

I nodded, my face remaining serious, trying to look like an artist. ‘She is a very beautiful woman and an excellent model.’

‘Let’s have a look at the rest.’ Slowly they turned the pages, and I described each drawing. When they reached the drawings of the prostitutes on the nearby embankment they increased their interest.
‘Ehi!
Look, Vincente! That’s Francesca, and there’s Paola, the one who said your cock looked like a plucked chicken leg.’

The interrogator looked again, snorted contemptuously and threw the book across to me.

‘Put him in a top cell until the witness arrives. Give him some water and let him wash that cut on his head.’ He turned his back on me and left the room. The mood had changed. Still sniggering at their leader’s embarrassment, they led me carefully to a small but dry cell with a window. My possessions were returned to me, with the exception of my dagger, which they said I would get only when I left the prison.

Two hours later they returned with John Neville and Jacopo Tintoretto.

Neville winked as he saw me.

He spoke to the guards, confirmed that he knew me and gave me a good character reference. Jacopo went further and not only said that I was one of his apprentices and learning to draw and paint in his classes but agreed that he had sent me out into the streets to study the form and character of people. Between them, they seemed to convince the interrogators.

‘You are lucky, Signor Stocker. Your friends have corroborated your story. Next time you want to go drawing, keep away from the Arsenale. It is a secret place. Only registered state workers are allowed in there. You could easily have been killed on the spot as a spy and your precious notebook burned.’

My friends led me out and made sure I was given my dagger as promised. They took me for a meal and insisted I drank some good red wine – ‘to restore your blood’. I was grateful to them both, and angry at my silly mistake.

The food, the wine, the company and above all the fresh air seemed wonderful. My ordeal had been a frightening reminder that we were visitors, here on sufferance and, still, sometimes unaware of the subtleties of Venetian society.

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