Daughters of the Doge (47 page)

I saw little of Thomas and less of Courtenay, a situation that suited me nicely.

With the passage of time, and with my increasing focus on Yasmeen, the ache of seeing Veronica with other men had disappeared, and we had fallen into a much easier friendship. She and Yasmeen had known each other for nearly three years, since Jacopo had begun to court Veronica into leaving Titian and modelling for him instead. It slowly dawned on me that my first meeting with Yasmeen had been no accident, and remembering Veronica’s behaviour that morning, I was sure that she and Yasmeen had engineered the whole situation between them. The mint tea had simply been an excuse.

The earl, meanwhile, appeared to have lost himself in Venetian society, for he was rarely in the house in the evenings when we returned, and was still abed (no doubt recovering from his social exertions) when we left in the morning. It was something of a surprise, therefore, when on one particular morning he caught me taking a quick breakfast before walking the few paces to my art lessons.

‘Good morning. You must be Richard Stocker! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon, traveller across Europe and recognized throughout the city of Venice as a member of the true and ancient English royal family. You may be interested to know that I am at this time in active pursuit of a noble Venetian lady, and intend to open marriage negotiations with her in the near future.’

I laughed. It must have been three weeks since I had last seen him. He bowed low, waving his right wrist as he went and holding a silk handkerchief to increase the effect.

I played along with the pretence that we had not met. ‘Marriage, Your Grace? May I know the name of the lucky lady?’

Again he bowed, flourishing his handkerchief, and I began to wonder if this was, after all, an elaborate game or whether he had lost control of his senses. Was it possible that Thomas had been right? Months ago, when the earl was experiencing one of his mood swings, Thomas had hinted that he might be suffering from an advanced case of syphilis. Had it returned? Since we had commenced our journey together, Thomas and I had noticed on a number of occasions that when his mood of despair was replaced by elation, he would absent himself, often all night, to the local brothels in whichever town we were travelling through. Whatever the explanation, I watched and waited for his response with interest.

‘Why, La Franco of course. She has of late been inaccessible, on account of a great painting nearing completion. So great is the work that she needs to remain on her modelling couch for twelve, sometimes more, hours a day, as the final stages are completed.’

My heart sank. Poor fool. Did he not realize that I saw each and every sitting Veronica did for Tintoretto, and that I knew for certain that she was not modelling for him, nor for Veronese, Titian or any of the other painters in the city?

The only explanation was that, as she had warned me while the earl was in Ferrara, he was considered dangerous and she was using the painting story as an excuse to avoid him. But how did that explain his frenetic social life, moving, as he had implied, from one great house to another and treated like royalty at every turn? I cast my mind back to my years at the English Court and asked myself how they would have handled such a situation. The answer made sense; until the moment came when the authorities arrested and imprisoned the man or exiled him from their country, the ‘great and good’ would have responded with exaggerated courtesy, passing him from one to the other, smiling, flattering, but ensuring their actions remained well short of giving any recognizable help.

I found it hard to know what to say next. Finally I blurted something out.

‘Indeed, Your Grace. Such a gracious and noble lady must be in very great demand. It is to her credit that she shows such commitment and loyalty to the artist at this critical moment.’

He slapped his thigh. ‘Exactly. Just what I said. Now, there’s more good news. Everything has been happening while you were away, Richard.’

Surely it was I who had remained and he who had been away. Perhaps I had misunderstood, and the very centre of the world travelled with him, leaving me, and the great city of Venice, on the periphery during the last month. If so, this was a fact that should be brought to the attention of all followers of Nicolas Copernicus, for they appeared to be unaware of it. I thought of making a jest to this effect, but Courtenay was already continuing.

‘You may remember that I wrote to Sir John Mason, a sharp note complaining that he had been intercepting my letters and opening my parcels. I also took the opportunity to deny any rumours that I was secretly planning to marry the Princess Elizabeth and to bid for the throne of England. I am pleased to be able to confirm that he has written to deny opening any packets and he assures me that both I and the Princess Elizabeth have the Queen’s good will; as he says, “both having too much wisdom, honour and truth to be parties to any conspiracy”.’

As he spoke he found the letter on the table beside him and waved it triumphantly.

‘Fine words, are they not, Richard? And from the Queen herself, no less. I am relieved that I am not misunderstood. Would you believe there were those who feared that my visit to Duke Ercole in Ferrara represented the beginning of a plot whereby I would travel to France and thence invade England at the head of a French army, marry the Princess Elizabeth and see off Felipe and the Spanish menace, as they called it? But Queen Mary has more sense than they understand. She has seen the man behind the reputation and she knows she can trust me.’

He waved the letter again, and leaned forward conspiratorially, now whispering. ‘Have it from me, Richard: the Queen will have me back in England before Christmas and in a position of authority in the new year. She needs good men and I am as good as she can get. I hope you are not too committed to your activities here in Venice, whatever they are, for we may have to leave for England at any time, and at short notice.’

He reached down to the table, dropped the letter which had changed his mood so strongly and picked up the bronze medallion. ‘That is why I must present this to dear Veronica as quickly as possible. We must be betrothed before any message of recall comes from England.’

I nodded vigorously, trying to look convinced by his arguments, but in my mind I kept seeing the reverse of his interpretation. I did not believe the Court in London thought of him as anything but a loose cannon, unreliable and incompetent. And as for the Queen’s likely response to the news that an English earl from a royal family even older than the Tudors was to return to England married to a Venetian courtesan – it didn’t bear thinking about. The man was, quite simply, deranged.

The earl picked up an unopened letter and handed it to me. ‘Oh, by the way, this came for you the other day. I forgot.’

He saw my glare. ‘I have not opened it. You have my word.’

How many people in Venice, Antwerp, Brussels and London had received this man’s word and discounted it as worthless? I wondered.

The letter was from Eckhardt Danner, sent from Cologne only ten days before. It had made good time.

I folded the letter. So much for any change of attitude or policy on behalf of Bloody Mary. So much for Courtenay’s deluded reading of the stars. Given the chance, he would lead us all to perdition. The news was important and I had to prepare a coded letter to Walsingham as soon as I could get away from the earl.

‘Anything interesting?’ As usual, the earl had no sense of the privacy of others.

I put the letter in my pocket, as if to make the point. ‘Just domestic bits and pieces. My life does not have the strategic interest that yours has.’

He smiled disparagingly, as if to confirm that my position was indeed as trivial as I had suggested. For a few minutes we stood in awkward silence.

I turned to go. ‘Give my regards to the lady.’

‘I shall indeed, Richard. I shall.’

C
HAPTER
57

June the 4th 1556 – Church of San Salvador, Sestiere di San Marco

Together, Thomas and I watched from the very back of the crowd as the funeral procession of Doge Francesco Venier brought him to his final resting place. The Earl had decided to leave us, and had pushed his way to the front of the crowd, anxious to gain an indication of who the next doge might be.

I remembered the last time I had seen Francesco Venier – at the St Mark’s Day celebrations. The frail body had struggled, but the eyes still showed the steel of the mind within. Finally, the body could no longer keep up with the will to continue, and he had died just a few days ago. Although he had been Doge for less than two years (his second anniversary would have been next week), Venice mourned the loss. The office of doge represented continuity of the city-republic, and anything that weakened its sense of strength was unhappily received, particularly in these days of growing competition and diminishing power.

I found the atmosphere in the church overpowering. The choir, the colour, the incense, the ceremony, the paintings, the sculpture, the very architecture of the church screamed at me. I found it hard to breathe and felt the need to talk, as if to hang on to my sanity

‘Thomas?’ I whispered in the vaulted church. He looked round expectantly, leaning towards me to hear. ‘Do you ever think about dying?’

His face remained impassive, but for the smallest twinkle in his eye, and I knew he was about to take advantage of me. He put his hand to my ear and whispered back. ‘I have no immediate plans. Why do you ask?’

My face must have fallen and he realized that my question was serious. His tone of voice changed as he continued. ‘Yes I do, Richard.’

He looked to left and right to satisfy himself that our whispering was not disturbing any of the mourners and onlookers around us, but they too were also talking to each other, seeming to treat it as a social occasion. Thomas continued, no longer whispering but still talking quietly. ‘First we should address the
fact
of dying which, in a sense, is the same for all of us, being simply a change of status from living to dead, which is irreversible and, in that respect, awesome.’