Daughters of the Doge (54 page)

Every minute I spent in Yasmeen’s company increased my regard for her. As she talked of her people and their past, I began to understand that she was part of another, wider and, to me, mysterious world.

When she paused to eat, I in turn told her stories of my childhood in Devon, of fishing in the sea and the rivers, of hunting in the hills which surrounded our valley, and of how my life had been changed so dramatically by meeting the Grey family. I spoke openly of my regard for Lady Jane, but played down my love affair with Lady Catherine. She noticed my reticence, and began to ask me increasingly probing questions

‘Did you love Lady Jane?’

It was a question I had often asked myself, and still found difficult to answer.

‘If you mean did I hope to marry her, the answer is no, never. But if you ask whether I would do anything for her, then yes. She was extremely religious; caring in her manner; although unforgiving of those she thought fools or liars, and had the fastest mind I have ever witnessed. She could be stubborn and difficult, but she could also show endless patience for someone like me who tried to follow her reasoning, but was simply not as quick as she was. Yes, I loved her, but as a friend, and I would be dishonest if I denied it now.’

She seemed satisfied with my answer, but continued to probe. ‘And Lady Catherine? When you speak of her, your voice takes on a special tone, yet you always move on quickly, as if to diminish her significance. What happened to her? Was she killed too?’

I had promised myself I would avoid the subject of my beloved Catherine if possible, for I could not deny my love for her. I had loved her until my insides ached.

Yasmeen was looking at me with calm, level eyes, and I knew my answer to her question could spoil everything if I was not careful.

‘She was Lady Jane’s younger sister but she was unlike her sister in almost every respect: flighty, funny, rarely concentrating on one thing for more than a minute or two. We always knew there was no future for us; that one day we would be separated by her marriage, which was sure to be arranged for her. Eventually, that is just what happened, and she was taken from me.’

‘And you never saw her again?’

‘Only briefly. The political tide changed and her marriage was annulled. She was literally thrown on the street, and returned home while I was visiting. We were together for a few days only.’

‘And in that time you were lovers?’ Inexorably she had led me to this question, the one we both knew I was avoiding.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘It is in your eyes, and in your voice. I can hear the echo of her, and see her beauty.’

‘It was brief. We were brought together by our unhappiness after her sister’s death. We had no one else to share our grief, and for a few days, yes, we clung to each other. And then she was gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘She was recalled to Court, to be entered once again in the marriage cattle-market. We have no Libro d’Oro in England, but similar rules apply; the great families rarely marry outside their own circle.’

‘She returned to Court? After her sister and father had been executed for treason?’

‘Our court is a callous and calculating place. Perhaps the Queen decided it was better to keep her enemy close. Catherine was, and still is, a potential heir to the throne. It is an uncomfortable world: a kind of imprisonment enforced by the very law of the land. But she will adjust. She likes the wealth and the fine clothes. It is her world.’

Yasmeen was looking at me very closely now, as if she had discovered something important about me which she knew might change everything. ‘You speak of her in the present tense. Do you think of her still?’

I had feared that our conversation would finish up in this direction and had hoped to avoid it. Say yes and she would feel her position threatened, but say no and I would appear callous and uncaring.

‘I had to face the fact that I would never see her again, and even if I did, it would not be on my terms or even on hers, but on the Queen’s terms.’

She was watching me carefully now, looking more vulnerable than she had all evening. ‘The Catholic Queen? The one who threatens you?’

I nodded, not wanting to overstate my own significance.

‘How did you put her out of your mind and out of your heart?’

‘I did not lose her; she was never mine to lose. I immersed myself in other things. I left London and the Court and returned to Devon. Dr Marwood helped me a lot in those first weeks. Then the opportunity arose to travel here, and I took it.’

‘Do you think of her still?’ she repeated.

‘In all honesty, not very often these days. I have left that world and found a new one, in which I have found someone much more important to me.’

It hurt me to see the uncertainty in her face. ‘Is she comparable?’

‘No.’ Her eyes widened. ‘She is infinitely better.’

She looked nervous. ‘Is she as beautiful?’

I nodded. ‘More so.’

‘Is she as intelligent and interesting?’

I began to laugh, and took her hand. ‘There is no comparison.’ I put my arm around her shoulder. ‘Yasmeen, you have twice the beauty, three times the intellect and ten times the character of any royal princess in England. To me, you are without comparison and in your shadow the fading light of all others diminishes to nothing.’

She clung to me, her hands white with tension. Then, seeing that I was sincere, she began to cry. I put my arms round her and held her tight. When she did not resist, I kissed her as gently as I could, then stroked her hair until she stopped sobbing.

She looked up at me. ‘Do you really mean that?’

I kissed the end of her nose. ‘I mean every word of it. Now and for ever more. Please believe me.’

We hardly spoke on the journey back, clinging to the moment as if afraid to spoil it. Instead, we communicated by touching, as if to reassure each other that we were still there. The boatman looked at us and smiled a fatherly smile, thinking of his own youth or, more probably, other passengers from similar evenings. No doubt a successful evening resulted in a bigger tip.

By the time we reached the Fondamenta dei Mori it was almost dark and she had begun to worry about her father. We left the gondola outside Tintoretto’s workshop, not a hundred paces from her house, and I kissed her once more.

‘I must go alone. My father will be waiting and worrying. When will I see you next?’

I squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘Tomorrow. Here, at the
bottega
.’

C
HAPTER
65

July the 4th 1556 – Convent of Sant’ Alvise

I saw Yasmeen every day for the next three days. Our relationship was accepted in the workshop, and it was a measure of the kindliness of the Tintoretto ‘family’ that Jacopo, Gentile and Veronica all took time to speak to me quietly about the difficulties Yasmeen and I would face with her father. Veronica, as always, was more than understanding, and I knew that if anyone could offer me practical advice it was her.

‘You are committed to her? In truth and honesty?’

I assured her that my intentions were completely honourable and that the only thing preventing me from asking Yasmeen to marry me now was the fear that she might say no, either because of difficulties with her father, or because my own future was so uncertain.

Veronica nodded gravely. ‘That is as well, for Yasmeen has enough friends here to tear you limb from limb.’

I was aghast that she should distrust me so much. She calmed me, as always.

‘Caro,
listen. You must remove the complications in your life and make it easier for Yasmeen and yourself. The business with Suor Faustina; it requires an outcome.’

I blustered, but she shook her head. ‘You must go and see her, today. Pretend to be the lawyer again. At the moment she is playing you along – her family is the cause of her imprisonment and her family is the reason she cannot leave. It is too much: you cannot solve this problem for her – only she and her family can decide.’

I argued that she was being unfair, but she simply shrugged her shoulders and smiled as if to say, ‘It’s up to you’. Eventually, I agreed. I would go straight to the convent in the afternoon, knock on the door, demand to see Suor Faustina, and have it out with her.

As I turned to leave, emboldened by her advice, she called to me. ‘Oh,
caro!
One more thing. Get her to clarify her position with regard to the young
conversa,
Felicità. We cannot sort this mess out unless it is clear how many we are saving, one or two.’

Without thinking too hard, I agreed, and set off towards the Convent of Sant’ Alvise.