Daughters of the Doge (60 page)

Gently, making sure the knee did not come under any pressure, we lifted him to his feet. Ayham stood, favouring the damaged leg at first.

‘Will I be able to walk again?’ He stood, holding on to the wall.

I stepped backward, giving him room to move forward.

‘Yes, Ayham, you can walk. Take it slowly and stop if it hurts.’

He walked towards me, gingerly at first and then with growing confidence. He turned to the barber surgeon. ‘Thank you, sir, you may go.’

The man bowed to Yasmeen and Ayham and then to me, and left without a word. Ayham turned to me, putting his hand out to shake mine.

Yasmeen looked at me, a dozen expressions on her face at the same time. I jerked my head in the direction of the door. ‘Is that tea nearly ready?’

C
HAPTER
74

August the 28th 1556 – Island of Lio, Castello

‘There he goes! What a stoop!’

Edward Courtenay looked alive for the first time in a week. He raised his gloved hand and whistled and the peregrine rose, a dead pigeon clutched firmly in his claws, and turned its head to catch the direction of the sound. It saw us as it reached the top of its climb and rolled, the prey cartwheeling around its sleek body and coming free at the top of the roll.

‘He’s let go of it!‘

I could not believe the falconers would let one of their birds get so out of practice. Both birds and men were, it was true, kindly loaned to the earl by the Duke of Ferrara, but nevertheless standards were standards and I expected him to be furious. But today I was with a man renewed, and he simply laughed excitedly.

‘Do not believe it, Richard. Watch him. He is playing with it for our sakes.’

The pigeon began to fall slowly, loose feathers streaming behind it. The peregrine turned again and watched it, climbing as it did so, until the pigeon was less than a hundred feet from the surface of the lagoon. Reaching the top of its climb again, the peregrine rolled once more – perhaps the most elegant movement in any sport – and folded its wings. It did not seem to look at the dead prey, but hurtled, wings folded and legs hidden, for a point well below it and just off the surface of the water. As the pigeon tumbled out of the sky and reached the moist air just above the wave-tops, the peregrine swooped below it, faster than a loosed arrow and just as accurate. At the very last minute, it lifted its head, flared its wings, brought its feet ahead of it, and hit the pigeon at full tilt with both talons. The bird exploded in a flurry of displaced feathers and the peregrine, two feet above the water and still travelling faster than a galloping horse, rolled skyward again and arced over our heads, screeching.

Courtenay lifted his gloved hand again and this time the bird landed, one talon catching the wrist of his glove and the other still holding the now almost naked pigeon.

‘Well done indeed!’ Courtenay’s face was pink with excitement.

The peregrine looked at each of us in turn, its yellow eyes impassive yet imperious, and began methodically to rip its prey to pieces.

The bird was handed back to the falconer who placed it on the stand next to the other three hawks and tied it on with the short jesses. He would not fit the plumed hood to calm the bird until it had eaten. Courtenay removed his glove and rubbed his aching shoulder. This was the first time I had seen him smile for a week.

For fully three days and nights, the earl had been absent. On the morning of the fourth day he had reappeared, looking like death. His beard was filthy, his face bruised, his clothes torn and his purse empty. ‘I had to come back. I ran out of money.’ His voice was forlorn, all pride gone.

He stank of rough wine and even rougher women. Tutto had had the questionable pleasure of bathing him and putting him to bed, where he had remained for a further two days. Finally he had emerged, as I had known he would, maudling and self-obsessed, blaming the world’s unfairness for his troubles.

Thomas, in the meantime, had written from Padua to report encouraging progress. Two of his old friends, both professors, had promised their support for my cause and had suggested I travel to Padua as soon as convenient within the next four weeks to be interviewed. He had explained in his letter that the interview panel would comprise three professors and the chairman of the interview panel was another personal friend, so Thomas would wait a further few days to try to speak to him.

Unless Thomas returned with a change of position, my obligation to Courtenay was ended and I would leave for Padua, only pausing to tell Yasmeen where I was going and why

I looked across the lagoon to the shores of Venice, six miles away How the last half year in that city had changed my life. I was decided on my new career, and in my head had already moved on from any influence the earl of Devon might ever have had on me. I turned to look at him. His wistful expression had returned. Poor man. Without speaking, and already back in the cocoon of his self-absorption, he left me standing there with the two servants and the falcons and began slowly to walk away from us, along the water’s edge. I no longer had the compassion to follow him and try to cheer him up. I had tried, so many times, but I was outside his self-made prison-cell and he would not let me in. Who cared? Tomorrow, with luck, Thomas would be back and I could leave for Padua and be rid of the man.

Suddenly my nose caught a change in the wind and I turned to look behind me. Sure enough, the weather was turning, and fast. A huge squall was blowing in from the sea. I turned back towards the gondola which had brought us across to the island. The gondolier was pointing to the storm and signalling he must leave. Courtenay was some distance along the beach and rapidly walking away from us, seemingly unaware of the danger.

I called to the falconers to get into the gondola and put the falcons into the little cabin. They were Arabian falcons and used to the sun; if they got soaked and were not warmed quickly, they would chill and be dead within an hour, and Courtenay would be heavily in debt to the duke. The boatman helped the falconers aboard and began to push off. I pointed to Courtenay and signalled that the gondolier should take the boat along the shore while I ran to catch the earl, but he would have none of it.

‘My boat will not take a storm like this in the open lagoon. We must go. I will send a bigger boat to fetch you both. I cannot risk it.’

He pushed off, the servants and the falcons well-covered in his little hoop-cabin, but the gondolier himself already resigned to a soaking, and rowing to save his life and his boat.

The storm worsened rapidly. The waves were growing bigger every minute. I began to run after Courtenay, wondering how he could possibly be unaware of the storm building around him. Eventually I caught him at the end of the sandy bay and tapped his shoulder, shouting against the howl of the wind.

‘We must go back! This storm will engulf us and there is no shelter on this island.’

I was not exaggerating. The island of Lio was some ten miles long and perhaps a mile wide, yet nowhere did it rise more than two feet above the level of the lagoon, and the only vegetation was coarse marram grass. If this wind continued to pile up the waves like this, the island would disappear and we would not only be soaked, but drowned.

Courtenay looked around us in shock. ‘My God! Where has this tempest come from?’ He said it as if it were my fault. ‘Where are my falcons?’ It was the first time I had heard him think about another living creature before himself.

‘Gone already. With the servants. The boatman would not stay any longer.’

By now the rain had started to fall in torrents and the wind was rising even further. Both the earl and I were in shirt-sleeves and already soaked to the skin, so at least we did not have to waste energy trying to keep the rain out. It was growing increasingly cold, however.

‘How are we going to get back?’ He seemed suddenly to have understood how serious our plight was.

‘The gondolier said he would send a bigger boat to save us.’ I had to cup my hands to his ear and shout to be heard.

We made for a headland which seemed the highest point on the island, and, being downwind, might perhaps be the last to flood completely. The gondola had disappeared long ago and even the surface of the lagoon was by now almost invisible; there was nothing separating the teeming rain from the surging waves.

I was beginning to fear the worst, when I heard a cry. A heavy fishing boat was running before the wind, only one small jib sail visible, and that starting to shred in the wind. The fishermen were gesticulating wildly.

‘Wade out ahead of us! We cannot turn. Your island will be gone in minutes – it is your only chance.’

Courtenay held back, shaking his head, but I wasted no time in argument. This was not a moment for concerns of manners, or status, or precedence, or any of the courtly things which formed the core of my companion’s existence. We were fighting for our lives. I grabbed the collar of his shirt and forced him chest-deep into the waves. The fishing boat was upon us now, and as they swept past a fast-thinking fisherman threw a large net over us.

We clutched it with our fingers, gasping for air.

The fishermen pulled, gasping with effort.

Slowly we were dragged closer to the boat, and eventually they secured the net and manhandled us up, one after the other, while two of the fishermen leaned over the far side to prevent our weight from capsizing the craft.

Finally we lay in the scuppers of the boat, alongside that part of the catch that had not been washed overboard again. The fishermen made for the city and we cowered in the lee of the stern for, although more robust than a gondola, the boat was small and had no cabin.

The lee shore beside the Riva degli Schiavoni was white with crashing waves and our only way to safety was to run straight into the Grand Canal and to keep going until we turned the corner near San Samuele. There, at least, the full force of the wind and waves had abated and the fishermen could regain a degree of control over their small craft. For the first time since the storm broke, luck was on our side, for the boat was based in the Sacca della Misericordia, on the north side of the island. We turned from the Grand Canal just past the Ca’ d’Oro, along the little Rio di San Felice and close to Tintoretto’s workshop and staggered the last few hundred paces home. Cuoca had anticipated our state on arrival and had heated lashings of hot water, and had soup and fresh bread waiting for us, whilst Bimbo had laid out fresh clothes. Never had a bath, dry clothes and simple soup felt so welcoming.