Daughters of the Doge (65 page)

September the 18th 1556 – University Hospital, Padua

We waited at his bedside for the next two days, taking it in turns to eat and sleep.

At noon, Thomas went to eat and to consult one of the professors. Over the last week they had discussed a number of alternatives. These had included direct intervention to try to stop the internal bleeding, but with infection already present, the risks were too high. It was hard, simply to do nothing: doctors are trained to take action where they can, but as one of the professors said, ‘We are not gods, only men with limited knowledge, and sometimes we must accept that the cure is likely to be worse than the cause.’

Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon and last of the Plantagenets, lay small, grey and insignificant in his bed. At least the room was clean and warm, and the sheets white.

I sat back in the corner, helpless and disappointed. It did not seem the right way for an earl to end his days. I had never really liked the man, but he deserved a better death than this, alone in a foreign land, without friends and rejected by his own country.

The room was silent. I heard the slightest sound and looked across at him. He was licking his lips, trying to say something. A prayer, perhaps.

‘Mother . . .’ It was the only word I could catch.

He gave one dry, rattling breath, deep down in his throat. Then he was gone.

I found a doctor in the corridor and brought him for confirmation. He felt for a pulse, listened for breath, and nodded.

‘Please, tell your friend: he’s gone from us.’

I found Thomas and brought him back to the small room. Together we stood, silent.

A wasted life. He had been defined, formed, limited and eventually destroyed by his status; he was a product of his inheritance. I bore him no grudge, but in truth I would not miss him.

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September the 21st 1556 – Albergo Il Bo

They came like vultures to pick over his papers, Vannes and his team of supporters, waving their letters of authority and insisting on being given the keys to his chests.

‘But his chests are at our house in Venice,’ Thomas had replied, to be greeted with laughter.

‘Think again, doctor. The house has been opened and all of your possessions have been brought here on my authority. But the chests are locked. Please give us his keys.’

Thomas, disgusted, handed over Courtenay’s keys, but we refused access to our own chests – Thomas feared that his precious books might be damaged, whilst I was concerned that some forgotten communication from Walsingham might still linger amongst my paperwork.

Vannes had written to inform Queen Mary that he had brought a Catholic priest to Courtenay’s deathbed and that Courtenay had received the last rights willingly, despite his weakened condition. It was an outright lie, but I could understand that Vannes might not be too keen to inform his queen that the earl had died in the sole company of a Protestant.

Vannes’s next move was to insist on an inventory of the earl’s possessions, both those things which had been transferred here from the house in Venice and those that we had brought with us. We were distrustful of his motives, but when he discovered that the earl’s personal servants had not been paid and that we, too, were owed money by him, he immediately wrote to the Queen, requesting funds to make amends. I decided that I had to alter my appraisal of the man. I had marked him down as a bastard, but now I decided he was at least an honest bastard.

Predicting the inevitable charges of poisoning, Vannes had insisted that four of the eminent Padua doctors signed a medical certificate, giving the causes of death. Thomas, to his chagrin but not entirely to his surprise, had not been invited to sign the certificate, although each of the doctors in turn asked for his personal agreement to the wording before they themselves signed it.

Vannes had petitioned the Municipal Council in Padua to have the earl’s body buried in St Anthony’s Church. Such was his authority that this petition was immediately granted and the funeral had taken place the following morning. For reasons not clear to any of us, the oration had been given by a Thomas Wilson, an unknown Englishman, but at least he had done his research, summarizing the earl’s life at length and, in the process, turning the event into something of a sermon.

We had expected to process outside and to watch the body being interred in the graveyard, but the Council had given instructions that two heavy iron bars be driven into the walls of the San Felice Chapel and the coffin placed upon them. The whole thing had an impermanent feel about it, which was greatly disturbing, but it was clear that Vannes and the authorities had a purpose behind their instructions and no argument by Thomas or by me was going to change it. Somehow, even in death, Courtenay’s position was still bringing out the nastiness and petty meanness in men and in governments. I was appalled.

By the end of the day, when I sat down to write to Yasmeen, I felt drained.

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September the 22nd 1556 – Department of Medicine, University of Padua

It was done. I had been accepted.

The previous night, having written to Yasmeen, I had sat alone, lost in my thoughts, while Thomas dined separately with some of his old friends. I was more nervous than I had been for years. Halfway through the evening it suddenly hit me – tomorrow’s outcome would be the biggest turning point in my life.

Strangely, once I had risen the next morning and was preparing myself, the fears vanished, and I felt my spirits lift as I looked forward to the challenge of the interview. Thomas must have prepared them carefully, for they knew my background fully and had immediately asked to see my notebooks. The skills I had acquired during my time with Thomas had been added to by those I had gained in Tintoretto’s workshop, and even I was impressed with some of the images as they carefully turned the pages and read my notes.

I shook with relief at the words. I ran to tell Thomas at once. His bags were fully packed and he was simply awaiting my confirmation before he departed.

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September the 24th 1556 – Fondamenta dei Mori

How strange is the pattern of life. I had left Padua early on the morning after my interview, promising to return in time for the new term at the end of October, and had hurried back to Yasmeen.

The rent of the house I had shared with Thomas and the earl had been paid until the end of the month, and the furniture, what there was of it, remained, so it had seemed natural to return here. But now, sitting here alone, with little in the way of food or comforts, with Tutto, Cuoca and Bimbo gone together to Padua to try to secure the wages owed to them, with Thomas on the road to England and with Courtenay dead and buried, I felt terribly alone. The memories of the last year seemed to echo around me.