Daughters of the Doge (11 page)

I had no choice, and although I believed they would all feel differently if they knew Thomas Marwood better, I could understand their concerns.

‘I agree and I accept. Thomas has been a good friend and mentor to me since I was eight years old, and I hope he will remain so, but the risk is, indeed, too high. I shall not divulge any of this to him. And as for the earl, I fully agree with your sentiments. I would not trust him one inch, neither his intentions nor his competence. I am tied to his party at the present time, but if I can extricate myself from that position, I will surely do so.’

My words seemed to satisfy them and we moved on. There was little specific action to undertake at this stage: only to remain loyal, to maintain communication, and to try to influence events in England as they arose. It was, as Walsingham said, a long game, and I hoped I would prove as adept at it as he clearly was.

There was one skill I had to learn. ‘We need to communicate with each other in code.’Walsingham was deadly serious. ‘There is a code I will share with you, but first you must tell me what books you carry with you.’

I confirmed that, unlike Thomas, I owned few books. I did, however, have a copy of Bullinger’s
Of Christian Perfection,
given to me by Lady Jane herself.

‘I hoped you would say that. It has come to act as our common text and a key to our secret communication. Sir John has a copy here. Now look.’

He took a piece of paper and wrote on it:

There, what does it say?’

I looked at him blankly. I had no idea.

Walsingham signalled to John Cheke with his open hand, fingers extended. Cheke grinned, took his book and began to turn the pages. From time to time he paused and wrote down a letter on the sheet before us.

‘How did you make that out?’

Walsingham smiled. ‘It’s a variable code and a powerful one. You can vary it by including code-words in your covering letter. In this case we need to know it’s four numbers, alternating. Show him, John.’

John Cheke took the copy of
Of Christian Perfection
and read aloud: ‘Page 12, line 4, word 7 . . .’ He looked it up: ‘God’. ‘Page 36, word 374: “be”. Page 66, line 8, word 2: “with”. Page 72, word 8: “us”.’

‘There!’

I was bemused. ‘I still don’t follow.’

Walsingham took my arm. ‘We use a code with a variable pattern. If it’s two digits we specify page, then word; if it’s three we use page, line, word; if it’s five we alternate three then two, and so on. It means that code-breakers cannot decipher it easily, even if they know the book. Without the book, it’s impossible.’

‘Let me try.’ I took the book and worked through, number-group by number-group. It was laborious, but it worked. ‘What do you do if you want a word that is not in the book, or you can’t find it?’

Walsingham winked at Cheke. ‘He’s getting better. I think he’ll do.’ He turned to me. ‘You find a substitute you think will be understood. On occasions you have to spell out the word and put clues in a covering letter, which you send alongside your coded sheet. It is our usual practice, as a casual observer may take the letter at face value and ignore the little scribblings that sit beside it. But to you, or to me, it is the scribblings that carry the heart of the message.’

‘What do you do at the end of the word?’

‘Just revert back again. The decoder will know when a word is complete.’

It all seemed so complex. ‘Is this really necessary?’

Walsingham smiled. ‘Wait until they are on your trail. Then, yes, it’s necessary. You only have to include a small part of the message in code, normally on a separate piece of paper from the main letter. It can either carry a separate message, or you can use it to tell the reader how to interpret the plain-language letter itself. You’ll get the hang of it.’

As I left the room some time later, Walsingham’s voice followed me through the door. ‘Richard?’

I paused and turned back.

‘Don’t lose the book!’

I left the meeting with a mixture of sentiments. While I was pleased that they trusted me and that I was to be included in their future plans, I wondered just what I was becoming involved in. Why did it have to be thus? Why did there have to be intrigues and lies and obfuscation?

I returned to my walk around the city. For the first half-hour I found myself looking over my shoulder to see if I was being followed, but then I decided I was being silly and stopped.

I reviewed the earlier discussion. First, I did believe that Queen Mary’s reign was a disaster for my country, and yes, I would do what I could to change it. Furthermore I agreed with the others that Princess Elizabeth was the right choice to replace Queen Mary, and I accepted that Mary’s natural death would probably have to be the event which brought about the change.

I also accepted that involvement in such a big game was fraught with risks and that, although my life was not in great danger as long as I remained outside England, by participating in this (what was it – ‘plot’, or ‘arrangement’?) I was increasing that risk.

I knew that Courtenay was totally unreliable, and although I found it impossible to criticize Thomas Marwood, I could see that it would be unwise to tell him anything about our discussion.

So why did I feel so uncomfortable?

A cold wind was starting to pick up and I decided to seek shelter in the Basilica di Sant’ Antonio. The calm of the interior allowed me to think. In the end, I was left with only one conclusion: my head accepted the logic of everything we had agreed to do. It was my heart that felt uncomfortable with the idea of keeping secrets, of living a lie.

I walked back out into the Piazza del Duomo, with part of my puzzle solved. Now I knew what it was that troubled me. The next question was what to do about it. Still uncertain, I walked back towards the university and our inn. What would Lady Jane have said? I did not have to walk far before her reply caught up with me: ‘You know what is right, and it is your duty to fight for what is right.’

I smiled to myself. Why did I even need to ask? She would not have contemplated any compromise over an issue as fundamental as this. And what of my discomfort at living a lie?

‘Learn to live with life’s discomforts. Grow up. You are a man now. Think like one. Live like one.’

I looked up at the clear blue sky and nodded my thanks. Was she there, watching me? In truth I didn’t know, but, as Walsingham had said this morning, why take a risk you don’t have to take? I would accept Lady Jane’s advice, as I always had.

C
HAPTER
14

January the 26th 1556 – Brenta Canal and Laguna Veneta

After seemingly endless travelling, our stay in Padua had been wonderful. Thomas had virtually disappeared into the Department of Medicine at the university, meeting old friends, borrowing books and attending lectures. On the few occasions we did meet for supper, he seemed like a man rejuvenated, and it was such a pleasure to see him so.

Courtenay seemed to spend most of his time with the diplomatic set, and appeared to be developing a close friendship with Peter Vannes. After Walsingham’s warning, that worried me. I had no faith in the earl’s judgement and I could imagine a seasoned diplomat quietly getting Courtenay to tell him everything he knew. That did not concern me personally, as I had always been careful to keep my personal views and activities from the earl, but I did begin to wonder whether Vannes had, as Walsingham had surmised during our conversation, been given instructions from London to keep close to Courtenay.

I had met and talked to Cheke once or twice since our first meeting. Most of our conversation had been about old times. Talking of Lady Jane was a pleasure, but it always left me feeling depressed afterwards. The memories were still too close and too raw.

It was time to move on, however. None of us had wanted to leave Padua but, knowing we must, we had decided to leave early. As a result, it was not more than nine o’clock in the morning, and the heavy frost still everywhere, when we brought our carts to a standstill at Fusina, the end of the road, some twelve miles from Padua.

Our road from Padua had been flat, running beside the Brenta Canal, and on a normal day we could have loaded everything on to a barge at Padua and taken our ease. But today was not a normal day and the canal had frozen. The advice from the barge-men had been given with a shrug:‘What’s the hurry? Wait another couple of days until we get a storm. The rain will warm it all up and the canal will be open.’ They appeared to have no sense of urgency.

But having come so far, we felt honour-bound to continue our journey to its finish – and the finish we had agreed was Venice. Now we stood at the end of the road and looked across the last few hundred yards to the island city.

‘There it is. Venice. La Serenissima. Journey’s end.’ I could see that Thomas was going to take pleasure in acting as our guide and already his waved hand had the pride of a proprietor.

We all nodded in satisfaction as our horses blew in the cold morning air.

‘How do we cross?’ It was Thomas, ever practical, who voiced the question we were all asking ourselves. Somehow, we had convinced ourselves that whilst the canal, with its fresh water, was frozen, the saltwater lagoon would remain open.

The lagoon looked to be deeply frozen, a dirty white with no sign of the darkness below that would signify water. It appeared the ice was thick – thick enough to walk on and tracks seemed to indicate that men and carts had crossed on previous days. Still, it was one thing to theorize about the possibility of crossing safely, but quite another to launch yourself, your horse and your possessions, in a heavy cart, out across the expanse of ice. We waited, uncertain.