Daughters of the Doge (15 page)

Thomas chewed his food carefully and after a few moments nodded his agreement. I continued, more confidently.

‘But today their attitude to the earl had changed entirely. Why do you think that was? Something must have happened to influence them since we entered the city. We have not been involved in any event here, nor have we caused any trouble, so it must have been triggered by the arrival of information from outside. Do you agree?’

Thomas shrugged his shoulders, apparently uncommitted, but I knew from his eyes that he was still listening.

‘Well, the obvious source of such information is an envoy or ambassador.’

Thomas looked at me, sharper now. ‘Do you mean Peter Vannes, the English Ambassador here in Venice?’

I nodded, trying not to disclose anything Francis Walsingham might have told me. ‘Yes, or Federico Badoer, the Venetian Ambassador in England.’

Thomas shook his head, appearing to lose interest again. ‘I have no idea. I have never met him.’ His politics seemed limited to people he had met personally, but having spent some time at Court in England, I knew the intrigues that went on every day as one man of power jostled for position with another. This was not a dry argument – our own lives might eventually be affected by it. Whether Thomas was interested or not, I continued.

‘Of course, there is also the Venetian Ambassador at the Imperial Court in Brussels, Giovanni Michiel. He knows the earl well and no doubt has some interest in the matter.’

Thomas seemed finally to have lost all interest in my concerns and instead was concentrating fully on his supper. ‘Does it matter who is influencing Venetian policy? How does it affect us?’

I could not understand why he could not see it. Walsingham would have been there in a flash, but that was a name I dared not mention. ‘Of course it matters, for then we can surmise their objectives and in so doing, understand how best to protect ourselves. I saw this in the way King Edward handled foreign ambassadors – he treated them as the best of friends to their faces, but in truth he did not trust a single one of them. Something is going on. Today’s show of friendship was too slick, too rehearsed and, I believe, totally insincere. I have no idea what the Emperor thinks of Courtenay – he certainly made no attempt to keep him in his court in Brussels. In my view everything points back to England.’

Thomas kept eating. I seemed to be on my own now, but to a degree I was no longer talking to him, but to myself – trying to get my thoughts to fall into some sort of logical order.

‘The only country in which Courtenay has any real significance is England, where his name has been used on a number of occasions as a vehicle for those who would overthrow Queen Mary. As soon as she rejected any possibility of marrying him and tying the Tudors back into the old Plantagenet line, he became a threat to her. As a result, his name has on more than one occasion been linked to Princess Elizabeth as a marriage prospect.’

‘This meat is really good.’ Thomas not only appeared to have completely lost interest in my line of argument, but was beginning to resent my continued intrusion into the comfort of his meal. Nevertheless, I continued.

‘There can be no doubt about it: word has reached Venice from England, either through their ambassador or ours (or both), and as a result they have decided to appear friendly. Yes, that’s it.’

I was happy with my conclusion and turned back to my food – now half-cold – with the enthusiasm that comes from overcoming a problem and putting it away in the back of your mind.

Thomas munched on, and I was left to my own thoughts. I looked at him, across the table, happily eating and seemingly content. He did not seem to care about the wider world of politics and religious revolutions as I did. Perhaps that’s what happens when you get old, I thought. Perhaps older people no longer believe they can change the world, and so withdraw into the comfort – or simply the inevitability – of the one they live in. Is that what ‘old’ is? When you give up fighting?

Still Thomas continued eating. I watched him for a minute and another thought began to develop in my head. Our relationship was changing. Ever since I had known Thomas he had acted as my mentor, and I had looked up to him. But today, for the first time, our usual roles had been reversed and
I
had explained something to
him.
Not that he had listened.

In one respect it was a frightening realization but, in another, it gave me a feeling of manhood. I cut into my meat. I must be growing up, I thought.

C
HAPTER
17

February the 11th 1556 – Steps of the Provveditori, Palazzo Ducale

‘Don’t let’s wait for him, Thomas. Let’s go on together, for you know he may remain talking for hours.’ Thomas and I left Courtenay and walked down the steps of the new government offices together, considering the events of the previous week.

‘I hate to have to say this, Thomas, but it seems I was not too far from the mark.’

Thomas had not spoken again about my theory regarding the Venetian government’s sudden embrace of Courtenay, but I was increasingly confident that my suspicion had been correct.

It had started on February the 6th, only two days after our conversation in the Fondaco dei Tedeschi, when rumours of the attempted murder of an Englishman by
bravi –
local thugs – began to circulate. In itself, that was not so significant, for whilst Venice had fewer Englishmen than Germans, my countrymen were by no means rare in the city. More worrying was the name being whispered – Carew. I began to feel that this event was closer to home than was comfortable.

The following morning, a messenger had come to the
albergo
bearing a note – for hand-delivery to me only. I had opened it with some trepidation. It was a single scrap of paper, bearing a pattern of numbers in shaky handwriting, and immediately I feared the worst. I took it to my room, closed and locked the door and took out my copy of
Of Christian Perfection.

Slowly, and carefully, I deciphered the pattern of numbers.

It must be from Peter Carew. It appeared he was alive, but fearful of his life, and intending to cross to the mainland where he could hide himself among friends – probably in Padua, I thought. ‘Mary envoy’ must refer to Peter Vannes. How he must have struggled to find the right words amongst the pages of our common text. If my analyses, or my prejudices, were right, then the English ambassador was implicated, and that suggested the attack had been orchestrated from London. Now perhaps Thomas would understand my eagerness to decode the council’s new-found friendliness towards the earl. What a nasty little world we lived in.

Courtenay had heard the rumour about Carew and was concerned, as they knew each other well. He asked a number of questions, but I dared not mention to him or to Thomas the note I had received.

Events had accelerated on February the 8th, when the Council issued a letter to Courtenay warning him that his life was in danger. Now the matter was out in the open and there could no longer be any pretence that all was well, but no one would tell us why the policy had changed so dramatically or what had made the Council suddenly issue the letter. It was all very worrying and unsatisfactory. By the 10th, the position had been formalized, and a licence was issued by the Council, authorizing the earl and ‘up to fifteen servants’ to carry arms in the city. He did not have many servants, but a dozen well-armed men in ducal uniform had been provided, which almost guaranteed that no
bravi
would attack. Nevertheless, the position was uncomfortable.

Courtenay had begun to take the threat seriously and became frightened that he would be murdered in his bed while the guard slept. It was clear the men could not guard him all day and night, and he had asked for more men, working on a rota system, to provide continuous cover.

Now, on the 11th, the Ducal Palace had sent a message to say that the licence had been extended to twenty-five men, and that one lieutenant would instruct a guard of eight, changed three times a day. To show their good faith, one hundred ducats of funding had been authorized. Courtenay had waited behind at the Palazzo Ducale to meet the designated officer.

‘How do you interpret the situation now, Richard?’ Thomas seemed to defer to me on these matters, and had started to listen to my suggestions.

‘First, I cannot support the earl’s view that the increased guard and the funds to support them reflect high status here in Venice. I believe the increased guard and the money have been provided because the government here sees him as a potential problem and an embarrassment. They don’t care if he lives or dies, as long as he does it in someone else’s area of responsibility. However, they can’t be seen to throw him out in this critical hour, so in the short term, they have to show support and protection.’

We had turned left from the Palazzo Ducale and were walking beside the water along the wide expanse of the Riva degli Schiavoni. The sea air helped clear our heads, allowing us to work out what we could do to escape from this oppressive situation.

‘Surely the government’s spies and informants must know where the threat is coming from?’

I knew Thomas to be as brave as the next man, but this accelerating threat left one feeling sick. Not that we ourselves felt in danger – the authorities had made it clear that the threat was specifically focused on the earl; but some of it rubbed off nevertheless, and we found ourselves sticking to the wider streets and avoiding the narrow alleyways which before had been a particular attraction when wandering through the city

‘I am sure you are right, Thomas. It’s just a matter of time while they get themselves organized. However, I should not be surprised if there were gentle suggestions – made with a light touch, of course – that the earl might wish to visit friends elsewhere during his holiday.’

Thomas grinned. ‘Some holiday. But yes, you are right. Already he is talking about taking up the Duke Ercole d’Este’s invitation to visit Ferrara.’

‘Will you go with him?’ I suddenly realized that the daily pattern of my life might be about to change.

‘Probably, but only as an excuse to go to Padua, either on the way there or, more likely, on the way back. Will you come, if invited?’

I considered my reply. I felt very uncomfortable in the present situation; like a man banished. The word from England was very bad. The burning of so-called heretics continued. In addition, the Council official had told us that plague had broken out again in England and was said to be spreading fast. Neither Thomas nor I had great fears for our relations at home, as most of the outbreaks seemed to stay round the major ports. Bristol, London, Poole and Southampton were all risky areas, but rural Devon was unlikely to be badly affected. Nevertheless, it was not the sort of information that made you want to return too soon.

That said, I found it hard to visualize myself having a future here in Venice, attractive as the city might be. The earl did not, in practice, need a secretary, and I found myself hanging around without any real purpose. I knew no one, and spent day after day wandering aimlessly around, waiting for the next development in Courtenay’s life to spill over into mine. It was all very unsatisfactory. However, I could not gather up any real enthusiasm for travelling with the earl to visit some other duke and, having no idea what Ferrara had to offer, I had little inclination to go there, even if I was invited.