Daughters of the Doge (16 page)

Perhaps it was my inability to play the diplomat, but day-by-day my lack of respect for the earl grew and I seemed unable to keep my feelings hidden. The result was a growing stiffness in our relationship. Nevertheless, with neither of us having developed friendships elsewhere in the city, we found ourselves continually thrown together and the atmosphere of brittle coexistence continued.

‘No, I don’t think so, Thomas. Given the choice, I think I would rather stay here and explore alone. Perhaps later in the spring I would like to accompany you to Padua again, but for now, both the earl and I would, I believe, be more relaxed if we were apart rather than together.’

We stopped walking and faced the lagoon together. Considering it was only February, the sun was remarkably bright on the water and we had to screw our eyes tight to look across at San Giorgio Maggiore and further out across the lagoon to the long low islands which held the power of the sea at bay.

‘It’s not easy for him, either, you know,’ said Thomas.

I sighed, for we frequently had this conversation. ‘I know, I know. But I don’t know which is worse, the doom and despondency when he is down-hearted or the inflated self-importance when his confidence lifts. Is there nothing in the middle? Can’t he ever act like the rest of us?’

Thomas took my arm and steered me back towards San Marco. ‘Try to be a little more tolerant, if you can, Richard. He has spent over half of his life in one prison room, and for all his royal blood has had very little opportunity to prepare for the elevated position he now occupies. He, too, is learning, but it is primarily his title that people respond to, rather than the man himself, and that does not make it easy for him to develop as what you would call a normal person.

‘In any event, things are improving. The earl tells me we have been offered larger quarters in the Ca’ da Mosto, the house of a nobleman. The extra space will, I am sure, make it easier for all of us. We won’t be cooped up together quite so tightly. Nevertheless, I suggest you explore the city and try to make some friends of your own age. Your Italian is excellent and you seem to be picking up a good smattering of Venetian dialect as well, so you should not have any problem.’

It was at that point I made a decision: I would break free of the earl and continue to explore Venice on my own.

C
HAPTER
18

February the 14th 1556 – Ca’ da Mosto, Cannaregio

Thomas was right, as he so often was. The Ca’ da Mosto was close to our inn and hung right over the Grand Canal, and the additional space soon eased the tension.

Having our own home had a further benefit: we were able once again to have our own servants. Even better, the Ca’ da Mosto already had a core of servants in place and we now found our lives supported by a ready-made family of helpers. Foremost amongst them, and not to be ignored, was our cook. We were never told her name: she was simply addressed as ‘Cuoca’, the cook, and seemed happy that way. Her husband, likewise, was addressed by his function; as he was a handyman who did everything, his job was described as
‘tuttofare’
and we called him Tutto. Their son followed his father around, learning one skill after another. Andrea was about nine years old, but whilst his father was thin and wiry, he had obviously benefited from his mother’s cooking and was as strong as a little bullock. His parents called him Bimbo and the name soon stuck with all of us.

The presence of a family of willing helpers released Thomas and me from many of the little chores we had previously performed on the earl’s behalf, and the advice we were soon able to garner from their local knowledge enabled us to be independent, and each of us soon began to find his own way in the city.

The earl’s armed guard came and went every eight hours, and those on duty faithfully accompanied him on his journeys to visit noblemen and officials. He seemed to have found himself a place in Venetian society, and people of his own background with whom to spend his time. Soon we saw little of him until he returned in the evening – sometimes for dinner, but more commonly later, for bed. But he kept faith with the original arrangements between us and paid all the bills, even though he seldom called upon our services now, in any capacity.

Thomas also found a role for himself, and soon developed a relationship with the monks from the nearby Oratorio dei Crociferi. This had originally been built as a hospital for returning Crusaders, but for the last hundred years it had been dedicated to the relief of old people. Within days he was disappearing early in the morning to offer his medical skills and wandering back late in the evening, tired but contented.

More than once he invited me to join him, but the thought made me feel trapped; I felt that, once again, I was going to be drawn into living someone else’s life. I was keen to break loose and make a life of my own. Thomas had reminded me that we would, in all probability, only be in Venice and funded by the earl for another two or three months, and in that time I wanted to make my own discoveries and my own friendships, if I could.

For that reason I set off to explore alone, and began to wander the great stone canalside embankments and the narrow alleyways of Cannaregio – the area behind and to the north of our new home. It was a quieter area of the city, largely set apart from the diplomatic showcase and away from the ostentatious wealth of the Grand Canal. I immediately liked it, and began to wander with my notebook, sitting beside canals or on bridges and making drawings.

At first I limited myself to short journeys beside the Rio Terra de la Maddelena, staying close and parallel to the Grand Canal so I would not get lost, but as the days went by my courage increased and I drifted further and further north. On one occasion I reached the northern shore of the island and enjoyed the view across to San Michele and Murano, then wandered the fields and marshes along the coast.

Eventually I was forced to turn south and found myself cut off by the Rio Sant’ Alvise. I cast left and right and eventually found a bridge near the Campo Sant’ Alvise. Here, I was surprised to see a gaggle of boats moored beside the convent wall, young men standing in them and reaching up to the barred windows. Perhaps, I thought, it was a saint’s day, being celebrated in the local fashion, and I passed on south to the Rio dell’ Orto, where another bridge took me to the Fondamenta della Sensa.

The
fondamenta
faced south, catching the sun reflected from the canal. Suddenly, here, I felt totally at home. On a corner close to the Ponte de la Malvasia a small trattoria, the Sensazione, sat lazily open, and I took a seat in the sun and leaned back against the warm wall. A young boy was sitting on the edge of the wide canal and fishing, making use of a convenient stone step beside the bridge as a comfortable seat. The tide was high and the boy’s toes dangled just above the water as he waited.

This was a different Venice, a Venice of real people; of fishermen, shoemakers, bakers and house builders. As so often before, the need to stop moving whilst eating food became an opportunity for contemplation. I let the warmth of the wall soak into my back, half-closed my eyes against the sun, and wondered what the young men had been doing by the convent windows.

‘Ehi, signore
!’

I opened my eyes and looked at the boy. He was holding up a small fish.

‘Well done. How many is that?’

‘Six. Only small ones but they taste good if you fry them quickly.’

‘How many do you hope to catch?’

He shook his head. ‘I have run out of bait. Can you give me some?’

I wondered how many times he had used that ploy with people eating at these tables.

‘Yes, what do you want?’

The boy looked at me, calculating.

‘Bread, perhaps some cheese.’

I nodded, amused at his cheek, and turned to the waiter as he brought my dinner. ‘Can I have some bread and some cheese, please?’

The waiter turned to the boy.

‘The bread. What sort?’

‘Ciabatta, of course.’

‘With or without salt?’

‘Without. And a glass of Malvasia would be nice.’

The waiter looked at me and raised an eyebrow. I nodded my approval and turned to the boy.

‘Come and sit down over here. Otherwise you will spill your wine in the canal.’

He needed no further bidding and jumped up immediately. The food arrived and the wine with it.

‘Salute
.’ He raised his glass to me and drank half of it.

I raised my own glass. ‘Now, you earn your dinner. I want information.’

The boy sat back and opened his arms widely. ‘Go ahead. What do you need to know, how to meet the nuns around the corner?’

I looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘What makes you ask that?’

He grinned, his expression older than his age. ‘It’s always the same questions on this corner if it’s a stranger. They see the boys round there, talking to the nuns at Sant’ Alvise. First they ask who they are talking to, then what are they talking about, and finally, “How much to introduce me to some of them?” It’s always the same. As you brought me dinner I thought I would save you some time.’

‘And what is the answer?’

‘Sant’ Alvise is a convent for noble ladies – ordinary girls like my sisters need not apply. They are dumped there by their families to save paying dowries for them. Most of the young nuns do not dress as nuns but let their hair grow long and wear expensive gowns. They love passing notes and having conversation with young men from outside. Sometimes they exchange kisses and maybe even – well, you know.’ He made a suggestive gesture.

I could not believe my ears, or my eyes. ‘Why is this convent so different?’

He looked confused. ‘Different?’

‘From the others.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s not. They are all like it, all over Venice. Down there, at that convent over the bridge, they will give you a quick fuck anytime if you ask them nicely, but they are not classy like the nuns here and don’t smell so good.’

I was beginning to think I was being taken for a ride. ‘And how do you know all this?’

‘I know from my older brothers. They deliver bread and cakes to both convents. They know all the tricks.’

‘Where do your brothers work, then?’

‘Here.’ He pointed over his shoulder into the trattoria. ‘At my father’s place.’

I was speechless for a moment. ‘But you let me pay for your dinner and it’s provided by your own parents?’

He put his hand on mine, in gentle reassurance. ‘Oh don’t worry, they won’t charge you for my food.’

‘Then why?’

‘It’s just the challenge – to see if I can. Sometimes old ladies feel sorry for me and I have to eat a great plate of pasta. I tell them it’s the first food I have had for days, and they believe me. Sometimes I nearly burst, I eat so much, but I don’t tell them that; it would spoil their day. This way, they go home happy.’

‘And your parents won’t charge me for your food?’

He looked at me sideways. ‘No. Not for the food. Only for the wine: that’s the price of information.
Salute
.’

He drained his glass and returned to his fishing rod, which, to judge by its movement, had caught another fish; so much for running out of bait. The owner of the trattoria brought me the bill and, as I paid it, shrugged his shoulders.