Daughters of the Doge (18 page)

He shook my hand, hanging on to it for a moment and gripping my elbow with the other hand. ‘Love thy neighbour as thyself. But make sure you are very clear who your neighbour is. There are many pockets in this society and, as they say here, it all depends whose pocket you are in.’

I thanked him for his advice. One lesson stood out: there was one law for the rich and another for the poor.

C
HAPTER
20

February the 16th 1556, Ca’ da Mosto

I was lost in my thoughts, when I heard the earl approaching. He was whistling, which answered my first question: in recent days, Courtenay’s mood had changed so frequently that Thomas and I had invented a new game, Guess the Earl’s Mood Today We had decided that, on balance, high-and-mighty self-importance was (just) to be preferred to self-indulgent public misery Whistling was, therefore, a relatively good sign.

Thomas had, as usual, gone to the Oratorio, where an outbreak of measles was hitting the elderly particularly hard, and he was not expected back until late. I had the pleasure of the earl’s company to myself.

‘I have decided to have my portrait painted, Richard. What do you think?’

I was not sure I had a reply. ‘To what end, Your Grace?’

‘Why, to the end of a beneficial marriage, of course. The nobility in this city are charming, simply charming, and the ladies particularly so. I am certain that I am in the right place at the right time and shall, within a very few weeks, find a suitable match.’

‘But if you meet the lady, Your Grace, why does she need your portrait?’ I was enjoying being obtuse.

‘To communicate, of course. Look here: either I shall meet the daughter who will fall in love with me and need to seek her father’s permission to marry, or I shall meet the royal father, who will decide that his daughter should marry into the oldest house in Europe, in which case he will need to show the daughter what she will be getting. It’s quite normal. Surely you remember those Holbein paintings in London. What do you think they were for?’

My mind went back to the story of Anne of Cleves, and the reason poor Hans Holbein’s career with King Henry had ended so abruptly. It was said the reality of the ‘Flanders Mare’ had been a terrible shock to the King after Holbein’s flattering portrait. Thomas Cromwell had reputedly told the artist to paint the princess ‘in a good light’ and he had done just that, in the process omitting any reference to her big nose or her yellow teeth.

‘You saw my portrait in London, of course?’ He was preening again.

‘Indeed, Your Grace, I did. I thought Hans Eworth captured your spirit most excellently.’

In truth I thought the painting depicted a man who had just wet himself and hoped no one had noticed.

‘Well said. Well said. Well, now it’s time for another. Yes, time for another.’

My heart sank. Surely this was not to be the next mannerism: saying everything twice in case the lower classes had not understood fully the first time. I smiled.

‘Indeed, Your Grace. And who will make this portrait for you?’

‘I am relying on you for that, Richard.’

I looked at him in astonishment. My drawings were adequately good, but I had never tried oil paints.

‘I want you to find the best there is, and expect you to secure for me a beneficial commission.’

‘Beneficial, Your Grace? In what respect?’ I simply couldn’t resist it.

He glared at me. ‘Cheap, Richard. I don’t expect to pay the inflated prices these rich merchants in Venice pay. It’s ridiculous. The right man will understand. They always want to paint royalty; it has a certain
cachet,
as they say in Brussels, and it brings in the commissions thereafter. It won’t be a problem. Simply let drop the magic words “Plante à Genet” and all will be well.’

I gave him my best courtier’s bow, though I wondered how many doors the Plantagenet name would open nowadays.

‘I shall scour the city immediately, Your Grace.’

Courtenay stood in front of the mirror, turning from side to side, recreating the standing pose in his last portrait. ‘You know, Richard, I do believe I have grown in stature and authority since Eworth painted me.’ He twirled again. ‘Yes, that’s it. Stature
and
authority.’

As I sought to leave the room, still maintaining the manner of a courtier, he called after me.

‘That man who painted the Doge? What’s his name? Titian? He’s probably the right man. Understands royalty. Nice bright colours, too. But make sure you get a good price agreed, Richard. It’s far too late to haggle when the work is complete, you know.’

I closed the door. ‘Nice bright colours.’ I was not going to enjoy this.

C
HAPTER
21

February the 18th 1556 – Sacca della Misericordia, Cannaregio

I was lost again. This morning I had set out for the workshop of Tiziano Vecellio, whom the English called Titian, guided by what I thought were clear directions from Peter Vannes.

Despite my inner distrust of the man, I believed he would be able to recommend appropriate artists to me, and he had advised me to try Titian, Veronese and Tintoretto (although he had been careful not to declare a preference). Any fears I might have had about giving away the earl’s secrets were soon dispelled, as Peter Vannes told me Courtenay had already discussed the idea with him at some length.

Vannes had given me careful instructions on how to find each of the
‘artisan
’
,
as he called them (to my surprise these outstanding artists were treated as tradesmen), and although I had become a little confused as I scribbled my notes, I was confident at least of finding the workshop of Titian on the Fondamente Nuove along the north shore.

But now here I was, beside the muddy basin called the Sacca della Misericordia, with no idea where to go next. The area had grown more and more desolate as I had passed the Oratorio where Thomas helped the sick, and the district ahead of me looked so disadvantaged and downtrodden that I believed I must be heading in the wrong direction.

I was right on the northernmost edge of the island and a keen salty wind whipped across the water from the cemetery island of San Michele a couple of hundred yards to the north, making me shiver. Gone were the
palazzi,
the fine squares, the rich merchants and the well-dressed women. Here at the edge of Venetian society it was cold, hard and desolate. Another world.

I sat on a wall and watched a man walking slowly through the waist-high muddy water. He appeared to be pushing something and I realized that I had seen this before, during my childhood. He stopped and lifted his net and it all flooded back to me: the shrimp fishermen along Charmouth beach. They used to push large D-shaped nets like that, with a bar across the end which disturbed the sand as it was pushed along, making the shrimps jump into the net. Like the Charmouth fishermen, he swung a large sack round from his back and tipped the catch from his latest effort into it. Seeing me sitting on the wall, he made his way out of the water and joined me, wearily.

‘Are you a fisherman?’ His voice was tired.

‘I have done some fishing, back at home, yes, but there we normally use shrimps as bait for bass, sea trout and salmon in the river.’

‘Which part of the world are you from, stranger?’ His Venetian accent was as strong as any I had heard since arriving.

‘From the south-west of England, a place called Devon.’

He smiled, wearily. ‘Here for trade, are you? Come to buy luxury goods, silks and spices?’

I shook my head. ‘No, I am acting as secretary to an English earl, who is visiting for a few months.’

He wiped his nose with the back of a muddy hand, making his face dirtier rather than cleaner. ‘Earl, eh? Rich people? Nobility. Another world. The world above.’ He swept his arm to signify the muddy creek. ‘Welcome to the world below.’

‘Why do you say that?’ I did not fully understand the point he was making.

He pointed to one of
the fondamente
across the muddy creek, with a church and tall stone-and-wood buildings rising up behind it. ‘Look over there. What do you see?’

I followed his gaze. ‘A church, some large houses?’

He shook his head. ‘Typical. All you see is the world above; your world. Now let me show you my world. Look lower. What do you see?’

I lowered my eyes. ‘The stone embankment and the quayside?’

He nodded. ‘Closer. Yes the stonework of the
fondamenta
holds back the water and acts as a base for the building work and for the roadway, but beneath that?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t know.’

He led me forward to the edge of the mud, and rammed the long handle of his net into it.

‘Venice is built on sand and gravel. But on top of the sand and gravel are thick layers of mud and ooze. Before they can build, they have to drive great timber piles down through the mud and sand and into the firm gravel beneath. This whole city is set on a base of wooden piles, thousands of them, and they are all slowly rotting.’

He looked at me for effect. ‘Like the whole of what they call society, the shiny gondolas, the big houses, the fine churches. It’s all built on sand and it’s all rotten at the core.’

I was amazed at his bitterness, and said so.

‘How hard has the famine hit you, then?’ He raised a muddy eyebrow as he searched my face for a reaction.

I fell for it completely. ‘What famine?’