Daughters of the Doge (23 page)

March the 1st 1556 – Convento di Sant’ Alvise, Cannaregio

I had remembered correctly; it was the right day and the right time of day. The young men were, once again, milling about on the bridge beside the Convento di Sant’ Alvise and calling to their companions who were standing in the boats or clambering up to the convent windows.

A number of them, including Marco and Angelino, recognized me and waved me forward into the boats. I was greeted like a friend and I quickly relaxed into the gang.

‘Sebestiano is coming in a minute. He has pinched a barge from his father’s business and is bringing it round. It is much bigger than our boats and we will be able to stand higher – opposite the windows.’

It sounded like a good idea, and when eventually the barge appeared, punted along the canal by two strong youths, a cheer went up. There was a loud giggle from within the convent; it appeared someone had told the nuns of the plan and they, too, were waiting in keen anticipation.

Sebastiano drove the barge against the flaking yellow stone of the convent wall and tied it fore and aft to the window bars. Clearly the boys felt secure in their game and no attempt at concealment appeared necessary. Excitedly, we climbed upon the barge and stood on the curved hatch-covers. Most of those present still had to crane their necks a little to look into the convent window, but for me, being perhaps a foot taller than anyone else, there was no difficulty and I had a direct view into the convent.

The afternoon sun was on the other side of the building, throwing our wall into deep shade, and although the light was poor, it was sufficient. I counted seventeen nuns, aged from perhaps fourteen to nearly thirty, gathered around the large window and jockeying for position. My height advantage made it unnecessary to crowd forward, and I stood at the back of the crowd of men, watching the proceedings unfold.

Today there were no roses to present, but a number of the boys were taking it in turns to cling to the bars and whisper to whichever of the nuns had taken their fancy. The nuns, in turn, changed positions so that new faces came and went at the front.

They were like no nuns I had ever seen in England. Their hair was carefully piled upon their heads in ringlets, with silk ribbons intertwined. In many cases, they sported lavish jewellery as well. They were not wearing the traditional nun’s black but instead gowns of sumptuous velvet and brocade. Indeed, as far as I could see, they were dressed as well as the noble ladies I saw tottering across the piazzas in their
chopines,
trying to keep their gowns away from the muddy flagstones.

One difference was noticeable, however: whilst many of the noble ladies seemed hardly more modest than the courtesans who paraded themselves across the piazzas and hung wantonly from balconies and bridges above any canal that carried full gondolas, the nuns were at least modest in the way they wore their clothing.

Some of them however, especially the younger ones, were rather less chaste in their manner, and flirted outrageously with the boys at the window. But behind these chattering few were a number of more sedate nuns, still young – perhaps in their twenties – but more thoughtful in their manner. One of these immediately caught my eye; she stood out from her crowd as obviously as I did from mine. She, like me, was a full head and shoulders taller than those around her, but while my hair was yellow-blond and wavy, hers was white-blonde and straight as an arrow, hanging unadorned past her delicate shoulders. I had only seen such hair twice before, when Baltic traders had been visiting Bridport Fair to buy ropes for their ships in exchange for the long, straight timbers they brought from their pine forests. Not only had the sailors’ hair been the same (the colour of birch bark), but their skin had been the same golden colour and their eyes the same pale but piercing blue.

What caught my eye in particular was the way she faced away to one side, rather than looking straight at me, only her eyes following my movements. There was something in the shy indirectness of that look which captured my attention, and I, for my part, looked directly back at her.

She did not laugh when the younger ones laughed, but merely smiled, gently, ever careful and ever watchful. I thought her face the most characterful I had ever seen. Her cheekbones were high and angled towards the top of her ears, her nose long, narrow and straight, the nostrils slightly flared, like an Arab mare. Her mouth was small, but always changing, with tiny movements at the corners, making little mobile creases as if she were mouthing words or controlling an inner desire to laugh.

She must, I thought, have come from the most noble of families for her neck was very long and her stance and expression held such elegance and character that she would immediately have stood out from all the others, even if she had not been so much taller than they were. The younger nuns continued to scramble for position, but she stood back from the main mêlée, maintaining a look of great reservation and suspicion. In my mind, I named her Ghiacciolo, the Icicle, and I wondered what her real name was and what story lay behind that reserved expression.

Most of the nuns’ faces had a simple happiness and straightforward kindliness, but Ghiacciolo’s expression seemed to contain within it a deep sadness, which, when I looked carefully, came from those pale blue eyes. That face was not the true face of the person inside, I thought, but the public expression of an inner prisoner: a person who perhaps, like me, found themselves in a comfortable prison, but a prison nevertheless. Did we, perhaps, have this in common? Could we, I wondered, help each other to escape? Somehow I felt it was important to speak to her, and, despite her unwillingness to face me directly, I gained a distinct impression that she had something to say to me – something important.

I had noticed a number of the young men passing surreptitious notes to their chosen nuns, but it was clear from her reserved position at the very back of the crowd that Ghiacciola would not take a note from me even if I proffered one. Instead, I opened my sketchbook and on a clean page wrote:

I held the sketchbook up and stared at her. For the first time, she looked directly at me and I thought I could see her mouth the word ‘Richard’. She nodded. I felt the look travel through me to my inner soul, as if our eyes were joined together by some invisible force. For a moment she held the expression, and then dropped her eyes.

The bell began ringing and the nuns started to drift away, but she remained until the last moment, watching me, as if trying to decide if I could be trusted. Eventually, she too turned and walked away, and I joined the rest of the young men as they untied the barge and began to take their boats home again.

Thanking two of them for their offered rides, I decided instead to walk back. I needed to be alone. That face! Even if I were never to see it again, I knew it would remain with me. Who was she, and why was she there?

I wandered back slowly, intentionally taking a longer route than necessary, putting off my arrival. I had to gather my thoughts. Had Neville got it right? Were these young women being held in the convent purely for their own benefit and protection? Or were they truly prisoners? If so, then surely there was a way to get at least one of them out. I felt I had to try.

C
HAPTER
28

March the 2nd 1556 – Ca’ da Mosto

I lay sweating in the prison cell, tossing and turning, trying to block out the sound. I covered my ears with my hands, but they were dragged away again and still the sound came from the next cell, a terrible moaning, a person at the end of their tether, all hope lost, just pain and despair. A woman’s voice, insistent, inescapable, crying for help.

I dragged my weary body to a standstill and forced myself to reach up to the small slit joining our cells. I scratched the plaster to indicate my presence, and waited for a face to appear. Finally she did so, hair matted and filthy, face covered by scratches, blood running down her cheek. She only had the strength to stand for a few seconds and in that time the eyes, bloodshot yet piercing blue at the same time, begged me, willing me to help. But my strength failed and I slid down the cell wall, weeping at my weakness and impotence.

‘Oh!’

I shook my head hard and gasped huge breaths of air, then got up and washed my face in cold water, but still the dream would not leave me. Although it was before dawn and the air cold, the sweat continued to run from my body. Finally, I went downstairs, left the house and crossed the courtyard to the pump over the
cisterna,
soaking myself in freezing water until my head cleared.

Returning to my room, I dried and dressed myself. This would not do. I must return and try to establish some sort of contact.

I arrived at the convent by gondola to find it deserted.

‘You must be a stranger.’ The gondolier looked at me pityingly. ‘The nuns do not appear until mid-afternoon. Everyone knows that.’

I nodded at him angrily. I knew well enough, but I had felt such a sense of urgency to deliver my letter that I was here, alone but for the gondolier, in the cold morning mist.

We waited by the window for perhaps half an hour, until I heard footsteps inside. Standing as high as I could, I held on to the bars of the window. A young nun was passing and nearly fainted when I hissed to her from the window. I held up the note and she read the name. For a moment she frowned and I made a sign indicating shoulder length straight hair. She brightened and nodded, signalling me to wait, then ran off.

For another quarter of an hour I waited, until she came, padding quietly in flat slippers and wearing a black nun’s habit. For a moment I did not recognize her, but she threw back her hood and her pale hair tumbled down. She looked at me, fear, anger and confusion sharing her expression. I passed her the note and to my relief she took it. I waited, hanging precariously on to the bars, while she read it. She finished reading and looked up. I could see she was trying to decide whether she could trust me or not. Finally she appeared to make a decision and nodded.

‘Next week. Normal time,’ I whispered and she nodded again. It was a start. It appeared we had an assignation, of sorts.

C
HAPTER
29