Daughters of the Doge (30 page)

One thing stood out against my memory of the paintings: her hair. For unlike the two Venus paintings, in which the subject’s golden locks were piled high in what was fashionably known as the Virgin’s Crown, Veronica’s hair was russet red, and cut simply and plainly. I knew from one glance at this hair that it signified her underlying independence, and in that moment of recognition, I also realized why both artists had changed it for something more fashionable – and gentle lemon-bleached blonde. Theirs was the compliant virgin; this was the real woman.

She sat, comfortably, opposite me, and I knew she would appear comfortable wherever she was and whoever she accompanied. She was friendly, without being familiar, making gentle jokes at the expense of Tintoretto, asking about my visit to Venice and how long I had been here; but it was only later I realized she had told me almost nothing about herself.

She did make me one promise, however: I was invited to return in five days’ time to watch her being painted. I could hardly wait.

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March the 20th 1556 – Piazza San Marco

‘Is he sulking again, Thomas?’

Without speaking, my friend raised his shoulders in the Venetian manner, opening the palms of his hands. He clearly did not intend to commit himself

‘Surely he realizes that the first day of spring is a
local
celebration? There was no reason to expect the Doge or the Council of Ten to invite an English visitor, even an earl. Why couldn’t he just join the crowd and watch the spectacle as we are doing? Do you think this social snub, as he perceives it, will instigate something?’

Thomas shook his head in apparent uncertainty. ‘I find him just as hard to predict as you do, Richard, but I shouldn’t be surprised if he did suggest something. He has that invitation from Duke Ercole d’Este to visit Ferrara, for example. He might respond to that. He has had it for weeks now.’

I was no expert on the subtleties of international intrigue, but I did know that Duke Ercole d’Este was generally regarded in Venice as being dangerous, said to be in the pocket of the French. And one thing I did know about the English Court: it never trusted anything French, either directly or indirectly. If the earl ever hoped to return to England and be accepted back fully in English society, getting himself associated with the French might not be a very good idea. Still, as Thomas reminded me, I could not influence the earl’s decision, so I might as well sit back and let him get into his own difficulties. He was, after all, the earl, not me.

‘Why does he always need his social position to be recognized?’

Thomas smiled his familiar weary smile.

Sometimes, when I was railing about something I considered unreasonable, Thomas’s calm resilience made me worse, and when he smiled that particular ‘I have seen all this many times before’ smile, I felt as if I could shake him. Recently, however, I had found it easier to come round to his point of view.

Was it the warmer weather, or was I growing up? My twenty-first birthday was only three months away; perhaps I would soon become staid and responsible like Thomas. Whatever it was, I decided to enjoy the sunshine, the procession and the sights and sounds of the Piazza San Marco in full celebration, and not to let Edward Courtenay’s mood spoil my afternoon.

The procession streamed in front of us, group after group of musicians, each playing its own melody. There was a good distance between each group but when the wind shifted and their music intermingled, the result was something of a tangled mess. Nevertheless, the entertainment was free, the sun was shining and, like the rest of the huge crowd, we were enjoying ourselves.

‘The Doge! The Doge!’ The crowd rose to its feet as Doge Francesco Venier was carried across the piazza in front of us.

He was preceded by musicians playing pipes and long silver trumpets, and by some sort of lord, in full armour, bearing a huge rapier and flanked by a chaplain and a shield bearer. They were followed by a gilded chair with cushion of cloth of gold, surmounted by an effigy of the Virgin Mary and carried by eight squires. Behind the Doge walked eight
commandanti,
carrying silk standards: two white for peace, two red for war, two purple for truce and two blue for union.

Doge Venier looked frail, old and tired, but the famous
corno –
horn-shaped – hat sat proudly enough on his head, and his stance remained upright despite the weight of the brocaded silk
dogalina
and a heavy cloak with wolfskin collar. Nevertheless, as he passed close in front of us, I was aware of the piercing clarity of his gaze, and realized that however old and weak the body, the mind was still razor sharp.

I would not want to get on the wrong side of that man, I thought, as he moved away from us.

The procession lasted for two hours, with mounted soldiers following the walking nobility, their lances held high and pennants fluttering in the breeze and catching the golden afternoon light.

When finally it finished, there was a mad rush for the taverns around the piazza. Thomas and I decided to walk along the Riva degli Schiavoni beside the lagoon and enjoy the warmth of the sun as we sought a trattoria with an empty table. Eventually, approaching the Arsenale, we found one and established ourselves at an outside table in the sunshine. We were just in time, for within minutes we were joined by a large group of shipyard workers as they streamed in after their day’s work.

The day’s offering was brought to us – a huge bowl of fish soup, golden with saffron, a loaf of ciabatta and a jug of white wine. It was a feast fit for a doge and we toasted his good health as we enjoyed it.

Although only early evening, it was dark by the time we returned home. We found the earl in his room, surrounded by papers. He had clearly been busy writing letters – a favourite occupation when his mood had just changed. ‘Gentlemen! I trust you enjoyed the spectacle. How was the Doge?’

I replied that he looked old and tired but still very alert.

‘I have decided that I will go where I am appreciated. I have written to Duke Ercole, confirming that I shall be pleased to accept his kind offer and shall travel to Ferrara in a week’s time. If either of you would care to join me, you are of course most welcome, but if you have other commitments in this city, I shall not be offended if you feel the need to honour them.’

The acid in his voice was not entirely unexpected. In his mood of self-pity, he was inviting us to snub his invitation, as he believed the Doge had snubbed him. Thomas looked at me carefully as he replied. ‘I should be delighted to accompany you on part of the journey, Your Grace, but with your permission I will stop off at Padua and spend some days with my old friends there. Richard, what will you do?’

There was something in his tone that contained a warning. I decided to prevaricate.

‘Thank you, Your Grace, it would be a pleasure. However, the invitation is unexpected and I have a number of small arrangements to make. Perhaps I could confirm to you nearer your proposed departure date?’

Courtenay accepted, in a manner which indicated that he really did not care one way or the other, while Thomas nodded his approval. It appeared he had been signalling to me not to reject the offer out of hand, with the earl in his present sensitive mood. I had taken my leave and was at the door when Courtenay lifted his head from his papers.

‘Oh, you can tell that painter not to bother for the moment. I may have something made in Ferrara, the Duke has a very good man, I understand.’

Damn the man!

I left the room, irritated that, once again, Courtenay’s whim was disrupting other people’s lives so easily. Part of me was trying to think of an acceptable excuse not to join him; another was wondering what I was going to say to Tintoretto.

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