Daughters of the Doge (25 page)

March the 9th 1556 – Convento di Sant’ Alvise

Thomas often says that he finds travelling a good opportunity to think, but I cannot share his view when it comes to riding or to travelling by cart. When I am riding I am always aware of the horse – how well he is picking up his feet and whether his gait indicates any possible injury – and this tends to prevent me from letting my mind wander too far. And travelling by cart is so noisy and uncomfortable that it is hard to think of anything but the crunch and lurch of the wheels and the endless jarring of every part of you. However much you twist around, there is no comfortable position, and even sitting up at the front beside the driver on a sack full of straw causes bruises after only half an hour or so.

Travelling by gondola, on the other hand, is quite different: it is quiet and smooth, and in warm dry weather it offers the opportunity to lie back and be transported to your destination as if on a magic carpet. Sometimes I wonder which came first – whether the gondola was created to meet the needs of Venice or whether the city of Venice was designed to make the maximum use of this wonderful boat’s capabilities. Whichever it is, the two come together in perfect harmony.

On this particular afternoon although it had turned cold, I was well wrapped up in a warm coat, and with a wintry sun and no rain, I felt relaxed, although slightly apprehensive. I lay back and enjoyed the easy progress of the gondola, and let my mind wander.

Would she respond? And if so, how?

We slid under a bridge and, as we came back into the watery sunshine three prostitutes leaned over a balcony and called down to me. They were dressed like nobility, but with their exposed breasts and loud voices, there was no mistaking them. ‘An hour to spare, young man? Come on up and have a good time. You can have all three of us for the price of two. Come on up and let’s see what you’re made of

I waved and smiled. What a strange city this was, with ten per cent of the population prostitutes and the same proportion nuns. And although both groups put a good face on it, how many of either group were really content with their lot, and how many were held captive within the rules set by men?

Nor was I convinced that, in the end, the rules worked for the benefit of the men, either. No doubt some young men thought that living together in
fratellanze,
working as diplomats and law officers by day and carousing with prostitutes by night, was what life was really all about, but I wondered how many of them, in their hearts, did not dream of settling down one day with wife and family and a life of peaceful domesticity. One day, but perhaps not yet, I thought, as we slid under yet another bridge.

My mind returned to the nun with the pale gold hair. Would she appear today? And, if so, would she have a reply for me? I was determined that if she did so, no opportunity would be lost, and had carefully fashioned a spliced stick, shaped so that it would not be sharp, to reach for any note she might hold out to me.

We approached another bridge, where a gaggle of urchins were leaning on the rail. ‘Watch out!’ called the gondolier, and I realized they were playing Piss on the Boatman. They stood, ready, as we approached, and the gondolier pulled his oar clear of the water and lifted it. ‘The first one to piss on my boat gets this up his arse!’ he shouted, and the boys, giggling, retreated from the edge of the bridge. No doubt the game was played a hundred times a day throughout the city. I wondered whether the gondolier had played the same game when he was eight years old, perhaps on this very same bridge.

We passed underneath without mishap and as we appeared on the other side, they were above us. One of them spotted my spliced stick and pointed and shouted. The other boys laughed loudly, but I could not understand his accent. ‘What did he say?’ I asked the gondolier.

‘They were speaking Venetian dialect. They said, “Off to the nunnery for some fun, are you? If God saves randy nuns, ask him to save one each for us”.’

I waved my stick, showing I understood their joke. Wherever you went in Venice, such familiarity with the earthy side of life was not far away.

We crossed the main canal of the Rio di Sant’ Alvise and turned into the side canal beside the convent. Already the gang of youths was there, and a few of them bowed low in mock-courtesy at my arrival in my own gondola. ‘Going up in the world, Richard?’ from one was followed by, ‘He’ll have snow on his head soon if he goes up any further,’ from another, a particularly short character who always joked about my height.

The barge was not in place today but, keeping the game going, they carefully poled their boats out from the wall of the convent so that the ‘English Lord’ could bring his gondola right underneath the window.

The gondolier glared. ‘I am not taking my gondola up against that rough wall, sir, and if you have any ideas of climbing up from my boat, as they are doing, you can forget them.’ In the end it was easier to pay him off and join my friends.

The nuns appeared with the usual giggles and we began the merry-go-round of taking it in turns to position ourselves near the window. I stood at the back and looked over the heads of the others for ‘my nun’ but at first could not see her. Finally, however, she appeared, well back, as usual facing away and looking through the window from the corner of her eye.

I waved. At first I was not sure she had seen me, for she gave no immediate reaction, but then I noticed that she was slowly working her way forward. She stood close to the window. Quietly she reached into her gown and extracted a small note. Even now, she was facing away from me, but I could see her eyes were focused upon me and she was holding the note below her chin uncertainly.

Quickly I pushed my way forward and lifted my spliced stick to the window right in front of her. With long, delicate fingers, she pressed her note tightly into the cleft and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Retrieving the note, I dropped back into the crowd.

I looked up. She was still in her position, standing tightly by the window, and, for the first time, she was looking at me intently.

She is afraid, I thought, suddenly realizing why she took such pains to avoid signalling what she was doing.

I looked from side to side, but nobody seemed to have seen the note being passed, or that she was awaiting my response. I looked at her as intently as I could and, as she caught my eye, I nodded, just once. The smallest of smiles pinched the corners of her mouth and she blinked, as if holding my gaze was unsettling her.

I continued to look intently at her, but again her eyes roamed around the crowd, apparently searching for observers. Eventually she seemed satisfied that our communication was not being observed and her eyes returned to mine.

As quietly as I could, I indicated the act of writing and tried to signal my return in two days. She seemed to understand and nodded, the small smile returning just for a fleeting moment. Then she was gone. A little later I saw her again, right at the back of the crowd and to one side, eyes wandering still, as if looking for enemies.

I did not signal again – it seemed inappropriate – but instead quietly left and made my way home. Twice I stopped where it was quiet and re-read the letter, on each occasion looking carefully behind me before taking it out of my pocket. Something in her nervousness seemed to have attached itself to her note, and now affected me. It was clear she was very frightened, and although I was not sure who, or what, she was afraid of, I had only to remember that look on her face to resolve to protect her.

As I neared our temporary home, I found I was unable to bring myself to approach the Ca’ da Mosto. Instead, I veered away towards Titian’s house by the marshes. I needed time to think: time to take in what I had read, time to work out just what, if anything, I could do for Suor Faustina Contarini. If I was going to think clearly, the last thing I needed was Courtenay’s self-centred demands.

Approaching Titian’s house I found a low wall upon which I could sit, and looked across the lagoon towards Murano, hoping the view would somehow give me inspiration. Instead, I found myself getting angry that any girl should have been taken into a convent at the tender age of seven, and then effectively imprisoned there ever since. I was incensed that the beautiful twenty-year-old she had turned into, a woman, who should now have all her life before her, instead faced degradation and perhaps violence in her continuing prison, simply because the family who had placed her there had failed in their obligation to provide for her.

Most of all, I realized that I was angry because I felt powerless to do anything about the situation.

Despite that anger, there was within me an opposing inner caution; one that told me not to act with my usual rash urgency, but to think carefully first.

I needed to walk; sitting still was making me feel even more impotent. I rose and began walking beside the sea, the afternoon sun behind me and the lagoon beginning to darken. As I passed Titian’s house, a rich patron was leaving, his carriage horses blowing impatiently in front of the door. I paused opposite. There was a deep dirty laugh from the doorway and a rotund cardinal rolled towards his carriage, Titian at his side.

‘You can certainly paint flesh, Titian; what wouldn’t I do to get my hands on those ample breasts! Have it delivered immediately; I will hang it in my private bedroom. It will be some sort of consolation, I suppose.’

Titian bowed low. ‘Always a pleasure, Your Grace. Perhaps you would contemplate having her sister beside her, as I suggested? The one with the red hair, you remember? Your bedroom wall would accommodate both.’

The cardinal leaned out of his carriage conspiratorially. ‘Having her sister beside her. Well, there’s a thought for an old man! Room on my wall there may be, but room in my bed there certainly is – for both of them and me inbetween. What a thought: two of her at once – one on one side with golden hair and the other on the opposite side with red hair. I shall think about it. Frequently!’

The carriage rolled off briskly and Titian went back inside.

I shook my head. Titian’s noble patrons! Rich middle-aged men, high up in the Church, pretending to be models of piety by patronizing great works of art in the name of religion, but in reality lusting after the model in the picture. To make matters worse, less than a mile away a woman of equal, if less visible, beauty was effectively being held a prisoner by those same ‘noble’ men.