Daughters of the Doge by Edward Charles Page B
Authors: Edward Charles
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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is going on. Today’s show of friendship was too slick, too rehearsed and, I believe, totally insincere. I have no idea what the Emperor thinks of Courtenay – he certainly made no attempt to keep him in his court in Brussels. In my view everything points back to England.’
Thomas kept eating. I seemed to be on my own now, but to a degree I was no longer talking to him, but to myself – trying to get my thoughts to fall into some sort of logical order.
‘The only country in which Courtenay has any real significance is England, where his name has been used on a number of occasions as a vehicle for those who would overthrow Queen Mary. As soon as she rejected any possibility of marrying him and tying the Tudors back into the old Plantagenet line, he became a threat to her. As a result, his name has on more than one occasion been linked to Princess Elizabeth as a marriage prospect.’
‘This meat is really good.’ Thomas not only appeared to have completely lost interest in my line of argument, but was beginning to resent my continued intrusion into the comfort of his meal. Nevertheless, I continued.
‘There can be no doubt about it: word has reached Venice from England, either through their ambassador or ours (or both), and as a result they have decided to appear friendly. Yes, that’s it.’
I was happy with my conclusion and turned back to my food – now half-cold – with the enthusiasm that comes from overcoming a problem and putting it away in the back of your mind.
Thomas munched on, and I was left to my own thoughts. I looked at him, across the table, happily eating and seemingly content. He did not seem to care about the wider world of politics and religious revolutions as I did. Perhaps that’s what happens when you get old, I thought. Perhaps older people no longer believe they can change the world, and so withdraw into the comfort – or simply the inevitability – of the one they live in. Is that what ‘old’ is? When you give up fighting?
Still Thomas continued eating. I watched him for a minute and another thought began to develop in my head. Our relationship was changing. Ever since I had known Thomas he had acted as my mentor, and I had looked up to him. But today, for the first time, our usual roles had been reversed and I had explained something to him. Not that he had listened.
In one respect it was a frightening realization but, in another, it gave me a feeling of manhood. I cut into my meat. I must be growing up, I thought.
C HAPTER 17
February the 11th 1556 – Steps of the Provveditori, Palazzo Ducale
‘Don’t let’s wait for him, Thomas. Let’s go on together, for you know he may remain talking for hours.’ Thomas and I left Courtenay and walked down the steps of the new government offices together, considering the events of the previous week.
‘I hate to have to say this, Thomas, but it seems I was not too far from the mark.’
Thomas had not spoken again about my theory regarding the Venetian government’s sudden embrace of Courtenay, but I was increasingly confident that my suspicion had been correct.
It had started on February the 6th, only two days after our conversation in the Fondaco dei Tedeschi, when rumours of the attempted murder of an Englishman by bravi – local thugs – began to circulate. In itself, that was not so significant, for whilst Venice had fewer Englishmen than Germans, my countrymen were by no means rare in the city. More worrying was the name being whispered – Carew. I began to feel that this event was closer to home than was comfortable.
The following morning, a messenger had come to the albergo bearing a note – for hand-delivery to me only. I had opened it with some trepidation. It was a single scrap of paper, bearing a pattern of numbers in shaky handwriting, and immediately I feared the worst. I took it to my room, closed and locked the door and took out my copy of Of Christian Perfection.
Slowly, and carefully, I
Thomas kept eating. I seemed to be on my own now, but to a degree I was no longer talking to him, but to myself – trying to get my thoughts to fall into some sort of logical order.
‘The only country in which Courtenay has any real significance is England, where his name has been used on a number of occasions as a vehicle for those who would overthrow Queen Mary. As soon as she rejected any possibility of marrying him and tying the Tudors back into the old Plantagenet line, he became a threat to her. As a result, his name has on more than one occasion been linked to Princess Elizabeth as a marriage prospect.’
‘This meat is really good.’ Thomas not only appeared to have completely lost interest in my line of argument, but was beginning to resent my continued intrusion into the comfort of his meal. Nevertheless, I continued.
‘There can be no doubt about it: word has reached Venice from England, either through their ambassador or ours (or both), and as a result they have decided to appear friendly. Yes, that’s it.’
I was happy with my conclusion and turned back to my food – now half-cold – with the enthusiasm that comes from overcoming a problem and putting it away in the back of your mind.
Thomas munched on, and I was left to my own thoughts. I looked at him, across the table, happily eating and seemingly content. He did not seem to care about the wider world of politics and religious revolutions as I did. Perhaps that’s what happens when you get old, I thought. Perhaps older people no longer believe they can change the world, and so withdraw into the comfort – or simply the inevitability – of the one they live in. Is that what ‘old’ is? When you give up fighting?
Still Thomas continued eating. I watched him for a minute and another thought began to develop in my head. Our relationship was changing. Ever since I had known Thomas he had acted as my mentor, and I had looked up to him. But today, for the first time, our usual roles had been reversed and I had explained something to him. Not that he had listened.
In one respect it was a frightening realization but, in another, it gave me a feeling of manhood. I cut into my meat. I must be growing up, I thought.
C HAPTER 17
February the 11th 1556 – Steps of the Provveditori, Palazzo Ducale
‘Don’t let’s wait for him, Thomas. Let’s go on together, for you know he may remain talking for hours.’ Thomas and I left Courtenay and walked down the steps of the new government offices together, considering the events of the previous week.
‘I hate to have to say this, Thomas, but it seems I was not too far from the mark.’
Thomas had not spoken again about my theory regarding the Venetian government’s sudden embrace of Courtenay, but I was increasingly confident that my suspicion had been correct.
It had started on February the 6th, only two days after our conversation in the Fondaco dei Tedeschi, when rumours of the attempted murder of an Englishman by bravi – local thugs – began to circulate. In itself, that was not so significant, for whilst Venice had fewer Englishmen than Germans, my countrymen were by no means rare in the city. More worrying was the name being whispered – Carew. I began to feel that this event was closer to home than was comfortable.
The following morning, a messenger had come to the albergo bearing a note – for hand-delivery to me only. I had opened it with some trepidation. It was a single scrap of paper, bearing a pattern of numbers in shaky handwriting, and immediately I feared the worst. I took it to my room, closed and locked the door and took out my copy of Of Christian Perfection.
Slowly, and carefully, I
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