Daughters of the Doge (5 page)

I sat and watched. There before our eyes was a transformation, and one I suddenly knew we would observe again as our journey unfolded. ‘Refused’? ‘Ruin’? ‘Trusted’? Suddenly the letter R had refound its place in Courtenay’s alphabet. It was as if there were two different men in the same body.

Eventually the lawyers departed and the earl, Thomas and I dined together. A mood of despondency continued to hang over the earl, but at least I had my name back, for he seemed to be able to pronounce it perfectly well now.

We were all tired from our various exertions, and with little merriment to keep us up we retired early to bed. As we separated from the earl and climbed the stairs, I took Thomas’s sleeve and pulled him to one side. ‘Thomas, I have an awful feeling we have made a great mistake and that by attaching ourselves to this man we are at risk of being sucked into difficulties. Furthermore, I am not sure I can stand his moods for very long. This is not going to be a happy journey.’

Thomas, as always, calmed me. ‘You have not seen him at his best. He is a great man but also a man under great pressure. Sometimes that alters a man’s character. Persevere and I am sure it will all work out. In any event, would you want to return to England and argue his case with Petre?’

I shuddered. ‘Your point is well made. Goodnight, Thomas.’

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November the 20th 1555 – Hotel de Blauwe Zalm, Louvain

Despite the efforts of the hotel, my clothes were still damp when I woke. My depressed mood had not lifted, and overnight it appeared to have affected Thomas also, for we breakfasted in silence, both hoping to finish the sombre meal before the arrival of the earl lowered our spirits further still.

As expected, His Grace appeared, dishevelled and exhibiting no grace whatsoever. This was not encouraging, but we could hardly leave the table as he joined it, so we hung back, fiddling with last bites of food as he ate.

He had finished and we were about to rise from table when the door opened and a wild-looking messenger burst in. ‘Are you, sir, the English earl, he of Devon, that is?’ His English was awkward but sufficient.

Courtenay rose and lowered the very smallest of bows in his direction. ‘I am he. Do you have a message for me?’

The man heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Danke Gott. Your supplies are at the warehouse, sir, and have awaited you there these five days. We have been looking everywhere for you, but you were not to be found. I have this letter also, sir.’ Urgently, he thrust a waterproof, canvas-wrapped parcel into the earl’s hands. Courtenay took a small knife and ripped it open eagerly. He had begun to read the letter with a nervous, hunted look, but as he progressed his very body seemed to rise, and by the time he had finished the colour had returned to his cheeks and he appeared inches taller. He waved the letter triumphantly.

‘My friends, all is well. Our communications must have crossed on the Channel and Petre must have understood I was seeking yet further funding. It is complete, as originally requested: money in hand, some plate, the full list of provisions, and credit in place at Padua and Venice on our arrival. All is well. God be praised.’ Thomas and I crossed ourselves in response and we could feel the mood in the room continue to lift.

Servants were gathered and we sped to the warehouse anxiously, fearful that, even now, our hopes might be dashed. The supplies were all there, as the messenger had said, and we examined the equipment and provisions excitedly, believing, perhaps for the first time, that we were on the brink of a successful and exciting journey.

The rest of the day was busy, with the earl announcing what needed to be done, whilst Thomas and I were kept busy doing it. Towards evening we were briefly introduced to Niccolò Berzi, who was to be our companion for the journey, and Thomas and I retired to our own personal arrangements. We left the earl dictating a gushing letter to James Bassett, to his agent in London, asking him to pass on thanks to the commissioners and especially the comptroller, who had authorized and arranged the transportation of our newly arrived bounty.

That evening, we met with His Grace and Niccolò for supper and discussed the route we would take. Thomas was keen to join the river Rhine as soon as possible and thence to take boat upstream as far as Basel in Switzerland, where he knew he would be able to acquire a number of books he sought. Courtenay nodded absentmindedly and said he would consider the proposal, but shortly afterwards he changed the subject and I, for one, felt that no real commitment had been made.

Only time would tell.

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November the 23rd 1555 – Cologne

Cologne was bitterly cold – too cold even for snow. We arrived weary, but excited, as today we would get our first look at the great river Rhine, which marked an important step in our journey. The sight of it was a shock. It was huge beyond belief and running with a power I had never experienced. The river was bank-high and nothing floated upon it but the occasional drowned cow or pig.

Niccolò took one look and winced. ‘Let us hope that the river has eased before we get to Speyer,’ he muttered, and I gathered that we would need to cross this great river eventually. In its present condition, that seemed completely impossible, but I assumed that by the time we got to Speyer the river would be smaller and we would cross by bridge. I looked back at our little line of carts, plodding along behind us, the drivers looking as bored as the horses, and wondered how the bridge, when eventually we reached it, would handle their lumbering weight.

We were welcomed in Cologne by Hermann Ringe, who had been recommended to the earl by Sir Thomas Chamberlayne, Ambassador to Marie, Queen of Hungary. Ringe treated us most kindly, arranging for one or two additional provisions we had thought of since leaving Louvain, and, more importantly, promising to introduce us to another potential guide for our journey.

‘Eckhardt Danner is an English-speaking German, a professional guide and traveller, who makes his living accompanying travellers on this journey. You will find that Eckhardt is very precise, and appears somewhat humourless. However, every time you ask him a question, I am sure he will give you a direct and very complete answer, and you will quickly have confidence in him.’

The description proved to be prophetic, for we all took to Eckhardt immediately, and although he took all remarks and questions somewhat literally, he was by no means without humour. Indeed, when the earl mounted a horse whose girth had not been properly tightened and slid gently, saddle and all, into a nearby hedge, it was Eckhardt who laughed loudest. Courtenay glared at him; he was not accustomed to being the source of others’ amusement. His horse, meanwhile, stood patiently above him, wearing what we all interpreted as a pitying look on his face.

Eckhardt spoke very clear and accurate English, and as soon as I discovered that he was not only a Reformist but a Lutheran, I began to engage him in regular conversations on the subject. Courtenay, Thomas and Niccolò, all being committed Catholics, made no attempt to join in, but would ride a little way ahead, thus affording the two of us privacy and the opportunity to develop a friendship. I told Eckhardt how comforting I found it to feel that I was at last riding through countryside where men believed as I did, and not feel threatened.

‘Indeed,’ he replied, ‘it is comforting and important. One day our message will carry across the world, I am sure of it, for our position is not only fair, it is eminently sensible and must be true. You will find the same atmosphere for much of your journey, although the people of the mountains in Bavaria and into Austria are very backward and remain strongly Catholic.’

What, I asked him, was I likely to find in Venice? He gave a belly-laugh, which, though rare, was infectious.

‘Venice? That’s another story altogether! The Venetians say, “We are Venetians first and Christians afterward.”’ He paused. I could see he was thinking.

‘In any case, you cannot separate politics from religion,’ he continued. ‘Venice depends for its wealth on its independence, and it has always maintained a fierce independence from Rome. Now it’s even stronger, for the papacy supports Catholic Spain and Portugal and, over the last fifty years, since the Portuguese discovered the sea route round Africa to the east, an increasing amount of the trade that was once controlled by Venice and the Byzantine Empire is sailing into Lisbon and Cadiz. They can’t afford to let Rome take any more control – it’s their very lifeblood which is starting to leak out.’

He paused as his horse stumbled on loose stones. ‘Religion remains, but the daily bread of religion is, as I think you might say in your country, “thickly buttered with mercantile sensibility”.’ He smiled, showing just a hint of the self-satisfaction we all feel when we are able to find and place a well-chosen phrase in another language. ‘There is something else they say in Venice: “If it makes money, pursue it today, but if not, perhaps it can wait for tomorrow”.’

I was surprised. ‘But what about eternal damnation? Do they have no fear of that?’

Eckhardt laughed again. ‘In Venice they believe that the fastest road to eternal damnation is not making enough money while you are young. That way, damnation arrives in the form of poverty when you are old – you don’t have to wait to die.’

Inwardly I laughed. It had a logical simplicity to it and, although rather blasphemous, something about what he said made me think I might feel quite at home when eventually we arrived in Venice.

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