Daughters of the Doge (59 page)

August the 15th 1556 –
Palazzo
Ducale

We ran up the steps of the Ducal Palace, the earl five steps ahead of me and racing on in his enthusiasm. The message had come the previous evening, requesting his presence at a meeting with the new doge and his Council of Ten at noon the next day. Thomas had asked to be excused, on the basis that he was about to leave for Padua, and the earl had agreed, without comment.

Courtenay had immediately assumed that his royal status was about to be recognized amongst the Venetian nobles, and that, finally, he was likely to be given a position of authority. All evening he had discussed it with me, but since neither of us actually had the faintest idea what the purpose of the meeting was to be, I had found the whole exercise futile.

The earl slowed as he led me from the courtyard up the steps to the first floor, and approached the leading official. Handing over the document of summons, we were led by a servant up further stairs and along a corridor into the Sala del Maggior Consiglio, the enormous hall where the Great Council met. Neither of us had been invited into this room before and even Courtenay was overawed as we skidded to a halt in the doorway.

The hall was enormous, stretching across the entire front of the palace. It was decorated throughout with huge frescoes and oil paintings, but the whole room was dominated by a monumental fresco of
The Coronation of the Virgin
covering the east wall, and which the servant told me had been painted by Guariento in 1365.I had to tear my eyes away from it as the servant waved us forward and we stood before Doge Lorenzo Priuli himself, with members of the Council and their officials lined up on either side of us.

There was no invitation to sit, and indeed no chairs; all present except the Doge were standing. We waited for his pronouncement.

Judging by the paintings of previous Doges, the last three or four had all looked very alike. Perhaps it was the horn-shaped ceremonial headgear or the official robes that made them look similar, but even their beards were of near-identical length and shape. Although Doge Priuli was by no means a young man, his drawn face looked strong and tough next to that of his predecessor. His beard was almost pure white, with just one or two grey patches, but his black eyes penetrated in contrast. I looked at him as closely as was permitted by his raised position on the dais.

Do not expect generosity or mercy from this man, I told myself. His primary motive is to protect himself.

Doge Priuli raised his hand and the murmur of conversation in the room fell silent.

‘You are Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon in England?’

With a flourish, Courtenay swept off the rather large and ornate hat which he had decided suited the occasion, and bowed low.

‘I am he. May I say it is a great pleasure to meet Your Ducal Highness.’

Doge Priuli looked at him with the bored stare of a man who has just had three seconds of his precious life wasted.

‘My ambassadors abroad and my advisers here have told me much about you.’

Courtenay visibly stiffened. It would have been correct protocol to address an English earl as ‘Your Grace’, but Priuli seemed to have dispensed with all protocol.

‘Your presence in this city and state has been observed. We are of the opinion that your presence is not conducive to the common good or to the peace of our city. We have requested guidance from the English ambassador, and he has made no request on behalf of the English government for hospitality to continue to be extended to you or your party.’

Courtenay took a step forward, as if to begin an argument, but the Doge silenced him with the flat of his hand. ‘We have not invited you here to speak, but to listen. We have been informed of the considerable expense my predecessor’s council incurred in protecting you during the last six months. Such expenditure can no longer be justified and all such protection is immediately withdrawn.’

Courtenay looked round the room, aghast, as if what he was hearing was a terrible mistake. The Doge continued.

‘Your welcome in this city and the State of Venice is withdrawn and you are hereby instructed to leave. However, in view of your former position in your own country, you are given one calendar month from today in which to depart this place in an organized and gentlemanly manner. This decree extends to the whole of the Republic of La Serenissima, including all the islands and
terra firma.
You are at liberty to travel to other countries within our empire, but your status will be that of a non-person and you will be afforded no protection. This is our order, issued this fifteenth day of August 1556.You may leave.’

Edward Courtenay, surviving member of the royal house of Plantagenet and Earl of Devon, looked around him dumbfounded. He had just lost every shred of the status that was of such importance to him. He was now
persona non grata,
a non-person within the Republic, with no rights, privileges, authority or protection – lower than even the
popolani
who at least, were entitled to the last of these.

He stood at the bottom of the three steps leading up to the Doge’s throne and visibly swayed. It looked as if he was going to collapse, but an official signalled two of the ducal guards forward and he was walked back down the staircase and out into the courtyard. I followed, keeping a few paces behind the guards in case a fight developed, but the earl was a broken man, and put up no resistance.

The fresh air seemed to revive his self-respect and he shook off the guards, who signalled me to join him and remained behind us as we left the building.

Head held high, but without speaking, Courtenay led me across the Piazza San Marco and continued north, pushing his way through the crowds, unspeaking, until we reached the Rialto. There his control finally broke and we sat beside the broken bridge while he tried to come to terms with what had happened to him, shaking his head and banging his fist against the stonework.

‘Did you hear what he said?’

I made no reply.

‘ “In view
of your former
position in your own country . . .” That can only mean that Queen Mary has revoked my earldom.’

I clutched at straws. ‘Perhaps he simply meant the position you held before you journeyed here?’

He shook his head. ‘No. I am sure the Doge would not speak loosely like that. All is undone, I can feel it.’ He felt for his purse, and shook it. ‘Have you any money on you, Richard? I forgot to refill my purse before we left home.’

I opened my purse and gave him half of the money left in it. I knew where it would end up: first the taverns and then the whorehouses. It would not be the first time, but if he was not careful, in his new situation it could well be the last. I gave him the money. It was hard to see any human being destroyed like this, and besides, I simply could not face a night of the maudlin self-pity which I knew was coming. Let someone else listen to him for a change.

I walked to the Trattoria Sensazione for something to eat. At least I would not be alone there. Pietro the Fisherman would keep me company, and he was always in a good mood.

C
HAPTER
73

August the 18th 1556 – Calle del Fonte

The hammering on the door was so loud I thought it must be the Ducal guards, come to arrest the earl. It was hard luck on them if it was, for he had not returned home since our visit to the Doge’s palace three days before. The rest of the house was silent: Thomas was still in Padua and the servants had gone out. I opened the door carefully, ready to defend myself.

Little Augustino, the youngest of Tintoretto’s apprentices, was still holding the door knocker and gasping for breath. ‘Richard! The English doctor, he must come quickly. Yasmeen’s father has had a terrible injury.’

‘Where is he now?’ As I spoke, I was looking for Thomas’s medical bag which he normally left near the door. Here it was; Thank God he had not taken it with him to Padua.

‘In the house where he and Yasmeen live.’

When we reached the house the door was open. At the foot of the stairs lay Ayham, his face pale. Next to him, holding his hand and equally pale, was Yasmeen. She looked at me imploringly. ‘Is the doctor coming?’

I looked from her to Ayham and then to a man standing over them, wringing his hands in despair. ‘I am a barber-surgeon, sir. I have told them, the leg is tumoured and must come off or there will be blood poisoning and he will surely die. I am prepared to cut him if you will hold him still.’

Ayham was silent, but Yasmeen gave a small cry of anguish.

I looked at the leg. There was something familiar about the great white lump halfway down, and the cavity in the knee joint confirmed it. I took a deep breath. This was it. This was the test God had sent me. If I could pass it, then I was destined to become a doctor. Furthermore, something told me that my future with Yasmeen also hung on what I did in the next few minutes.

I tried to focus her attention on a useful task. Her anxiety was not helping her father. ‘Make him some tea. It will calm him. And have some yourself, for the same reason.’ She stood, letting go of her father’s hand. ‘Is the doctor coming?’

I shook my head. ‘Dr Marwood is in Padua, but do not worry, Yasmeen, I know what to do. Go and make that tea.’

Reluctantly, she walked slowly into the back room. I think she feared I was going to remove the leg while she was absent. She returned quickly. ‘The water is boiling. It will take some time.’

I put a hand on her shoulder, but spoke to Ayham. ‘Will you trust me? There may be some pain.’

Ayham looked at me fearfully. ‘Will you cut me? Will you saw the bones?’

I shook my head. ‘There will be no cutting and no bones will be sawed. There is no tumour or abscess and no poison. The bone is displaced. I believe I can restore it, but in the process, you must try to relax even though there may be some pain.’

Yasmeen’s eyes were bigger than I had ever seen them, but the trust in her face gave me confidence. ‘Ayham means “courageous”. He will not fight you, and he will endure the necessary pain.’

She nodded to her father, who nodded back, although less certainly.

I turned to the barber-surgeon. ‘Please sit behind him and hold his shoulders. I am going to bring the leg round and I do not want his body to twist as I do it.’

The man did as I bade and squatted behind Ayham’s shoulders, holding them firmly. Very slowly, I brought the leg around until the pressure was off the knee. Squatting, I put his heel on my shoulder.

‘Now, Ayham, relax your leg. Let it go as loose as you can.’

I saw his shoulders slump as he made the attempt. Sweat broke out on his forehead, but he remained limp and did not fight me. Holding the leg straight against my shoulder with my right hand, I put the butt of my left hand against the white lump on his leg and pressed steadily.

Nothing happened.

I tried again. This time I pressed harder, and from further down. The white lump began to slide across his leg and then it happened.

The ‘pop’ was loud enough to make Yasmeen gasp. I ran my hand gently over the kneecap.

‘Does that hurt now?’

Ayham looked at me uncertainly, considering his reply. ‘No. There is no pain. Just a deep throbbing.’

‘Good.Then it is done.’ I looked across at the barber-surgeon, who was staring at the leg, bemused. ‘Help me get him to his feet.’