There is a history in all men’s lives
Figuring the nature of the times deceased;
The which observed, a man may prophesy,
With a near aim, of the main chance of things.
Shakespeare
Henry IV, Part I
Edward stood at the bow of the traghetto as rowers propelled it across Venice’s Grand Lagoon. His entourage surrounded him, shouting and pointing.
“Venice looks like a juicy tart!”
“Nah, she’s a lovely woman!”
In addition to Lewyn and the rest of his entourage, he had two guests: Nathaniel Baxter, a Greek-language scholar, and William Russell, the future earl of Bedford and Baxter’s Oxford University roommate. They’d promised to pay their way, having no idea of the cost, but how could he deny them the adventure?
After weeks in the saddle, crossing France, Germany, Switzerland, and northern Italy, he was tired. After the traghetto docked. Edward strode across Saint Mark’s Square without so much as a glance at the palace. He’d present his credentials to the doge tomorrow—right now he needed a bath, a meal, and a bed that didn’t roll. He wanted to see the city when he was alert. What he knew about Venice from Sir Thomas was more than enough to whet his appetite.
“The city’s on land and water,” Sir Thomas had said. “The canals narrow as they flow into the interior, and the sun’s light is like none other on earth. As for the buildings reflected in the water, it’s a stunning display of eastern and western architecture. You’ll never wonder again why Venice dominates the world.”
The king of France was providing accommodations at his embassy until Edward rented a palazzo. Henri said fifty thousand Venetians—nearly a fourth of the population—had died in the latest outbreak of the plague, and with many more having fled to the country, there was no shortage of places to rent. When Edward arrived at the embassy, he discovered that the ambassador had also fled and left only a skeleton staff.
He was asleep in an hour. As usual, he and Lewyn shared a room. He awoke at dawn, dressed quietly, and crept down the grand stairway in his bare feet. He helped himself to wine and bread in the kitchen and then went out into the garden.
He liked to take his breakfast where he could listen to the early bird. That song was best, Sir Thomas said—those that followed were repetitive. He’d already dressed for his ten o’clock meeting with the doge. Cecil said Luigo Mosenigo was crucial to restoring diplomatic ties Venice had cut when England turned Protestant.
Having heard that courtiers in Venice didn’t flaunt themselves like the nobility in London and Paris, he went inside for a look at his attire in the foyer mirror. The red in his cape was too bright and the silver embroidery screamed. The brim of his hat was too wide and the feather excessive, but he had nothing quieter with him.
He left the embassy and hoped for the best.
The moment he entered the palace he felt like a peacock. Everyone here wore black.
When his turn came, he spoke Italian and talked too fast.
“Your Excellency, I am honored to present the compliments of my queen, who desires my visit to be a first step in restoring diplomatic relations with your magnificent city. Personally, I would be grateful if you would grant me the privilege of touring the arsenal—the queen tells me Venetian craftsmen turn out a new boat every day.”
“Our shipyards turn out six boats a day, Your Grace,” said the doge. “As for diplomatic relations, we shall give that matter due consideration when we have a better idea about what England has become. In the meantime, I am sure that increased trade between Venice and England would prove beneficial to all.”
“Your Excellency, Her Majesty is pleased to agree, but would not a military alliance enable your ships to cross Spain’s waters more easily?”
“Your Grace, our boats no longer require military assistance. We now transport our goods in Genoese boats—the ones you English call ‘Andrews’—and the Ragusan boats you call ‘argosies.’ ” The doge raised an eyebrow. “With regard to England’s difficulty in traversing Spanish waters, may I humbly suggest that piracy is no way to make friends?”
Edward scrambled for a tactful response. “I would agree, Your Excellency, that England’s piracy is … shortsighted.”
“Your Grace,” the doge said, “our ambassador in Paris reported that he attended a reading of your play The Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth. He said you translated it into French and read all the parts. Would you do that for us in Italian?”
Edward smiled. “With pleasure, Your Excellency. As soon as I complete my preparations, I’ll notify your clerk.”
He returned to the French embassy to find Baxter and Russell awake. He dispatched them to find a palazzo to rent, asked Lewyn to obtain black clothes for a literary soiree that evening—an invitation had been waiting for him when he returned—and went to work translating The Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth.
Lewyn returned a little past nine. Edward dressed, and together they walked to 6129 Campo Santa Maria Formosa, the palazzo of Domenico Venier, a senator, poet, and leader of the Venetian aristocracy.
“How did you get the clothes so fast?”
“From tailors in the Jewish ghetto,” Lewyn said. “This soiree is important, Edward. Venier’s hostess is his courtesan, Veronica Franco. To win France’s support in resisting the Moslem attack, the doge asked her to sleep with Henri on his way to his coronation. She obliged, and the next morning Henri agreed to contribute French boats. Veronica Franco is Venice’s heroine.”
Edward was still laughing when they approached Venier’s palazzo. In front of the palazzo was a café, across the square Santa Maria Formosa. The voices of the choir drifted out of the open church door.
“Lewyn, let’s rest here a moment, take some wine and enjoy the music.” He sat down. “What other stories have you gathered regarding our charming hostess?” He signaled the waiter for wine.
“After Veronica Franco separated from her husband, she listed herself in the directory of Venice’s courtesans. It contains her address, her fee, and instructions to make all payments to her mother.”
Edward chuckled. “A novel approach to prostitution.”
“That’s because she’s not really a prostitute—at least, nothing like what we have in England, which here they call cortegiana di lume. She’s a courtesana onesta, or honest courtesan who is educated and musical as well as skilled in the art of love. Veronica Franco is the author of a volume of poetry and she’s founded a charity for courtesans and their children. It’s important that you treat her with the utmost respect.”
“I can’t wait to meet her.”
“I’m sure you will.” Lewyn hesitated. “Edward, Venetian custom requires Senator Venier to provide you with your own courtesan, not only for this evening but for the rest of your stay in Italy. He won’t know you don’t engage in extramarital relations, so you’ll have to make that clear to him.”
Edward looked across the square.
“Isn’t the tenor in that choir remarkable?”
“Santa Maria Formosa’s a Catholic church, Edward. Did you hear what I said?”
“Don’t worry, Lewyn.” He stood and clapped him on the back. “Let’s go inside.”
Venier’s palazzo was small compared with English palaces. In the salon on the second floor, fifty guests assembled to greet the senator. Edward took his place at the end of the line.
Venier, gray-haired and ailing, stood at the other end of the room, leaning on the arm of a woman with closely cropped brown hair tipped with gold. Veronica Franco, Edward assumed.
Then he saw the young woman beside her.
She didn’t look older than nineteen. She had lush black hair, sparkling dark eyes, and ivory skin. She was smiling, her eyes lighted like candles. He lost himself in the curve of her shoulders, the full breasts and hips, the small waist.
Before he knew it, he was facing her.
“Milord Oxford, may I present Virginia Padoanna?”
“Pleased to meet you, signorina.” He felt Lewyn’s gaze burn on his neck. What did he want him to do, dismiss her? “Your family name suggests you’re from Padua. Am I correct?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You say my lord as if I were a king.”
That smile again. “I’ll address you any way you wish.”
“How about Edward?”
“Hello, Edward.”
“Hello, Virginia.”
Hearing Lewyn cough behind him, he quickly greeted Venier and Veronica Franco. Venier lifted a glass of wine and proposed a toast to his courtesan Veronica Franco and her new book of poems, one of which she recited in a clear voice at his request. Edward thought it rather a good poem—certainly the audience did, applauding enthusiastically—but he had trouble concentrating on it, his head was full of Virginia. She had drifted closer, standing just a few feet away—close enough for him to smell her scent and hear the rustle of her gown.
“Sei bella,” he said.
“Thank you, but Veronica’s the beautiful one. Tintoretto painted her portrait, not mine.”
“Only because you’re young. Soon, there won’t be a painter in Venice who’ll be able to resist you.”
A waiter passed by with hors d’oeuvres. They each took a shrimp.
“I understand the theater season hasn’t yet concluded,” Edward said. “I’m eager to observe commedia dell’arte.”
“For that, you must go to Mantua—Leone de Sommi’s academy is the center of commedia dell’arte. Venice’s theater is mostly masques and carnival for the masses.”
“Is Mantua far?”
“After Padua, you take the canal to Verona. Mantua’s just a short ride south from there.”
“I’m a stranger to this area,” he said. “I don’t suppose—”
She smiled. “I’d be pleased to guide you.”
“I’d like that very much.”
Later that evening, he told Lewyn he intended to escort Virginia home.
“Not a good idea, my friend.”
“Lewyn, the streets are dark. I have no choice.”
“Venice has night police!”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said. “Tell Baxter and Russell I expect to hear good news about a palazzo. I’ll need one for at least a year.”
“A year?”
“I have much to do in Italy. Venice will be my base.” He patted Lewyn on the back and walked away.
Virginia was waiting for him at the door. She’d removed her shoes—very high heels and soles were the fashion—and put on clogs. He offered her his arm and they strolled across the square.
“Do you live far?”
“By the Canale di Cannaregio at Campo San Geremia.”
As they walked, he savored the silence. Normally he felt compelled to fill such a void with conversation, which he found tiresome. This was a comfortable silence, one that filled itself with the quiet sounds of their footsteps.
She stopped in front of a narrow four-story house. Across the square stood a large structure, perhaps an old factory.
“This is where I live.”
“What’s that over there?”
“The ghetto. Only Jews live there—the gates are locked at sunset and aren’t opened until sunrise.”
“They lock them up like prisoners?”
“Most cities don’t allow Jews to live within their walls. Venice only granted them permission sixty years ago. At first they weren’t forced to live anywhere, they only had to limit their occupations. It was lending money that caused them to be confined.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Christians believed lending money was a sin, but when they needed money, they borrowed it from Jews. Soon Christians decided to lend money, too—and to minimize competition, they made the Jews live in the ghetto.”
“You seem to know a great deal about them.”
“Their situation’s similar to a woman’s. Veronica Franco wrote about that, and the male writers complained to the Inquisition.”
“They sound like our Puritan zealots.” He smiled and then hesitated. “Virginia, … may I kiss you?”
“Outside? Of course not.”
His face fell.
She smiled and unlocked her door. “But inside, yes.”
What followed was a night he would never—could never—forget.
It was as if he discovered what a man and a woman were intended for. Why had it taken it taken him so long to find out? The closest his mother had come to affection was to place him in the arms of a governess. The only other times he’d known a woman’s touch had been that afternoon with his queen and the one devastating night with his wife.
He’d never known that sensuality like this existed.
Virginia’s body yielded. Her smile warmed. She was passionate, tender, playful. Afterward, when they were lying in her bed, her head on his shoulder, her hair on his chest, it was as if she’d always been there.
The next morning they ate breakfast in the kitchen downstairs, next to a salon where somebody was playing a virginal. She said the doge granted her the top two floors of the building.
While a maid cleared the dishes and put fresh linens on the bed, he took Virginia aside and offered to pay.
“Last night wasn’t business.”
His heart skipped. “What was it, then?”
“I’m not sure.” She touched his cheek. “You’re a writer and so am I. Let’s call it a writers’ meeting.”
He laughed.
“I saw you looking at Tintoretto and Veronese,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t know them well enough to introduce you, but I do know Tiziano. Would you like to meet him?”
“How do you know Titian?”
“He loves only three things besides painting: books, and food, and women.”
He clenched his fists and then forced himself to relax. He’d no right to be jealous. “Would you take me to him?”
“I’ll send him a message. He doesn’t live far.” She kissed his cheek and walked him to the door. “If he can’t receive us, I’ll send you a note. Otherwise, please collect me at five.”
He returned to the embassy to learn that Baxter and Russell had found a palazzo.
“On Vicus Sagittarius!” Baxter said.
“The owners of the palazzo fled the plague?” Edward said.
“They died. The lawyer says he’ll have it scrubbed. And it’s half a block—”
“From San Marco Square?” Edward said.
“How’d you know?”
“Everything seems to be.” He grinned. “I’m going to Mantua tomorrow, but I’ll be back in a few weeks. As soon as I return we’ll move in. Tell the lawyer we’ll need it for at least a year—”
“Sorry, old man,” Russell said. “You can only have it till March. There’s a buyer already lined up.”
He’d been here only a day and already he never wanted to leave. Of course, there was still his mission to Greece and Constantinople.
“No matter. Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I have another request. Please find a banker named Baptista Negrone. I’m told his brother is his correspondent banker in London. I must borrow five hundred crowns. I don’t know how much that palazzo costs, but after paying the rent and traveling, I’ll need money.”
“Delighted.” Baxter turned to Russell. “Aren’t we, William?”
“Indeed. Edward, Nathaniel and I want you to know how much we appreciate your taking us along. We’ve fallen in love with Venice.”
“So have I, gentlemen.”
He looked around, but Lewyn was nowhere to be seen.
Edward got lost in the winding streets on the way to Virginia’s house. But helpful passersby directed him, and eventually he found Campo Germenia.
There she was, seated just inside the open door, reading a book.
“I was beginning to worry,” she said. “I’ll leave my clogs here—we’ll go faster without them.”
When they reached Titian’s house, the painter answered the door himself.
Edward liked him at once. His long, narrow nose and bushy white beard reminded him of Sir Thomas.
Titian greeted Virginia with a quick kiss.
Edward decided his beard was absurd.
Titian led them to his atelier, two stories high with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Grand Canal. The artist was a rich man—not surprising considering all the portraits he’d painted of the world’s rulers. But hanging on one wall he saw a different kind of painting.
It seemed to depict the affair of Venus and Adonis, but the woman was nothing like the Venus of classical Greece. Titian had depicted her as older, aggressive, and lusty, reaching for an adolescent Adonis in a hunter’s bonnet. Adonis held a javelin, twisting away from Venus’ grasp while Cupid looked on sadly from a corner of the painting.
Tiziano returned, carrying a tray with a carafe of wine, three glasses, and a bowl of olives. He glanced at the painting, then at Edward.
“You like?”
“Very much.”
“I painted five or six of Venus and Adonis,” he said. “This is the only one that varies from Ovid’s version of the myth.”
“Why did you alter it?”
“King Philip of Spain commissioned the painting after he wed Bloody Mary. When he returned to Spain, he took it with him. It’s here for—how do you say?—a touch-up.”
Walking back to Virginia’s house, they held hands—she said she felt shy in the daylight, but now it was dark.
“Edward, are you sure you want me to travel with you to Mantua?”
He’d been expecting her to tell him she’d changed her mind. “Of course I want you with me,” he said. “I’m going to Mantua to learn commedia dell’arte from the master, and I want to go there with the most beautiful, intelligent woman I’ve ever met.”
“When you return to Venice, you’ll write plays about everything you see, from the beaches on the Adriatic to the temples in Sicily to the magic of the Aeloian Islands.”
“You’ll be my guide through all those places?”
“As long as you promise to write about them.”
“I promise.” He looked up to the night sky. “And I’ll finally write my version of Venus and Adonis. Thanks to Titian, I now know what to say.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will when I have the courage to tell you.”
After they parted, he walked back to the embassy. There was so much he wanted to tell her, but not that Titian in painting Venus and Adonis had depicted the Queen of England and her subject Edward de Vere.