The handing over of authority from Henry, Lord Stanley, Her Majesty’s Ambassador in Venice, to Nicholas Talbot, Lord Rokesby, his temporary replacement, was an elaborate affair. Venice was in the grip of summer and the moist heat was oppressive. On the day of the induction, all the English in the city, together with the English students from the University of Padua, waited on the quay with the Ambassador and his suite to be rowed across the Lagoon to the island of San Spirito. The significance of this part of the traditional ceremony escaped Nicholas and he would have dispensed with it if he could.
Laced and buttoned into malachite-green taffeta, he stood beside Lord Stanley’s litter concerned with its safety as it was lowered into the gondola. The black velvet trappings were getting in the way, and he made himself stand still as the litter tilted dangerously. Stanley was already sweating in his heavy robe of office and lay back on the cushions, fanning his purple face. Nick feared for him, it was still only eight o’clock and it would be a long day. Once on the island, they were received in the gardens of the monastery by the black-robed monks of St Augustine, and waited while a delegation of sixty Venetian noblemen were rowed across in gondolas also decorated with black velvet. Lord Stanley greeted them and the whole assembly was then rowed back to the city by the fleet of gondolas, where by now every street and bridge was crowded with people. “Pointless,” thought Nick. To the sound of drums and trumpets and flutes and organised cheering, the procession, headed by the red and black of the Council, paced into the Piazzetta, cleared for the day of its stalls and booths and entertainers. Here the Ambassador’s party was presented with the traditional silver baskets of candles, wax, sugar and sweets, and two pages rolled up a butt of malmsey. Nicholas stepped forward, with a herald in the Rokesby black and gold livery, to present the senior member of the Council with the only gifts the Doge was allowed to accept: rosewater, sweet herbs and flowers, and a casket of balsam. This ceremony achieved, everyone bowed, the trumpeters excelled themselves and the gathering broke up, the English contingent to another endless banquet and the Council to whatever deliberations they were concerned with at the moment. In the late afternoon there was a regatta, highly popular, and all Venice turned out to watch. Gondolas assembled like shoals of sprats, be-ribboned and garlanded, their gondoliers arrayed in clothes most unsuited to falling in the canal, to race in teams and singly up the Grande Canale and between the islands. Betting was fierce and the din ferocious as the crowds screamed and shouted their teams to victory and fished the many casualties out of the water. Nicholas retired early.
So ended the first day, the day of the entrata. The next day, the day of the audienza, promised to be an even greater ordeal for poor Henry Stanley. It began warm, and grew steadily warmer as he was crammed into his official velvet gown, trimmed with lace and lined with fur. Nick feared the unfortunate man would have an apoplexy. He did not look forward to wearing the gown himself.
Coolly expensive in finely pleated black silk, and clean-shaven, he walked beside Stanley’s litter along the arcaded frontage of the Doge’s Palace to be received by a delegation of senators, in the name of the Republic. More drums and trumpets and they were escorted round to the Gothic gate leading into the building, passing on their way three crosses hung with the upside-down corpses of recently executed traitors. They bore the marks of their torture, and Nick, abruptly reminded of his own sojourn in the Tower in the hands of Topcliffe, straightened his back and looked ahead. Through the gate they came to the Giant Stair and the procession halted for Stanley to be lifted and carried by the linked hands of two enormous Turkish slaves. Up the two long flights of steps to the platform where the Doges were traditionally crowned, and the English entourage fanned out and stayed behind while Stanley was transferred to an equally gigantic pair of guards in elaborate scarlet livery. The next obstacle was Sansorini’s magnificent staircase with its gilded ceiling and colossal statues of Neptune and Mars. Stanley was no light weight, but the guards made nothing of the three flights of stairs to the ambassadors’ waiting room. They wheeled smartly right through the carved and gilded doors and deposited the out-going Ambassador in the waiting chair. Here there was more evidence of the pervading hand of Palladio in the rich ceiling frescoed by that other grand master, Tintoretto. There was a slight flurry as some of the more elderly councillors and clergy made use of the pots behind a screen in the corner and the trumpets and flutes played gamely on. Nick made sure Stanley was comfortable and the procession rearranged itself. As they entered the great hall he caught a whiff of turpentine among the perfumes and other odours in the room and noticed an unfinished corner of a great painting by the same master who had decorated the anteroom. A forbidding portrayal of the Battle of Lepanto hung over the Doge’s chair at the far end of the room, almost the length of a tilting yard away, and Nick looked away from it and up at the ceiling. Another hand had been at work here and Nick resolved to ask someone who had painted it. He had been told with some pride that all the paintings in these rooms had been commissioned and completed in the last twenty or so years and the brilliant colours were fresh and immediate, in some cases still unfinished. Nick had only penetrated to the anteroom on his last visit and now in the pause while Stanley was seated and everyone settled themselves he was able to look about him, incurring a distinct feeling of visual indigestion. Every inch of wall and ceiling carried its bright and gilded paean of praise to Venice and her doges with their God and the Virgin Mary, most by the master Tintoretto and, no doubt, his students. The plain black and crimson of the councillor’s robes showed to imposing advantage against this riot of colour and activity, only the sumptuous jewelled robe and horned cap of the doge giving it any competition.
Marino Grimani, the present Doge, sat with his Council under the Battle of Lepanto, and Nick walked calmly the length of the room to stand beside his fellow countryman, set down in his litter facing them, and sent a brief vote of thanks in the direction of the players, who had taught him how to do this.
A brief silence fell.
Everyone clearly heard the sobbing wail from outside in the Room of Cords, abruptly cut off as a man-at-arms swiftly closed the half-open door beside the Doge’s throne. Grimani cleared his throat.
Stanley and Nicholas bowed three times, Stanley awkward in his chair. The Doge and Councillors rose; Nicholas bowed twice more and advanced to the Doge to kiss his hand. Grimani embraced him, Nick presented his credentials, Grimani accepted them, and they all sat down. Nicholas was shown to a seat at the right hand of the Doge, next to Alessandro Vanni, the power behind the Council, whom he had met before. Stanley was relieved of his robe of office and carried to a seat on the other side, his aide took the robe and stood with it behind Nick’s chair. ‘So far so good,’ thought Nick. It was time for his speech; he’d put the wretched thing on later.
He rose. His beautiful actor’s voice carried clearly through the room and those who had been preparing to doze sat up. He delivered his speech as if he were onstage at the Rose and began by thanking the Doge and Council and praising the work done by Lord Stanley in promoting the friendly relations and trade between their two countries. He went on, “Venice has been governed for some twelve hundred years in the same fashion, with an unfailing display of the highest qualities. True, from time to time she has been shaken, as the storms lash up the Lagoon, but she has always recovered, renewed her youth, regained her serenita.” He took a deep, disciplined breath. “Each time I think of her orderly government, her sound institutions, her magnanimity in trade, the encouragement of her youth in the service of her country and her tolerance, I am forced to believe that, come what may, she will survive until the final dissolution of the elements themselves.” Another breath and he ended, “I shall do my best to continue my lord Stanley’s work as her glorious Majesty would desire me. I wish him a speedy recovery and a fair wind for home.” He then repeated his words in the Venetian form of Italian and sat down to a gratified murmur.
Grimani leaned over. “Well spoken, my lord Rokesby. You must come to my next party.”
An aide approached quietly and passed Vanni a slip of paper. He held it close to his short-sighted eyes and smiled. Under cover of the next speeches, compliment and counter-compliment, he turned to Nick and murmured in his ear.
“You will be pleased to hear, my lord – congratulations on your elevation, by the way – that the villain who escaped you last year has been caught. He turned pirate and was a little over-ambitious.”
“You mean Count Gallio?”
“The same. It seems he could not leave his whore alone. Such a strong energetic young man, is he not – a waste of a fine body to have it tortured and hanged. He is for the galleys. He can make himself useful and we shall avoid possible unpleasantness with Portugal.”
His face impassive, Nick replied, “La Bellissima betrayed him?”
“Of course. You had some traffic with her yourself, messire, through her you obtained for us our proofs. Venice has regained her serenita and you are rewarded.”
“Had he nothing useful to say?”
“All he could say of the attempt to take the city, we already knew. Thanks to your excellent work. I look forward to our further association, my lord.” He sat back and Nicholas breathed out. Count Gaspare Gallio was a buccaneering mountebank after Nick’s own heart: he did not care for the idea of him as a galley slave.
Speeches and ceremony over, it was time for Nick’s entertainments. Inspired by Master Jones’ ideas, he was determined to make his mark as ambassador after all, his successor would just have to keep up.
Outside in the Piazza, a platform spread with blue had been erected for the masque, and the Doge’s men-at-arms cleared a way through the crowd for the great ones to take their seats. Angelica d’Alighieri rose from the moving waves in gauzy draperies as La Serenissima, flanked by Logic and Reason. Her voice might be pleasing but it did not carry among the trained actors, so it was as well Marlowe had given this embodiment of Venice nothing to say. Jones had dressed her in thin muslins and a mock breastplate that pushed up exposed breasts and painted nipples. Not an uncommon sight in Venice, certainly, but startling enough in a Patrician woman. A breeze off the lagoon flattened the gauze against her body and lifted the artful tresses that fell to her waist, and, looking round, Nick was reminded of James, King of Scotland, forever with fingers fiddling in his codpiece. The man did himself no favours.
“As well her husband is not here to see her flaunting herself before all Venice,” said a carping voice behind Nick. “A dutiful wife would have accompanied him to Aleppo, poor old man.” This occasioned much laughter among the other ladies.
“Do pots and kettles come to mind? How is your dear Piero faring in Modon? And your music lessons?”
“That marriage is a travesty. She was married off far too young. They say she is still a virgin. I wouldn’t blame her for going her own way—”
The rest of this fascinating insight was lost as masked actors spoke Marlowe’s words, minstrels sang and Master Jones’ buildings rose smoothly splendid behind them with only a little creaking. A small masterpiece of engineering, everything went without a hitch or a wobble or an untimely squeak and Nick, who had been holding his breath, went forward to take La Serenissima by the hand and present her to Grimani. Her fingernail scratched his palm and she squeezed his hand before making her courtesy and graciously accepting her gift from the Doge’s own hand. A fanfare, and a man with a wheelbarrow containing a small boy scattering flowers and comfits walked the high wire slung between the Basilica and the new library, acrobats and clowns swarmed over Inigo Jones’ handsome set, music played and the assembly dispersed for a brief respite and a change of clothes, to meet again for the masked ball.
“Well done m’boy,” wheezed Henry Stanley as he was carried away. “Couldn’t have done better m’self.”
The ball was to be held at the Palazzo da Mosto on the Grand Canal, and Nicholas, arrayed now in brocade the colours of autumn leaves, a gilded mask with the face of the Green Man in his hand, took to the water with his party in gondolas festooned with ribbons and balloons. He spared a thought for Tobias making his way back from Naples and was rather glad he was not present to mock all this ostentation.
The Palazzo was a strange mixture of storehouse and marketplace on the ground floor with an external staircase to the luxuriously appointed apartments on the piano nobile above, with its Byzantine windows and balconies. The Embassy commissariat had sweated blood over the banquet, and trapeze artists swung and juggled over tables laden with elaborate food. A huge fish, aspicked to death, lay beside an ice sculpture of Neptune hand in hand with La Serenissima, melting gently in the heat. A roast swan with cardboard feathers swam towards dishes of glazed pigs’ trotters, pink shoals of shrimp, barons of beef and ham, and a towering confection of spun sugar representing the Doge’s Palace. Silver dishes of fruit, crystal glasses and gold candelabra threw back the light of a hundred candles and a small orchestra sweated away in a corner. The heat and noise and mixture of perfumes was stupefying, but Nick had got his second wind by now and worked the room, eating little and drinking less. He had made himself responsible for the cabaret and brought in some of the Scots members of the Rokesby escort for a display of dancing and wrestling. The sophisticated Venetian audience was highly diverted by the brawny Scots twirling and leaping on nimble feet and suitably impressed by the no-holds-barred wrestling that followed.
Nick had remembered meeting Signore Catalini at one of Kit’s parties in Verona and had invited the famous castrato from Milan to be the highlight of the evening. In the blessed interlude of attention given to the soaring voice, he found himself beside the Princess d’Alighieri, taking advantage of the slight breeze by one of the windows.
They moved out onto the balcony, where other smaller rooms opened off.
“All over now, madonna. You played your part well. You will be the toast of Venice.”
“As did you, my lord. But must it be all over between us? I would have you come to a small gathering of like minds at my home – not here in Venice – in the Veneto. The Villa d’Alighieri.”
“I am honoured, Principessa.”
“Six of the clock. But before then…” She seemed to make up her mind. “Before then…perhaps we should know each other better.” She drew him after her into the small darkened room and put up her mouth for a kiss. Nicholas hesitated, his hand on the shutter. He had found Venetian women over-free with their favours and had kept his distance. Now, his own desires urged him on, polite manners demanded a response, but this was not a willing wench to be tumbled. Angelica laughed, put her hand over his and pulled the shutter closed. She dropped the latch and stood close, her fingers busy with his buttons. Was this how she thought it was done? Moved, he took her face between his hands and looked into her eyes. A little flown with wine and excitement perhaps, but not so much that she did not know what she was doing. All the same…
She smiled up at him. “From what I am told, with a Venetian the business would be over and done by now. This English reserve is formidable. I’m told you are a man of impregnable virtue. Would you refuse me too?”
The noise of a successful party roared on next door, bars of rippled light fell across her upturned face. Her lips were parted and she was trembling. For all the bold approach, she was no wanton, he thought. The perfume of her body reached him and he bent his head to kiss her. The kiss prolonged itself and he freed himself with reluctance.
“Not here and not now, lady. With you it should not be over and done in a few minutes. Nor for me. If you are of the same mind tomorrow, send and I will come. Swift as an arrow and discreetly.”
“Discreetly, of course – my lord Ambassador.” She turned away. “I may not send.”
“I shall be the loser.” She stared at him, puzzled.
“I think I am a little frightened of you, Niccolo.”
“This is no light thing. In straight speech, I would talk with you, know you better. I do not care to use or be used, my lady.”
She had regained her poise. “They tell me you spoke well today.”
He shrugged. “An actor’s trick.”
“Of course. You are a man of the theatre.”
“No longer – or at least, not at present. See, we are talking.”
“And we will talk more. I return home in the morning, my lord, and you shall wait on me there. You shall have wine and conversation.” Nick caught her eye and started to laugh.
“Mistress, I do not mean to exchange the one for the other. I can make love and talk at the same time.”
“An enviable faculty, sir. But you shall see. Wednesday, six of the clock.”
A drunken voice yelled from the balcony outside.
“Boat ho! Boat, you rascals…”
“You will be missed,” said Angelica. “Time to go back to your other guests.”
“I am dismissed?”
“You have surprised me, my lord. I had not— We shall meet again.”
He bent over her hand, and took his leave to mingle with the crowd coming out onto the balconies to watch the fireworks, his heart beating fast.
The banquet was over at last. He stood at the head of the steps to bid his guests good night and give them presents, and if he was flushed and heavy-eyed, he was no different from many of those leaving. Wine, ales and spirits had flowed freely that evening and many had to be carted bodily down into the waiting gondolas. The princess was one of the first to leave, eyes sparkling behind her mask, and a note was slipped into his sleeve. “Six of the clock. A man will come.”
Grateful for the day’s respite, Nicholas rode out into the Veneto with the princess’ groom to keep this command appointment, wondering where all this might be leading. He was not worried about his turnout, he and Nero were both groomed and polished to within an inch of their lives, but he felt this might be a testing experience. He seemed to be entering a different world. His first sight of the princess’ home was not reassuring.
The Villa d’Alighieri was a small mansion built in the new Palladian style so beloved of Inigo, set on a rise and surrounded by formal gardens and fountains. Pastureland and groves of trees stretched away on all sides, vines lay in disciplined rows, heavy with fruit. He rode up the wide gravelled path and handed the reins to the waiting groom, glad of his new double-velvet doublet, forest-green slashed with silver, well tailored and without ostentation. As he trod up the wide steps, he could hear music stealing from windows opening onto the terrace, and voices raised in civilised dispute from a room across the octagonal marble hall. Statues stood in alcoves between sets of double doors leading off in all directions, light came from an eight-sided lantern in the domed roof.
A door opened and Angelica d’Alighieri came to meet him. She led him into a light-filled room that seemed crowded with his elders and betters. Nick sent up a prayer of thanks to his old tutor, who had grounded him well in study of the classics, and prepared to fight his corner. Most of the party had a grasp of English and he was called upon to draw on his store of poetry and the writings of such men as Bacon and Ralegh. He felt he did not quite disgrace himself in this company.
The French ambassador to Venice had been standing in an alcove, exquisite in quilted yellow satin, a bird of paradise among all the sober gowns of the wise ones, idly turning the pages of an illuminated manuscript. Seeing Nicholas released at last from the interrogation of the learned doctor from Padua, he approached with a smile. The neatly carved beard bracketing his mouth recalled the delightful de Longhi.
“You had good sport on your journey here, M’sieur l’Ambassadeur. André de Longhi retired hurt, I hear.”
“M’sieur le Marquis preferred to fight with naked poniard, milor.”
“The flower of our court cut down. Tch. Tch.”
“Cut down? Merely inconvenienced, I believe.”
“You are right. He will return to plague us, like the gilded fly he is.”
Nicholas raised an eyebrow.
“Not a member of the King’s faction, as I’m sure you know, milor.”
“Henri le bon has no enemies, surely,” said Nick.
“Name me a monarch who has no enemies, milor Rokesby.” He selected a sugared plum from the plate offered and looked at it. “Why are you here?”
“To fill a gap, M’sieur l’Ambassadeur.”
“My name is Ann de Montmorency. The gap is filled to overflowing. A superb debut.”
“If you refer to the masque, who could fail with such an abundance of beauty and talent?”
“With your permission, I shall wait on you, milor. We may be able to assist each other.” He popped the sugarplum in his mouth, dusted his fingers with a flourish of silk, bowed and strolled away to take his leave.
“He only came to take your measure, Niccolo,” said Angelica at his elbow. “A man of influence – when he is not cuckolding men of higher rank. Which is why he is here and not in Paris.”
“I must strive to impress him, I see.”
“In your usual style, I imagine. The English sang-froid…Our dinner is ready. Your arm if you please.”
The other guests had gone and she had detained him. He stood watching her where she stood at the window looking out, playing with the thick bullion tassel of the curtain. There was a sad droop to her mouth that he found himself wanting to kiss away. She was older than he had thought. He had seen her in her proper setting now, at ease with these men of letters and seasoned diplomats, listened to her play and sing, watched her moving among her guests. Thanks to early teaching by Oliver Knowles, good schoolmastering later and what he had learned from talking and listening to Kit Marlowe, he had just managed to keep afloat in this erudite sea. Interest and admiration now seasoned desire for her beauty and he waited for her to speak.
“We shall not be disturbed. My servants have all the discretion you could wish, my lord Ambassador. The house belongs to me alone.”
“A fine and private place to entertain a lover.”
“You will be the first to come here. If a lover is what you are.”
“I came at your bidding, principessa. I could have pleaded a headache.” He grinned at her and she started to laugh. “Let us be brave, lady, and grasp the nettle. You have nothing to fear from me.”
She was not a virgin after all, but perhaps had not chosen her few lovers wisely: she was as ignorant of sexual mores as Nick was of the mating habits of the dodo. He did his best to show her some of the subtler pleasures of the affair, fighting for restraint after his long abstinence, and she followed him eagerly. He discovered in her a warmth and tenderness he had not expected, returning his care for her. An interesting, testing time, and they paused, laughing, for breath. He stroked a finger down her breast and gently kissed her shoulder.
“Why, bellissima?”
“Do I need a reason other than liking? I liked your voice and the stories. You have an air about you, a little sadness perhaps, things you do not speak of. I was lonely, Nicco. It may be you are lonely too, so far from home.”
“I have no home, only a concept. For now, home is where I find loving kindness such as this. You cannot know, Angelica, how much you have comforted me… I have found a friend in Venice.”
“You have taught me much, Nicco. You have not wasted extravagant breath on my beauty – you have shown me what it is for.”
Nicholas Talbot, Lord Rokesby and Angelica, Princess d’Alighieri had indeed much to learn from each other. A Florentine, and related to the Medici, she was able to tell him a great deal about the French court. She had met her husband there, in the train of Henri’s first wife. She could match Nick’s travel tales with one of her own, a fearsome journey to Holy Russia. An educated, erudite woman, all the civilised arts at her fingertips, Angelica seemed to relish Nick’s straightforward view of the world. She took to the arts of love as ardently as to her books and music and they moved freely from the one to the other. Marlowe had been right, she was as easily seduced by Nick’s tales of adventure as by the strength of his body, she would keep him waiting for her favours until the end of a story, and then keep him busy ’til dawn. She taught him how to listen to music and look at a painting and sat patiently while he drew her and spoke of plays and sailing and the logic of mathematics. Nicholas thought of all the books in the library at Rokesby, now destroyed by fire, and began to look about him to replace them. He was having to dredge the remnants of an excellent grounding to keep pace with Angelica and her circle, and he set himself to learn, making a quiet time in the day to study. This uncluttered relationship suited them both, and so they left it, a delicate toy that amused and satisfied, and for Nicholas, a necessary counterbalance to his other tasks. His delicately poised and dangerous plans were never far from his mind.
A brief interval of leisure while he waited for news led him to fall in with Inigo Jones’ desire to visit the theatre in Vicenza. With Jones lagging behind on his hired horse, they rode north across the Veneto, passing Angelica’s fine mansion among many others by the hand of the same master and making their way through vineyards with their crouching vines now harvested and pruned for the winter and fields furrowed and empty. Nick had caught some of Inigo’s passion for the works of Palladio and begun to visualise how such a building might look in the folds of the Warwickshire hills. He began to think of money and a setting for Kate. He broke into the flow of talk to broach the matter of a new manor at Rokesby. The idea stopped Jones in his tracks and he sat with his eyes gleaming and his body pointing like a gundog.
“You shall have the finest house in the shire, my lord, drawings you shall have, plans—”
“Nothing grand, Inigo. Go and visit the site and we will see.” He spurred ahead, tired of talking and listening, looking for himself.
Coming in sight of Isola and the river, Jones caught up and spurred ahead, galvanised by the Palladian glory of the Palazzo Chiericati rising behind the old prison in the distance. They crossed the bridge over the Bacchiglione and clattered through paved streets past many buildings showing the hand of the master, Inigo’s head swivelling to take it all in.
The Teatro Olympico was a gem embedded within the high walls of what had once been a castle, then a prison. They were coming in the back way, under the arch of the Bruti gateway into what had been a military compound, now softened with flowers and nymphs and pink marble. Above them rose the Observatory Tower, and Nick would have lingered to examine the fascinating marriage of old and new, but Jones was pushing open the stage door in a great hurry. Along a short corridor obviously hastily adapted from the prison buildings, through an elegant odd-shaped space with a high ceiling, and they were there. The familiar smell of glue and plaster and sawdust took Nick straight back to the Rose on Bankside, but there the resemblance ended.
The auditorium was dim, steeply banked tiers of seats rose in a shadowy crescent to ornately painted stalls, a gallery and a walkway, an elaborate gilded and coffered ceiling drew the eye, but the actor and the designer stood transfixed by the stage. For a start it had a flat proscenium arch, brightly lit by oil-lamps, separated from the rows of benches by a narrow pit. No apron jutting into the audience, a long, shallow acting area was backed by a painted scene. And what a scene! Buildings so real you could walk into them lined streets leading deep into the distance, and as they watched, the lights changed to reveal another perspective through the three solid arches. Used to words painting the setting, Nick could not believe his eyes. A rehearsal was going on, with much shouting and argument, women among them – another strange thing.
Jones strode forward. “We are men of the theatre,” he announced in a loud voice. “Connoisseurs of the drama, come to see your scena.”
Nick cringed inwardly as the person in charge turned to stare.
“Inigo Jones, masque maker, at your service, signore,” went on Inigo. “And…er…”
“Nicholas Talbot, of the Rose in London,” said Nick. “We interrupt you…”
“Five minutes,” said the man to his performers. The two women promptly sat down in a billow of skirts, dangling their legs, and the men abandoned bladders and wooden swords to get out pipes and tobacco. “Outside with those – how many times…” He beckoned over a little man with bowed legs and an anxious expression, clutching a tattered sheaf of paper.
“You are welcome, messires. We are busy as you see, our lead for tonight has a throat and we must make do. Alfredo here will show you round. The Rose, you say.”
“You know of it, signore?”
“We have heard of a new playwright, setting the Thames on fire.”
Theatre people are the same the world over, thought Nick, in a universe of their own.
“William Shakespeare, signore.” he said. “I have played in some of his pieces.”
“We will talk. Look around – amuse yourselves. “Alfredo…” He clapped his hands, the cast reassembled and the rehearsal went on.
Backstage the puzzle of the perspective was resolved. Like the Commedia in Paris, but infinitely more sophisticated, the depth of the scene was the measure of a small room only, built of wood and plaster cunningly shaped and painted into perspective – a new concept. Oil lamps were placed to add to the deception, the changing light and shade would give an extra dimension. Nick was not sure whether Kit Marlowe’s creations would benefit or lose in this artificial scene. He resolved to visit the play and see how it worked. They came out blinking into the sunlight and Nick left Inigo with his sketchbook and went to find lodging.
He was to be disappointed with the performance. In spite of the repressive rulings of Venice, the play substituted for Pace’s Eugenio was an opera buffo, for which he was not in the mood, and its excesses made Inigo draw in his chin and avert his eyes. They left before the harlequinade and parted, Nick to his lodging and the contrary Jones to find himself a whore. He hurried in when Nick was saddling up to leave and announced he would be staying on.
“I have opportunity to speak with the scene designer, no less than Scamozzi himself! And the Rondo is so near,” he said. “I will make my own way back.”
“Very well,” said Nick. “Have you money?”
Jones avoided his eye. “There have been unlooked-for expenses—”
“Inigo, we have a business arrangement regarding Rokesby.” He fished in his pouch. “An advance.”
“I am most grateful.”
“You will build me a fine house.”