Daughters of the Doge by Edward Charles Page B

the things we encountered in our medical profession, and it had become my regular practice to carry a small sketch-book with me all of the time, but ever since I saw my first painting by Hans Holbein, hanging in one of the state rooms in the Palace of Westminster, I had marvelled at the limner’s skill; the ability not only to make a recognisable image of a person’s face, but at the same time to be able to portray the character of that person (or at least to portray the character the subject wanted you to show to the world). Now, I knew, I would be able to study the painter’s skill to my heart’s content, and who knows, I might, one day, even meet one of the painters whose names so represented the reputation of the Venetian Republic abroad.
    The bell rang in the tower and I realized I had one hour before my meeting: time to turn back and begin to make my way towards the university. I turned left and left again, until I could see the university building at the far end of the road and across the piazza.
    I arrived early, as is my habit, and asked for the Department of Greek Studies. A wide, stone staircase carried me to my destination and I found myself at the back of a large room with vaulted ceilings and frescoes on the walls. My footsteps echoed on the hard stone floor and I was conscious of making a disturbance in this quiet place of learning.
    Voices could be heard from the next room and, as quietly as I could, I walked towards them. The language was unknown to me, but occasional familiar words put me in mind of my medical studies. I thought I recognized Cheke’s voice. The talking ended and there was a scrape of chairs being moved, followed by a growing murmur of younger voices. A dozen young men strode past me, carrying notebooks and pens, and the place returned to quiet.
    Now I stood, alone and in silence, awkward, not knowing whether I had intruded or was expected to move forward. I heard more footsteps – just one man’s – and froze, wishing I had held back until the agreed time. Footsteps again, and Cheke, looking old and tired, limped into the room. He saw me and his face lit up.
    ‘Good morning, Richard. On time, as expected. Come to my rooms and we will meet the others.’
    As we climbed more stairs, Cheke had to pause for breath more than once, but he brushed off any offer of help from me, and soon we reached a small book-lined garret. Two men stood with their backs to us, pointing through the window at something in the courtyard below. They turned as we entered and smiled a greeting. Cheke introduced me to the first.
    ‘Richard Stocker, this is Sir Peter Carew – another of your Devon men, I do believe.’
    A short, powerful man of about forty stood before me, hand outstretched in greeting. His face was swarthy, his hair and beard short and black, and his eyes had the distant hardness of someone who has witnessed many of life’s horrors. In short, he looked like a soldier.
    I knew him by reputation, for he had been Sheriff of Devonshire eight years before and made Member of Parliament for Devonshire only three years before. Although we had never met, I had him marked down in my memory as one of the MPs who had opposed Northumberland when he put forward Lady Jane for the crown. I had not forgiven him for that, believing it identified him as a hidden Catholic, and although he had changed his position when Queen Mary married Philip of Spain and was an active participant in Wyatt’s rebellion, I was not yet ready to accept him as a friend. Those who change sides once can do so again, I thought.
    He shook my hand, seemingly aware of my reservations, and stepped back to allow his companion to be introduced. ‘And this is Francis Walsingham.’
    Walsingham was younger than Carew, but still older than me – perhaps twenty-five. He was wearing the clothes of a student at the University, but his face was not a student’s; indeed the eyes behind the beak-like nose were those of an experienced lawyer, one