One Knight In Venice
One Knight In Venice
Tori Phillips
One touch of Venus was nothing compared to the magic in the hands of Jessica Leonardo. The mysterious signorina was a woman unlike any Francis Bardolph had ever known, for she alone could make him face his most dangerous secrets–and still have hope for love!Though Sir Francis played the man of leisure, Jessica saw through his disguise. The man was dangerous–in ways that thrilled the private places of her heart. But would his desire still run hot when her true self was revealed–and her secret shame unmasked?
“My lord, I am not worthy—”
He drew nearer to her, enticed by the lushness of her mouth. “You are more than worthy, madonna,” he whispered. “You have no idea who it is who asks you this favor. Please, call me by my given name.”
Her pink tongue darted out and moistened her lips. “Since you and I have concealed our true identities for tonight, I will do as you ask. But on the morrow—”
“Let the devil take tomorrow, sweet Jessica,” he murmured.
Desire, fueled by an overwhelming urge to protect her, rushed through him like a wildfire. Gathering her into his arms, he held her snugly in his embrace. “What is my name, Jessica?” he whispered into her black, silken hair.
Softer than a butterfly’s wing, her long eyelashes fluttered against his cheek. “Francis,” she breathed. Her rosy lips beckoned his kiss.
Sizzling fireworks exploded within him….
Praise for Tori Phillips’s previous titles
Lady of the Knight
“Ms. Phillips weaves an adventurous story…
a good, fast-paced read.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
Three Dog Knight
“Readers will be held in thrall…a gem of a tale.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
Midsummer’s Knight
“…a fast paced plot…fully and funnily
Shakespearean…wonderfully written…”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
One Knight in Venice
Harlequin Historical #555
#556 THE SEDUCTION OF SHAY DEVEREAUX
Carolyn Davidson
#557 GALLANT WAIF
Anne Gracie
#558 NIGHT HAWK’S BRIDE
Jillian Hart
One Knight in Venice
Tori Phillips
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Available from Harlequin Historicals and TORI PHILLIPS
Fool’s Paradise #307
* (#litres_trial_promo)Silent Knight #343
* (#litres_trial_promo)Midsummer’s Knight #415
* (#litres_trial_promo)Three Dog Knight #438
* (#litres_trial_promo)Lady of the Knight #476
* (#litres_trial_promo)Halloween Knight #527
* (#litres_trial_promo)One Knight in Venice #555
Dedicated with much love to our family’s favorite aunt,
Katheryn Nink.
“In mine eye she is the sweetest lady
that ever I looked on.”
—Much Ado About Nothing
Contents
Chapter One (#udc30c43b-a6e0-5cb0-81a8-ff8ab13bdce5)
Chapter Two (#u4701cab1-e50a-5843-ab79-d31a31c1e67a)
Chapter Three (#u7b8c206b-3c99-58f4-ac63-26a7fd11282f)
Chapter Four (#u281f7101-390c-5833-b11d-a44bb42a7ece)
Chapter Five (#ucc5a4381-4347-50da-aea4-d99e08a6a794)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
“What think you of falling in love?”
—As You Like It
Venice, Italy
February 1550
“Madonna, there is a man waiting to see you,” said the dwarf.
Blowing a tendril of her black hair out of her eyes, Jessica Leonardo smiled at her diminutive friend and confidante. “Many of my clients are men, Sophia. What is so unusual about this particular one?”
The little woman pursed her lips. “He is tall. His head brushes the ceiling.” Sophia shrugged. “Well, almost. And…he is foreign. A Viking, I think.” She shuddered.
Jessica suppressed a grin. “You are not sure?”
Sophia fluttered her pudgy fingers. “God in Heaven, how can one tell? The man speaks our language but with an accent and he is dressed in all the fashions of the world. His hose reek of Paris while his doublet could only be from Verona. His overcoat looks like something the English would fancy, and his bonnet? I cannot begin to guess what nationality his hat calls itself.” She narrowed her eyes. “But this I do know. Though his clothing fits him well, he looks to me as if he wears borrowed finery.”
Jessica cocked her head. “How now? You speak in riddles, Sophia.”
“Then let me tell you plainly. Though he is dressed like a wastrel, he learned his manner in a monastery. I swear that he could hear a merry tale, yet never crack a smile.”
Jessica wiped her marble pestle clean of the dried lavender she had ground. Then she rinsed her hands in a nearby basin of water. “I long to behold this wonder,” she said, drying her fingers on her work apron.
She crossed to the wall that separated her still room from the antechamber. Sliding back a small rectangle of the paneling she squinted through the peephole. “¡Dio mio!” she whispered under her breath.
As Sophia had described him, a giant of a man paced around her comfortably appointed waiting room like a mighty lion in a too confining cage. He clutched his ruby-colored feathered bonnet in his right hand while he ran the fingers of his left through hair that was the color and sheen of old gold. Jessica scrutinized him with a practiced gaze that had beheld many men’s bodies of all ages and stages.
The stranger’s red-and-white-striped hose accentuated the muscles of his unusually long legs. He sported a golden codpiece in the shape of a scallop shell and his tight red-velvet doublet ended just at the waistline instead of below it. A shirt of cream silk billowed through the slashed gold-embroidered sleeves, making his shoulders appear even wider than nature’s design. The sleeveless outer coat that dropped almost to his knees was fashioned from gold brocade and lined with red fox fur—very costly. The short scarlet cape that covered his shoulders gave him the appearance of having wings. Cheerful crimson pom-poms crowned the straps of his golden square-toed shoes.
Yet the gentleman’s most arresting feature was his face. Finely chiseled, as if he were a saint carved by the great sculptor Sansovino, the stranger’s expression belied the gaudy cheer of his apparel. He looked intense, intelligent and extremely dangerous.
“Am I not right?” Sophia whispered behind her. “I told you he is not what he appears to be.”
An icy chill clutched Jessica’s heart. Could the stranger be a priest from the Holy Office disguised to test my faith? She shivered. Please, dear Lord, she prayed, give me strength and courage.
Then she noticed that the man rubbed his right shoulder and flexed the fingers of his right hand. Though his expression did not change, a whisper of pain flickered in his sky-blue eyes. No matter what he pretended to be, Jessica could tell that her mysterious client suffered true discomfort. After replacing the peephole cover, she turned to Sophia.
The little woman cocked her head to one side. “Will you see him? Shall I tell Gobbo to wear his stiletto?”
Taking a deep breath to quell the spasms in the pit of her stomach, Jessica nodded. As she untied her stained apron, she asked, “Did you tell the gentleman of my conditions?”
“Sì,” Sophia snapped, “though he knew about them before I even spoke.” She drew closer to Jessica. “Take care, madonna. This man has no mirth in his soul.”
Jessica swallowed a hard knot in her throat. “Of course not. He is in pain.”
Sophia jutted out her double chins. “Ha! He has no laugh lines around his eyes. You shall see.”
Jessica lifted her leather mask from its peg by the door. The white-painted face depicted Columbina, one of the characters from the popular Commedia dell’Arte. Jessica threaded its black ribbons over her ears and tied a tight knot under her thick braid. Her mask must not slip down at the wrong moment.
She turned to Sophia. “Is it on straight? Does it cover the—” She could not bear to say the word “mark”—not when an officer of the dreaded Inquisition might be the man that waited so impatiently for her appearance.
Sophia stroked her cold hand. “He will see nothing he should not.”
Sending another quick prayer to heaven, Jessica opened the door to the adjoining chamber and stepped inside. The giant lord instantly stopped his prowling. He is even taller than I thought. He must be close to seven feet. Jessica dropped a curtsy. Under her green woolen skirt, her knees trembled.
“Good morning, messere. It is an honor to welcome your lordship to my establishment. I am Jessica Leonardo. How may I serve you?”
To her surprise, he sketched a small bow in return. Obviously the man had recently arrived in the city. No proper Venetian gentleman ever gave reverence to a common woman. Does he mock me or does he hope to put me off my guard?
“Greetings, Signorina Leonardo,” he replied in a deep melodic voice. “I thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
Jessica indicated one of the padded half-moon chairs. “Will it please you to be seated, messere?” Her hand shook a little. She tucked it within a fold of her skirt.
To her relief, he eased his long frame onto the seat. Now she could see his face better. How beautiful his eyes were—yet filled with more than mere physical pain. “Tell me how I may help you?”
He blinked. “I have an old injury—here.” He touched his right shoulder. “The damp, chill weather has aggravated it.”
“Ah,” Jessica remarked, drinking in the music of his voice. “Then you have not lived long in Venice?” she asked in a casual manner. Observing the way he held his body, she noticed that he favored his right side.
His lips parted as if to smile but stopped before they could complete the action. “I was born in England.”
Jessica nodded. “A very cold, wet country, I am told.”
“Indeed,” he replied. His even white teeth flashed in the pale morning’s light that glinted off the water of the narrow canal outside Jessica’s grilled window. “That is why I have spent my recent years seeking warmer climes.”
Jessica had the uneasy feeling that her visitor pursued goals other than the sun’s rays. “You speak Italian well—even our own dialect that many visitors to Venice find confusing.”
He lifted one of his dark golden eyebrows. “I have a good ear for many languages. It is one of my few talents.”
A scholar! Definitely he must be from the Inquisition. Her apprehension mounted. “How…how did you learn of me?” she asked in a faint voice. “I mean, my healing abilities?”
Again a whisper of a smile hovered about his lips, though his eyes remained cold. “A lady of my acquaintance, Donna Cosma di Luna, knew of my…discomfort. She recommended you.”
Jessica snorted inwardly. Cosma di Luna was no lady; she was an extremely expensive courtesan. This Englishman must be rich indeed to afford a night of pleasure with her—if he was not a priest. “My thanks to Donna di Luna,” she replied. “She comes here occasionally for a massage.”
His mouth finally completed a smile—a small one. “Cosma tells me you have an angel’s touch.”
She moistened her lips. “Donna di Luna is most kind,” she murmured. She touched the mask that hid her shame from the world’s prying eyes. “And she told you about this?”
He nodded. “She did, though she did not explain why.”
Fear rippled through Jessica. I must take care. If he sees this devil’s mark, I will be taken away and burned at the stake. She fought to control the level of her voice. “My face is disfigured, messere, and has been so since my birth. The sight of it would sicken you. Therefore, I wear a mask in deference to the sensitivities of others.”
He gave her a long, searching look before he said, “I am sorry to hear of this misfortune for your lips remind me of the red roses of my homeland and your voice is sweet as a lark.”
What does he really want from me? I have done nothing to betray my parents. Jessica cleared her throat. “Did Donna di Luna describe what I do?”
He nodded. Absently he rubbed his shoulder again. “She said that you can massage away the pain. If this is true, Signorina Leonardo, I will be forever in your debt. I have lived with this torment for many years.”
Jessica stared directly into his sad azure eyes. Taking a deep breath for courage, she replied, “I can mend the pain that plagues your shoulder, my lord, but I fear my craft cannot heal the wound in your heart.”
A muscle twitched on one side of his jaw. “Cosma did not warn me how perceptive you are, signorina,” he remarked in a wary tone.
She looked away from him, her heart hammering in her breast. “It is easier to understand another’s pain when one has been wounded as well.”
For the first time his face softened a fraction. “I am sorry,” he murmured in a gentle voice.
A warmth flooded Jessica’s being at the sound of his words. She glanced at him out of the corner of her mask’s eyehole. The Englishman was exceedingly handsome. She could well imagine him in a courtly setting instead of sitting in her plain little house. Her fingertips tingled. Behind her back she balled her hands into fists. She turned toward a second door in the room that led into her treatment chamber.
“If you wish me to help you, please follow me.” She opened the door.
He stood up. Once again his bulk filled the space. Jessica backed away. He held up his hand to her, palm out. “Pray forgive me, little one, I did not mean to startle you.”
She gave him a shaky smile. “In truth, my lord, I have never met anyone quite so…tall.”
He arched one brow. “Height runs in the family.”
Jessica moistened her dry lips. “Then you must live in a large house to hold all of you at one time.” She bit her tongue. I am chattering like one of those silly little monkeys they sell on the Rialto.
The Englishman followed her into the treatment room. “Have no fear. The family resides in England,” he remarked. His caped silhouette danced along the wall like a winged creature. He smelled of cloves and wood smoke.
Seeing that Sophia had already prepared the chamber, Jessica smiled. In the far corner, a brazier of pierced brass stood on a tripod of slim iron legs. Hot coals glowed within it, banishing the chill of the midwinter day. Sophia had added a stick of sandalwood to the fire—an expensive whim but one that Jessica approved. Perhaps the sweet aroma would cheer the English prelate—or whatever he really was. A clean linen sheet covered the high-legged padded divan and a soft wool blanket lay folded across the end. A number of pots containing Jessica’s oils and creams were laid out on a side table. A thick scented candle flickered in its wrought-iron candlestick. She closed the door behind him.
The Englishman glanced around the room. “No windows?”
Jessica cleared her throat. “To keep out the drafts—and the unpleasant odors from the canal.” She smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from the sheet. She must stop trembling or she would never be able to work on him. “And to insure privacy.”
He touched one of the green walls. “Felt?”
Jessica ran her tongue across her upper lip. “To muffle the sounds of the city and to keep in the warmth. It is all for your comfort, messere, I assure you. I will leave now so that you may disrobe. Please remove your outer clothes and shirt. You may hang them on those pegs.” She pointed to a row of varnished knobs opposite the door. “Then lie down on the divan and cover yourself with the blanket so you will stay warm.”
She lifted a thick black blindfold from the table and held it out to him. “I fear I must beg your further indulgence. Please blindfold your eyes before my return.”
As he took the ebony silk from her hand, his fingertips brushed against her skin. The spot burned and tingled as if it had been caressed by both fire and ice. Jessica drew in her breath. What power does this man have that I quake, yet I yearn for him to touch me again?
He examined the blindfold then glanced at her. “Cosma also told me of this, but why is it necessary?”
Jessica was prepared for this question. All her new patients asked it. “In order to work on your body without hindrance, I remove my mask. Yet I wish to protect you from the sight of my face. Therefore, I humbly beg that you wear it while I treat you.”
He dangled the cloth between his thumb and forefinger as if it might turn into a live eel at any moment. “And if I do not?”
Jessica lifted her chin a notch. “Then I will not treat you. The choice is yours.” She held her breath.
He studied her for a long moment, then he flashed her a sudden smile that disappeared before she could savor it. “You have me at your mercy, Signorina Leonardo. I will bow to your edict. In faith, you are the most intriguing woman I have yet met in Venice.”
Jessica didn’t know if he had just paid her a compliment or insulted her but she opted for the compliment. With a quick smile in return she let herself out of the room. “Please call me when you are ready, messere.”
He held up his hand to stop her. “By which name shall I call you?” he asked. A faint twinkle lit the depths of his eyes.
Her mouth went dry. Her heartbeat increased. “I am known as Jessica,” she answered softly. Then she shut the door, stumbled to the nearest chair and collapsed between its welcome arms.
Is this man a wizard? He has cast my wits under his spell.
Francis Bardolph gave the room another swift inspection before he unfastened his cape. Small confines made him uneasy, especially when there were no windows. No quick exit in case of trouble. He shook his head to banish his misgivings. His suspicious nature stemmed from too many years traveling abroad in the service of the crown, first for old King Henry VIII and now for his young son, King Edward VI. He jumped at mere shadows these days, Francis thought ruefully as he hung his cape and outer coat on the pegs. It was a nerve-racking job gathering secret intelligence for England’s clever Secretary of State, Sir William Cecil.
The muscles in his shoulder protested every movement. He kneaded the sore area with his fingers. Then he unbuttoned his garish doublet while he mused upon the intriguing Signorina Jessica. Unlike the majority of the Venetian women whom Francis had encountered during his five-month stay, Jessica did not dress her raven hair with sticky wax pomade but she allowed it to lie in a braid down her back. Delightful, he silently applauded. Most provocative. I wonder what she looks like with it unbound? Is it as soft to the touch as it appears?
Wincing a little, he peeled off the tight jacket. Francis chided himself for dwelling on the signorina’s tresses. He had enough female worries on his mind as it was. Lately, Cosma had become more demanding, not for the glittering baubles provided by Lord Cecil’s generous purse, but for Francis’s body and soul. Last night she had all but suggested that he marry her. Francis rolled his eyes at the low-beamed ceiling. He could just imagine the reactions of the Cavendish family if he returned to England with that piece of painted baggage.
What a difference between these two women—Cosma and Jessica! Francis paused before untying the laces of his silken shirt. Cosma’s hair was that red-gold color favored by practically every woman in Venice. On sunny days droves of fashionable ladies could be seen on hundreds of flat housetops sunning their henna-streaked locks in crownless broad-brimmed hats. Young gallants often climbed to the top of the campanile in Saint Mark’s Square just to admire the rippling ocean of gilded tresses.
But Jessica’s hair was black as midnight. It beckoned Francis to weave his fingers through it, though his sense of propriety and good manners forbade his hands to follow his lusty thoughts. He wondered why Jessica didn’t use cosmetics to mend her looks, as Cosma and the other votaries of Venus did, instead of hiding behind that blasted mask. He had seen only her mouth and yet it hinted of richer beauty above. Jessica’s unrouged lips were as lush and full-ripened as any courtesan’s skill could render. What would it be like to kiss lips that did not taste of paint? Francis snorted. He had wallowed too long among the fleshpots of the Continent to recall the simple pleasures of an innocent maid in a flowering meadow.
He wondered if Jessica was still a virgin as he pulled his shirt over his head. He guessed that she was past her twentieth year, and most women had been bedded by then unless they were locked inside high-walled convents at an early age. He grimaced. Why should the state of Jessica’s maidenhead matter to him anyway? The pain that coursed down his right arm reminded Francis that this visit to a woman was strictly business of a medical nature.
He stepped out of his shoes and pushed them against the wall with his foot. He glared at the nodding pom-poms. Ridiculous footwear! How Belle would howl with laughter if she ever glimpsed her somber brother arrayed in these gadabouts! His favorite sibling would never let him forget this indignity.
Sitting on the divan, Francis picked up the blindfold. Small goose bumps prickled his bare flesh. Once he donned this innocent-looking scrap he would become extremely vulnerable. He would literally be in the hands of a woman who was a lovely eccentric. For all he knew, Jessica Leonardo could be in the employ of Venice’s notorious secret police. The Republic would not take kindly to an English spy prowling the dark corners of their unique city. England’s expanding merchant fleet already threatened Venice’s near monopoly of trade with the fabulous East. The merchant princes of the Republic would be exceedingly glad to end Francis’s nefarious career. The mysterious Signorina Jessica could easily stab him with a stiletto while he lay placidly on her couch like a fish on a cutting board.
His shoulder throbbed. He flexed his stiff fingers. The devil take it! He had been in worse spots than this. This woman was said to be a notable healer. He would chance his life—once again. Francis tied the mask firmly in place then gingerly lay down and pulled the blanket up to his neck. His feet hung over the edge of the divan.
“Signorina Jessica!” he called. “I am ready as you have commanded me.”
The door opened behind him. He instinctively tensed; his fingers curled under the blanket. His rapier hung within arm’s reach. He caught the aroma of her perfume, a heady scent that whispered Arabian mysteries.
“I thank you for your trust,” she said in that thrilling low voice of hers. “Please relax now.”
Someone else entered the room—a man’s soft tread drew nearer to the divan. The hairs on the back of Francis’s neck prickled. He jumped when she placed her hand on his brow.
“Pray be at ease, messere,” she murmured, once again addressing him as if he possessed a noble title. “It is only Gobbo, my lutist. He will play for us while I work. If the mind is soothed, so will be the body.”
Her invisible accomplice tuned his instrument and began a gentle ballad. An accomplished musician himself, Francis admired the talent of the unseen fingers that conjured such sweet beauty from his strings. The enchanting melody hovered over him and sank into his very pores.
A pungent odor filled his nostrils. He flinched when Jessica stroked his forehead. She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Tut-tut, messere, it is only a little camphor mixed in a light oil base. Pray forgive its aroma but it does wonders for aching joints and pounding heads.”
She massaged his temples. Her touch was the most exquisite thing that Francis had experienced in a long time. Sensual, beguiling. He drew in a deep breath. His imagination wandered into a lush-appointed bedroom—with Jessica waiting for him between silken sheets. What those knowing fingers could do to a man if she—
She interrupted his wanton reverie. “Before I begin, I must examine the area that afflicts you.”
He cleared his mind. “The right shoulder,” he muttered hoarsely.
She lifted the blanket. The cool air stung his skin.
“Ah, I see.” She traced her finger along the track of the ancient scar. “It was a deep wound. How did it happen?”
Visions of that long-ago midsummer’s morning crowded into his memory. A sunny, warm day. Astride the huge warhorse of his…his master—and presumed father, Sir Brandon Cavendish. Belle’s childish laughter in his ear. The cry of a startled bird, then literally a bolt out of the blue sky. “I was shot by a crossbow,” he answered with a snap.
Jessica lifted his shoulder and touched the larger scar on his back. “Clean through,” she observed.
“My, uh…the knight I served pulled out the shaft.” He swallowed with the memory of that excruciating pain.
Her fingers gently prodded the area. “How old were you at the time?”
“Nine years and a few months.”
She sucked in her breath. “What evil creature would shoot so young a boy?”
Francis curled his lips with disgust. “One who sought my…master’s life.” He couldn’t call Brandon his father even though Brandon informally considered him as his son. “I took the arrow meant for my lord.”
“¡Dio mio!” she murmured. “So young and yet so brave.”
Poor aim was more like it, he thought, but said nothing aloud. He liked the way she called him brave.
She continued to prod the scars as if she sought to find the path of the bolt. “Did the wound fester? Did you have a fever?”
“Sì,” he replied. “There was a wisewoman who sewed me up and fed me herbs. They told me I was delirious for over a day. I was weak for a long time after that.”
She traced her fingers down the length of his arm and took his right hand in hers. “I am going to test your range of motion,” she told him. “Tell me when it hurts or pulls. And please, messere, do not mince your words. I must know exactly where the pain lives in order to help you.”
In my heart where there is no cure for it.
Aloud, Francis said, “Begin, but I warn you, I might bellow like a bear.” Despite his words, he knew he would rather die than admit that such a gentle creature as Jessica could hurt him.
Supporting his elbow, she slowly raised his arm straight up. With habit born of long suffering, Francis tensed when she lifted his arm above his head. The knotted muscles and battered flesh screamed in protest.
“There?” she asked, returning his arm to his side.
“Sì,” he replied through his teeth. The pain eased away.
She moved his arm out from his body in a long, slow arc. Again he tightened when she reached the level of his shoulder. “There again?” she asked.
He nodded. He hated to admit his weakness but since he was now committed to this path, he would endure it. Cosma swore Signorina Jessica could heal him. In any case, Jessica now stood between him and his clothes.
She stroked his hand. “Please make a fist for me,” she asked.
His long fingers protested as Francis folded them against his palm. “It is more difficult on days like today,” he apologized. No doubt she would think him the gaudy fop he pretended to be. “Cold and wet,” he added.
She lowered his arm to the divan. “Just so,” she murmured. “I am surprised how firm your muscles are in spite of the pain.”
A little warning bell jangled in the back of his mind. This sweet-voiced minx could be the agent of his destruction if he wasn’t careful. Venice literally crawled with secrets and informers.
“I have no desire to grow fat and ruin the line of my clothes, signorina,” he replied in the languid manner of his dandy’s role. “I usually exercise by riding when I am not living on an enchanted island that floats in a lagoon. Since I have been in Venice, I have taken lessons from one of your renowned sword masters.” True enough. Furthermore, the man had taught Francis a great many new and lethal techniques that the brigands in England had not yet envisioned.
Jessica said nothing for a few minutes while she massaged his neck and shoulders. Then she remarked, “You must enjoy your swordplay very much for I see that you fight left-handed although you naturally prefer your right. Please try to relax, messere,” she added. “Your muscles feel as if they are tied in knots.”
Her keen observation twanged Francis’s already taut nerves. He took several deep breaths and forced himself to remain as calm as possible. Would Jessica Leonardo slip a piece of paper with his name on it into the nearest bocca di leone, denouncing him as a traitor to the Republic of Venice? Francis had never felt so vulnerable as he did at this moment while he lay half-naked and blindfolded in the house of a strange woman. He should never have come.
And yet how wonderful he felt as the melodic strains of the lute washed over him and the fingers of the lovely sorceress kneaded away his pain! Even his heart, that stone-cold organ, did not feel quite as heavy as it usually did. And his loins? They were on fire. He hoped that the blanket covered the evidence of his desire.
“Buono,” Jessica murmured as she worked deeper into his scar tissue. “Good, let your mind and body be at rest. Here there is nothing but peace and tranquillity.”
With a deep sigh Francis drifted on the gentle tide of relaxing sensations. His body felt as if he floated above the divan.
“Breathe deeply,” Jessica whispered. “Draw in God’s pure light and healing presence. Breathe out the vile humors that give pain and disquiet. In…out…in…out…”
The desire to sleep crept over him. Francis knew he should fight the urge but his body craved the blissful peace. The notes of the lute grew fainter.
“Messere?” Jessica laid a warm hand on his arm. “The sands in the hourglass have run their course. I have done for today.”
Francis pulled himself back into the wakeful world. Jessica placed one hand on his good shoulder and the other on his opposite hip. She rocked him in a soothing manner. Then she laid her hands lightly on his chest. A healing warmth seemed to flow from her fingers into his body, rejuvenating him. Fire licked between his legs.
A groan escaped his lips.
“How do you feel, messere?” she asked as she stepped away from him. The lutist concluded his concert with a long final note.
“In paradise,” Francis murmured.
“And your pain?”
He lifted his right shoulder. His muscles moved without protest. He flexed his fingers. They operated smoothly even when he balled them into a fist.
“Tis a miracle!” he whispered in English, then said in Italian, “You have done a wondrous deed, sweet sorceress.”
“Oh, no, messere,” she answered in a rush. “I have no special powers. I am only a simple woman. Please believe me, my lord.”
Francis pulled himself into a sitting position on the divan. For the first time in months, perhaps even years, he felt strong and full of…joy. “I am new-made indeed. What spell did you cast?”
She gasped. “I did no magical thing, my lord. I only loosened those hard knots. But,” she cautioned, “the good feeling is temporary at first. I worked your muscles hard today. When you wake tomorrow you may be as sore as if you had been fighting the Turkish army single-handed.”
He curled his lip. “Those words bring me much cold comfort.”
She moved further away from him. “It will pass, I assure you. Understand this, messere, I have not cured you—only time and il Dio can do that. If you wish for a lasting effect, you will need many treatments such as I have given you.
“Think of your body as a fine palazzo,” she continued in her delightful voice. “One day, a gang of bravi took possession of your beautiful house. For years and years, they lived there, destroying your fine furnishings, drinking your prize wines and fouling your gorgeous paintings. Then one day, a little woman enters your house armed only with a broom.” She laughed again. “A big broom, of course.”
“Of course,” Francis agreed, enchanted with the storyteller as well as her story.
“She sweeps the evildoers out into the canal, then begins to put your house in order. But the bravi do not like this new state of affairs. They want their comfortable life back, so they return.”
“And she must sweep them out again?” he ventured.
“Exactly so,” Jessica replied. “The bravi have dwelled within you for a very long time. It will take many sweepings to expel them forever. Do you understand?”
Francis drew in a deep breath, thinking of the darker devils that plagued his soul. “More than you realize, little one. When may I come again? Tomorrow?” What a delicious way to spend each day!
“Tomorrow is too soon, messere. You must allow your body to rest after the work I made it do today. Even the Good Lord had a day of rest. But you may come on the next.” She shyly added, “If you wish.”
Francis placed his hand on his chest where hers had so lately lingered. “With all my heart. At what hour will you receive me?”
“Is ten in the morning too early for you?”
Francis shook his head. “I would be here at dawn, if you commanded me, madonna,” he replied with heartfelt truth.
She laughed once again. “Then you would be most unusual, my lord, for no gallant in Venice is abroad before noon, unless he is still awake from the night before.”
Francis allowed a smile to form on his lips. “But I am English and practice my strange ways even in your civilized city.”
Jessica opened a door. A sudden cool draft brushed his bare skin.
“At ten of the clock on the day after tomorrow. And your name, my lord?”
Without his usual caution, he replied, “Francis Bardolph at your service, Madonna Jessica. I will count the hours until then.”
She gave a little cough. “You may leave my fee on the table after you dress, Messere Bardolph. Good day.” With that, she closed the door.
Francis untied the blindfold and looked around for the musician, but the lutist had also disappeared. Francis’s clothing and accoutrements still hung undisturbed as he had left them, including his heavy money pouch on his sword belt. He pulled his shirt over his head, wondering anew at the unaccustomed ease he experienced when he pushed his arms into his sleeves. As he buckled his shoes, someone knocked on one of the doors.
Francis’s heart skipped a beat. The enchantress had returned! “Enter,” he called. He wet his lips with expectation.
Instead of the fair Jessica, her elfish maid appeared. “Feeling better?’ she asked, giving him an appraising look.
Francis resisted the urge to laugh at the officious little woman. Instead he swept her a bow—and marveled how smoothly he accomplished the maneuver. “I am indebted to your mistress. She has made me a new man.”
The dwarf crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “Good!” She eyed his purse. “Be sure to show Madonna Jessica your appreciation by paying her in full. My mistress is not a rich woman. We cannot live on credit as the wealthy do.”
Francis grinned down at her. He fastened his cape around his shoulders, then untied his purse. “A ducat, I believe you told me?”
“Sì,” the woman nodded. “And it is money well spent, I assure you.”
Francis said nothing. He placed two shining gold pieces on the table. He noted with pleasure the maid’s startled look. He handed her a third ducat. “Please give this to the musician. He is most gifted.” Then he bent far down and kissed her pudgy hand. “And you, signora, are the light of the world.”
Leaving her gasping with astonishment, Francis settled his hat on his head and let himself out the front door into the narrow street. An old English country song hummed in his head. By the time he crossed the little campo, he was singing the words aloud—something he never did.
As he approached the boat landing on the canal, he spied, out of the corner of his eye, a furtive shadow move behind him. Grasping the hilt of his rapier, he whirled to face his pursuer. Except for several old men sunning themselves by the wellhead in the center of the square and a woman hanging out her wet linen on a pole from her second-story window, the campo was bare. Francis gave himself a shake. Now I jump at shadows and alley cats. Still warm with the afterglow of his visit to the peerless Donna Jessica, he banished his misgivings. Why ruin a perfectly lovely day?
Launching into the second verse of his childhood song, he hailed a passing gondola.
Chapter Two
Cosma di Luna cast a glance over her creamy white shoulder and asked, “After the Englishman left the house of the healer, where did he go?”
In her dressing-table mirror, she observed her young informant gaping at her near-naked beauty with an ill-concealed hunger. Jacopo was such a pliable youth. The merest flash of her breasts was enough to enslave him to her command. She knew she could save herself many ducats if she paid for his information with her favors.
Cosma leaned closer to the mirror to apply a line of sooty kohl to her eyelids. She reveled in her position as one of Venice’s premier courtesans who entertained in her bed noble senators, sons of the aristocracy and wealthy merchants. She had no need to stoop to servicing a low-born, would-be bravo. Her coin and a well-chosen glance or two of her charms would suffice for the likes of Jacopo.
“Well?” she prodded the stupefied young man. “I presume that you did follow Messere Bardolph as I asked you?”
Jacopo ran his tongue over his lips. “Sì, Donna Cosma. First he went to the Rialto, where he drank wine with some acquaintances. He stopped by the beggar that sits on the steps of San Giacomo church and exchanged a few words with the man. Lord Bardolph gave him alms, as is his custom. Then he went to the bookbinders where he stayed a quarter of an hour or so if one can rely on the bells of San Giacomo.” Jacopo scratched his head in thought. “After that he visited the apothecary shop at the corner of Calle del Spezier and the Campo San Stefano.”
Cosma paused in her cosmetic applications. “What did he purchase?” she asked lightly, though her breath caught in her throat. Pray God, Francis had not caught the French pox. “You did ask, did you not?”
Jacopo grinned. “Sì, madonna, I know my duties. He procured a vial of an elixir for…that is…” He blushed and coughed into his sleeve. “To render him impotent, or so the apothecary swore to me.”
Cosma’s fear gave way to anger. Her fingers gripped the ivory handle of her brush until her knuckles turned white. What a villain with a smiling cheek! Though she had been his mistress for nearly four months, Francis had yet to complete the act of love with her. Usually he withdrew himself before the moment of truth. Other times, he claimed to be…uninspired. Was it any wonder that she had resorted to having him followed? If he slaked his appetites with another woman, Cosma knew she could soon remedy that situation. But why use a potion to deliberately deflate his desire?
The more she dwelled on Francis’s perfidy, the angrier she grew. His fear of impregnating her was truly an obsession, not merely a whim as she had first thought. Cosma narrowed her eyes at her reflection. Was she not the reigning Venus of the city? How dare he use her in such a fashion! Or, more to the point, not use her as any sensible man would.
“Madonna?” Jacopo intruded. “Do you wish to hear the rest?”
Cosma drew herself upright. “Of course,” she snapped. “That is why I pay you. What else did the canal rat do this afternoon?”
Jacopo started to laugh at her remark, but choked instead when she glared at him. “He visited a wine shop where he dined and played at cards with several young gentlemen. I recognized Messere Niccolo Dandelli and his younger brother.”
Cosma nodded. The Dandelli brothers were notorious rakes with full purses and empty time to fill—two of her favorite patrons. In fact, Niccolo had introduced her to Francis last November. She saw no problems in that quarter. “Go on.”
The youth rubbed his nose. “Then he returned to his rooms at the Sturgeon where he napped, as is his custom. His landlord told me that Messere Bardolph is not used to the late hours we Venetians keep. He must prepare himself for night sport—and for you, madonna,” he added with a fawning look.
And drink his kill-love liqueur, Cosma thought. A plague of fleas upon Lord Francis Bardolph! Aloud she asked, “Where is he now?”
Jacopo folded his arms across his chest. “Still sleeping at the Sturgeon. I took this opportunity to report to you.” He gave her another hungry look.
Cosma pretended not to notice his lust though she enjoyed her power over the callow boy. Opening a small casket on her dresser she took out a scudo. “Come, Jacopo,” she purred, holding out the money to him. “Come take your fee.”
He all but ran across the distance between them. Just before he could grab the coin, she closed her fingers over it. “Kneel,” she commanded with a smile.
He immediately dropped to the floor before her. His slavering obedience soothed her ruffled vanity. Leaning over, she allowed him to view a generous portion of her bosom. “Kiss my foot.”
With a huge smile displaying a set of white teeth not yet stained with too much wine or missing from decay, Jacopo smothered her right slipper with his loud kisses. When he tried to pry off her shoe for further adoration, she dropped the scudo in front of his nose. The silver coin clinked on the cold tiles.
“Enough for now, dear boy,” she murmured, pulling her foot free of his grasp. “Too many sweets will dull your appetite.”
“Never,” he replied with a low groan of despair.
Waving him away, she gave her attention to her mirror. “Be off! Return to Lord Bardolph’s inn and continue your vigil. Hurry before he wakes from his nap.”
Jacopo stood, pocketed his wages, and tossed her a shrug. “He will sleep till five. He is a man of habit.” Casting her one final look of longing, the youth left the chamber and clattered noisily down the stairs.
As soon as her minion was gone, Cosma put down her comb and the jar of hair pomade. Her toilette could wait a bit while she attended to a more pressing matter. Still fuming over Francis’s dishonesty at the apothecary’s, Cosma decided to raise the stakes a notch. If her so-called lover intended to use artifice to cool his ardor, she would employ the same method to bring him to her bed. This English lord was too fine a prize to let him slip away just because of some addlepated notion of his to not father a child. A baby was exactly what Cosma needed to bind herself permanently to Francis, his noble title and his fortune. Then it would be farewell to the exciting but extremely hazardous life of a courtesan.
Cosma rose and crossed her bedchamber to her library next door. She surveyed her four shelves of precious books with pride of ownership. She possessed one of the finest private collections in all of Venice: books of poetry, romance, history, philosophy—and the arts of love. She ran her finger along the ribbed leather spines until she found the one she sought—a new addition to her store of erotic knowledge. The Perfumed Garden, written with exquisite detail by a Muslim sheik. She flipped through its pages until she came to the section dealing with aphrodisiacs. She chuckled to herself. Francis’s potion would be no match for the delicacies she would prepare for him tonight.
I shall be a titled English lady before Easter!
The great bell of Saint Mark’s Basilica tolled six in the evening when Francis put down his quill and rubbed his eyes. Another report completed for Sir William Cecil. Francis blew on the ciphers to dry the ink. He flexed his fingers after an hour of laborious writing in code. Then he raised his right hand and admired the way his fingers still moved without stiffness. God bless the black-haired healer! He wished he had learned of her months ago. What a delightful creature she was! Fresh—and so intriguing behind her mask. Not like Cosma, he reflected with a frown. She hid behind a mask of cosmetics, artfully applied, of course, but false all the same. He massaged the bridge of his nose. Cosma! How was he going to solve that problem?
Initially she had been amusing and full of helpful gossip. Francis had enjoyed her company and taken the pleasure he allowed himself when sporting with a woman. At first she had only laughed at his precautions against conception, applauding him for his thoughtfulness. He had been happy enough to let her think her protection was his sole concern.
Since Christmastide however, their easy relationship had undergone a change. Cosma demanded more from him than he was willing to give—and her font of information about the various members of Venice’s Great Council had decreased. Her usefulness now gone, Francis discovered that he had grown tired of her nagging personality. Recently she spoke of marriage in an offhand manner, but Francis had heard those words and seen that same calculating look in a woman’s eye before. The time had definitely come to end the affair, but he knew Cosma well enough to realize that she would not let him go peaceably. The break would be loud and messy; possibly dangerous if she sought revenge. He dreaded the confrontation.
He stared at the green glass vial on the table. What sort of witch’s brew had that dog of an apothecary sold him? Francis hated the idea of drinking something foreign, but he hated even more the idea of succumbing to Cosma’s seductive wiles. He vowed to never father a bastard as he had been fathered. His mind comprehended this deepest fear but he could not yet discipline his body’s lustful inclinations. Only this morning, the mysterious Donna Jessica had stirred the desires that he thought he had banked against the assaults of Venus. Jessica’s fingers ensnared him when he had least expected it and her voice entranced him into a state of near bliss. Worst of all—he had enjoyed the entire experience and he looked forward to its repetition in two days’ time.
Closing his eyes, he groaned aloud. His passionate nature ran too deep for him to completely subjugate it. He should not be surprised, considering the lusty histories of both his natural parents. Their fires flowed in his blood. Francis reached for the vial, uncorked it and sniffed.
Hoy day! If the devil has an odor, this would be it. He grimaced. Church bells tolled the half hour. He dragged himself to his feet. At this rate he would be late to Cosma’s house and she did not take kindly to his tardiness. Best to keep her content for as long as possible. Only a few more weeks until the spring thaw made the roads passable; then he could kiss Cosma—and Venice—farewell.
Taking a deep breath, he lifted the bottle to his lips and tossed its vile contents down his throat. Sweet Jesu! The taste alone was enough to convert a man to life-long celibacy.
Three-quarters of an hour later he was in Cosma’s lemon-yellow house on the Rio di San Cassiano canal. Her second-floor solar was lit with many fat, sweet-scented candles in black iron holders. Her little handmaid, Nerissa, plucked a pleasing tune on her beribboned mandolin. Cosma herself rivaled the Goddess of Love in her diaphanous gown of pale yellow silk. Her perfume wafted across his nostrils with intoxicating invitation. Though the elixir did not sit well in his stomach, Francis was glad he had drunk it. Cosma had obviously woven her gilded web for his complete downfall tonight.
“Come, let us sup, my love,” she murmured after recovering from his cool greeting. “Tell me the news of your day.”
He glanced at the table set for a feast. Wine sparkled in pink glass goblets and silver-covered dishes crowded the nearby sideboard. His stomach growled with a mixture of hunger and revulsion. He swallowed. “My day was nothing but loud talk among half-wits.” He dismissed his activities both innocent and subversive. “I had much rather feast upon your conversation, gattina mia—my little kitten.”
Cosma flashed a wide smile as she pulled him toward her repast. “Then I will not deny you the pleasure of satisfying your appetite—all your appetites,” she purred.
With a resigned sigh, Francis lowered himself onto the padded leather armchair. He had absolutely no appetite for anything—food or otherwise. Cosma seated herself opposite him. Outside her window a creeping fog swathed the lantern lights of the houses on the opposite side of the canal in a soft damp glow. The misty gray vapor muffled the singing of the gondoliers as they plied their slim black boats through the still water. With graceful movements born of practice, Cosma uncovered a dish.
Francis’s stomach roiled at the aroma of the savory eel soup. “I fear I am not very hungry,” he muttered. He took a sip from his brimming goblet. Hopefully the wine would settle the discontented humor of his digestion. Damn that poxy apothecary!
Cosma’s brown eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “A taste here, a bite there, caro mio.” She allowed a small pout to cross her rouged lips. “I had this meal prepared especially for you.”
Francis picked up his spoon. “Then I shall eat it especially for you,” he replied. It was a shame that he felt so out of sorts since Cosma employed one of the best cooks in Venice.
Lifting her goblet, she toasted him. “You do me honor, my lord.” She took a spoonful of the soup. “And how was your visit to Signorina Leonardo?” she asked in a light tone.
At the mention of Jessica, a smile creased Francis’s lips. The memory of her voice and her touch gave him delight despite his current discomfort. “A most welcome one, I assure you, gattina.”
A small frown knotted between Cosma’s delicately drawn eyebrows. “Indeed? I should think you would find her affectation for the mask a bit…how do I say it? Bizarre.”
Francis sipped more wine to ease the eel down his throat. His ruffed collar felt very tight. “Not in the least. In fact, I found it added to her charm.” He glanced at the groaning sideboard. Spikes and nails! How many more of these covered dishes was he supposed to consume?
Cosma blotted the corner of her mouth with her damask napkin. “Did you know that her parents were Jewish? The Spanish Inquisition forced them to convert—or so I have been told.” She poured him more wine from a beautiful pink glass decanter. “One cannot help but wonder how far from the tree the apple falls.”
Francis concealed a burp behind his napkin. “Are you implying that Donna Jessica is a Jew?” His belly filled with wind of a most disagreeable sort. He unbuckled his belt and allowed it to drop to the floor.
Cosma lifted her shoulders in a sketch of a shrug. The action bared her flesh down to her breast. “I merely relate the gossip of the city, my love, as I know it entertains you.”
He gently pushed away the half-eaten soup. “Donna Jessica appeared to be as Catholic as I am.”
A lie since he had very little interest in religion. The rift between old King Henry and the pope had squashed most of Francis’s interest in spiritual matters. He came from a Catholic household that had been forced to practice their faith in secret now that the young King Edward pursued with zealous fervor the propagation of the Protestant creed throughout England. Whatever her religion, Jessica was probably more devout than Francis had ever been.
Cosma shrugged again, baring her other shoulder. “It matters not to me in the slightest.”
Francis mopped his damp brow. “Nor to me. Jew or Catholic, Jessica is a wonder and that is God’s own truth.”
Cosma pouted. “Indeed,” she muttered. Then she lifted the lid of the largest platter. “Perhaps these will titillate your fancy.”
Francis gulped down the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. “What are they?”
“A dish of doves,” she cooed.
He rolled his eyes to the gilded vaulted ceiling. “Oh, me, pigeons again? It is well that so many of them flutter in the Piazza San Marco to fill your larder, Cosma.”
She placed one of the tiny golden fowl on his plate then sucked on her fingers in a provocative manner. “Prepared with hot spices from the East and roasted with onions.”
He groaned inwardly. He should have guessed that Cosma’s supper would harbor an ulterior motive. Lady Katherine Cavendish, Brandon’s wife, was well versed in the lore of aphrodisiacs. Years ago she had taught Francis the hidden properties of many an innocent-looking meal. Onions for a man’s virility; hot spices and peppers to excite sexual impulses; eels to stimulate motion in bedsport—and those blasted doves? The special pets of Venus herself. Francis gulped more wine, but instead of settling his much-distressed stomach it only made things worse.
Cosma, ignorant of Francis’s gastronomic turmoil, pulled off some of the succulent pigeon breast with the tips of her white teeth. She curled her long pink tongue around one of her fingers and languorously suckled it. “My food is not to your liking? Oh, dear! I have displeased you—and after I tried so hard to make this meal a warm one. To heat you after a day spent in the cold air outside.” A tear shimmered in her eye.
Francis blew out his breath with exasperation. “Don’t weep!” he snapped. Weeping women completely unnerved him. On the one occasion when his mother had wept in his presence, Francis thought he would die. “Your supper surpasses all delights.” He stuffed a whole roasted onion into his mouth and chewed it with loathing.
Cosma immediately brightened. “I hope not all delights,” she hinted. “There are others yet to come.”
Francis’s stomach lurched. His gorge rose in his throat. Clapping his hand over his mouth, he bolted from the table. Grasping the nearest chamber pot, he emptied the contents of his tortured innards.
“I crave your pardon,” he said hoarsely before retching again. I will flay that apothecary by inches if I live through this night.
With a stricken look, Cosma rose from her chair and came toward him. “I had no idea, my lord…that is to say, I should not have spiced the soup so much.”
“Stay back,” he gasped before he was sick again. Into your hands, oh, Lord, I commend my spirit. Pray take me soon! Clutching the reeking pot for dear life, he sank to the cool floor.
Cosma wrung her hands. “Mayhap it was the wine, but I only seasoned it with a little ginger, cinnamon and vanilla.”
Francis retched again. “Enough! Speak no more of food! Can’t you see that I am dying?”
From her corner, Nerissa shrieked and dropped the mandolin.
Cosma’s eyes grew even larger than her cosmetics had made them appear. She pressed her hand against her lips. “Do not say that! You can’t possibly be! I swear upon the crocodile of Saint Theodore I have not poisoned you!” She fell to her knees. Wailing, Nerissa joined her mistress.
Francis clutched his heaving stomach. “Stop that caterwauling and fetch me another pot—quickly! A plague take that scurvy knave,” he added in English.
Nerissa dashed into the next room and returned with two more receptacles. She practically threw them at Francis. “Please do not die, my lord,” she whimpered. “I am much too young to go to prison.”
Despite his agony, he managed to give her a weak smile. “Fear not, little maid. I shall not haunt you in this life or the one to come.” He pulled himself to his feet and staggered around the corner where Cosma kept her closestool. “Your pardon, my dears,” he gasped.
Francis had never felt so ill in his life—not even when he had made the rough sea voyage from Marseilles to Genoa. Now his head ached, his throat was raw and his skin felt hot and clammy at the same time. Truly methinks that charlatan did poison me. He gritted his teeth until the spasms finally receded, leaving him weak as a newborn calf.
When he emerged, he found Cosma and Nerissa still on their knees and praying—a sight he would have found highly amusing had he not felt so wretched. “Arise, gattina, and take me to your bed,” he attempted a feeble jest. “Unfortunately, it is sleep I crave and not pleasure. Be of good cheer. I believe I will survive after all.”
With many soothing words, the women helped him toward Cosma’s wide bed that stood in regal splendor on its platform in the middle of the adjoining chamber. He fell amid the feather pillows and lay as a corpse while Cosma and Nerissa dragged off his clothing. The bed linens smelled faintly of lavender.
Francis emitted a low groan. The chit would have seduced me past all my restraint tonight if it had not been for that hellish elixir. He drifted into a heavy sleep still wondering whether he should kiss or kill the apothecary on the morrow.
Chapter Three
Morning came far too early. Francis felt as if he had barely closed his eyes before Nerissa shook his shoulder.
“Please, messere.” She shook him again. “Awake!”
Cosma stirred next to him. “What is it, Nerissa? Go away! The dawn has not yet showed her face.”
Francis rolled onto his side. If his stomach muscles weren’t so sore and his mouth didn’t taste so full of chicken feathers, he would have sworn he had slept through a nightmare. “How now, little Nissa?” He scrubbed his face with his hand.
The girl clutched her dressing gown closer about her thin trembling form. “There is a man downstairs to see you.” She bit her lower lip. “A very large man.”
Cosma frowned at her maid. “You mean to say that I have a guest at this unholy hour? What barbarian would seek the company of a lady so early in the morning? The sky is dressed in wisps of the night.”
Nerissa shook her head. “No, madonna, the visitor is not for you but for Lord Bardolph and he said it was most urgent.” Bending closer to the bed, she whispered, “He is a blackamoor.”
Francis tossed back the covers. “Did he give his name?” he asked with mounting excitement. He had not seen Jobe the African for over a year.
Nerissa held out the parti-colored hose of green and gold that she had peeled off Francis last night. “He gave no name but yours, messere. But he did ask me mine,” she gulped. “He has very large teeth!”
Francis grinned at her. “I promise he will not bite you.”
“A pity!” Cosma pouted from the midst of her pillows. “I need a diversion since you are so sluggish. Tell me, Nerissa, is this Moor a handsome man? Well proportioned? Is he able to keep his dinner inside his stomach?” She wrinkled her nose at Francis.
Despite her fear, the little maid giggled. “He wears a golden earring and has a great many knives across his chest.”
Francis hurried with his dressing. “That is Jobe to the letter!” He had no idea how much he had missed a friendly face that bespoke of England.
Cosma motioned for her dressing gown. “Ah! Our early visitor grows more interesting by the minute. Is he rich?”
Francis laced up his shirt. “That depends upon the wealth of the most recent ship Jobe has plundered.” He chuckled to see both women blanch. “Do not look so pale. Jobe is a very lamb when among ladies.”
“Now I am intrigued,” Cosma declared, rouging her lips and cheeks with quick deft movements. “Show him up immediately, Nerissa. And, mind you, do not gawk!” After the maid departed, she asked, “Just how are you acquainted with such a fascinating man?”
Francis assumed his pose as an English dandy. “It is a passion of mine to collect interesting objects whilst on my travels, gattina. A Roman sculpture, a piece of the True Cross, even a wily African or two.”
She gave him a penetrating look. “Indeed? It seems to me this man is more than one of your passing whims.”
Francis pulled on his padded velvet doublet. “Indeed,” he agreed.
As Jessica had forewarned him, his shoulder ached this morning as if he had exercised too much. More than ever he looked forward to his visit with her on the following day. Now that Jobe had arrived in Venice, the next twenty-four hours promised to pass less tediously. He grinned at the thought. Just then Nerissa reappeared with the giant African looming behind her like an avenging ghost.
Cosma’s eyes widened. “¡Madre del Dio!” she breathed, taking in the African’s amazing height, the width of his powerful shoulders and the dozen tiny knives that crisscrossed his broad chest. “Welcome to my home, Black Apollo.” She retreated to the protection of her elevated bed.
Jobe looked first at Francis in his state of semidress and then at the sleek-limbed woman in her state of near nakedness. He swept Cosma a flourishing bow. “I wondered why there was no fair moon last night to guide my ship into port, but now I understand. Diana of the silvery orb came down to earth and reclines before me. Madonna, I am your humble servant,” he said in passable Italian.
Francis smiled behind his hand at his friend’s lavish compliments. Always the master of surprise, Jobe’s cupboard of skills was never empty. Cosma allowed her dressing gown to slip a little, revealing a snowy portion of her thigh.
“How charming!” she replied in a voice like silk. “I forgive your early arrival when you come with such sweet words on your tongue. Francis, pray tell me, who is this god?”
Francis gave her a wry look. She already plans to seduce him out of his purse or to make me jealous. Oddly enough, he found he wasn’t the least disturbed by Cosma’s fickleness. “Allow me to present Jobe of Africa. My family calls him our guardian angel as he has often proved to be so.”
Jobe beamed at his introduction and bowed again, this time including the awed Nerissa in his attentions. “Do not dislike me for my complexion, I beg you, sweet ladies. I have been burnished by the fierce sun of my homeland. But who is this flawless pearl, Francis?” he asked, nodding to Cosma. “Now I see why you do not spend much time in your own lodgings. Your landlord wondered when I asked him where you were.”
Francis rolled his eyes at his friend. Jobe could butter the bread of compliments very thick. “I have the pleasure to present to you Donna Cosma di Luna, one of the peerless beauties of Venice.”
Jobe advanced to the thronelike bed, dropped to one knee and kissed Cosma’s bare foot. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”
You may have her with good riddance.
Jobe turned to the little maid who stood on tiptoe in order to see him better. “And it is only fitting that Venus should be attended by such a delicate nymph as you, sweet Nerissa,” he added in his deep voice.
The girl nearly fainted with shock while a dart of anger flashed from Cosma’s eyes. She hated any competition. “Nerissa,” she snapped. “Some wine and bread for our guest and hurry…you slug!”
With a squeak, Nerissa darted away.
Francis addressed his friend in English, “A pox on you, Jobe! How can you utter such honeyed phrases at this sober hour? You will need a cask of wine to cleanse your mouth.” He clapped the huge man on his shoulder. “Sweet Jesu! My eyes are glad to see you, you old pirate!”
Jobe enveloped him in a bear hug. “And you! Though I must confess that I did not expect to find you costumed like a jester.” With a chuckle, he pointed to the wide green bows on Francis’s shoes.
Francis gave him a rueful look. “Tis a counterfeit pose, Jobe, and a long story best saved for when we are alone.”
Before the African could reply, Cosma spoke up from her cloud of lace, lavender and goose down. “Fie, gentlemen! It is not polite to speak in a language I cannot understand. Are you plotting the downfall of Venice?”
Jobe grinned at her. “Not so, lovely dove. We were discoursing upon your downfall. I fear you have quite overcome me.”
Cosma simpered in reply and flashed a little more bare leg. Francis tugged at his friend’s sleeve. “Please wait until after I leave before you ravish her. In the meantime, tell me what brings you to Venice to seek me out before even the pigeons are awake?”
At that, Jobe’s expression changed to a somber one. “I bear a heavy duty, Francis, but one that had to be done.” He withdrew a thick letter from inside his leather jerkin.
Francis stared at it, recognizing Lady Katherine’s handwriting. Icy fingers squeezed his heart. “Bad news from…from Wolf Hall?”
Jobe nodded. “I am sure that good Lady Kat has written her sad tidings with a gentle hand. I will amuse yonder lady while you read it. Take your time, my friend.”
Francis turned away from Cosma’s bed. Clutching the letter close to his chest, he crossed into the antechamber. Seating himself on one of the armchairs, he drew in a deep breath before he broke open the sealing wax. His sudden hot tears blurred the words before him.
Dearest Francis,
Tis with a heavy heart and hand that I take up pen to write such doleful news. Two weeks ago, on the twelfth of November, Sir Thomas Cavendish was taken suddenly from this life. He died as he had lived—in the saddle. The day had been cold and bright with frost. Sir Thomas together with Brandon and Guy and many of the men from the estate went out into the forest to hunt a boar for the coming Christmastide feast. During the afternoon, at the height of the chase, the heart of his great horse burst with the strain, throwing Sir Thomas to the earth. Alas, his neck broke upon landing against a tree trunk. Death was immediate, I am told, and without pain. Dear Lady Alicia bears her sorrow well. She said to tell you that it is a comfort for her to know that Sir Thomas and his beautiful black horse rode posthaste to heaven together and that was the way you know Sir Thomas would have wanted it. I fear that Brandon has taken his father’s loss most heavily, as has Guy. It is hard for me and the children to realize that Sir Thomas is indeed gone from this earth. He seemed to be one of those men destined to live forever. Please remember him in your prayers, Francis. You were always his special pride. He often praised your love of language and poetry—gifts you both shared. In his will he has left you his library…
Francis wiped his streaming eyes with his sleeve. Only yesterday, he had arranged for a beautiful copy of Sir Thomas More’s Utopia to be especially bound in red leather and embossed with a silver wolf’s head—the Cavendish family symbol. It was a belated New Year’s gift for the man who was his beloved grandfather. Now it was too late! Francis covered his face with his hands. After the first wave of raw grief had receded, he continued Kat’s letter.
…of books. He knew that you most of all would appreciate them. I am sorry to be the bearer of such sad tidings. Know that I hold you close to my heart in your sorrow. Brandon joins me in sending you our love. Dear Jobe is here and will give you further details as you require. We look forward to the day when you will return to us. Come home soon, Francis! Written this 28th day of November 1549 at Wolf Hall, Northumberland.
Your loving Katherine Cavendish
Countess of Thornbury
Francis reread her signature and title several times as her message sank into his brain. How quickly the world turned and turned again! Of course Lady Kat was now the new countess just as his…as Brandon became the tenth Earl of Thornbury the instant that the breath of life had left his father.
Gripping the paper in his hand, Francis laid his head down on the table. His silent tears soaked into the green velvet cloth that covered the top. He had not felt one tenth this sorrow when he had learned of his mother’s death three years ago. Francis had barely known her in life and he had liked her even less.
His emotions were quite different with Sir Thomas’s passing. Francis had lived under Wolf Hall’s roof for over fourteen years. Though a big man, as all the Cavendish men were, and blessed with a powerful voice, Sir Thomas was a gentle friend to the young and weak. On the other hand, the earl was a fierce competitor in the jousting arena and a ferocious foe in combat. Francis remembered the many hours they had spent together in his library studying the plays of Plautus and the writings of Erasmus. Sir Thomas had patiently taught his bastard grandson the joys of Greek and Latin and he had championed the boy’s bent for study when Brandon wanted Francis to spend more time handling a broadsword and lance. “The pen is mightier than the sword,” Sir Thomas had often told his eager pupil.
Now that grand old man was gone forever.
Francis read the letter a third and fourth time. He barely noticed the goblet of watered wine and a small loaf of honey bread that Nerissa placed by his hand. He stared out the window at the gloom of the breaking day. As if heaven mirrored his sorrow, rain fell lightly from the leaden skies and rolled like teardrops down the wavy panes of glass. In the distance, he heard church bells calling early worshipers to Mass.
Francis dragged himself to his feet. I must go to church. He could not remember the last time he had stepped willingly inside a place of worship. Though he believed in God and the existence of a heaven and hell, the daily practice of religion meant very little to him. But it meant all the world to Sir Thomas. Francis must pray for his soul. It was the only thing left he could do for that wonderful old man. He strode into the bedchamber where Jobe sat on the bed’s carpeted platform and conversed with Cosma in low tones. Spying Francis, the African stood and came toward him.
“How now, friend?” Jobe asked in English.
Francis held out the letter now wrinkled by his grief. “These are the most loathsome words that ever blotted paper,” he told Jobe. “To think that he has lain cold in his grave for these past three months and I never knew…never knew. I have been drinking, singing and dancing—aye, and wenching while the worms dined upon my…my grandfather.” He could not continue. His shame overwhelmed him. He had never told Sir Thomas how much he loved him.
Cosma took his hand in hers. For once, there was no artifice in her eyes. “Jobe has told me of your loss and I am sorry to hear it.”
Francis bowed his head with his wordless thanks. Grief choked him.
Cosma turned to the African. “His grandfather was a great man?”
Jobe nodded. “One of England’s finest. Now he takes his place among his noble ancestors and leaves his earthly cares to his son.”
Cosma’s expression changed subtly. “And his son is…?”
Jobe hooded his dark eyes. “Sir Brandon Cavendish, the tenth Earl of Thornbury.”
Francis crumpled the letter. The earl was Sir Thomas—it had always been. Francis could not yet imagine Brandon filling those large shoes.
Cosma flicked her tongue between her teeth. “Then you are now an earl’s son, Francis,” she whispered. She did not add, “And one day you will be the next Earl of Thorn-bury.” Francis heard her unspoken words inside his head and it sickened him. She sickened him.
“Guard that rash tongue of yours, madonna,” Jobe told her in a deceptively gentle tone. “One day it will be your downfall.”
Cosma ignored the warning but Francis heard it. “Heed him,” he snapped at her. Jobe possessed a rare gift—the ability to see events in the future for everyone except himself.
“The Earl of Thornbury is a very important title in England?” she prodded.
Francis pulled on his overcoat and grabbed his cloak, hat and doeskin gloves. “God rest his soul, he was the most important man in my life,” he told her as he stalked toward the wide staircase. As he spoke the words, he realized how true they were and his sorrow doubled. “Come, Jobe,” he called over his shoulder in English. “We must hie ourselves to Saint Mark’s. Mass has already begun.”
Cosma recognized the name of the great basilica that stood in the heart of Venice. Running after Francis and Jobe she asked, “You are going to church, Francis? Now? I thought you and God were in disagreement.”
“It is time I made some amends,” he shouted back up the marble stairs. “My grandfather deserves it.”
“Then return to me soon, caro, and I will comfort you.”
Jobe clapped his hat on his head. “Hold, woman! Can’t you see that his mirth has fled?”
Cosma opened her mouth but Jobe held up his hand. The fire in his eyes silenced her. “Remember the words I have told you, mistress.” Then he followed on Francis’s heels.
Rather than take a gondola to the piazza, Francis and Jobe hurried through the sinuous narrow streets toward the great church. The mist-draped piazza already teemed with masked revelers celebrating the pre-Lenten season of Carnevale. Francis ignored them just as his grief blotted out Cosma’s unashamed avarice. When he had the fortitude, he would deal with her later. For now, he would pray for his grandfather’s soul in the afterlife and remember the great man who had loved him—like a son.
A reedy-voiced priest droned the Latin ritual as Francis and Jobe slipped through one of Saint Mark’s massive doors. The huge vaulted domes high over their heads gleamed dully with gold-spangled mosaics depicting biblical tales. The white faces of the painted saints looked strained and pouchy under their eyes, as if they had been carousing all night. The hundreds of candles flickering before altars and shrines did little to dispel the pervasive gloom of the massive building’s interior. When Francis’s eyes adjusted to the dimness he noticed that very few worshipers attended the divine services.
Francis sank to his knees on the cold marble paving and folded his hands in prayer. The geometric pattern of the floor made him light-headed so he closed his eyes. While he half listened to the familiar words of the Mass, Thomas Cavendish flashed through his memory. Dredging up long-forgotten prayers, Francis whispered them in the chill air. Never had he felt so desolated as he did at this moment. His anger at himself for missed opportunities in the past joined his regret for a future now empty of Sir Thomas’s imposing presence.
Francis roused himself from his meditations when Jobe tapped him on the shoulder. “The priest has finished,” the African whispered. “And my bones are chilled.”
Blinking away the vestige of grief, Francis rose heavily to his feet. He had no idea how long he had knelt on the hard floor but now his knees ached. Even inside his gloves, his fingers felt like icicles. He rubbed warmth back into them.
“I pray your patience a moment longer, my friend,” he said to Jobe. “I must buy a taper and light it for Sir Thomas.”
Without waiting for his friend to reply, Francis made his way to the church’s porch where an ancient nun presided over a tray of beeswax candles. Selecting a long one, he paid for it and returned to the main aisle where he searched for a place to light it. Jobe followed him in respectful silence. Francis realized that the Catholic rituals were completely foreign to the African, and he appreciated Jobe’s faithful company all the more. In the small Chapel of the Cross, Francis pressed his candle into a vacant holder, lit it with a waxen spill, and whispered one final prayer.
A faint but familiar scent wafted on the cold air. Francis lifted his head and sniffed. A rich Arabian perfume filled his nostrils and stirred a pleasant memory. Signorina Jessica? He spun on his heel and peered into the huge dark body of the church.
Jobe moved to his side. “What is it?” he asked in a low tone. “Danger?”
Still scanning the interior, Francis shook his head. “Nay, tis an angel, methinks, and one that I long to see soon again.” Never was he in more need of Jessica’s healing touch than now. His heart beat faster.
Jobe lifted his dark brows. “A woman?” he asked with surprise.
Francis stepped into the yawning nave. “Aye, but more than that. You will understand when you meet her. Ah! There she is!” He spied a slim cloaked figure at a side door.
He broke into a trot across the undulating, uneven floor. If she managed to slip away before he could reach her, he would lose her among the holiday crowd in the piazza. “Signorina Jessica,” he called softly as soon as he dared.
The woman turned. Her white-painted mask shone starkly from the folds of her dark hood. Francis called her again. “Signorina Leonardo? I crave a word or two.”
Placing her hand on the large brass doorknob, she paused like a startled deer in a wooded glen.
Francis drew to her side. Jobe lingered in the shadow of one of the stone pillars.
“Donna Jessica?” Francis asked again, though he was sure it was she. Her perfume enveloped him with its enchantment.
“Messere,” she murmured, drawing her hood lower over her hidden visage. Her hand trembled. “I hope you are feeling better this morning.”
He placed his hand on his chest. “In body yes, but my heart is broken in twain.”
She stepped closer to the door. “Pray do not jest with me. It is not seemly to play trifling games inside God’s house.” She turned to go.
Francis touched her arm. “Forgive me. I do not sport with you, Donna Jessica. I have just learned that my grandfather is dead. Do you have a healing potion for a grieving heart?”
She looked up at him. Her eyes shimmered behind the mask. “Your pardon, messere, I mistook,” she whispered. “You have my deepest condolences.”
Francis took her hand in his. “May I escort you back to your home? Just hearing your voice is balm to my sorrow.”
Her trembling increased. “It is already daylight outside and I am late. I beg your pardon, Lord Bardolph, but I must hurry away.”
He refused to relinquish her hand. “Then I shall attach wings to my feet and fly with you.”
“Like Mercury?” A half smile brightened her lips below the mask. “But it is not possible. You are a great personage and I am a nobody. We should not be seen together. My company demeans you.”
“Never,” he protested. He longed to shed the disguise of his garish clothing and his pretense of nobility. “I swear upon yon Holy Cross that all my wealth runs in my veins, not in my purse or position.”
She lowered her head so that he could not see her eyes. “You speak in riddles that I do not understand. Pray, let me go now. I must be away from here. There are too many prying eyes and wagging tongues.” She glanced up at him. “For your loss, I am sorry, and I will remember your grandfather in my prayers. What was his name?”
“Thomas,” he replied softly.
She nodded. “A fine name. I will remember him—and you,” she added. She glanced over to the pillar. “I see you are attended by a friend and so I will leave you with better company than I. Good day, messere, until tomorrow.”
Francis looked over his shoulder at Jobe. “Sì,” he answered with feeling, “he is a wealth of friends rolled into one, but you—” When he turned again, he found that she had slipped away without a sound.
Jobe stepped out of the shadows. “You spoke the truth,” he remarked, putting his hand on Francis’s shoulder. “The maid is a very pearl among the swine of Venice.”
“She seemed afraid of me, yet I meant her no harm. Did you hear the music of her voice? Oh! She is sweet and brings a ray of sunshine into the cold vault of my heart.”
“Tread softly lest you lose her forever,” Jobe whispered.
Francis gave him a penetrating look. “What do you see in the mists of the future? Do you see her?”
Jobe stared beyond Francis, past the bright candles and the holy statues into the dark recesses of his inner vision. “Aye, I do, but tis murky. That little one will save you or she will condemn you. She carries joy in one hand and sorrow in the other. Because of her, you will die, be reborn and new baptized.”
Chapter Four
Sophia looked up from her kettle of thick soup as Jessica entered the tiny kitchen at the back of the house. The savory aroma of simmering chicken and onions comforted the young woman. Still out of breath from her dash through the maze of alleyways and squares between the great piazza and the safety of her little home north of the Rialto Bridge, Jessica sank onto a short-legged wooden stool. Tossing back her hood, she plucked the mask from her face.
Sophia planted a hand on her ample hip. “How now? I thought you went to church?”
“I did,” Jessica replied. Her heart still raced within her bosom.
“Then why have you returned looking as if you were pursued by a demon?”
Drawing in a deep breath, Jessica leaned back against the cool plaster wall. “He was at Saint Mark’s.”
The little woman’s eyes widened. “Who? Il diavolo in a house of God? Tell me, does he truly have horns and cloven feet?”
Despite her recent fright, Jessica smiled. “No, Sophia. I speak of the English lord from yesterday.” She sat up straighter. “He was there and he stopped me as I was leaving.”
“And?” Sophia cocked her head like one of Venice’s gray-feathered pigeons.
Jessica twisted her fingers in her lap. “How did he know I would be there?” she whispered. “Unless he had me watched. Did he station a man outside my door to see if I consorted with Jews? Perchance he hopes to trap me, to prove that I am not a good Christian woman.”
“Mayhap he expects you to fly over the rooftops on a broomstick,” Sophia remarked wryly. “Or invite nine or ten alley cats to a dance.”
Jessica glared at her. “Tis no laughing matter. Why do I feel that I tread upon eggshells when Lord Bardolph is near? He frightens me.”
Sophia snorted. “Only that? Are you sure there is nothing else he does to you when he is standing next to you?”
Closing her eyes, Jessica allowed herself to explore the myriad unfamiliar feelings that had assailed her when Sir Francis had held her hand. Though he had worn gloves, she felt his heat penetrate her skin. Setting her blood afire. Leaving her breathless. Making her giddy with a strange emotion that she had never experienced.
“He is not like other men,” she responded lamely.
Sophia turned back to the soup that threatened to bubble over into the fire. “Agreed. He is as tall as a ship’s mast.”
Jessica rolled her eyes. Sophia could be so annoying at times. “I mean he is not like the others who have sought my help. I know how to slip away from the searching hands of those Lotharios old and young who seek to press their advantage upon me. They laugh and shrug and tell me that there will be another day. And I know how to listen to those sad-faced men who complain of their aches and pains when it is really their wives and their dull marriages that make them feel ill. They leave happier and call me sweet names that they will not remember by the time they reach the canal. But this man…”
Shivering, she hugged herself as she recalled his low gentle voice and the infinite beauty of his face. “He is so different. He dresses as if he had not a care in the world, yet he bears a weight inside of him greater than all the henpecked husbands of Venice.” She caught Sophia’s gaze. “He told me this morning that he had just learned of his grandfather’s death.”
The little woman paused in her soup stirring and sketched a hasty sign of the cross. “Poor man!”
Jessica stared at the glowing red coals in the hearth. “And I think that is the truth, yet he was sad yesterday when he did not know of his grandfather’s passing. Is he sad because he must disguise his true self? Sophia, I cannot banish the fear that he is really a secret agent of the Holy Office.”
Sophia tasted her concoction and added a pinch of salt. “And yet?”
Jessica massaged her temples. “I swear I must be going mad for I cannot wait until he returns here tomorrow. Just thinking about him makes my heart pound. Do you suppose I am coming down with a fever?”
Sophia turned slowly around and surveyed Jessica. She crossed her arms over her breasts with an odd gleeful look in her eye. “Just so, cara mia. I think you have been bitten by a strange malady that usually comes in the springtime.”
Jessica gasped. “The plague? Please, Sophia, tell me it is not so!”
Sophia chuckled. “No, my sweet girl, you are safe from that scourge. Let us speak no more about it today for I could be wrong and I do not wish to alarm you further. Wait and see. Perhaps tomorrow I can better tell.”
Jessica felt her forehead and cheeks with her palms but found that she was not unusually hot. “Is it a fatal illness?”
Sophia laughed behind her hand. “Not usually. Enough of this idle prattle. Go attend to your business and allow me to tend to mine. Little Miriam is due to arrive at any moment and she needs all the soothing care that you can give her.” The small woman shook her head. “If you ask me, fourteen years is too young to have a baby, no matter what her dolt of a husband thinks. Bah! Men!”
Jobe regarded his young friend with a keen interest. He was heartened that the most serious member of the Cavendish family had finally given evidence of his passionate nature. “Be of good cheer, Francis. You said you will see your elusive dove on the morrow. For today, let us walk about this delightful city and share goodly talk. I confess I am consumed with curiosity. Why these gaudy garments that are better suited to a rake than to a man of intelligence and somber wit?”
Francis curled his lips. “You do not approve of my rags? They are the very last word in fashion, I assure you.”
The African arched his dark brow. “If those are the last words, then put a period to end their sentence.”
A ghost of a smile hovered on Francis’s lips. “Tis for the future of England’s foreign trade that I play the fool. I am dressed to blend into the background.”
Jobe snorted. “Aye, as the red nose of a drunkard blends in with his green face.”
Francis waved away this observation. “When I was in Paris, I played the part of a roving jongleur. Thank God, Lady Alicia insisted that I learn how to play a lute and recorder! That disguise served me well for over two years. In Padua, I became a dense medical student. In Pisa and Rome, a stuttering cleric. The stutter spared me from having to say a Mass, hear a confession or to answer probing questions.”
He continued, “In Genoa, I worked as a dockhand until my muscles screamed in protest. In Florence, I pretended to be an artist. That was a mistake of the first order for I discovered that I could not draw to save my life. When I came here I adopted the guise of an English rake who is somewhat addled in his wits.” He kissed the back of his hand with a flourish. “Naturally I was accepted by the ruling class as one of their own.”
Jobe chuckled. “Belle would die laughing if she could see you now.”
Francis grimaced. “Don’t remind me and I pray you, never tell her. She would tease me for a lifetime. How fares my sister and her rogue of a husband? Are they well? And her children? Tis an odd thing to think of Belle as the mother of two boys.”
Jobe guided their steps toward the Rialto Bridge where he hoped the bustle of early morning commerce and gossip-mongering would lighten their mood. “All are in most excellent health and pine for your return. Tis seven years since you last set foot in Wolf Hall. Do you intend to roam the wide world forever?”
Francis avoided Jobe’s gaze. “I am needed abroad in the service of the king,” he replied without emotion.
“Belle’s son Thomas needs his godfather to give his young mind direction toward books instead of pranks. And your father yearns for your company again.”
“Which father is that?” Francis mumbled into the collar of his cloak. “I had several.”
The African narrowed his eyes. Since Jobe had last seen Francis in Rome the previous year, the young man’s melancholy had grown worse and the canker in his soul had festered. If it were not lanced soon, Jobe feared that his friend would not live to see his fortieth birthday. And yet, this morning had given the African a spark of hope. He vowed he would not leave Venice or Francis until that spark could be ignited into a blaze of joy. “Tis the season of mirth,” he remarked aloud.
Francis cast him a glum look. “I am too heavy for sporting tricks.”
They entered a crowded square near the Rialto Bridge. Vendors of vegetables and fish did a lively business with the early rising housewives of the district. The mouth-watering aroma of fresh bread took the chill off the day. Even the sun’s watery eye seemed to burn brighter. Clusters of bearded men in bright yellow hats spoke among themselves in low tones. The Jews who controlled the intricate web of international financing discussed the price of gold and the rates of interest on the cargoes of rare spices from the Turkish empire: nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon and peppercorns. The paving stones of the square and the stucco walls of the surrounding houses reverberated with the pulse of life.
Clapping Francis on the back, Jobe pointed to the marketplace. “My purse is full and these goods entice me. Let us lose ourselves in some wanton shopping.”
Francis surveyed the cheerful scene. “Methinks I should buy a mourning band for Sir Thomas.”
Jobe nodded. “Aye, that as well, but first you must help me select some fripperies for my wives.”
Surprise etched Francis’s handsome face. “I never knew you were married.”
The African laughed. “Four times and each one is a priceless jewel.”
The young man shook his head. “Methinks there is something unholy in that arrangement.”
Jobe disagreed. “Not so, my friend. You forget that I am not a Christian and so am not bound by your laws, though my Portuguese captors did their best to beat the word of the Lord into my head. At least I learned how to swear most religiously in a number of tongues.”
Francis rewarded him with a grin. The boy should laugh more often, Jobe thought. A man with such a face as his commits a grave sin against the Creator by not enhancing his good looks with a smile.
“Very well, my dear pagan, what sort of gifts have you in mind for your women?” Francis asked.
Jobe steered him toward one of the goldsmith shops that edged the campo. “My darlings come from Africa, Alexandria and Cyprus, but they all have one thing in common. My delicate flowers adore jewelry. I shall deck them in gold necklaces, copper bracelets and those colorful glass beads. Come, help me choose!”
Francis ducked through the shop’s low door. “Your last voyage must have been a profitable one.”
Jobe grinned. “Aye, both legal trade of English wool and some conveyance of goods courtesy of several unfortunate galleys belonging to the sultan.”
Francis nodded a greeting to the eager shopkeeper. “One of these days you will find yourself dancing on the point of a scimitar.”
Jobe placed his forefinger against his nose. “But not yet and tis only today that counts.” Then he turned his attention to the glittering wares that the goldsmith displayed for them. “You have all the wealth of the world,” he complimented the snaggletoothed little man in Italian.
By the time Jobe had completed his purchases, the weak sun had managed to dispel the last of the morning’s dank mist. The African was pleased to note that Francis’s mood had also warmed, especially after a mug of spiced red wine and a repast of juicy roasted fowl from the wine shop. The sounds around them increased as masked merrymakers ebbed in and out of the square leaving laughter and music in their wake.
“Ah! I love carnival time!” Jobe exclaimed. “Especially in Venice. Tis the only good reason to have Lent for—”
At that moment his inner sixth sense told him that a pair of secretive eyes watched them.
Without altering his cheerful expression, Jobe said in a low tone, “We have interested a shadow.” He touched one of the knives he wore in a bandoleer across his chest. “Shall I tickle him to see how well he squeals?”
Francis glanced over his shoulder, then shook his head. “You mean that thin whipster in the stained brown cloak? He has been with us since we left Saint Mark’s. He is one of Cosma’s lapdogs.” He gave Jobe a rueful grin. “Methinks my mistress does not trust me to be faithful to her.”
Jobe’s intuition scented an undercurrent of danger. “Are you sure this dog has no teeth?”
Francis shrugged. “Tis but a pup—all ears and tales. Trust me. I have seen him skulking around Cosma’s house on several occasions.”
“Pups can grow into vicious jackals,” the African muttered.
Jobe spent the rest of the day in Francis’s company helping him to ease the pain of his loss. While the young Englishman paid their shadow no mind, Jobe kept a wary eye on the sallow-faced boy who hovered behind them at a short distance. The guttersnipe needed to learn a thing or two about the art of concealment and pursuit, Jobe decided. He almost pitied their dogged follower.
In midafternoon, Francis surprised Jobe by announcing, “What a dolt I am! I have an appointment that almost slipped my mind.”
Thinking that his companion meant that he had a meeting with an informant, Jobe turned to go. Francis put his hand on his arm. “Nay, do not leave me now. You must accompany me and keep me entertained for one more hour at least.”
Mystified by Francis’s sudden animation, Jobe nodded. “I am yours to command for this whole day. Do we visit a house of pleasure, perchance?”
Francis shook his head. “Surely you jest, my friend. Donna Cosma is all I can manage as it is. I speak of something that you will find infinitely more amusing—I am having my portrait painted by one of Maestro Titian’s pupils.”
Laughter bubbled up from Jobe’s broad chest. “You? I did not realize that a rivulet of vanity ran through your veins. Tis rich news indeed.”
Francis’s ears turned red. “Tis not for vanity’s sake but as part of my false persona. All wealthy travelers to Venice must have their portraits painted. Tis expected. I had barely been in the city a fortnight when I received at least a half dozen invitations to visit the studios of the city’s famous painters.”
He turned down a calle. “Titian’s studio is at the far end of this street. The maestro’s work is superb but very costly. His pupils are apt enough for Lord Cecil’s expense account. Is our fledgling still with us?”
Jobe did not need to turn around to know the answer. “Aye, though he grows weary.”
Francis grinned. “A pity he cannot come inside. I fear he will have a long cold wait.”
Jobe chuckled. Francis knocked upon a door that was in desperate need of a fresh coat of green paint. After a few minutes’ wait and a second rap of the knocker, a harried young boy admitted them. With scarcely a nod of recognition, the child ushered the two tall men up a narrow flight of stairs and into a large chamber filled with the most amazing jumble of clutter that Jobe had ever seen. Half-finished paintings of every size leaned against the walls in haphazard formations. More paintings sat on easels that stood at random angles on the wide bare floor. A dozen or so young men, most of them covered with daubs of paint and all of them looking intense, worked at various projects. The odor of turpentine, paint and rotten eggs hung overhead. Jobe sneezed.
Their page interrupted the most frazzled member of this fraternity and pointed to Francis. By way of greeting, the Englishman executed the most outlandish court bow. Jobe covered his snicker with another sneeze.
“Signor Bassanio, a thousand pardons,” Francis gushed. “My dear friend Jobe, standing here before you, arrived quite unexpectedly this day and we have been gamboling about La Serenissima, Venice the most Serene, enjoying its delights. I fear that I have overstepped my time. I beg your forgiveness.”
Jobe hid his grin. If he punctured Francis at this moment the boy would spew treacle instead of blood.
Bassanio wiped his hands on his smudged smock. “No apology is necessary, my lord. It is always a pleasure to wait upon you.” He pointed to the high-legged stool set in a spot that caught the faint glow of the afternoon’s playful light. “Please take your accustomed seat, messere.”
Francis doffed his cloak, shook the dampness from the plume on his hat and fluffed his sleeves. With a wide smile and graceful movements, he approached the humble stool and perched his hip upon it. He winked at Jobe.
Despite his mummery, Jobe liked like him better for the pose. Francis should adopt it as his own—in moderation.
Bassanio selected a covered canvas, screwed it into place on his easel and removed the cloth. “¿Signore?” He gestured to Jobe. “You may wish to see what I have done while I prepare my palette.” He stepped away with an expression of shy pride on his round face.
“My pleasure,” replied Jobe, advancing closer to view the nearly completed portrait. He drew in a quick breath at the sight.
“Tis that bad?” Francis asked in English. “I had planned to give it to Belle. Mayhap she should use it as a target for her archery practice. Well? What do you think of it?”
“Tis a wonder to behold,” Jobe replied.
Why had he never marked the resemblance before? The tilt of the head was the same. So was the merry sparkle in the blue eyes that Francis usually shielded from public view. The long legs, the tapered fingers and the easy set of the shoulders mirrored those same attributes of Francis’s true paternity. Unknowingly, the Venetian artist had set in paint a study not of Sir Brandon Cavendish but of his brother Sir Guy, the most handsome member of that illustrious family.
Staring at the canvas, Jobe experienced a rare flash of hindsight. As if he were an invisible onlooker, he observed a scene in his mind that must have taken place thirty years beforehand. As clearly as he saw Francis perched on the stool before him, Jobe saw Guy as a young man glowing with good health and the pride of his victory in the day’s tournament. A ripe beauty with nut-brown hair sauntered into view, smiled and beckoned to the too handsome youth. With a lusty but silent laugh, Guy followed her into a colorful pavilion. The image shimmered in Jobe’s brain for a final moment before it shattered into the present.
“Heigh ho, Jobe!” Francis called. “Have you wax in your ears? Tell me what the devil do I look like.”
The African gave himself a shake. Clearing his throat, he smiled at his bewildered friend. “You have not seen it for yourself?”
Francis made a face. “Bassanio has strictly charged me not to view my visage until he gives me leave to do so. Methinks he fears I will be displeased and refuse to pay him. Well? What say you?”
Bassanio came up behind Jobe. The young painter eyed the bandoleer of knives. He gulped. “Does my work please you, signore?”
Jobe smiled at him. “You have a true gift. You have caught his very soul.” And much more, Jobe realized as his prophetic insight once again took hold of him. A secret, greater than anyone suspected, lay hidden over the shoulder of the painted Francis.
Bassanio grinned like a schoolboy. “Grazie, signore. Now, my Lord Bardolph, wipe away your doubts and do not move a muscle. I have much work still to do.” He dipped his brush into a golden hue and mixed it with a light brown color. “It is the highlights in your hair that elude me and I must work quickly. The daylight fades even as we speak.”
Francis sighed with exasperation but said nothing while Bassanio commenced to paint. While Jobe watched him, he mulled over the scant knowledge of Francis’s birth that he had learned from Belle’s husband, Mark Hayward. It was no shame among the Cavendish family that both Belle and Francis had been conceived out of wedlock in June 1520 during the near legendary meeting between the kings of England and France that the chroniclers now called the Field of Cloth of Gold. Belle was the love child of Brandon Cavendish and a French vintner’s daughter while Francis was born to a noblewoman of infamous reputation, Lady Olivia Bardolph.
When seven-year-old Francis was fostered to the Cavendish family, his distinct Viking looks bespoke of his true parentage. Since Brandon had also slept with the lascivious lady, he presumed Francis to be his own, as well. But Brandon had never claimed Francis, not even when Lord Richard Bardolph, Francis’s father of record, had died.
Studying the portrait, Jobe willed his vision to appear once more but it did not. No need. Under the light strokes of Bassanio’s brush, Guy returned Jobe’s penetrating look. The African wondered if he should tell Francis now or wait to see if the young man would notice the resemblance himself. Jobe decided to remain silent on the matter. Francis had suffered enough shocking family news for one day. The time of this latest reckoning—and its hidden secret—would come soon enough.
Francis longed to scratch his nose but he did not dare move. Why was it that his nose never itched until he sat for this poxy portrait? He hoped that Belle would appreciate Bassanio’s labors. To distract himself from the annoying tickle, he stared into middle space and listened to the idle chatter of the other apprentices in the chamber. Since he had first sat for Bassanio, he had overheard several interesting tidbits of news that he had passed on to Sir William. This mindless exercise turned out to be well worth the ducats and tedium.
He tried not to let his mind wander back to his grandfather’s demise. That wound in his heart was still too raw to allow much thought in such a public place. He was deeply grateful that Bassanio had not asked the meaning of the black armband that Francis now wore in Sir Thomas’s memory. Instead, Francis cast furtive glances at Jobe’s serious countenance. He has that look he gets when he sees the future.
Bassanio clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Per favore, messere,” the painter pleaded. “Do not roll your eyes so. You try me to the quick.”
“Your pardon,” Francis replied, barely moving his lips.
He wished he could read Jobe’s inscrutable mind. There was something about the portrait that had surprised the African. Yet he did not seem displeased. Francis prayed that the painter had not given his skin that greenish tinge that appeared on some paintings he had seen during a covert trip he had made to Madrid. It was bad enough that he would be preserved in these gaudy clothes for all time. In any event, Belle would have a good laugh at his expense.
Bassanio stepped back and cocked his head. “Fine,” he pronounced.
With relief, Francis got off his stool. “Finished? May I see it now?”
The painter shook his head. “I only meant that I was finished for today. The good light is gone.” He dropped his cloth over the easel. “You can come next Wednesday?”
Francis hid his disappointment. Portrait-sitting was indeed a rare form of torture. “Sì,” he agreed. He retrieved his cloak and turned to Jobe who still appeared to be lost in the forest of his own thoughts.
“Have you seen enough art for the day?” he bantered.
Blinking, Jobe nodded. He placed a ducat in the hand of the surprised painter. “My thanks, signore, for a most excellent afternoon.”
Bassanio’s face lit up with a wide smile. “Come again, signore! Come often. Indeed, it would be an honor to paint you! I am your humble servant.” With more drivel of the same sort, Bassanio showed them out into the narrow street.
Francis drew in a deep breath of the early evening air. Another light mist from the lagoon curled around the house corners. “Tell me, Jobe, what did you see in there?”
The ebony giant chuckled. “I saw a painted fool.”
Francis knew there was more. “And what else? Come now, I saw your face. You had another vision. Tell me.”
Jobe gave him a searching look before he answered. “Very well. I beheld a dangerous secret, one that is bright-shining like the sun in splendor. For many years it has lain hidden deep amid the roots of your family. Soon it will be revealed but how or when, I do not know.”
Which family, Francis wondered, Bardolph or Cavendish?
Assuming a lighter mood, Jobe draped his arm over Francis’s shoulder. “Where away? Do we sup with the delectable Donna Cosma?”
Francis stared up at the chimney pots across the way. He had no desire to see his husband-hunting mistress. “Not I tonight, my friend, though I would not deny you that singular pleasure if you wish it.”
Jobe stroked his beardless chin. “How now? Surely the wench expects you. Your landlord gave me the impression that you always spent your evenings at her establishment.”
Francis thought of the sweet, mysterious, fascinating Jessica. “Tis time for a change, methinks. Let us repair to my inn where mine host serves a passable meal, and we shall have a long talk in private. I am anxious to hear all the news of…of home.”
Jobe nodded with a grin. “Then I am your man. I will purchase a bottle of sweet wine and then I will fill your nighttime hours with so many tales that you will cry ‘enough!”’
“Good!” Francis savored his pleasant thoughts of Jessica. “The morrow will come more quickly.”
Jobe’s laughter rumbled up from his throat. “Methinks I scent l’amore!”
Francis snorted. “When pigs fly.”
Chapter Five
The bells of the nearby church chimed ten melodic strokes. Using a pair of wooden tongs, Jessica laid a thick piece of toweling over the pile of hot stones that hissed with clouds of steam when she ladled a dipper of water over them. Sophia rushed into the kitchen and shut the door behind her as if all the demons of hell had arrived by gondola.
“He’s back!” she told Jessica, her eyes wide with fright.
Her little companion’s demeanor unnerved Jessica. She swallowed. “I presume you mean the Englishman. He promised to come this morning at ten.” Jessica’s hands trembled. “What is amiss?”
Sophia glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. “Sì, the sad lord is in the antechamber but he is not alone.” She lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. “He is accompanied by another who is even taller.”
Jessica experienced a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “¡Madre del Dio! They have come to drag me before the Inquisition. But I have done nothing wrong, Sophia,” she protested. “Though my parents have returned to their former religion, I have always obeyed the Holy Church of Rome. I have done nothing wrong,” she repeated under her breath like a prayer.
The little woman did not hear Jessica’s plaintive words. She stared fixedly at the door. “The new one is black as midnight. An Ethiope, I warrant.” She made a face. “And he smiles exceedingly much!”
Jessica blinked. An African in company with Lord Bardolph? Could such a one also be a member of the Holy Office? She discarded the very notion. She had seen a few blackamoors in the piazza, especially during the Carnevale season, but never one inside a church. And yet—yesterday, the English gentleman had been accompanied by a tall man, one who lingered in the shadows. Like a dark shadow himself.
She gave herself a shake. She could not hide in her kitchen for the rest of her life. “Come, Sophia! We must not tarry or they will grow restive and knock the house down with their elbows.”
Sophia crossed her arms over her tight bodice. “This is not the time to jest, child. We must look to our safety. I shall tell Gobbo to be armed with his stiletto as well as his lute.”
Jessica refrained from pointing out that the little man’s dagger would be as effectual as a mouse’s tooth against a lion. “Prepare a tray of sweetmeats and pastries for the African. Pour him a generous goblet of wine—our best vintage, Sophia, and…do not water it too much. Perchance we can lull him with food until we learn their true intent.”
Sophia snorted as she bustled about the small chamber. “I vow that Ethiope could drink a full keg of thick wine and still keep a sober head. Wait until you see the size of him!”
Jessica nodded, then donned her mask. It wasn’t her curiosity to meet the giant African that caused her heart to pound against her rib cage and her skin to tingle. Her thoughts centered on the handsome English lord. She squared her shoulders just before she lifted the latch of the door. “Be quick,” she whispered to Sophia.
Both men swept her courtly bows when Jessica entered her waiting room. Sophia had not exaggerated. Their physical size filled the antechamber almost to bursting. She faltered a step.
“Good morrow, Madonna of Mystery.” Displaying a surprising grace, the African greeted her in good Italian spoken in a deep rolling bass. “Your fame is exceeded only by the beauty that you try to hide.”
I wonder where he acquired such a silky tongue? Under her mask, Jessica returned his infectious smile. “You are welcome to my home, signore.”
She glanced at his silent companion. Her breath caught in her throat. Though grief rimmed his blue eyes, the gentleman appeared ten times more handsome than when she had last seen him. Must be a trick of the light.
She cleared her throat. “Good morrow, messere.” She tried to smile at him but her lips trembled too much. “Everything is prepared for you, if you are ready.”
Before the lord could answer, the African chuckled. “Francis has been ready for you since yesterday morning, madonna.”
His friend muttered something in his own language. The African laughed again but said nothing else. Then the gentleman replied in Italian, “Forgive, Jobe, Signorina Jessica. My friend speaks more nonsense than any man in Venice.”
Jessica made a fluttering motion with her fingers. “There is nothing to forgive, messere. It is I who must beg your pardon for I see that you are not well. I fear that my cure was not as effective as I had hoped. I will gladly refund your fee. Indeed, you overpaid—”
The blond man unfastened his cloak and tossed it to the African. His blue velvet bonnet followed. “I paid you a mere pittance and your healing did me a world of good, though I must confess that I did ache a bit as you had warned me.” A tiny smile flitted across his lips before it disappeared. “It is my recent sorrow that adds bitter pangs to the old hurt. Like a pilgrim on a holy quest, I have come seeking your solace, madonna.”
Jobe whistled through his teeth. “My friend speaks the truth, fair mistress. He is much sicker than I suspected.”
The gentleman glared at the blackamoor. Just then Sophia barged through the doorway laden with a large wooden tray that was piled high with the sweet provender that Jessica had requested. Setting the platter on a small Turkish table, Sophia fixed a stern eye on the African.
“You, Signore Treetop, sit!” She pointed to the larger of the two chairs in the room. “I’ll not stretch my neck out of joint so that I can see you clearly.”
“Sophia!” Jessica gasped. What had gotten into her companion that made her speak so rudely, especially to a man who wore a brace of wicked-looking daggers across his chest?
The African broke into rolling laughter as he sank down onto the chair. “Most excellent!” he rumbled with delight. “By my beard, if I had one, I think I have met my match!”
Sophia cocked her head. “I am already married!”
The Englishman cast her a wry look. “So is he, signora. Four times!”
“Truly?” Jessica eyed the grinning giant. If he practiced such a heathenish custom he could not possibly be a cleric. Relief relaxed the knots in her stomach.
The African popped a sugared almond into his mouth. “Indeed, madonna. Now go to, Francis. I know that I leave you in good hands.” He turned his merry eyes on Sophia. “Meanwhile, little pigeon, draw up the other chair and tell me your whole life’s history and I will tell you mine.” He winked at his friend before returning his gaze to Sophia. “Methinks you and I will be spending a goodly amount of time in each other’s company.”
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Tori Phillips
One touch of Venus was nothing compared to the magic in the hands of Jessica Leonardo. The mysterious signorina was a woman unlike any Francis Bardolph had ever known, for she alone could make him face his most dangerous secrets–and still have hope for love!Though Sir Francis played the man of leisure, Jessica saw through his disguise. The man was dangerous–in ways that thrilled the private places of her heart. But would his desire still run hot when her true self was revealed–and her secret shame unmasked?
“My lord, I am not worthy—”
He drew nearer to her, enticed by the lushness of her mouth. “You are more than worthy, madonna,” he whispered. “You have no idea who it is who asks you this favor. Please, call me by my given name.”
Her pink tongue darted out and moistened her lips. “Since you and I have concealed our true identities for tonight, I will do as you ask. But on the morrow—”
“Let the devil take tomorrow, sweet Jessica,” he murmured.
Desire, fueled by an overwhelming urge to protect her, rushed through him like a wildfire. Gathering her into his arms, he held her snugly in his embrace. “What is my name, Jessica?” he whispered into her black, silken hair.
Softer than a butterfly’s wing, her long eyelashes fluttered against his cheek. “Francis,” she breathed. Her rosy lips beckoned his kiss.
Sizzling fireworks exploded within him….
Praise for Tori Phillips’s previous titles
Lady of the Knight
“Ms. Phillips weaves an adventurous story…
a good, fast-paced read.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
Three Dog Knight
“Readers will be held in thrall…a gem of a tale.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
Midsummer’s Knight
“…a fast paced plot…fully and funnily
Shakespearean…wonderfully written…”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
One Knight in Venice
Harlequin Historical #555
#556 THE SEDUCTION OF SHAY DEVEREAUX
Carolyn Davidson
#557 GALLANT WAIF
Anne Gracie
#558 NIGHT HAWK’S BRIDE
Jillian Hart
One Knight in Venice
Tori Phillips
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Available from Harlequin Historicals and TORI PHILLIPS
Fool’s Paradise #307
* (#litres_trial_promo)Silent Knight #343
* (#litres_trial_promo)Midsummer’s Knight #415
* (#litres_trial_promo)Three Dog Knight #438
* (#litres_trial_promo)Lady of the Knight #476
* (#litres_trial_promo)Halloween Knight #527
* (#litres_trial_promo)One Knight in Venice #555
Dedicated with much love to our family’s favorite aunt,
Katheryn Nink.
“In mine eye she is the sweetest lady
that ever I looked on.”
—Much Ado About Nothing
Contents
Chapter One (#udc30c43b-a6e0-5cb0-81a8-ff8ab13bdce5)
Chapter Two (#u4701cab1-e50a-5843-ab79-d31a31c1e67a)
Chapter Three (#u7b8c206b-3c99-58f4-ac63-26a7fd11282f)
Chapter Four (#u281f7101-390c-5833-b11d-a44bb42a7ece)
Chapter Five (#ucc5a4381-4347-50da-aea4-d99e08a6a794)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
“What think you of falling in love?”
—As You Like It
Venice, Italy
February 1550
“Madonna, there is a man waiting to see you,” said the dwarf.
Blowing a tendril of her black hair out of her eyes, Jessica Leonardo smiled at her diminutive friend and confidante. “Many of my clients are men, Sophia. What is so unusual about this particular one?”
The little woman pursed her lips. “He is tall. His head brushes the ceiling.” Sophia shrugged. “Well, almost. And…he is foreign. A Viking, I think.” She shuddered.
Jessica suppressed a grin. “You are not sure?”
Sophia fluttered her pudgy fingers. “God in Heaven, how can one tell? The man speaks our language but with an accent and he is dressed in all the fashions of the world. His hose reek of Paris while his doublet could only be from Verona. His overcoat looks like something the English would fancy, and his bonnet? I cannot begin to guess what nationality his hat calls itself.” She narrowed her eyes. “But this I do know. Though his clothing fits him well, he looks to me as if he wears borrowed finery.”
Jessica cocked her head. “How now? You speak in riddles, Sophia.”
“Then let me tell you plainly. Though he is dressed like a wastrel, he learned his manner in a monastery. I swear that he could hear a merry tale, yet never crack a smile.”
Jessica wiped her marble pestle clean of the dried lavender she had ground. Then she rinsed her hands in a nearby basin of water. “I long to behold this wonder,” she said, drying her fingers on her work apron.
She crossed to the wall that separated her still room from the antechamber. Sliding back a small rectangle of the paneling she squinted through the peephole. “¡Dio mio!” she whispered under her breath.
As Sophia had described him, a giant of a man paced around her comfortably appointed waiting room like a mighty lion in a too confining cage. He clutched his ruby-colored feathered bonnet in his right hand while he ran the fingers of his left through hair that was the color and sheen of old gold. Jessica scrutinized him with a practiced gaze that had beheld many men’s bodies of all ages and stages.
The stranger’s red-and-white-striped hose accentuated the muscles of his unusually long legs. He sported a golden codpiece in the shape of a scallop shell and his tight red-velvet doublet ended just at the waistline instead of below it. A shirt of cream silk billowed through the slashed gold-embroidered sleeves, making his shoulders appear even wider than nature’s design. The sleeveless outer coat that dropped almost to his knees was fashioned from gold brocade and lined with red fox fur—very costly. The short scarlet cape that covered his shoulders gave him the appearance of having wings. Cheerful crimson pom-poms crowned the straps of his golden square-toed shoes.
Yet the gentleman’s most arresting feature was his face. Finely chiseled, as if he were a saint carved by the great sculptor Sansovino, the stranger’s expression belied the gaudy cheer of his apparel. He looked intense, intelligent and extremely dangerous.
“Am I not right?” Sophia whispered behind her. “I told you he is not what he appears to be.”
An icy chill clutched Jessica’s heart. Could the stranger be a priest from the Holy Office disguised to test my faith? She shivered. Please, dear Lord, she prayed, give me strength and courage.
Then she noticed that the man rubbed his right shoulder and flexed the fingers of his right hand. Though his expression did not change, a whisper of pain flickered in his sky-blue eyes. No matter what he pretended to be, Jessica could tell that her mysterious client suffered true discomfort. After replacing the peephole cover, she turned to Sophia.
The little woman cocked her head to one side. “Will you see him? Shall I tell Gobbo to wear his stiletto?”
Taking a deep breath to quell the spasms in the pit of her stomach, Jessica nodded. As she untied her stained apron, she asked, “Did you tell the gentleman of my conditions?”
“Sì,” Sophia snapped, “though he knew about them before I even spoke.” She drew closer to Jessica. “Take care, madonna. This man has no mirth in his soul.”
Jessica swallowed a hard knot in her throat. “Of course not. He is in pain.”
Sophia jutted out her double chins. “Ha! He has no laugh lines around his eyes. You shall see.”
Jessica lifted her leather mask from its peg by the door. The white-painted face depicted Columbina, one of the characters from the popular Commedia dell’Arte. Jessica threaded its black ribbons over her ears and tied a tight knot under her thick braid. Her mask must not slip down at the wrong moment.
She turned to Sophia. “Is it on straight? Does it cover the—” She could not bear to say the word “mark”—not when an officer of the dreaded Inquisition might be the man that waited so impatiently for her appearance.
Sophia stroked her cold hand. “He will see nothing he should not.”
Sending another quick prayer to heaven, Jessica opened the door to the adjoining chamber and stepped inside. The giant lord instantly stopped his prowling. He is even taller than I thought. He must be close to seven feet. Jessica dropped a curtsy. Under her green woolen skirt, her knees trembled.
“Good morning, messere. It is an honor to welcome your lordship to my establishment. I am Jessica Leonardo. How may I serve you?”
To her surprise, he sketched a small bow in return. Obviously the man had recently arrived in the city. No proper Venetian gentleman ever gave reverence to a common woman. Does he mock me or does he hope to put me off my guard?
“Greetings, Signorina Leonardo,” he replied in a deep melodic voice. “I thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
Jessica indicated one of the padded half-moon chairs. “Will it please you to be seated, messere?” Her hand shook a little. She tucked it within a fold of her skirt.
To her relief, he eased his long frame onto the seat. Now she could see his face better. How beautiful his eyes were—yet filled with more than mere physical pain. “Tell me how I may help you?”
He blinked. “I have an old injury—here.” He touched his right shoulder. “The damp, chill weather has aggravated it.”
“Ah,” Jessica remarked, drinking in the music of his voice. “Then you have not lived long in Venice?” she asked in a casual manner. Observing the way he held his body, she noticed that he favored his right side.
His lips parted as if to smile but stopped before they could complete the action. “I was born in England.”
Jessica nodded. “A very cold, wet country, I am told.”
“Indeed,” he replied. His even white teeth flashed in the pale morning’s light that glinted off the water of the narrow canal outside Jessica’s grilled window. “That is why I have spent my recent years seeking warmer climes.”
Jessica had the uneasy feeling that her visitor pursued goals other than the sun’s rays. “You speak Italian well—even our own dialect that many visitors to Venice find confusing.”
He lifted one of his dark golden eyebrows. “I have a good ear for many languages. It is one of my few talents.”
A scholar! Definitely he must be from the Inquisition. Her apprehension mounted. “How…how did you learn of me?” she asked in a faint voice. “I mean, my healing abilities?”
Again a whisper of a smile hovered about his lips, though his eyes remained cold. “A lady of my acquaintance, Donna Cosma di Luna, knew of my…discomfort. She recommended you.”
Jessica snorted inwardly. Cosma di Luna was no lady; she was an extremely expensive courtesan. This Englishman must be rich indeed to afford a night of pleasure with her—if he was not a priest. “My thanks to Donna di Luna,” she replied. “She comes here occasionally for a massage.”
His mouth finally completed a smile—a small one. “Cosma tells me you have an angel’s touch.”
She moistened her lips. “Donna di Luna is most kind,” she murmured. She touched the mask that hid her shame from the world’s prying eyes. “And she told you about this?”
He nodded. “She did, though she did not explain why.”
Fear rippled through Jessica. I must take care. If he sees this devil’s mark, I will be taken away and burned at the stake. She fought to control the level of her voice. “My face is disfigured, messere, and has been so since my birth. The sight of it would sicken you. Therefore, I wear a mask in deference to the sensitivities of others.”
He gave her a long, searching look before he said, “I am sorry to hear of this misfortune for your lips remind me of the red roses of my homeland and your voice is sweet as a lark.”
What does he really want from me? I have done nothing to betray my parents. Jessica cleared her throat. “Did Donna di Luna describe what I do?”
He nodded. Absently he rubbed his shoulder again. “She said that you can massage away the pain. If this is true, Signorina Leonardo, I will be forever in your debt. I have lived with this torment for many years.”
Jessica stared directly into his sad azure eyes. Taking a deep breath for courage, she replied, “I can mend the pain that plagues your shoulder, my lord, but I fear my craft cannot heal the wound in your heart.”
A muscle twitched on one side of his jaw. “Cosma did not warn me how perceptive you are, signorina,” he remarked in a wary tone.
She looked away from him, her heart hammering in her breast. “It is easier to understand another’s pain when one has been wounded as well.”
For the first time his face softened a fraction. “I am sorry,” he murmured in a gentle voice.
A warmth flooded Jessica’s being at the sound of his words. She glanced at him out of the corner of her mask’s eyehole. The Englishman was exceedingly handsome. She could well imagine him in a courtly setting instead of sitting in her plain little house. Her fingertips tingled. Behind her back she balled her hands into fists. She turned toward a second door in the room that led into her treatment chamber.
“If you wish me to help you, please follow me.” She opened the door.
He stood up. Once again his bulk filled the space. Jessica backed away. He held up his hand to her, palm out. “Pray forgive me, little one, I did not mean to startle you.”
She gave him a shaky smile. “In truth, my lord, I have never met anyone quite so…tall.”
He arched one brow. “Height runs in the family.”
Jessica moistened her dry lips. “Then you must live in a large house to hold all of you at one time.” She bit her tongue. I am chattering like one of those silly little monkeys they sell on the Rialto.
The Englishman followed her into the treatment room. “Have no fear. The family resides in England,” he remarked. His caped silhouette danced along the wall like a winged creature. He smelled of cloves and wood smoke.
Seeing that Sophia had already prepared the chamber, Jessica smiled. In the far corner, a brazier of pierced brass stood on a tripod of slim iron legs. Hot coals glowed within it, banishing the chill of the midwinter day. Sophia had added a stick of sandalwood to the fire—an expensive whim but one that Jessica approved. Perhaps the sweet aroma would cheer the English prelate—or whatever he really was. A clean linen sheet covered the high-legged padded divan and a soft wool blanket lay folded across the end. A number of pots containing Jessica’s oils and creams were laid out on a side table. A thick scented candle flickered in its wrought-iron candlestick. She closed the door behind him.
The Englishman glanced around the room. “No windows?”
Jessica cleared her throat. “To keep out the drafts—and the unpleasant odors from the canal.” She smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from the sheet. She must stop trembling or she would never be able to work on him. “And to insure privacy.”
He touched one of the green walls. “Felt?”
Jessica ran her tongue across her upper lip. “To muffle the sounds of the city and to keep in the warmth. It is all for your comfort, messere, I assure you. I will leave now so that you may disrobe. Please remove your outer clothes and shirt. You may hang them on those pegs.” She pointed to a row of varnished knobs opposite the door. “Then lie down on the divan and cover yourself with the blanket so you will stay warm.”
She lifted a thick black blindfold from the table and held it out to him. “I fear I must beg your further indulgence. Please blindfold your eyes before my return.”
As he took the ebony silk from her hand, his fingertips brushed against her skin. The spot burned and tingled as if it had been caressed by both fire and ice. Jessica drew in her breath. What power does this man have that I quake, yet I yearn for him to touch me again?
He examined the blindfold then glanced at her. “Cosma also told me of this, but why is it necessary?”
Jessica was prepared for this question. All her new patients asked it. “In order to work on your body without hindrance, I remove my mask. Yet I wish to protect you from the sight of my face. Therefore, I humbly beg that you wear it while I treat you.”
He dangled the cloth between his thumb and forefinger as if it might turn into a live eel at any moment. “And if I do not?”
Jessica lifted her chin a notch. “Then I will not treat you. The choice is yours.” She held her breath.
He studied her for a long moment, then he flashed her a sudden smile that disappeared before she could savor it. “You have me at your mercy, Signorina Leonardo. I will bow to your edict. In faith, you are the most intriguing woman I have yet met in Venice.”
Jessica didn’t know if he had just paid her a compliment or insulted her but she opted for the compliment. With a quick smile in return she let herself out of the room. “Please call me when you are ready, messere.”
He held up his hand to stop her. “By which name shall I call you?” he asked. A faint twinkle lit the depths of his eyes.
Her mouth went dry. Her heartbeat increased. “I am known as Jessica,” she answered softly. Then she shut the door, stumbled to the nearest chair and collapsed between its welcome arms.
Is this man a wizard? He has cast my wits under his spell.
Francis Bardolph gave the room another swift inspection before he unfastened his cape. Small confines made him uneasy, especially when there were no windows. No quick exit in case of trouble. He shook his head to banish his misgivings. His suspicious nature stemmed from too many years traveling abroad in the service of the crown, first for old King Henry VIII and now for his young son, King Edward VI. He jumped at mere shadows these days, Francis thought ruefully as he hung his cape and outer coat on the pegs. It was a nerve-racking job gathering secret intelligence for England’s clever Secretary of State, Sir William Cecil.
The muscles in his shoulder protested every movement. He kneaded the sore area with his fingers. Then he unbuttoned his garish doublet while he mused upon the intriguing Signorina Jessica. Unlike the majority of the Venetian women whom Francis had encountered during his five-month stay, Jessica did not dress her raven hair with sticky wax pomade but she allowed it to lie in a braid down her back. Delightful, he silently applauded. Most provocative. I wonder what she looks like with it unbound? Is it as soft to the touch as it appears?
Wincing a little, he peeled off the tight jacket. Francis chided himself for dwelling on the signorina’s tresses. He had enough female worries on his mind as it was. Lately, Cosma had become more demanding, not for the glittering baubles provided by Lord Cecil’s generous purse, but for Francis’s body and soul. Last night she had all but suggested that he marry her. Francis rolled his eyes at the low-beamed ceiling. He could just imagine the reactions of the Cavendish family if he returned to England with that piece of painted baggage.
What a difference between these two women—Cosma and Jessica! Francis paused before untying the laces of his silken shirt. Cosma’s hair was that red-gold color favored by practically every woman in Venice. On sunny days droves of fashionable ladies could be seen on hundreds of flat housetops sunning their henna-streaked locks in crownless broad-brimmed hats. Young gallants often climbed to the top of the campanile in Saint Mark’s Square just to admire the rippling ocean of gilded tresses.
But Jessica’s hair was black as midnight. It beckoned Francis to weave his fingers through it, though his sense of propriety and good manners forbade his hands to follow his lusty thoughts. He wondered why Jessica didn’t use cosmetics to mend her looks, as Cosma and the other votaries of Venus did, instead of hiding behind that blasted mask. He had seen only her mouth and yet it hinted of richer beauty above. Jessica’s unrouged lips were as lush and full-ripened as any courtesan’s skill could render. What would it be like to kiss lips that did not taste of paint? Francis snorted. He had wallowed too long among the fleshpots of the Continent to recall the simple pleasures of an innocent maid in a flowering meadow.
He wondered if Jessica was still a virgin as he pulled his shirt over his head. He guessed that she was past her twentieth year, and most women had been bedded by then unless they were locked inside high-walled convents at an early age. He grimaced. Why should the state of Jessica’s maidenhead matter to him anyway? The pain that coursed down his right arm reminded Francis that this visit to a woman was strictly business of a medical nature.
He stepped out of his shoes and pushed them against the wall with his foot. He glared at the nodding pom-poms. Ridiculous footwear! How Belle would howl with laughter if she ever glimpsed her somber brother arrayed in these gadabouts! His favorite sibling would never let him forget this indignity.
Sitting on the divan, Francis picked up the blindfold. Small goose bumps prickled his bare flesh. Once he donned this innocent-looking scrap he would become extremely vulnerable. He would literally be in the hands of a woman who was a lovely eccentric. For all he knew, Jessica Leonardo could be in the employ of Venice’s notorious secret police. The Republic would not take kindly to an English spy prowling the dark corners of their unique city. England’s expanding merchant fleet already threatened Venice’s near monopoly of trade with the fabulous East. The merchant princes of the Republic would be exceedingly glad to end Francis’s nefarious career. The mysterious Signorina Jessica could easily stab him with a stiletto while he lay placidly on her couch like a fish on a cutting board.
His shoulder throbbed. He flexed his stiff fingers. The devil take it! He had been in worse spots than this. This woman was said to be a notable healer. He would chance his life—once again. Francis tied the mask firmly in place then gingerly lay down and pulled the blanket up to his neck. His feet hung over the edge of the divan.
“Signorina Jessica!” he called. “I am ready as you have commanded me.”
The door opened behind him. He instinctively tensed; his fingers curled under the blanket. His rapier hung within arm’s reach. He caught the aroma of her perfume, a heady scent that whispered Arabian mysteries.
“I thank you for your trust,” she said in that thrilling low voice of hers. “Please relax now.”
Someone else entered the room—a man’s soft tread drew nearer to the divan. The hairs on the back of Francis’s neck prickled. He jumped when she placed her hand on his brow.
“Pray be at ease, messere,” she murmured, once again addressing him as if he possessed a noble title. “It is only Gobbo, my lutist. He will play for us while I work. If the mind is soothed, so will be the body.”
Her invisible accomplice tuned his instrument and began a gentle ballad. An accomplished musician himself, Francis admired the talent of the unseen fingers that conjured such sweet beauty from his strings. The enchanting melody hovered over him and sank into his very pores.
A pungent odor filled his nostrils. He flinched when Jessica stroked his forehead. She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Tut-tut, messere, it is only a little camphor mixed in a light oil base. Pray forgive its aroma but it does wonders for aching joints and pounding heads.”
She massaged his temples. Her touch was the most exquisite thing that Francis had experienced in a long time. Sensual, beguiling. He drew in a deep breath. His imagination wandered into a lush-appointed bedroom—with Jessica waiting for him between silken sheets. What those knowing fingers could do to a man if she—
She interrupted his wanton reverie. “Before I begin, I must examine the area that afflicts you.”
He cleared his mind. “The right shoulder,” he muttered hoarsely.
She lifted the blanket. The cool air stung his skin.
“Ah, I see.” She traced her finger along the track of the ancient scar. “It was a deep wound. How did it happen?”
Visions of that long-ago midsummer’s morning crowded into his memory. A sunny, warm day. Astride the huge warhorse of his…his master—and presumed father, Sir Brandon Cavendish. Belle’s childish laughter in his ear. The cry of a startled bird, then literally a bolt out of the blue sky. “I was shot by a crossbow,” he answered with a snap.
Jessica lifted his shoulder and touched the larger scar on his back. “Clean through,” she observed.
“My, uh…the knight I served pulled out the shaft.” He swallowed with the memory of that excruciating pain.
Her fingers gently prodded the area. “How old were you at the time?”
“Nine years and a few months.”
She sucked in her breath. “What evil creature would shoot so young a boy?”
Francis curled his lips with disgust. “One who sought my…master’s life.” He couldn’t call Brandon his father even though Brandon informally considered him as his son. “I took the arrow meant for my lord.”
“¡Dio mio!” she murmured. “So young and yet so brave.”
Poor aim was more like it, he thought, but said nothing aloud. He liked the way she called him brave.
She continued to prod the scars as if she sought to find the path of the bolt. “Did the wound fester? Did you have a fever?”
“Sì,” he replied. “There was a wisewoman who sewed me up and fed me herbs. They told me I was delirious for over a day. I was weak for a long time after that.”
She traced her fingers down the length of his arm and took his right hand in hers. “I am going to test your range of motion,” she told him. “Tell me when it hurts or pulls. And please, messere, do not mince your words. I must know exactly where the pain lives in order to help you.”
In my heart where there is no cure for it.
Aloud, Francis said, “Begin, but I warn you, I might bellow like a bear.” Despite his words, he knew he would rather die than admit that such a gentle creature as Jessica could hurt him.
Supporting his elbow, she slowly raised his arm straight up. With habit born of long suffering, Francis tensed when she lifted his arm above his head. The knotted muscles and battered flesh screamed in protest.
“There?” she asked, returning his arm to his side.
“Sì,” he replied through his teeth. The pain eased away.
She moved his arm out from his body in a long, slow arc. Again he tightened when she reached the level of his shoulder. “There again?” she asked.
He nodded. He hated to admit his weakness but since he was now committed to this path, he would endure it. Cosma swore Signorina Jessica could heal him. In any case, Jessica now stood between him and his clothes.
She stroked his hand. “Please make a fist for me,” she asked.
His long fingers protested as Francis folded them against his palm. “It is more difficult on days like today,” he apologized. No doubt she would think him the gaudy fop he pretended to be. “Cold and wet,” he added.
She lowered his arm to the divan. “Just so,” she murmured. “I am surprised how firm your muscles are in spite of the pain.”
A little warning bell jangled in the back of his mind. This sweet-voiced minx could be the agent of his destruction if he wasn’t careful. Venice literally crawled with secrets and informers.
“I have no desire to grow fat and ruin the line of my clothes, signorina,” he replied in the languid manner of his dandy’s role. “I usually exercise by riding when I am not living on an enchanted island that floats in a lagoon. Since I have been in Venice, I have taken lessons from one of your renowned sword masters.” True enough. Furthermore, the man had taught Francis a great many new and lethal techniques that the brigands in England had not yet envisioned.
Jessica said nothing for a few minutes while she massaged his neck and shoulders. Then she remarked, “You must enjoy your swordplay very much for I see that you fight left-handed although you naturally prefer your right. Please try to relax, messere,” she added. “Your muscles feel as if they are tied in knots.”
Her keen observation twanged Francis’s already taut nerves. He took several deep breaths and forced himself to remain as calm as possible. Would Jessica Leonardo slip a piece of paper with his name on it into the nearest bocca di leone, denouncing him as a traitor to the Republic of Venice? Francis had never felt so vulnerable as he did at this moment while he lay half-naked and blindfolded in the house of a strange woman. He should never have come.
And yet how wonderful he felt as the melodic strains of the lute washed over him and the fingers of the lovely sorceress kneaded away his pain! Even his heart, that stone-cold organ, did not feel quite as heavy as it usually did. And his loins? They were on fire. He hoped that the blanket covered the evidence of his desire.
“Buono,” Jessica murmured as she worked deeper into his scar tissue. “Good, let your mind and body be at rest. Here there is nothing but peace and tranquillity.”
With a deep sigh Francis drifted on the gentle tide of relaxing sensations. His body felt as if he floated above the divan.
“Breathe deeply,” Jessica whispered. “Draw in God’s pure light and healing presence. Breathe out the vile humors that give pain and disquiet. In…out…in…out…”
The desire to sleep crept over him. Francis knew he should fight the urge but his body craved the blissful peace. The notes of the lute grew fainter.
“Messere?” Jessica laid a warm hand on his arm. “The sands in the hourglass have run their course. I have done for today.”
Francis pulled himself back into the wakeful world. Jessica placed one hand on his good shoulder and the other on his opposite hip. She rocked him in a soothing manner. Then she laid her hands lightly on his chest. A healing warmth seemed to flow from her fingers into his body, rejuvenating him. Fire licked between his legs.
A groan escaped his lips.
“How do you feel, messere?” she asked as she stepped away from him. The lutist concluded his concert with a long final note.
“In paradise,” Francis murmured.
“And your pain?”
He lifted his right shoulder. His muscles moved without protest. He flexed his fingers. They operated smoothly even when he balled them into a fist.
“Tis a miracle!” he whispered in English, then said in Italian, “You have done a wondrous deed, sweet sorceress.”
“Oh, no, messere,” she answered in a rush. “I have no special powers. I am only a simple woman. Please believe me, my lord.”
Francis pulled himself into a sitting position on the divan. For the first time in months, perhaps even years, he felt strong and full of…joy. “I am new-made indeed. What spell did you cast?”
She gasped. “I did no magical thing, my lord. I only loosened those hard knots. But,” she cautioned, “the good feeling is temporary at first. I worked your muscles hard today. When you wake tomorrow you may be as sore as if you had been fighting the Turkish army single-handed.”
He curled his lip. “Those words bring me much cold comfort.”
She moved further away from him. “It will pass, I assure you. Understand this, messere, I have not cured you—only time and il Dio can do that. If you wish for a lasting effect, you will need many treatments such as I have given you.
“Think of your body as a fine palazzo,” she continued in her delightful voice. “One day, a gang of bravi took possession of your beautiful house. For years and years, they lived there, destroying your fine furnishings, drinking your prize wines and fouling your gorgeous paintings. Then one day, a little woman enters your house armed only with a broom.” She laughed again. “A big broom, of course.”
“Of course,” Francis agreed, enchanted with the storyteller as well as her story.
“She sweeps the evildoers out into the canal, then begins to put your house in order. But the bravi do not like this new state of affairs. They want their comfortable life back, so they return.”
“And she must sweep them out again?” he ventured.
“Exactly so,” Jessica replied. “The bravi have dwelled within you for a very long time. It will take many sweepings to expel them forever. Do you understand?”
Francis drew in a deep breath, thinking of the darker devils that plagued his soul. “More than you realize, little one. When may I come again? Tomorrow?” What a delicious way to spend each day!
“Tomorrow is too soon, messere. You must allow your body to rest after the work I made it do today. Even the Good Lord had a day of rest. But you may come on the next.” She shyly added, “If you wish.”
Francis placed his hand on his chest where hers had so lately lingered. “With all my heart. At what hour will you receive me?”
“Is ten in the morning too early for you?”
Francis shook his head. “I would be here at dawn, if you commanded me, madonna,” he replied with heartfelt truth.
She laughed once again. “Then you would be most unusual, my lord, for no gallant in Venice is abroad before noon, unless he is still awake from the night before.”
Francis allowed a smile to form on his lips. “But I am English and practice my strange ways even in your civilized city.”
Jessica opened a door. A sudden cool draft brushed his bare skin.
“At ten of the clock on the day after tomorrow. And your name, my lord?”
Without his usual caution, he replied, “Francis Bardolph at your service, Madonna Jessica. I will count the hours until then.”
She gave a little cough. “You may leave my fee on the table after you dress, Messere Bardolph. Good day.” With that, she closed the door.
Francis untied the blindfold and looked around for the musician, but the lutist had also disappeared. Francis’s clothing and accoutrements still hung undisturbed as he had left them, including his heavy money pouch on his sword belt. He pulled his shirt over his head, wondering anew at the unaccustomed ease he experienced when he pushed his arms into his sleeves. As he buckled his shoes, someone knocked on one of the doors.
Francis’s heart skipped a beat. The enchantress had returned! “Enter,” he called. He wet his lips with expectation.
Instead of the fair Jessica, her elfish maid appeared. “Feeling better?’ she asked, giving him an appraising look.
Francis resisted the urge to laugh at the officious little woman. Instead he swept her a bow—and marveled how smoothly he accomplished the maneuver. “I am indebted to your mistress. She has made me a new man.”
The dwarf crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “Good!” She eyed his purse. “Be sure to show Madonna Jessica your appreciation by paying her in full. My mistress is not a rich woman. We cannot live on credit as the wealthy do.”
Francis grinned down at her. He fastened his cape around his shoulders, then untied his purse. “A ducat, I believe you told me?”
“Sì,” the woman nodded. “And it is money well spent, I assure you.”
Francis said nothing. He placed two shining gold pieces on the table. He noted with pleasure the maid’s startled look. He handed her a third ducat. “Please give this to the musician. He is most gifted.” Then he bent far down and kissed her pudgy hand. “And you, signora, are the light of the world.”
Leaving her gasping with astonishment, Francis settled his hat on his head and let himself out the front door into the narrow street. An old English country song hummed in his head. By the time he crossed the little campo, he was singing the words aloud—something he never did.
As he approached the boat landing on the canal, he spied, out of the corner of his eye, a furtive shadow move behind him. Grasping the hilt of his rapier, he whirled to face his pursuer. Except for several old men sunning themselves by the wellhead in the center of the square and a woman hanging out her wet linen on a pole from her second-story window, the campo was bare. Francis gave himself a shake. Now I jump at shadows and alley cats. Still warm with the afterglow of his visit to the peerless Donna Jessica, he banished his misgivings. Why ruin a perfectly lovely day?
Launching into the second verse of his childhood song, he hailed a passing gondola.
Chapter Two
Cosma di Luna cast a glance over her creamy white shoulder and asked, “After the Englishman left the house of the healer, where did he go?”
In her dressing-table mirror, she observed her young informant gaping at her near-naked beauty with an ill-concealed hunger. Jacopo was such a pliable youth. The merest flash of her breasts was enough to enslave him to her command. She knew she could save herself many ducats if she paid for his information with her favors.
Cosma leaned closer to the mirror to apply a line of sooty kohl to her eyelids. She reveled in her position as one of Venice’s premier courtesans who entertained in her bed noble senators, sons of the aristocracy and wealthy merchants. She had no need to stoop to servicing a low-born, would-be bravo. Her coin and a well-chosen glance or two of her charms would suffice for the likes of Jacopo.
“Well?” she prodded the stupefied young man. “I presume that you did follow Messere Bardolph as I asked you?”
Jacopo ran his tongue over his lips. “Sì, Donna Cosma. First he went to the Rialto, where he drank wine with some acquaintances. He stopped by the beggar that sits on the steps of San Giacomo church and exchanged a few words with the man. Lord Bardolph gave him alms, as is his custom. Then he went to the bookbinders where he stayed a quarter of an hour or so if one can rely on the bells of San Giacomo.” Jacopo scratched his head in thought. “After that he visited the apothecary shop at the corner of Calle del Spezier and the Campo San Stefano.”
Cosma paused in her cosmetic applications. “What did he purchase?” she asked lightly, though her breath caught in her throat. Pray God, Francis had not caught the French pox. “You did ask, did you not?”
Jacopo grinned. “Sì, madonna, I know my duties. He procured a vial of an elixir for…that is…” He blushed and coughed into his sleeve. “To render him impotent, or so the apothecary swore to me.”
Cosma’s fear gave way to anger. Her fingers gripped the ivory handle of her brush until her knuckles turned white. What a villain with a smiling cheek! Though she had been his mistress for nearly four months, Francis had yet to complete the act of love with her. Usually he withdrew himself before the moment of truth. Other times, he claimed to be…uninspired. Was it any wonder that she had resorted to having him followed? If he slaked his appetites with another woman, Cosma knew she could soon remedy that situation. But why use a potion to deliberately deflate his desire?
The more she dwelled on Francis’s perfidy, the angrier she grew. His fear of impregnating her was truly an obsession, not merely a whim as she had first thought. Cosma narrowed her eyes at her reflection. Was she not the reigning Venus of the city? How dare he use her in such a fashion! Or, more to the point, not use her as any sensible man would.
“Madonna?” Jacopo intruded. “Do you wish to hear the rest?”
Cosma drew herself upright. “Of course,” she snapped. “That is why I pay you. What else did the canal rat do this afternoon?”
Jacopo started to laugh at her remark, but choked instead when she glared at him. “He visited a wine shop where he dined and played at cards with several young gentlemen. I recognized Messere Niccolo Dandelli and his younger brother.”
Cosma nodded. The Dandelli brothers were notorious rakes with full purses and empty time to fill—two of her favorite patrons. In fact, Niccolo had introduced her to Francis last November. She saw no problems in that quarter. “Go on.”
The youth rubbed his nose. “Then he returned to his rooms at the Sturgeon where he napped, as is his custom. His landlord told me that Messere Bardolph is not used to the late hours we Venetians keep. He must prepare himself for night sport—and for you, madonna,” he added with a fawning look.
And drink his kill-love liqueur, Cosma thought. A plague of fleas upon Lord Francis Bardolph! Aloud she asked, “Where is he now?”
Jacopo folded his arms across his chest. “Still sleeping at the Sturgeon. I took this opportunity to report to you.” He gave her another hungry look.
Cosma pretended not to notice his lust though she enjoyed her power over the callow boy. Opening a small casket on her dresser she took out a scudo. “Come, Jacopo,” she purred, holding out the money to him. “Come take your fee.”
He all but ran across the distance between them. Just before he could grab the coin, she closed her fingers over it. “Kneel,” she commanded with a smile.
He immediately dropped to the floor before her. His slavering obedience soothed her ruffled vanity. Leaning over, she allowed him to view a generous portion of her bosom. “Kiss my foot.”
With a huge smile displaying a set of white teeth not yet stained with too much wine or missing from decay, Jacopo smothered her right slipper with his loud kisses. When he tried to pry off her shoe for further adoration, she dropped the scudo in front of his nose. The silver coin clinked on the cold tiles.
“Enough for now, dear boy,” she murmured, pulling her foot free of his grasp. “Too many sweets will dull your appetite.”
“Never,” he replied with a low groan of despair.
Waving him away, she gave her attention to her mirror. “Be off! Return to Lord Bardolph’s inn and continue your vigil. Hurry before he wakes from his nap.”
Jacopo stood, pocketed his wages, and tossed her a shrug. “He will sleep till five. He is a man of habit.” Casting her one final look of longing, the youth left the chamber and clattered noisily down the stairs.
As soon as her minion was gone, Cosma put down her comb and the jar of hair pomade. Her toilette could wait a bit while she attended to a more pressing matter. Still fuming over Francis’s dishonesty at the apothecary’s, Cosma decided to raise the stakes a notch. If her so-called lover intended to use artifice to cool his ardor, she would employ the same method to bring him to her bed. This English lord was too fine a prize to let him slip away just because of some addlepated notion of his to not father a child. A baby was exactly what Cosma needed to bind herself permanently to Francis, his noble title and his fortune. Then it would be farewell to the exciting but extremely hazardous life of a courtesan.
Cosma rose and crossed her bedchamber to her library next door. She surveyed her four shelves of precious books with pride of ownership. She possessed one of the finest private collections in all of Venice: books of poetry, romance, history, philosophy—and the arts of love. She ran her finger along the ribbed leather spines until she found the one she sought—a new addition to her store of erotic knowledge. The Perfumed Garden, written with exquisite detail by a Muslim sheik. She flipped through its pages until she came to the section dealing with aphrodisiacs. She chuckled to herself. Francis’s potion would be no match for the delicacies she would prepare for him tonight.
I shall be a titled English lady before Easter!
The great bell of Saint Mark’s Basilica tolled six in the evening when Francis put down his quill and rubbed his eyes. Another report completed for Sir William Cecil. Francis blew on the ciphers to dry the ink. He flexed his fingers after an hour of laborious writing in code. Then he raised his right hand and admired the way his fingers still moved without stiffness. God bless the black-haired healer! He wished he had learned of her months ago. What a delightful creature she was! Fresh—and so intriguing behind her mask. Not like Cosma, he reflected with a frown. She hid behind a mask of cosmetics, artfully applied, of course, but false all the same. He massaged the bridge of his nose. Cosma! How was he going to solve that problem?
Initially she had been amusing and full of helpful gossip. Francis had enjoyed her company and taken the pleasure he allowed himself when sporting with a woman. At first she had only laughed at his precautions against conception, applauding him for his thoughtfulness. He had been happy enough to let her think her protection was his sole concern.
Since Christmastide however, their easy relationship had undergone a change. Cosma demanded more from him than he was willing to give—and her font of information about the various members of Venice’s Great Council had decreased. Her usefulness now gone, Francis discovered that he had grown tired of her nagging personality. Recently she spoke of marriage in an offhand manner, but Francis had heard those words and seen that same calculating look in a woman’s eye before. The time had definitely come to end the affair, but he knew Cosma well enough to realize that she would not let him go peaceably. The break would be loud and messy; possibly dangerous if she sought revenge. He dreaded the confrontation.
He stared at the green glass vial on the table. What sort of witch’s brew had that dog of an apothecary sold him? Francis hated the idea of drinking something foreign, but he hated even more the idea of succumbing to Cosma’s seductive wiles. He vowed to never father a bastard as he had been fathered. His mind comprehended this deepest fear but he could not yet discipline his body’s lustful inclinations. Only this morning, the mysterious Donna Jessica had stirred the desires that he thought he had banked against the assaults of Venus. Jessica’s fingers ensnared him when he had least expected it and her voice entranced him into a state of near bliss. Worst of all—he had enjoyed the entire experience and he looked forward to its repetition in two days’ time.
Closing his eyes, he groaned aloud. His passionate nature ran too deep for him to completely subjugate it. He should not be surprised, considering the lusty histories of both his natural parents. Their fires flowed in his blood. Francis reached for the vial, uncorked it and sniffed.
Hoy day! If the devil has an odor, this would be it. He grimaced. Church bells tolled the half hour. He dragged himself to his feet. At this rate he would be late to Cosma’s house and she did not take kindly to his tardiness. Best to keep her content for as long as possible. Only a few more weeks until the spring thaw made the roads passable; then he could kiss Cosma—and Venice—farewell.
Taking a deep breath, he lifted the bottle to his lips and tossed its vile contents down his throat. Sweet Jesu! The taste alone was enough to convert a man to life-long celibacy.
Three-quarters of an hour later he was in Cosma’s lemon-yellow house on the Rio di San Cassiano canal. Her second-floor solar was lit with many fat, sweet-scented candles in black iron holders. Her little handmaid, Nerissa, plucked a pleasing tune on her beribboned mandolin. Cosma herself rivaled the Goddess of Love in her diaphanous gown of pale yellow silk. Her perfume wafted across his nostrils with intoxicating invitation. Though the elixir did not sit well in his stomach, Francis was glad he had drunk it. Cosma had obviously woven her gilded web for his complete downfall tonight.
“Come, let us sup, my love,” she murmured after recovering from his cool greeting. “Tell me the news of your day.”
He glanced at the table set for a feast. Wine sparkled in pink glass goblets and silver-covered dishes crowded the nearby sideboard. His stomach growled with a mixture of hunger and revulsion. He swallowed. “My day was nothing but loud talk among half-wits.” He dismissed his activities both innocent and subversive. “I had much rather feast upon your conversation, gattina mia—my little kitten.”
Cosma flashed a wide smile as she pulled him toward her repast. “Then I will not deny you the pleasure of satisfying your appetite—all your appetites,” she purred.
With a resigned sigh, Francis lowered himself onto the padded leather armchair. He had absolutely no appetite for anything—food or otherwise. Cosma seated herself opposite him. Outside her window a creeping fog swathed the lantern lights of the houses on the opposite side of the canal in a soft damp glow. The misty gray vapor muffled the singing of the gondoliers as they plied their slim black boats through the still water. With graceful movements born of practice, Cosma uncovered a dish.
Francis’s stomach roiled at the aroma of the savory eel soup. “I fear I am not very hungry,” he muttered. He took a sip from his brimming goblet. Hopefully the wine would settle the discontented humor of his digestion. Damn that poxy apothecary!
Cosma’s brown eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “A taste here, a bite there, caro mio.” She allowed a small pout to cross her rouged lips. “I had this meal prepared especially for you.”
Francis picked up his spoon. “Then I shall eat it especially for you,” he replied. It was a shame that he felt so out of sorts since Cosma employed one of the best cooks in Venice.
Lifting her goblet, she toasted him. “You do me honor, my lord.” She took a spoonful of the soup. “And how was your visit to Signorina Leonardo?” she asked in a light tone.
At the mention of Jessica, a smile creased Francis’s lips. The memory of her voice and her touch gave him delight despite his current discomfort. “A most welcome one, I assure you, gattina.”
A small frown knotted between Cosma’s delicately drawn eyebrows. “Indeed? I should think you would find her affectation for the mask a bit…how do I say it? Bizarre.”
Francis sipped more wine to ease the eel down his throat. His ruffed collar felt very tight. “Not in the least. In fact, I found it added to her charm.” He glanced at the groaning sideboard. Spikes and nails! How many more of these covered dishes was he supposed to consume?
Cosma blotted the corner of her mouth with her damask napkin. “Did you know that her parents were Jewish? The Spanish Inquisition forced them to convert—or so I have been told.” She poured him more wine from a beautiful pink glass decanter. “One cannot help but wonder how far from the tree the apple falls.”
Francis concealed a burp behind his napkin. “Are you implying that Donna Jessica is a Jew?” His belly filled with wind of a most disagreeable sort. He unbuckled his belt and allowed it to drop to the floor.
Cosma lifted her shoulders in a sketch of a shrug. The action bared her flesh down to her breast. “I merely relate the gossip of the city, my love, as I know it entertains you.”
He gently pushed away the half-eaten soup. “Donna Jessica appeared to be as Catholic as I am.”
A lie since he had very little interest in religion. The rift between old King Henry and the pope had squashed most of Francis’s interest in spiritual matters. He came from a Catholic household that had been forced to practice their faith in secret now that the young King Edward pursued with zealous fervor the propagation of the Protestant creed throughout England. Whatever her religion, Jessica was probably more devout than Francis had ever been.
Cosma shrugged again, baring her other shoulder. “It matters not to me in the slightest.”
Francis mopped his damp brow. “Nor to me. Jew or Catholic, Jessica is a wonder and that is God’s own truth.”
Cosma pouted. “Indeed,” she muttered. Then she lifted the lid of the largest platter. “Perhaps these will titillate your fancy.”
Francis gulped down the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. “What are they?”
“A dish of doves,” she cooed.
He rolled his eyes to the gilded vaulted ceiling. “Oh, me, pigeons again? It is well that so many of them flutter in the Piazza San Marco to fill your larder, Cosma.”
She placed one of the tiny golden fowl on his plate then sucked on her fingers in a provocative manner. “Prepared with hot spices from the East and roasted with onions.”
He groaned inwardly. He should have guessed that Cosma’s supper would harbor an ulterior motive. Lady Katherine Cavendish, Brandon’s wife, was well versed in the lore of aphrodisiacs. Years ago she had taught Francis the hidden properties of many an innocent-looking meal. Onions for a man’s virility; hot spices and peppers to excite sexual impulses; eels to stimulate motion in bedsport—and those blasted doves? The special pets of Venus herself. Francis gulped more wine, but instead of settling his much-distressed stomach it only made things worse.
Cosma, ignorant of Francis’s gastronomic turmoil, pulled off some of the succulent pigeon breast with the tips of her white teeth. She curled her long pink tongue around one of her fingers and languorously suckled it. “My food is not to your liking? Oh, dear! I have displeased you—and after I tried so hard to make this meal a warm one. To heat you after a day spent in the cold air outside.” A tear shimmered in her eye.
Francis blew out his breath with exasperation. “Don’t weep!” he snapped. Weeping women completely unnerved him. On the one occasion when his mother had wept in his presence, Francis thought he would die. “Your supper surpasses all delights.” He stuffed a whole roasted onion into his mouth and chewed it with loathing.
Cosma immediately brightened. “I hope not all delights,” she hinted. “There are others yet to come.”
Francis’s stomach lurched. His gorge rose in his throat. Clapping his hand over his mouth, he bolted from the table. Grasping the nearest chamber pot, he emptied the contents of his tortured innards.
“I crave your pardon,” he said hoarsely before retching again. I will flay that apothecary by inches if I live through this night.
With a stricken look, Cosma rose from her chair and came toward him. “I had no idea, my lord…that is to say, I should not have spiced the soup so much.”
“Stay back,” he gasped before he was sick again. Into your hands, oh, Lord, I commend my spirit. Pray take me soon! Clutching the reeking pot for dear life, he sank to the cool floor.
Cosma wrung her hands. “Mayhap it was the wine, but I only seasoned it with a little ginger, cinnamon and vanilla.”
Francis retched again. “Enough! Speak no more of food! Can’t you see that I am dying?”
From her corner, Nerissa shrieked and dropped the mandolin.
Cosma’s eyes grew even larger than her cosmetics had made them appear. She pressed her hand against her lips. “Do not say that! You can’t possibly be! I swear upon the crocodile of Saint Theodore I have not poisoned you!” She fell to her knees. Wailing, Nerissa joined her mistress.
Francis clutched his heaving stomach. “Stop that caterwauling and fetch me another pot—quickly! A plague take that scurvy knave,” he added in English.
Nerissa dashed into the next room and returned with two more receptacles. She practically threw them at Francis. “Please do not die, my lord,” she whimpered. “I am much too young to go to prison.”
Despite his agony, he managed to give her a weak smile. “Fear not, little maid. I shall not haunt you in this life or the one to come.” He pulled himself to his feet and staggered around the corner where Cosma kept her closestool. “Your pardon, my dears,” he gasped.
Francis had never felt so ill in his life—not even when he had made the rough sea voyage from Marseilles to Genoa. Now his head ached, his throat was raw and his skin felt hot and clammy at the same time. Truly methinks that charlatan did poison me. He gritted his teeth until the spasms finally receded, leaving him weak as a newborn calf.
When he emerged, he found Cosma and Nerissa still on their knees and praying—a sight he would have found highly amusing had he not felt so wretched. “Arise, gattina, and take me to your bed,” he attempted a feeble jest. “Unfortunately, it is sleep I crave and not pleasure. Be of good cheer. I believe I will survive after all.”
With many soothing words, the women helped him toward Cosma’s wide bed that stood in regal splendor on its platform in the middle of the adjoining chamber. He fell amid the feather pillows and lay as a corpse while Cosma and Nerissa dragged off his clothing. The bed linens smelled faintly of lavender.
Francis emitted a low groan. The chit would have seduced me past all my restraint tonight if it had not been for that hellish elixir. He drifted into a heavy sleep still wondering whether he should kiss or kill the apothecary on the morrow.
Chapter Three
Morning came far too early. Francis felt as if he had barely closed his eyes before Nerissa shook his shoulder.
“Please, messere.” She shook him again. “Awake!”
Cosma stirred next to him. “What is it, Nerissa? Go away! The dawn has not yet showed her face.”
Francis rolled onto his side. If his stomach muscles weren’t so sore and his mouth didn’t taste so full of chicken feathers, he would have sworn he had slept through a nightmare. “How now, little Nissa?” He scrubbed his face with his hand.
The girl clutched her dressing gown closer about her thin trembling form. “There is a man downstairs to see you.” She bit her lower lip. “A very large man.”
Cosma frowned at her maid. “You mean to say that I have a guest at this unholy hour? What barbarian would seek the company of a lady so early in the morning? The sky is dressed in wisps of the night.”
Nerissa shook her head. “No, madonna, the visitor is not for you but for Lord Bardolph and he said it was most urgent.” Bending closer to the bed, she whispered, “He is a blackamoor.”
Francis tossed back the covers. “Did he give his name?” he asked with mounting excitement. He had not seen Jobe the African for over a year.
Nerissa held out the parti-colored hose of green and gold that she had peeled off Francis last night. “He gave no name but yours, messere. But he did ask me mine,” she gulped. “He has very large teeth!”
Francis grinned at her. “I promise he will not bite you.”
“A pity!” Cosma pouted from the midst of her pillows. “I need a diversion since you are so sluggish. Tell me, Nerissa, is this Moor a handsome man? Well proportioned? Is he able to keep his dinner inside his stomach?” She wrinkled her nose at Francis.
Despite her fear, the little maid giggled. “He wears a golden earring and has a great many knives across his chest.”
Francis hurried with his dressing. “That is Jobe to the letter!” He had no idea how much he had missed a friendly face that bespoke of England.
Cosma motioned for her dressing gown. “Ah! Our early visitor grows more interesting by the minute. Is he rich?”
Francis laced up his shirt. “That depends upon the wealth of the most recent ship Jobe has plundered.” He chuckled to see both women blanch. “Do not look so pale. Jobe is a very lamb when among ladies.”
“Now I am intrigued,” Cosma declared, rouging her lips and cheeks with quick deft movements. “Show him up immediately, Nerissa. And, mind you, do not gawk!” After the maid departed, she asked, “Just how are you acquainted with such a fascinating man?”
Francis assumed his pose as an English dandy. “It is a passion of mine to collect interesting objects whilst on my travels, gattina. A Roman sculpture, a piece of the True Cross, even a wily African or two.”
She gave him a penetrating look. “Indeed? It seems to me this man is more than one of your passing whims.”
Francis pulled on his padded velvet doublet. “Indeed,” he agreed.
As Jessica had forewarned him, his shoulder ached this morning as if he had exercised too much. More than ever he looked forward to his visit with her on the following day. Now that Jobe had arrived in Venice, the next twenty-four hours promised to pass less tediously. He grinned at the thought. Just then Nerissa reappeared with the giant African looming behind her like an avenging ghost.
Cosma’s eyes widened. “¡Madre del Dio!” she breathed, taking in the African’s amazing height, the width of his powerful shoulders and the dozen tiny knives that crisscrossed his broad chest. “Welcome to my home, Black Apollo.” She retreated to the protection of her elevated bed.
Jobe looked first at Francis in his state of semidress and then at the sleek-limbed woman in her state of near nakedness. He swept Cosma a flourishing bow. “I wondered why there was no fair moon last night to guide my ship into port, but now I understand. Diana of the silvery orb came down to earth and reclines before me. Madonna, I am your humble servant,” he said in passable Italian.
Francis smiled behind his hand at his friend’s lavish compliments. Always the master of surprise, Jobe’s cupboard of skills was never empty. Cosma allowed her dressing gown to slip a little, revealing a snowy portion of her thigh.
“How charming!” she replied in a voice like silk. “I forgive your early arrival when you come with such sweet words on your tongue. Francis, pray tell me, who is this god?”
Francis gave her a wry look. She already plans to seduce him out of his purse or to make me jealous. Oddly enough, he found he wasn’t the least disturbed by Cosma’s fickleness. “Allow me to present Jobe of Africa. My family calls him our guardian angel as he has often proved to be so.”
Jobe beamed at his introduction and bowed again, this time including the awed Nerissa in his attentions. “Do not dislike me for my complexion, I beg you, sweet ladies. I have been burnished by the fierce sun of my homeland. But who is this flawless pearl, Francis?” he asked, nodding to Cosma. “Now I see why you do not spend much time in your own lodgings. Your landlord wondered when I asked him where you were.”
Francis rolled his eyes at his friend. Jobe could butter the bread of compliments very thick. “I have the pleasure to present to you Donna Cosma di Luna, one of the peerless beauties of Venice.”
Jobe advanced to the thronelike bed, dropped to one knee and kissed Cosma’s bare foot. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”
You may have her with good riddance.
Jobe turned to the little maid who stood on tiptoe in order to see him better. “And it is only fitting that Venus should be attended by such a delicate nymph as you, sweet Nerissa,” he added in his deep voice.
The girl nearly fainted with shock while a dart of anger flashed from Cosma’s eyes. She hated any competition. “Nerissa,” she snapped. “Some wine and bread for our guest and hurry…you slug!”
With a squeak, Nerissa darted away.
Francis addressed his friend in English, “A pox on you, Jobe! How can you utter such honeyed phrases at this sober hour? You will need a cask of wine to cleanse your mouth.” He clapped the huge man on his shoulder. “Sweet Jesu! My eyes are glad to see you, you old pirate!”
Jobe enveloped him in a bear hug. “And you! Though I must confess that I did not expect to find you costumed like a jester.” With a chuckle, he pointed to the wide green bows on Francis’s shoes.
Francis gave him a rueful look. “Tis a counterfeit pose, Jobe, and a long story best saved for when we are alone.”
Before the African could reply, Cosma spoke up from her cloud of lace, lavender and goose down. “Fie, gentlemen! It is not polite to speak in a language I cannot understand. Are you plotting the downfall of Venice?”
Jobe grinned at her. “Not so, lovely dove. We were discoursing upon your downfall. I fear you have quite overcome me.”
Cosma simpered in reply and flashed a little more bare leg. Francis tugged at his friend’s sleeve. “Please wait until after I leave before you ravish her. In the meantime, tell me what brings you to Venice to seek me out before even the pigeons are awake?”
At that, Jobe’s expression changed to a somber one. “I bear a heavy duty, Francis, but one that had to be done.” He withdrew a thick letter from inside his leather jerkin.
Francis stared at it, recognizing Lady Katherine’s handwriting. Icy fingers squeezed his heart. “Bad news from…from Wolf Hall?”
Jobe nodded. “I am sure that good Lady Kat has written her sad tidings with a gentle hand. I will amuse yonder lady while you read it. Take your time, my friend.”
Francis turned away from Cosma’s bed. Clutching the letter close to his chest, he crossed into the antechamber. Seating himself on one of the armchairs, he drew in a deep breath before he broke open the sealing wax. His sudden hot tears blurred the words before him.
Dearest Francis,
Tis with a heavy heart and hand that I take up pen to write such doleful news. Two weeks ago, on the twelfth of November, Sir Thomas Cavendish was taken suddenly from this life. He died as he had lived—in the saddle. The day had been cold and bright with frost. Sir Thomas together with Brandon and Guy and many of the men from the estate went out into the forest to hunt a boar for the coming Christmastide feast. During the afternoon, at the height of the chase, the heart of his great horse burst with the strain, throwing Sir Thomas to the earth. Alas, his neck broke upon landing against a tree trunk. Death was immediate, I am told, and without pain. Dear Lady Alicia bears her sorrow well. She said to tell you that it is a comfort for her to know that Sir Thomas and his beautiful black horse rode posthaste to heaven together and that was the way you know Sir Thomas would have wanted it. I fear that Brandon has taken his father’s loss most heavily, as has Guy. It is hard for me and the children to realize that Sir Thomas is indeed gone from this earth. He seemed to be one of those men destined to live forever. Please remember him in your prayers, Francis. You were always his special pride. He often praised your love of language and poetry—gifts you both shared. In his will he has left you his library…
Francis wiped his streaming eyes with his sleeve. Only yesterday, he had arranged for a beautiful copy of Sir Thomas More’s Utopia to be especially bound in red leather and embossed with a silver wolf’s head—the Cavendish family symbol. It was a belated New Year’s gift for the man who was his beloved grandfather. Now it was too late! Francis covered his face with his hands. After the first wave of raw grief had receded, he continued Kat’s letter.
…of books. He knew that you most of all would appreciate them. I am sorry to be the bearer of such sad tidings. Know that I hold you close to my heart in your sorrow. Brandon joins me in sending you our love. Dear Jobe is here and will give you further details as you require. We look forward to the day when you will return to us. Come home soon, Francis! Written this 28th day of November 1549 at Wolf Hall, Northumberland.
Your loving Katherine Cavendish
Countess of Thornbury
Francis reread her signature and title several times as her message sank into his brain. How quickly the world turned and turned again! Of course Lady Kat was now the new countess just as his…as Brandon became the tenth Earl of Thornbury the instant that the breath of life had left his father.
Gripping the paper in his hand, Francis laid his head down on the table. His silent tears soaked into the green velvet cloth that covered the top. He had not felt one tenth this sorrow when he had learned of his mother’s death three years ago. Francis had barely known her in life and he had liked her even less.
His emotions were quite different with Sir Thomas’s passing. Francis had lived under Wolf Hall’s roof for over fourteen years. Though a big man, as all the Cavendish men were, and blessed with a powerful voice, Sir Thomas was a gentle friend to the young and weak. On the other hand, the earl was a fierce competitor in the jousting arena and a ferocious foe in combat. Francis remembered the many hours they had spent together in his library studying the plays of Plautus and the writings of Erasmus. Sir Thomas had patiently taught his bastard grandson the joys of Greek and Latin and he had championed the boy’s bent for study when Brandon wanted Francis to spend more time handling a broadsword and lance. “The pen is mightier than the sword,” Sir Thomas had often told his eager pupil.
Now that grand old man was gone forever.
Francis read the letter a third and fourth time. He barely noticed the goblet of watered wine and a small loaf of honey bread that Nerissa placed by his hand. He stared out the window at the gloom of the breaking day. As if heaven mirrored his sorrow, rain fell lightly from the leaden skies and rolled like teardrops down the wavy panes of glass. In the distance, he heard church bells calling early worshipers to Mass.
Francis dragged himself to his feet. I must go to church. He could not remember the last time he had stepped willingly inside a place of worship. Though he believed in God and the existence of a heaven and hell, the daily practice of religion meant very little to him. But it meant all the world to Sir Thomas. Francis must pray for his soul. It was the only thing left he could do for that wonderful old man. He strode into the bedchamber where Jobe sat on the bed’s carpeted platform and conversed with Cosma in low tones. Spying Francis, the African stood and came toward him.
“How now, friend?” Jobe asked in English.
Francis held out the letter now wrinkled by his grief. “These are the most loathsome words that ever blotted paper,” he told Jobe. “To think that he has lain cold in his grave for these past three months and I never knew…never knew. I have been drinking, singing and dancing—aye, and wenching while the worms dined upon my…my grandfather.” He could not continue. His shame overwhelmed him. He had never told Sir Thomas how much he loved him.
Cosma took his hand in hers. For once, there was no artifice in her eyes. “Jobe has told me of your loss and I am sorry to hear it.”
Francis bowed his head with his wordless thanks. Grief choked him.
Cosma turned to the African. “His grandfather was a great man?”
Jobe nodded. “One of England’s finest. Now he takes his place among his noble ancestors and leaves his earthly cares to his son.”
Cosma’s expression changed subtly. “And his son is…?”
Jobe hooded his dark eyes. “Sir Brandon Cavendish, the tenth Earl of Thornbury.”
Francis crumpled the letter. The earl was Sir Thomas—it had always been. Francis could not yet imagine Brandon filling those large shoes.
Cosma flicked her tongue between her teeth. “Then you are now an earl’s son, Francis,” she whispered. She did not add, “And one day you will be the next Earl of Thorn-bury.” Francis heard her unspoken words inside his head and it sickened him. She sickened him.
“Guard that rash tongue of yours, madonna,” Jobe told her in a deceptively gentle tone. “One day it will be your downfall.”
Cosma ignored the warning but Francis heard it. “Heed him,” he snapped at her. Jobe possessed a rare gift—the ability to see events in the future for everyone except himself.
“The Earl of Thornbury is a very important title in England?” she prodded.
Francis pulled on his overcoat and grabbed his cloak, hat and doeskin gloves. “God rest his soul, he was the most important man in my life,” he told her as he stalked toward the wide staircase. As he spoke the words, he realized how true they were and his sorrow doubled. “Come, Jobe,” he called over his shoulder in English. “We must hie ourselves to Saint Mark’s. Mass has already begun.”
Cosma recognized the name of the great basilica that stood in the heart of Venice. Running after Francis and Jobe she asked, “You are going to church, Francis? Now? I thought you and God were in disagreement.”
“It is time I made some amends,” he shouted back up the marble stairs. “My grandfather deserves it.”
“Then return to me soon, caro, and I will comfort you.”
Jobe clapped his hat on his head. “Hold, woman! Can’t you see that his mirth has fled?”
Cosma opened her mouth but Jobe held up his hand. The fire in his eyes silenced her. “Remember the words I have told you, mistress.” Then he followed on Francis’s heels.
Rather than take a gondola to the piazza, Francis and Jobe hurried through the sinuous narrow streets toward the great church. The mist-draped piazza already teemed with masked revelers celebrating the pre-Lenten season of Carnevale. Francis ignored them just as his grief blotted out Cosma’s unashamed avarice. When he had the fortitude, he would deal with her later. For now, he would pray for his grandfather’s soul in the afterlife and remember the great man who had loved him—like a son.
A reedy-voiced priest droned the Latin ritual as Francis and Jobe slipped through one of Saint Mark’s massive doors. The huge vaulted domes high over their heads gleamed dully with gold-spangled mosaics depicting biblical tales. The white faces of the painted saints looked strained and pouchy under their eyes, as if they had been carousing all night. The hundreds of candles flickering before altars and shrines did little to dispel the pervasive gloom of the massive building’s interior. When Francis’s eyes adjusted to the dimness he noticed that very few worshipers attended the divine services.
Francis sank to his knees on the cold marble paving and folded his hands in prayer. The geometric pattern of the floor made him light-headed so he closed his eyes. While he half listened to the familiar words of the Mass, Thomas Cavendish flashed through his memory. Dredging up long-forgotten prayers, Francis whispered them in the chill air. Never had he felt so desolated as he did at this moment. His anger at himself for missed opportunities in the past joined his regret for a future now empty of Sir Thomas’s imposing presence.
Francis roused himself from his meditations when Jobe tapped him on the shoulder. “The priest has finished,” the African whispered. “And my bones are chilled.”
Blinking away the vestige of grief, Francis rose heavily to his feet. He had no idea how long he had knelt on the hard floor but now his knees ached. Even inside his gloves, his fingers felt like icicles. He rubbed warmth back into them.
“I pray your patience a moment longer, my friend,” he said to Jobe. “I must buy a taper and light it for Sir Thomas.”
Without waiting for his friend to reply, Francis made his way to the church’s porch where an ancient nun presided over a tray of beeswax candles. Selecting a long one, he paid for it and returned to the main aisle where he searched for a place to light it. Jobe followed him in respectful silence. Francis realized that the Catholic rituals were completely foreign to the African, and he appreciated Jobe’s faithful company all the more. In the small Chapel of the Cross, Francis pressed his candle into a vacant holder, lit it with a waxen spill, and whispered one final prayer.
A faint but familiar scent wafted on the cold air. Francis lifted his head and sniffed. A rich Arabian perfume filled his nostrils and stirred a pleasant memory. Signorina Jessica? He spun on his heel and peered into the huge dark body of the church.
Jobe moved to his side. “What is it?” he asked in a low tone. “Danger?”
Still scanning the interior, Francis shook his head. “Nay, tis an angel, methinks, and one that I long to see soon again.” Never was he in more need of Jessica’s healing touch than now. His heart beat faster.
Jobe lifted his dark brows. “A woman?” he asked with surprise.
Francis stepped into the yawning nave. “Aye, but more than that. You will understand when you meet her. Ah! There she is!” He spied a slim cloaked figure at a side door.
He broke into a trot across the undulating, uneven floor. If she managed to slip away before he could reach her, he would lose her among the holiday crowd in the piazza. “Signorina Jessica,” he called softly as soon as he dared.
The woman turned. Her white-painted mask shone starkly from the folds of her dark hood. Francis called her again. “Signorina Leonardo? I crave a word or two.”
Placing her hand on the large brass doorknob, she paused like a startled deer in a wooded glen.
Francis drew to her side. Jobe lingered in the shadow of one of the stone pillars.
“Donna Jessica?” Francis asked again, though he was sure it was she. Her perfume enveloped him with its enchantment.
“Messere,” she murmured, drawing her hood lower over her hidden visage. Her hand trembled. “I hope you are feeling better this morning.”
He placed his hand on his chest. “In body yes, but my heart is broken in twain.”
She stepped closer to the door. “Pray do not jest with me. It is not seemly to play trifling games inside God’s house.” She turned to go.
Francis touched her arm. “Forgive me. I do not sport with you, Donna Jessica. I have just learned that my grandfather is dead. Do you have a healing potion for a grieving heart?”
She looked up at him. Her eyes shimmered behind the mask. “Your pardon, messere, I mistook,” she whispered. “You have my deepest condolences.”
Francis took her hand in his. “May I escort you back to your home? Just hearing your voice is balm to my sorrow.”
Her trembling increased. “It is already daylight outside and I am late. I beg your pardon, Lord Bardolph, but I must hurry away.”
He refused to relinquish her hand. “Then I shall attach wings to my feet and fly with you.”
“Like Mercury?” A half smile brightened her lips below the mask. “But it is not possible. You are a great personage and I am a nobody. We should not be seen together. My company demeans you.”
“Never,” he protested. He longed to shed the disguise of his garish clothing and his pretense of nobility. “I swear upon yon Holy Cross that all my wealth runs in my veins, not in my purse or position.”
She lowered her head so that he could not see her eyes. “You speak in riddles that I do not understand. Pray, let me go now. I must be away from here. There are too many prying eyes and wagging tongues.” She glanced up at him. “For your loss, I am sorry, and I will remember your grandfather in my prayers. What was his name?”
“Thomas,” he replied softly.
She nodded. “A fine name. I will remember him—and you,” she added. She glanced over to the pillar. “I see you are attended by a friend and so I will leave you with better company than I. Good day, messere, until tomorrow.”
Francis looked over his shoulder at Jobe. “Sì,” he answered with feeling, “he is a wealth of friends rolled into one, but you—” When he turned again, he found that she had slipped away without a sound.
Jobe stepped out of the shadows. “You spoke the truth,” he remarked, putting his hand on Francis’s shoulder. “The maid is a very pearl among the swine of Venice.”
“She seemed afraid of me, yet I meant her no harm. Did you hear the music of her voice? Oh! She is sweet and brings a ray of sunshine into the cold vault of my heart.”
“Tread softly lest you lose her forever,” Jobe whispered.
Francis gave him a penetrating look. “What do you see in the mists of the future? Do you see her?”
Jobe stared beyond Francis, past the bright candles and the holy statues into the dark recesses of his inner vision. “Aye, I do, but tis murky. That little one will save you or she will condemn you. She carries joy in one hand and sorrow in the other. Because of her, you will die, be reborn and new baptized.”
Chapter Four
Sophia looked up from her kettle of thick soup as Jessica entered the tiny kitchen at the back of the house. The savory aroma of simmering chicken and onions comforted the young woman. Still out of breath from her dash through the maze of alleyways and squares between the great piazza and the safety of her little home north of the Rialto Bridge, Jessica sank onto a short-legged wooden stool. Tossing back her hood, she plucked the mask from her face.
Sophia planted a hand on her ample hip. “How now? I thought you went to church?”
“I did,” Jessica replied. Her heart still raced within her bosom.
“Then why have you returned looking as if you were pursued by a demon?”
Drawing in a deep breath, Jessica leaned back against the cool plaster wall. “He was at Saint Mark’s.”
The little woman’s eyes widened. “Who? Il diavolo in a house of God? Tell me, does he truly have horns and cloven feet?”
Despite her recent fright, Jessica smiled. “No, Sophia. I speak of the English lord from yesterday.” She sat up straighter. “He was there and he stopped me as I was leaving.”
“And?” Sophia cocked her head like one of Venice’s gray-feathered pigeons.
Jessica twisted her fingers in her lap. “How did he know I would be there?” she whispered. “Unless he had me watched. Did he station a man outside my door to see if I consorted with Jews? Perchance he hopes to trap me, to prove that I am not a good Christian woman.”
“Mayhap he expects you to fly over the rooftops on a broomstick,” Sophia remarked wryly. “Or invite nine or ten alley cats to a dance.”
Jessica glared at her. “Tis no laughing matter. Why do I feel that I tread upon eggshells when Lord Bardolph is near? He frightens me.”
Sophia snorted. “Only that? Are you sure there is nothing else he does to you when he is standing next to you?”
Closing her eyes, Jessica allowed herself to explore the myriad unfamiliar feelings that had assailed her when Sir Francis had held her hand. Though he had worn gloves, she felt his heat penetrate her skin. Setting her blood afire. Leaving her breathless. Making her giddy with a strange emotion that she had never experienced.
“He is not like other men,” she responded lamely.
Sophia turned back to the soup that threatened to bubble over into the fire. “Agreed. He is as tall as a ship’s mast.”
Jessica rolled her eyes. Sophia could be so annoying at times. “I mean he is not like the others who have sought my help. I know how to slip away from the searching hands of those Lotharios old and young who seek to press their advantage upon me. They laugh and shrug and tell me that there will be another day. And I know how to listen to those sad-faced men who complain of their aches and pains when it is really their wives and their dull marriages that make them feel ill. They leave happier and call me sweet names that they will not remember by the time they reach the canal. But this man…”
Shivering, she hugged herself as she recalled his low gentle voice and the infinite beauty of his face. “He is so different. He dresses as if he had not a care in the world, yet he bears a weight inside of him greater than all the henpecked husbands of Venice.” She caught Sophia’s gaze. “He told me this morning that he had just learned of his grandfather’s death.”
The little woman paused in her soup stirring and sketched a hasty sign of the cross. “Poor man!”
Jessica stared at the glowing red coals in the hearth. “And I think that is the truth, yet he was sad yesterday when he did not know of his grandfather’s passing. Is he sad because he must disguise his true self? Sophia, I cannot banish the fear that he is really a secret agent of the Holy Office.”
Sophia tasted her concoction and added a pinch of salt. “And yet?”
Jessica massaged her temples. “I swear I must be going mad for I cannot wait until he returns here tomorrow. Just thinking about him makes my heart pound. Do you suppose I am coming down with a fever?”
Sophia turned slowly around and surveyed Jessica. She crossed her arms over her breasts with an odd gleeful look in her eye. “Just so, cara mia. I think you have been bitten by a strange malady that usually comes in the springtime.”
Jessica gasped. “The plague? Please, Sophia, tell me it is not so!”
Sophia chuckled. “No, my sweet girl, you are safe from that scourge. Let us speak no more about it today for I could be wrong and I do not wish to alarm you further. Wait and see. Perhaps tomorrow I can better tell.”
Jessica felt her forehead and cheeks with her palms but found that she was not unusually hot. “Is it a fatal illness?”
Sophia laughed behind her hand. “Not usually. Enough of this idle prattle. Go attend to your business and allow me to tend to mine. Little Miriam is due to arrive at any moment and she needs all the soothing care that you can give her.” The small woman shook her head. “If you ask me, fourteen years is too young to have a baby, no matter what her dolt of a husband thinks. Bah! Men!”
Jobe regarded his young friend with a keen interest. He was heartened that the most serious member of the Cavendish family had finally given evidence of his passionate nature. “Be of good cheer, Francis. You said you will see your elusive dove on the morrow. For today, let us walk about this delightful city and share goodly talk. I confess I am consumed with curiosity. Why these gaudy garments that are better suited to a rake than to a man of intelligence and somber wit?”
Francis curled his lips. “You do not approve of my rags? They are the very last word in fashion, I assure you.”
The African arched his dark brow. “If those are the last words, then put a period to end their sentence.”
A ghost of a smile hovered on Francis’s lips. “Tis for the future of England’s foreign trade that I play the fool. I am dressed to blend into the background.”
Jobe snorted. “Aye, as the red nose of a drunkard blends in with his green face.”
Francis waved away this observation. “When I was in Paris, I played the part of a roving jongleur. Thank God, Lady Alicia insisted that I learn how to play a lute and recorder! That disguise served me well for over two years. In Padua, I became a dense medical student. In Pisa and Rome, a stuttering cleric. The stutter spared me from having to say a Mass, hear a confession or to answer probing questions.”
He continued, “In Genoa, I worked as a dockhand until my muscles screamed in protest. In Florence, I pretended to be an artist. That was a mistake of the first order for I discovered that I could not draw to save my life. When I came here I adopted the guise of an English rake who is somewhat addled in his wits.” He kissed the back of his hand with a flourish. “Naturally I was accepted by the ruling class as one of their own.”
Jobe chuckled. “Belle would die laughing if she could see you now.”
Francis grimaced. “Don’t remind me and I pray you, never tell her. She would tease me for a lifetime. How fares my sister and her rogue of a husband? Are they well? And her children? Tis an odd thing to think of Belle as the mother of two boys.”
Jobe guided their steps toward the Rialto Bridge where he hoped the bustle of early morning commerce and gossip-mongering would lighten their mood. “All are in most excellent health and pine for your return. Tis seven years since you last set foot in Wolf Hall. Do you intend to roam the wide world forever?”
Francis avoided Jobe’s gaze. “I am needed abroad in the service of the king,” he replied without emotion.
“Belle’s son Thomas needs his godfather to give his young mind direction toward books instead of pranks. And your father yearns for your company again.”
“Which father is that?” Francis mumbled into the collar of his cloak. “I had several.”
The African narrowed his eyes. Since Jobe had last seen Francis in Rome the previous year, the young man’s melancholy had grown worse and the canker in his soul had festered. If it were not lanced soon, Jobe feared that his friend would not live to see his fortieth birthday. And yet, this morning had given the African a spark of hope. He vowed he would not leave Venice or Francis until that spark could be ignited into a blaze of joy. “Tis the season of mirth,” he remarked aloud.
Francis cast him a glum look. “I am too heavy for sporting tricks.”
They entered a crowded square near the Rialto Bridge. Vendors of vegetables and fish did a lively business with the early rising housewives of the district. The mouth-watering aroma of fresh bread took the chill off the day. Even the sun’s watery eye seemed to burn brighter. Clusters of bearded men in bright yellow hats spoke among themselves in low tones. The Jews who controlled the intricate web of international financing discussed the price of gold and the rates of interest on the cargoes of rare spices from the Turkish empire: nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon and peppercorns. The paving stones of the square and the stucco walls of the surrounding houses reverberated with the pulse of life.
Clapping Francis on the back, Jobe pointed to the marketplace. “My purse is full and these goods entice me. Let us lose ourselves in some wanton shopping.”
Francis surveyed the cheerful scene. “Methinks I should buy a mourning band for Sir Thomas.”
Jobe nodded. “Aye, that as well, but first you must help me select some fripperies for my wives.”
Surprise etched Francis’s handsome face. “I never knew you were married.”
The African laughed. “Four times and each one is a priceless jewel.”
The young man shook his head. “Methinks there is something unholy in that arrangement.”
Jobe disagreed. “Not so, my friend. You forget that I am not a Christian and so am not bound by your laws, though my Portuguese captors did their best to beat the word of the Lord into my head. At least I learned how to swear most religiously in a number of tongues.”
Francis rewarded him with a grin. The boy should laugh more often, Jobe thought. A man with such a face as his commits a grave sin against the Creator by not enhancing his good looks with a smile.
“Very well, my dear pagan, what sort of gifts have you in mind for your women?” Francis asked.
Jobe steered him toward one of the goldsmith shops that edged the campo. “My darlings come from Africa, Alexandria and Cyprus, but they all have one thing in common. My delicate flowers adore jewelry. I shall deck them in gold necklaces, copper bracelets and those colorful glass beads. Come, help me choose!”
Francis ducked through the shop’s low door. “Your last voyage must have been a profitable one.”
Jobe grinned. “Aye, both legal trade of English wool and some conveyance of goods courtesy of several unfortunate galleys belonging to the sultan.”
Francis nodded a greeting to the eager shopkeeper. “One of these days you will find yourself dancing on the point of a scimitar.”
Jobe placed his forefinger against his nose. “But not yet and tis only today that counts.” Then he turned his attention to the glittering wares that the goldsmith displayed for them. “You have all the wealth of the world,” he complimented the snaggletoothed little man in Italian.
By the time Jobe had completed his purchases, the weak sun had managed to dispel the last of the morning’s dank mist. The African was pleased to note that Francis’s mood had also warmed, especially after a mug of spiced red wine and a repast of juicy roasted fowl from the wine shop. The sounds around them increased as masked merrymakers ebbed in and out of the square leaving laughter and music in their wake.
“Ah! I love carnival time!” Jobe exclaimed. “Especially in Venice. Tis the only good reason to have Lent for—”
At that moment his inner sixth sense told him that a pair of secretive eyes watched them.
Without altering his cheerful expression, Jobe said in a low tone, “We have interested a shadow.” He touched one of the knives he wore in a bandoleer across his chest. “Shall I tickle him to see how well he squeals?”
Francis glanced over his shoulder, then shook his head. “You mean that thin whipster in the stained brown cloak? He has been with us since we left Saint Mark’s. He is one of Cosma’s lapdogs.” He gave Jobe a rueful grin. “Methinks my mistress does not trust me to be faithful to her.”
Jobe’s intuition scented an undercurrent of danger. “Are you sure this dog has no teeth?”
Francis shrugged. “Tis but a pup—all ears and tales. Trust me. I have seen him skulking around Cosma’s house on several occasions.”
“Pups can grow into vicious jackals,” the African muttered.
Jobe spent the rest of the day in Francis’s company helping him to ease the pain of his loss. While the young Englishman paid their shadow no mind, Jobe kept a wary eye on the sallow-faced boy who hovered behind them at a short distance. The guttersnipe needed to learn a thing or two about the art of concealment and pursuit, Jobe decided. He almost pitied their dogged follower.
In midafternoon, Francis surprised Jobe by announcing, “What a dolt I am! I have an appointment that almost slipped my mind.”
Thinking that his companion meant that he had a meeting with an informant, Jobe turned to go. Francis put his hand on his arm. “Nay, do not leave me now. You must accompany me and keep me entertained for one more hour at least.”
Mystified by Francis’s sudden animation, Jobe nodded. “I am yours to command for this whole day. Do we visit a house of pleasure, perchance?”
Francis shook his head. “Surely you jest, my friend. Donna Cosma is all I can manage as it is. I speak of something that you will find infinitely more amusing—I am having my portrait painted by one of Maestro Titian’s pupils.”
Laughter bubbled up from Jobe’s broad chest. “You? I did not realize that a rivulet of vanity ran through your veins. Tis rich news indeed.”
Francis’s ears turned red. “Tis not for vanity’s sake but as part of my false persona. All wealthy travelers to Venice must have their portraits painted. Tis expected. I had barely been in the city a fortnight when I received at least a half dozen invitations to visit the studios of the city’s famous painters.”
He turned down a calle. “Titian’s studio is at the far end of this street. The maestro’s work is superb but very costly. His pupils are apt enough for Lord Cecil’s expense account. Is our fledgling still with us?”
Jobe did not need to turn around to know the answer. “Aye, though he grows weary.”
Francis grinned. “A pity he cannot come inside. I fear he will have a long cold wait.”
Jobe chuckled. Francis knocked upon a door that was in desperate need of a fresh coat of green paint. After a few minutes’ wait and a second rap of the knocker, a harried young boy admitted them. With scarcely a nod of recognition, the child ushered the two tall men up a narrow flight of stairs and into a large chamber filled with the most amazing jumble of clutter that Jobe had ever seen. Half-finished paintings of every size leaned against the walls in haphazard formations. More paintings sat on easels that stood at random angles on the wide bare floor. A dozen or so young men, most of them covered with daubs of paint and all of them looking intense, worked at various projects. The odor of turpentine, paint and rotten eggs hung overhead. Jobe sneezed.
Their page interrupted the most frazzled member of this fraternity and pointed to Francis. By way of greeting, the Englishman executed the most outlandish court bow. Jobe covered his snicker with another sneeze.
“Signor Bassanio, a thousand pardons,” Francis gushed. “My dear friend Jobe, standing here before you, arrived quite unexpectedly this day and we have been gamboling about La Serenissima, Venice the most Serene, enjoying its delights. I fear that I have overstepped my time. I beg your forgiveness.”
Jobe hid his grin. If he punctured Francis at this moment the boy would spew treacle instead of blood.
Bassanio wiped his hands on his smudged smock. “No apology is necessary, my lord. It is always a pleasure to wait upon you.” He pointed to the high-legged stool set in a spot that caught the faint glow of the afternoon’s playful light. “Please take your accustomed seat, messere.”
Francis doffed his cloak, shook the dampness from the plume on his hat and fluffed his sleeves. With a wide smile and graceful movements, he approached the humble stool and perched his hip upon it. He winked at Jobe.
Despite his mummery, Jobe liked like him better for the pose. Francis should adopt it as his own—in moderation.
Bassanio selected a covered canvas, screwed it into place on his easel and removed the cloth. “¿Signore?” He gestured to Jobe. “You may wish to see what I have done while I prepare my palette.” He stepped away with an expression of shy pride on his round face.
“My pleasure,” replied Jobe, advancing closer to view the nearly completed portrait. He drew in a quick breath at the sight.
“Tis that bad?” Francis asked in English. “I had planned to give it to Belle. Mayhap she should use it as a target for her archery practice. Well? What do you think of it?”
“Tis a wonder to behold,” Jobe replied.
Why had he never marked the resemblance before? The tilt of the head was the same. So was the merry sparkle in the blue eyes that Francis usually shielded from public view. The long legs, the tapered fingers and the easy set of the shoulders mirrored those same attributes of Francis’s true paternity. Unknowingly, the Venetian artist had set in paint a study not of Sir Brandon Cavendish but of his brother Sir Guy, the most handsome member of that illustrious family.
Staring at the canvas, Jobe experienced a rare flash of hindsight. As if he were an invisible onlooker, he observed a scene in his mind that must have taken place thirty years beforehand. As clearly as he saw Francis perched on the stool before him, Jobe saw Guy as a young man glowing with good health and the pride of his victory in the day’s tournament. A ripe beauty with nut-brown hair sauntered into view, smiled and beckoned to the too handsome youth. With a lusty but silent laugh, Guy followed her into a colorful pavilion. The image shimmered in Jobe’s brain for a final moment before it shattered into the present.
“Heigh ho, Jobe!” Francis called. “Have you wax in your ears? Tell me what the devil do I look like.”
The African gave himself a shake. Clearing his throat, he smiled at his bewildered friend. “You have not seen it for yourself?”
Francis made a face. “Bassanio has strictly charged me not to view my visage until he gives me leave to do so. Methinks he fears I will be displeased and refuse to pay him. Well? What say you?”
Bassanio came up behind Jobe. The young painter eyed the bandoleer of knives. He gulped. “Does my work please you, signore?”
Jobe smiled at him. “You have a true gift. You have caught his very soul.” And much more, Jobe realized as his prophetic insight once again took hold of him. A secret, greater than anyone suspected, lay hidden over the shoulder of the painted Francis.
Bassanio grinned like a schoolboy. “Grazie, signore. Now, my Lord Bardolph, wipe away your doubts and do not move a muscle. I have much work still to do.” He dipped his brush into a golden hue and mixed it with a light brown color. “It is the highlights in your hair that elude me and I must work quickly. The daylight fades even as we speak.”
Francis sighed with exasperation but said nothing while Bassanio commenced to paint. While Jobe watched him, he mulled over the scant knowledge of Francis’s birth that he had learned from Belle’s husband, Mark Hayward. It was no shame among the Cavendish family that both Belle and Francis had been conceived out of wedlock in June 1520 during the near legendary meeting between the kings of England and France that the chroniclers now called the Field of Cloth of Gold. Belle was the love child of Brandon Cavendish and a French vintner’s daughter while Francis was born to a noblewoman of infamous reputation, Lady Olivia Bardolph.
When seven-year-old Francis was fostered to the Cavendish family, his distinct Viking looks bespoke of his true parentage. Since Brandon had also slept with the lascivious lady, he presumed Francis to be his own, as well. But Brandon had never claimed Francis, not even when Lord Richard Bardolph, Francis’s father of record, had died.
Studying the portrait, Jobe willed his vision to appear once more but it did not. No need. Under the light strokes of Bassanio’s brush, Guy returned Jobe’s penetrating look. The African wondered if he should tell Francis now or wait to see if the young man would notice the resemblance himself. Jobe decided to remain silent on the matter. Francis had suffered enough shocking family news for one day. The time of this latest reckoning—and its hidden secret—would come soon enough.
Francis longed to scratch his nose but he did not dare move. Why was it that his nose never itched until he sat for this poxy portrait? He hoped that Belle would appreciate Bassanio’s labors. To distract himself from the annoying tickle, he stared into middle space and listened to the idle chatter of the other apprentices in the chamber. Since he had first sat for Bassanio, he had overheard several interesting tidbits of news that he had passed on to Sir William. This mindless exercise turned out to be well worth the ducats and tedium.
He tried not to let his mind wander back to his grandfather’s demise. That wound in his heart was still too raw to allow much thought in such a public place. He was deeply grateful that Bassanio had not asked the meaning of the black armband that Francis now wore in Sir Thomas’s memory. Instead, Francis cast furtive glances at Jobe’s serious countenance. He has that look he gets when he sees the future.
Bassanio clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Per favore, messere,” the painter pleaded. “Do not roll your eyes so. You try me to the quick.”
“Your pardon,” Francis replied, barely moving his lips.
He wished he could read Jobe’s inscrutable mind. There was something about the portrait that had surprised the African. Yet he did not seem displeased. Francis prayed that the painter had not given his skin that greenish tinge that appeared on some paintings he had seen during a covert trip he had made to Madrid. It was bad enough that he would be preserved in these gaudy clothes for all time. In any event, Belle would have a good laugh at his expense.
Bassanio stepped back and cocked his head. “Fine,” he pronounced.
With relief, Francis got off his stool. “Finished? May I see it now?”
The painter shook his head. “I only meant that I was finished for today. The good light is gone.” He dropped his cloth over the easel. “You can come next Wednesday?”
Francis hid his disappointment. Portrait-sitting was indeed a rare form of torture. “Sì,” he agreed. He retrieved his cloak and turned to Jobe who still appeared to be lost in the forest of his own thoughts.
“Have you seen enough art for the day?” he bantered.
Blinking, Jobe nodded. He placed a ducat in the hand of the surprised painter. “My thanks, signore, for a most excellent afternoon.”
Bassanio’s face lit up with a wide smile. “Come again, signore! Come often. Indeed, it would be an honor to paint you! I am your humble servant.” With more drivel of the same sort, Bassanio showed them out into the narrow street.
Francis drew in a deep breath of the early evening air. Another light mist from the lagoon curled around the house corners. “Tell me, Jobe, what did you see in there?”
The ebony giant chuckled. “I saw a painted fool.”
Francis knew there was more. “And what else? Come now, I saw your face. You had another vision. Tell me.”
Jobe gave him a searching look before he answered. “Very well. I beheld a dangerous secret, one that is bright-shining like the sun in splendor. For many years it has lain hidden deep amid the roots of your family. Soon it will be revealed but how or when, I do not know.”
Which family, Francis wondered, Bardolph or Cavendish?
Assuming a lighter mood, Jobe draped his arm over Francis’s shoulder. “Where away? Do we sup with the delectable Donna Cosma?”
Francis stared up at the chimney pots across the way. He had no desire to see his husband-hunting mistress. “Not I tonight, my friend, though I would not deny you that singular pleasure if you wish it.”
Jobe stroked his beardless chin. “How now? Surely the wench expects you. Your landlord gave me the impression that you always spent your evenings at her establishment.”
Francis thought of the sweet, mysterious, fascinating Jessica. “Tis time for a change, methinks. Let us repair to my inn where mine host serves a passable meal, and we shall have a long talk in private. I am anxious to hear all the news of…of home.”
Jobe nodded with a grin. “Then I am your man. I will purchase a bottle of sweet wine and then I will fill your nighttime hours with so many tales that you will cry ‘enough!”’
“Good!” Francis savored his pleasant thoughts of Jessica. “The morrow will come more quickly.”
Jobe’s laughter rumbled up from his throat. “Methinks I scent l’amore!”
Francis snorted. “When pigs fly.”
Chapter Five
The bells of the nearby church chimed ten melodic strokes. Using a pair of wooden tongs, Jessica laid a thick piece of toweling over the pile of hot stones that hissed with clouds of steam when she ladled a dipper of water over them. Sophia rushed into the kitchen and shut the door behind her as if all the demons of hell had arrived by gondola.
“He’s back!” she told Jessica, her eyes wide with fright.
Her little companion’s demeanor unnerved Jessica. She swallowed. “I presume you mean the Englishman. He promised to come this morning at ten.” Jessica’s hands trembled. “What is amiss?”
Sophia glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. “Sì, the sad lord is in the antechamber but he is not alone.” She lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. “He is accompanied by another who is even taller.”
Jessica experienced a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “¡Madre del Dio! They have come to drag me before the Inquisition. But I have done nothing wrong, Sophia,” she protested. “Though my parents have returned to their former religion, I have always obeyed the Holy Church of Rome. I have done nothing wrong,” she repeated under her breath like a prayer.
The little woman did not hear Jessica’s plaintive words. She stared fixedly at the door. “The new one is black as midnight. An Ethiope, I warrant.” She made a face. “And he smiles exceedingly much!”
Jessica blinked. An African in company with Lord Bardolph? Could such a one also be a member of the Holy Office? She discarded the very notion. She had seen a few blackamoors in the piazza, especially during the Carnevale season, but never one inside a church. And yet—yesterday, the English gentleman had been accompanied by a tall man, one who lingered in the shadows. Like a dark shadow himself.
She gave herself a shake. She could not hide in her kitchen for the rest of her life. “Come, Sophia! We must not tarry or they will grow restive and knock the house down with their elbows.”
Sophia crossed her arms over her tight bodice. “This is not the time to jest, child. We must look to our safety. I shall tell Gobbo to be armed with his stiletto as well as his lute.”
Jessica refrained from pointing out that the little man’s dagger would be as effectual as a mouse’s tooth against a lion. “Prepare a tray of sweetmeats and pastries for the African. Pour him a generous goblet of wine—our best vintage, Sophia, and…do not water it too much. Perchance we can lull him with food until we learn their true intent.”
Sophia snorted as she bustled about the small chamber. “I vow that Ethiope could drink a full keg of thick wine and still keep a sober head. Wait until you see the size of him!”
Jessica nodded, then donned her mask. It wasn’t her curiosity to meet the giant African that caused her heart to pound against her rib cage and her skin to tingle. Her thoughts centered on the handsome English lord. She squared her shoulders just before she lifted the latch of the door. “Be quick,” she whispered to Sophia.
Both men swept her courtly bows when Jessica entered her waiting room. Sophia had not exaggerated. Their physical size filled the antechamber almost to bursting. She faltered a step.
“Good morrow, Madonna of Mystery.” Displaying a surprising grace, the African greeted her in good Italian spoken in a deep rolling bass. “Your fame is exceeded only by the beauty that you try to hide.”
I wonder where he acquired such a silky tongue? Under her mask, Jessica returned his infectious smile. “You are welcome to my home, signore.”
She glanced at his silent companion. Her breath caught in her throat. Though grief rimmed his blue eyes, the gentleman appeared ten times more handsome than when she had last seen him. Must be a trick of the light.
She cleared her throat. “Good morrow, messere.” She tried to smile at him but her lips trembled too much. “Everything is prepared for you, if you are ready.”
Before the lord could answer, the African chuckled. “Francis has been ready for you since yesterday morning, madonna.”
His friend muttered something in his own language. The African laughed again but said nothing else. Then the gentleman replied in Italian, “Forgive, Jobe, Signorina Jessica. My friend speaks more nonsense than any man in Venice.”
Jessica made a fluttering motion with her fingers. “There is nothing to forgive, messere. It is I who must beg your pardon for I see that you are not well. I fear that my cure was not as effective as I had hoped. I will gladly refund your fee. Indeed, you overpaid—”
The blond man unfastened his cloak and tossed it to the African. His blue velvet bonnet followed. “I paid you a mere pittance and your healing did me a world of good, though I must confess that I did ache a bit as you had warned me.” A tiny smile flitted across his lips before it disappeared. “It is my recent sorrow that adds bitter pangs to the old hurt. Like a pilgrim on a holy quest, I have come seeking your solace, madonna.”
Jobe whistled through his teeth. “My friend speaks the truth, fair mistress. He is much sicker than I suspected.”
The gentleman glared at the blackamoor. Just then Sophia barged through the doorway laden with a large wooden tray that was piled high with the sweet provender that Jessica had requested. Setting the platter on a small Turkish table, Sophia fixed a stern eye on the African.
“You, Signore Treetop, sit!” She pointed to the larger of the two chairs in the room. “I’ll not stretch my neck out of joint so that I can see you clearly.”
“Sophia!” Jessica gasped. What had gotten into her companion that made her speak so rudely, especially to a man who wore a brace of wicked-looking daggers across his chest?
The African broke into rolling laughter as he sank down onto the chair. “Most excellent!” he rumbled with delight. “By my beard, if I had one, I think I have met my match!”
Sophia cocked her head. “I am already married!”
The Englishman cast her a wry look. “So is he, signora. Four times!”
“Truly?” Jessica eyed the grinning giant. If he practiced such a heathenish custom he could not possibly be a cleric. Relief relaxed the knots in her stomach.
The African popped a sugared almond into his mouth. “Indeed, madonna. Now go to, Francis. I know that I leave you in good hands.” He turned his merry eyes on Sophia. “Meanwhile, little pigeon, draw up the other chair and tell me your whole life’s history and I will tell you mine.” He winked at his friend before returning his gaze to Sophia. “Methinks you and I will be spending a goodly amount of time in each other’s company.”
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Tori Phillips
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: One touch of Venus was nothing compared to the magic in the hands of Jessica Leonardo. The mysterious signorina was a woman unlike any Francis Bardolph had ever known, for she alone could make him face his most dangerous secrets–and still have hope for love!Though Sir Francis played the man of leisure, Jessica saw through his disguise. The man was dangerous–in ways that thrilled the private places of her heart. But would his desire still run hot when her true self was revealed–and her secret shame unmasked?