One Knight in Venice

by Tori Phillips

  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 fro
m 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.