One Knight in Venice

by Tori Phillips

  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 overh
eard 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!”