“Dearest Francis,” she wrote. She smiled as she filled the page with flattering words.
Jobe drained his wineglass and eyed his silent companion across the weather-beaten table in the Sturgeon’s public room. Francis’s jovial spirits of the afternoon had now given way to a reflective silence. His glassy eyes stared into the flame that danced on the wick of the oil lamp. Jobe pelted him with a nutshell left over from their supper. The missile bounced off Francis’s chin.
He scowled at the African. “How now? Am I a stuffed man to be taunted by a crow?”
Jobe raised his eyes and his hands to the low ceiling. “Praise be! He speaks!”
Francis grumbled a mild curse, then returned to his contemplation of the firelight.
Jobe regarded his friend with narrowed eyes. The boy had all the signs of being bitten by a poisonous viper—or impaled by the dart of love. The dark-eyed wench of the pale mask had located the key to this Cavendish heart. Jobe shook his head. What a family! They delighted to construct mountains out of molehills—especially in matters of love.
Jobe stretched. “You are boorish company tonight,” he remarked with a loud yawn. “I had sooner hold a conversation with a goat.”
Francis shrugged. “Are there any goats in Venice?”
The black man grinned at him. “Only one, my friend, and methinks you are it.”
Francis did not blink. “I thank you for your compliment. With a honey tongue like that tis no wonder you are so popular among the ladies.”
Jobe ignored the gibe. He tossed another nutshell at the sluggard. It clipped him on the ear.
Francis shot him a look of annoyance. “Your game grows tiresome. Go find yourself other company if you wish to target practice.”
Jobe merely broadened his smile. “Your game of silence also wearies a man. This night is a fine one. The moon goddess bends her bright bow in the starry sky. We, too, should be abroad in search of fair game instead of huddling inside this smoky den.”
Francis frowned. “I have already sent my regrets to Cosma. I have little appetite for her company this evening.”
Jobe nodded with relief. “Another prayer answered by heaven! Nay, sickly youth, I speak of a certain mysterious beauty who lives on the far side of the Grand Canal near the Church of San Felice.”
Francis sat up straighter on his bench. “Donna Jessica?” He whispered her name.
Ah! He is snared like a hare in a trap! Aloud, Jobe replied, “Well aimed and to the mark. Get up, man! Give yourself a shake. Put on your boldest suit of mirth, string your lute and let us go serenade the wench. Twill make the hours pass more agreeably than lolling in this sty.”
Francis shook his head. “My voice is out of tune,” he protested though his eyes danced in the candle’s light. “Methinks I am coming down with the ague or some such fever. My heart beats in double time and my throat is tight.”
Jobe swallowed his laughter. Francis was certainly infected with lovesickness for the first time in his solemn life. He needed gentle prodding, lest the malady wither from lack of nourishment.
Taking Francis by the arm, Jobe pulled him to his feet. “Act the lion instead of the mouse! By the devil, you have put on some weight since we last wrestled, my friend.”
Francis allowed Jobe to lead him outside. “You are serious?”
Jobe relaxed his grip on the other’s sleeve. “Aye, courting is serious business. First, we must find covering for our faces before we caterwaul beneath the fair Jessica’s window.”
He looked around them. Half the citizens of Venice filled the narrow streets; all masked and in holiday moods. Jobe studied the bright-painted visages that surrounded them. Sly cats, long-beaked birds, leering Harlequins and coquettish Columbinas grinned back at him. Christian fools with varnished faces, Jobe thought. He collared the landlord’s tap-boy.
“You have a merry eye,” he told the youth. “Find us two masks of your own choosing and furnish us with torchbearers. Be back here within a quarter of an hour and it will be a golden ducat for your pocket.”
Francis drew in a deep draft of the cool air and shook the cobwebs from his joints. “I perceive that there is no defeating your purpose, is there?”
Jobe draped his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “None whatsoever.”
“And you mean to make a fool of me in public?” Francis continued.
Jobe’s laughter rose up from his throat. “Nay, meo amigo. Only you can do that. I shall merely stand by you and play upon my flute.”
The tapboy returned bearing two red-and-black masks. Several young men holding aloft flaming torches followed him. All were in cheerful spirits thanks to Jobe’s generosity. Inspecting the masks in the light, the African whistled. “Two devils? ¡Molto bene!”
The tapboy held out a basket of eggs. “And these, too, great one,” he panted. “For Il Giuoco dell Uovo. The egg game.” He appeared very pleased with himself. “You throw them.”
Jobe gave the youth a stern look. “We go to entertain a fair maiden, not insult her.”
Francis groaned. “I knew this folly would bring us grief.”
The tapboy held up his hands. “No, no, messere. You mistake my meaning. The eggshells are filled with perfume. You throw the eggs when the lady appears at her window and she is showered with the scent of flowers. By my mother’s soul, I do not lie.”
One of the torchbearers nodded. “He speaks the truth, great lords. It is a custom at Carnevale time.”
Sniffing one of the eggs, Jobe discovered it was filled with rosewater. He grinned down at Cupid’s grubby apprentice. “Most excellent! If it works, I will reward you handsomely.”
Francis glared at the boy. “But if the lady is displeased, I will skin you alive.”
The bells of San Felice church tolled nine o’clock when Jessica heard the muted sound of a lute through her shuttered window. She lay still in her bed and listened intently. Some fortunate girl was being honored with a serenade this evening. Jessica tried to think what maid lived in her campo that was the right age for courting. The music grew louder. She detected the high notes of a recorder accompanying the lute. The tune was a lively air that she did not recognize.
Streaks of firelight gleamed through the slats of her shutters and danced along the far wall of her bedchamber. The musicians were very near. Just then, her bedroom door creaked open. Jessica gripped her blanket. Sophia peeked inside.
“Hssst! Jessica? Are you asleep?”
Jessica sat up. “How could anyone be asleep at this moment? Who are they serenading?”
Chuckling, Sophia tiptoed across the small chamber. “Come see for yourself. I promise you will be surprised.”
Tossing back her covers, Jessica swung her feet to the cold floor. “Tell me who, Sophia. I cannot think of anyone unmarried who lives nearby. Surely it can’t be for Signora Spindelli. She’s a widow past forty!”
Sophia peered through the gap in the shutters. “Look! Three torchbearers! And a train of urchins in their wake.”
Jessica wrapped a soft woolen shawl around her shoulders, crept to the window and peered down to the street. She gasped when she saw that the colorful entourage had halted in front of her door.
“Those men have had too much to drink,” she whispered. “They have taken a wrong turning.”
Sophia shook her head. “I think not. Look! Listen!”
One of the devilish masquers sang a French ballad in a pleasing baritone. Though Jessica could not understand most of the words, she realized that the song spoke of love and a yearning heart.
“This is a shame!” she whispered to Sophia. “Please go downstairs and tell them they have made a mistake. Some poor girl is even now waiting for her serenade and here they all are—at the wrong address!”
Sophia did not move, but continued to stare through the shutter’s crack. “Shh! Listen!”
A second devil, hooded in a black cape from head to toe, stepped out of the shadows and lifted his voice. “Jessica! Fair Jessica! Open your wi
ndow! Accept our gift of song and music.”
The dozen little street boys took up the cry. “Jessica! Open your window!”
Jessica flattened herself against the wall. “What prank is this? They do it to mock me.”
Sophia clicked her tongue against her teeth. “¡Basta! You are such a coward. That was the voice of the blackamoor.” She unlatched the shutter.
Jessica sank to her knees. “Sophia! No!” She held her hand against her birthmark. “Please! I shall be ridiculed. How can you do this to me?”
Sophia folded back one of the shutters. The boys below cheered.
“You have nothing to fear. Those two devils are as tall as Master Jobe and Lord Bardolph. Mark how the moonlight shines on his head, turning his golden hair to silver. Stand here in the shadow and let the sounds of his music creep into your ear. No one will see you.”
Despite her fears, a hot joy suffused through Jessica. She pulled herself up to the window ledge and peeked out. The whole campo was bathed in the bright torchlight. Many upstairs windows around the square opened as her neighbors looked out to see the cause of the commotion. Standing in the middle of the pack of ragged boys, a tall, gaudily dressed man in a devil’s mask sang another song, this time in Italian with a Roman accent.
Before Jessica could stop her, Sophia produced her white handkerchief and waved it out the window. The little boys again cheered, then they reared back and hurled a shower of eggs. Jessica ducked. The shells broke against the house and the aroma of roses filled the air.
Sophia clapped her hands. “The Egg Game! Give them your thanks, child, or the next eggs might not smell so pleasant.”
Still keeping within the deep shadow cast by the shutter, Jessica called, “My…my thanks to you all. I am very honored.” Her voice shook. “I don’t know what else to say to them,” she whispered to Sophia. “No one has ever sung under my window before.”
Sophia waved her handkerchief. “Sing again, bright-plumed devil! Sing again!”
“Hush!” Jessica told her. “You are shameless, Sophia. You will make us the laughingstock of the neighborhood.”
“Nonsense!” the little woman replied. “Enjoy it! By my garters, the gentleman has a beautiful voice.”
His music filled Jessica with a giddy delight. She pressed her hand against her mouth while she trembled as his loving message washed over her. Against all her common sense, she became completely entranced by the sound of his voice. She closed her eyes, the better to savor the delicious moment.
A trill of the flute ended their concert. A smattering of the neighbors’ applause echoed around the square.
Jessica took another glimpse out the window. “Everyone knows he is singing to me,” she moaned. “They will laugh at me in the morning.”
Sophia shook her head. “Ha! They will envy you for having such a tuneful swain to serenade you. Say something to him, Jessica. Thank him for your pleasure.”
Jessica’s throat closed up. “I can’t,” she squeaked.
Sophia frowned at her. “If you do not speak to him, then I will—and you never know what fancy might fly out of my mouth,” she threatened.
“Wait! I know!” Jessica scurried to her bedside table where Lord Bardolph’s violets rested in a beaker of water. She took several flowers, bound them with her hair ribbon then tossed the posy out the window.
“Thank…thank you, charming devil, for your kindness and for your sweet music,” she called from the safety of the shadows.
To her further embarrassment, her neighbors applauded even louder. The urchins cheered and chanted her name. The tall masquer picked up her gift from the paving stones. He kissed the flowers, then tucked them into his doublet’s buttonhole. Sweeping off his garish hat, he made a deep bow to her window.
“Fair thoughts, sweet dreams and happy hours attend on you,” he called to her. Then the whole company withdrew and disappeared around the corner, leaving the campo a much darker and colder place.
Sophia drew the shutters together. “There now,” she asked, “was that as bad as a toothache?”
In a daze Jessica stumbled back to her bed. “Sì, it will keep me awake all night.” His blessing danced in her heart. She released a long audible sigh.
Chapter Eight
The night’s passage had almost run its course before Francis and Jobe returned to their room at the Sturgeon Inn. Still humming one of the songs he had sung under Jessica’s window and warmed by a flagon of spiced wine, Francis fell backward onto his bed. The walls gently rocked in his befuddled vision.
“Zounds, Jobe! What a night! What merry sport!”
The ebony giant pulled off one of his boots. “Did I not tell you so?”
Francis laced his fingers together behind his head. “Bestrew me, that devilish mask made me bold. I have never in my life thrown an egg—even a perfumed one—at a woman. What would Lady Alicia have said if she had seen me?”
Jobe chuckled. “Knowing your grandmother, methinks she would have approved. Tis high time that you opened that dull brain of yours and let the spirit of carnival romp inside.”
Francis made a face. “I am not dull. All my tutors reported that my wits sparkled.” He hiccuped.
Jobe unrolled his stockings. “Methinks your tutors were also a dull lot.”
Francis hiccuped again. “True. They were never in Venice at carnival time. By the Book, Jobe, she liked our singing, didn’t she?”
Jobe unbuttoned his leather doublet. “Aye, she did—but how many other cats has she heard howling in the night?”
Francis ignored him. He extracted the little nosegay from his buttonhole and brushed the violet petals across his lips. “She is sweet, is she not, Jobe?”
The African chuckled again. “I see that Cupid has hit you squarely in the heart.”
Francis yawned. “Not so never! I merely make a scholarly deduction after much observation.”
Jobe snorted at his answer. Not bothering to remove either his shoes or his outer clothing, Francis rolled up in the coverlet. He nestled his head in his pillow and closed his eyes. The room spun slowly behind his eyelids.
“Heigh ho! Here’s something!” said Jobe.
Francis did not move. “Aye, something indeed. You see before you a man dreaming of a fair maiden with dark rippling hair, gentle hands and lips as lush as honey-sweetened cherries. Shh! Go away! You are disturbing my repose.” He turned his back on Jobe and the irritating candlelight.
“Nay,” his friend protested. “Tis a letter for you. By the handwriting and the scent of the paper, methinks tis from your mistress.”
Francis winced. He groaned into his pillow. “I speak of an angel, you speak of a polecat. One delights me, the other wearies me. Tis too late in the night for reading. Put out the light.”
Instead Jobe broke open the seal. “Indeed you will need your sleep, meo amigo. Your polecat entreats—nay, in plainer words she demands your company on a pleasure trip to Sacca Sessola departing from her quay at ten this very morning.”
Francis squinted at his friend. “Ten? Hoy day! Cosma must be desperate for my company. She never stirs from her bed until afternoon.” He shivered inside his covers. “Besides that little island must be a howling wilderness at this unseasonable time. Plainly, Cosma has lost her wits.”
Jobe grinned at him. “Perchance she was especially pleased with the monkey.”
“Ha! That I highly doubt!”
Jobe ran his finger along the page. “She also entreats you to leave your midnight friend to his own devices.” He glanced at Francis with an innocent look in his large eyes. “Do you think she means me?”
“Aye, Sir Midnight.”
Jobe flashed a wicked grin. “And I thought I had pleased her right well upon our first meeting.”
Francis yawned again. “Aye, but you do not pretend to have a fortune or titled ancestors.”
“According to this missive, she awaits breathlessly for your reply.”
Francis barked a laugh. “At this late hour? N
ay, she is abed either alone or with some other man to comfort her. If she is breathless, twill be from lovemaking. She is not pining on her landing in a waiting pose.” He knotted his brows in a frown. “Though poor Nerissa may be doing just that.” He pictured the little maid huddled on Cosma’s cold pink marble staircase.
Jobe sat down at the plain table between their beds. “I do not form my letters as well as you, nor can I spell Italian, but for gentle Nerissa’s sake, I will pen a reply if that suits you.”
Francis knew he should be the one to answer Cosma’s summons but he could not move from his prone position. He waved his hand at Jobe. “Go to and the devil take your spelling. Be brief. Say I am unwell.”
“Tis true enough,” Jobe muttered under his breath. “You are sick with love.”
“Nay, with too much wine,” Francis objected. “Love has nothing to do with me.”
Cosma stood amid the shards of several smashed vases. Disarrayed by her angry exercise, her hair fell into her face. Nerissa crept into the room carrying a broom and pan. She flinched when Cosma glared at her.
“How dare he?” the courtesan screamed at her maid. “Just who does this…foreigner think he is? No sensible Venetian would have dismissed my invitations with such flippant notes in return—and all of them poorly written, too!”
Nerissa bent her head over her task. “Lord Bardolph said he has been ill,” she murmured. “He certainly was the last time we saw him.”
Cosma stamped her foot. “Lies! He is as hale and hearty as any man in Venice. Jacopo has kept me informed of his every move this past week. Oh, no, our wayward Francis has been extremely active for one who claims to lie abed near death.”
Nerissa had the good sense to say nothing in return. Cosma stalked to her window and stared down at the green canal water below. A gondola, filled to the gunwales with Carnevale merrymakers, glided by. The sight of such mirth made Cosma’s teeth ache.
When she had invited Francis to join her for a dalliance on Sacca Sessola, Jacopo reported that the viper went instead to a gaming house in the company of that black pirate. When Cosma had urged her lover to come to an evening’s entertainment she had specially prepared, Francis had gone out singing under windows and tossing perfume eggs like a lovesick schoolboy.
One Knight in Venice Page 9