One Knight in Venice

by Tori Phillips

  By the set of Jobe’s jaw, Francis realized that he spoke in earnest. “And Jessica?”

  Jobe’s black eyes glittered. “She is a dove in the thrall of a great snake. That much I am sure of.”

  Francis’s stomach knotted with cold fear—not for himself but for sweet Jessica’s sake. “Methinks tis time that I quit this fantastical city, Jobe. Let Secretary Cecil send someone else to ferret out its dark secrets.”

  The black giant grinned. “Your thoughts and mine are twins. In fact, I have been on my ship since early morn getting it provisioned for a long sea voyage. The victualing will take another day or two. Then we can sail away for England.”

  Francis stood and stretched. “Aye, the sooner the better, and we will take Donna Jessica with us.”

  Jobe nodded. “Methought we would.”

  Francis rubbed his bristly chin. He hunted for his razor and leather strop amid the clutter on the table. “In the meantime, I will settle my affairs here in the leisurely manner that befits an idle gentleman.”

  Jobe grunted. “Do not linger in your leave-taking. I sense that danger is much closer than you think.”

  Francis lathered up his face. “Aye, good friend, but I doubt that it will arrive while I am shaving.”

  Jobe did not share his good humor.

  Francis shaved in silence while his mind hummed with myriad plans for his departure. As soon as he completed his ablutions and changed into fresh hose and a clean shirt, he clapped the brooding giant on the shoulder.

  “Let us be off to the Rialto for food. Both my stomach and my mind are famished. And,” he added with a rueful smile, “if I am going to return to England, I had best arrive at Wolf Hall laden with gifts.”

  Jobe grinned. Shopping always cheered him up. Francis shelved his friend’s ominous warnings. Let danger come when it will. For the time being he had other things to do.

  After crossing the bridge, his first stop was at a confectioner’s stall. With the help of a silver scudo, Francis quickly dispatched a willing urchin to Jessica’s house. The boy carried a paper cone filled with sugared almonds and the message that Francis would come at eight in that evening.

  “Tell Signorina Jessica that tonight is Giovedi Grosso, Fat Thursday, and she cannot miss the Flight of the Turk,” he instructed his young messenger. “I hear that is an awesome sight.”

  The child gave him a gap-toothed grin. “Sì, messere. I myself have seen it. Truly it is a wonder.”

  Francis smiled. The boy didn’t look much older than his godson Tom. Now that Francis had made up his mind to leave Venice, he found that thoughts of England had sharpened his desire to return to Wolf Hall, the home he had not visited for over seven years.

  After the boy dashed away on his Cupid’s errand, Francis sauntered around the marketplace, exchanging greetings with acquaintances. At the goldsmith’s he drew on his letter of credit for more ducats. Since he planned to leave Venice in the near future he did not have to worry any longer about husbanding Lord Cecil’s funds. Heeding the grumbling of his stomach, he and Jobe sought temporary escape from the chill wind that blew off the Adriatic Sea beyond Venice’s lagoon. In a dingy wine shop located on a small side street, they consumed large portions of fried sardines and onions marinated in vinegar followed by a dish of tripe stew served with slabs of fried polenta. When Francis caught sight of Jacopo lurking in a dark corner of the shop, he sent him a dish of the sardines with his compliments. Francis had taken a liking to his young shadow.

  Fortified by their repast and with money in their pouches, Jobe and Francis continued their leisurely excursion amid the vendors in the Campo San Giacomo di Rialto. They bought lengths of colorful silks for the Cavendish ladies as well as for Jobe’s wives. Francis grinned when he spied the beggar that huddled on the church’s porch against the bite of the wind. He fished out a coin from his pouch.

  “Buon giorno, Giulio,” he greeted the ragged man.

  Giulio, the blind beggar of the Rialto, had the eyesight of a fox and the keen hearing of a bat. His tatters and filth cloaked his true identity. Though he pretended to be Venetian-born, Giulio was in fact a Genoan of indeterminate age and background who had lived in London during most of his youth and now served as an agent of the English crown. Giulio was the only other person in Venice besides Jobe who knew Francis’s secret mission. The beggar was both a repository of information and Francis’s one slim link to England.

  Giulio did not look at Francis but smiled nevertheless. “You are abroad late today, my lord.”

  Jobe grunted. “He was carousing until the roosters crowed.”

  The beggar cocked his head. “You have brought a friend, messere?” he asked in an offhand manner. “Does he, too, have a generous heart?” He shook his wooden bowl that held a few copper soldi.

  As he had often done before, Francis admired Giulio’s acting ability. Without directly looking at the giant, the shrewd beggar probably knew almost as much about Jobe as Francis did.

  “This is my boon companion, Jobe the African,” Francis replied.

  “I am master of the Jinn,” Jobe added with a note of pride in his voice. “The finest vessel afloat in the lagoon.”

  Giulio grinned. “I am honored, capitano. Your formidable reputation precedes you. I understand that your most recent voyage netted you a great profit from your Egyptian cotton and sugar as well as the olive oil, wines and sweet honey from Greece.”

  Jobe chuckled. “It appears that you know my manifest better than my quartermaster.”

  Giulio’s smile grew wider. “And the peppercorns, cloves and ginger root that you, uh…Shall we say you relieved those items from a wayward Turkish merchant?”

  Jobe laughed. “Sì, enlightened one, you could say that. By the beard of my father,” he added to Francis in English, “this fellow is a fortune-teller.”

  Understanding him perfectly, Giulio chuckled.

  Francis leaned against one of the church pillars and crossed his ankles. “What’s the news on the Rialto?” he asked casually.

  The beggar wet his lips. “One of the ships belonging to the merchant Antonio Solanio limped into the lagoon early this morning. She had been attacked by the Barbary pirates and the captain had to ransom their lives with the cargo. Signor Solanio has suffered a great loss, I hear, and he is in a raging temper.”

  Francis whistled through his teeth. He had met the wealthy merchant at several social occasions. “Those Turkish rogues are a plague,” he agreed.

  Giulio held up his finger. “They grow bolder daily. The wind carries a rumor,” he added.

  Francis pricked his ears. Giulio had just uttered the code for divulging information that would interest England’s Secretary of State. “The wind carries much trash,” Francis replied, acknowledging the beggar’s signal.

  “They say that certain factions in the Republic pay the Turkish pirates to raid the vessels belonging to the Dutch, the Portuguese—and the English.” Giulio named Venice’s three strongest competitors for trade in the Mediterranean and the New World.

  “The Turks do not care whom they pillage as long as it is a rich prize,” Jobe rumbled under his breath.

  Giulio nodded. “True, great one, but the prize becomes even more desirable when it is sweetened by the coffers of Venice.”

  Francis pretended to study the sky. “Is this wind a strong one?” he asked.

  Giulio shrugged. “So I have heard it from the lips of a gentleman who should not speak of such things outside the Doge’s palace.”

  Francis digested this nugget. He would add it to his report. “I find that my time grows stale in this city,” he remarked over his shoulder.

  Giulio chuckled. “You are wise, my lord. Venice is very dull during the season of Lent.” He spat onto the paving stones. “Forty days of radicchio, bread crusts and rainwater.”

  Francis pursed his lips. “My thoughts exactly, ragged friend. How fare your pigeons these days?” he inquired.

  Giulio tended a flock of swift carrier b
irds that were supplied to him periodically by English ship captains in the pay of Lord Cecil. These marvelous pigeons carried tiny messages in canisters strapped to their legs while they flew across the Alps to their home dovecote somewhere near the port of Marseilles in the south of France. From there the information was given to a loyal postboy who rode a series of swift horses through the French countryside to Calais on the Channel. There the missive was passed to the captain of a certain English packet boat who sailed with it to Dover. A message sent today from Venice could arrive on Cecil’s desk in London within a fortnight—God willing and if the weather was good.

  Giulio considered the question. “I hear the snow still falls in the Dolomites. My children hate winter storms.”

  Francis dropped a ducat into the beggar’s bowl. “Fatten up your best,” he told his confederate. “Tell the wind that I plan to seek other climes that are more conducive to my health.”

  Giulio felt for the coin. When he found it, he made a show of biting it to test its worth, though he knew perfectly well what Francis had given him. “You are wise and generous as always, my lord. In faith, I will starve after you are gone.”

  With a laugh, Francis pushed himself off the pillar. “I doubt that, my friend. Arrivederci.”

  To Giulio’s surprise, Jobe added a scudo to Francis’s alms. “Henceforth, I will be your patron. Remember me.”

  Giulio chuckled. “How could I not? You are already unforgettable.”

  Francis spent the remainder of the day’s waning light visiting more shops. At the printers, he purchased a cheap copy of a Latin grammar book. Tomorrow he would write out his full report to Cecil between the lines of the text using an invisible ink made from citrus juice. He stopped at the bookbinders where he paid for the beautiful book he had ordered for Sir Thomas. I will keep this myself in remembrance of him.

  At a shop that sold the exquisite glass goods made by the incomparable artisans of Murano, Francis bought a lavish array of ornaments, mirrors, and jewelry for the bevy of Cavendish women whom he loved deeply but had not seen in years. He also purchased a beautiful but deadly glass stiletto. Lord Cecil would be interested to study this unusual weapon that the Venetian bravi used primarily for stealthy assassinations. Once the glass dagger had penetrated the body of its victim, the attacker broke off the handle, leaving the rest of the dagger to work its lethal way to the victim’s heart. If poison filled the hollow blade, death was almost instantaneous or agonizingly prolonged, depending upon the nature of the vile substance used.

  The last stop was Titian’s studio where Bassanio had promised that his portrait would be ready. Glowing with pride, the young painter conducted Francis and Jobe to a covered easel.

  Bassanio rubbed his hands together with anticipation. “My master is most pleased with the work, messere. It is my pleasure to present you to yourself.” With a flourish he pulled away the muslin, then stepped back.

  Francis went rigid at the sight. His blood pounded in his ears. His breath caught in his throat while his hands grew cold as ice.

  Noting his change of color, Bassanio chewed his fingernail. “Per favore, my lord? You do not like it?”

  Francis did not trust himself to speak. The artist had exactly caught the posture and the expression of Sir Guy Cavendish as a younger man. The likeness was perfect in every detail.

  Oh, Mother! You did not lie—for once.

  Jobe hung his arm around Francis’s shoulder. To the trembling Bassanio, he said, “Forgive my friend. As you can see, he is struck dumb with delight for indeed you have not only painted his face but his very soul, as well.”

  Bassanio looked from Jobe to Francis. “This is true, Lord Bardolph? You are pleased?”

  Jobe dug his thumb into Francis’s shoulder and whispered in English, “Tell the lad how much you like his work before he expires from anxiety.”

  “God’s teeth!” Francis muttered under his breath, also in English. “Do I really look like…like him?”

  Jobe stared into his eyes. “Aye, meo amigo, you are Sir Guy’s mirror image.”

  Francis shook off Jobe’s arm and advanced to take a closer look at the picture. He resisted the urge to tear it to shreds. Later, when he was alone, he would do it. “How long have I looked like this?” he asked Jobe.

  The African sighed. “As long as I have known you, though the likeness is more pronounced since you came to manhood.”

  Francis studied the face that seemed to study his own in return as if the painted visage were equally as surprised to see its reflection in Francis.

  “Why did no one tell me?” he asked Jobe. “Surely the Cavendish family must have seen the truth. Lady Alicia, for one. She has the eye of an eagle and the wit to match two and two.”

  Jobe lifted a brow. “When was the last time you visited Wolf Hall?”

  Too long ago—years. Ever since the day that his mother had told him the name of his natural father. After that, Francis did not dare to look into the blue eyes of that beloved family. He could not bear to be the cause of hurt or dissension among the people who had made their home his home. He especially wanted to avoid Guy’s wife, Lady Celeste. She had been kindness itself to him when he was a lonesome child. Only Belle had seen Francis during his brief periodic visits to Lord Cecil in London. Why hadn’t she told him?

  When Francis did not answer, Jobe nodded. “As I suspected.” He nudged him. “Come, say something nice to the artist. I swear he will begin to weep buckets at any moment if you do not.”

  Francis blinked, then pulled himself together and resumed his dandified role. “Forgive me, Bassanio. You have created a masterpiece. I am quite undone by it.” That was God’s own truth! He kissed the tips of his fingers in an expression of highest approval. “¡Magnifico! ¡Splendido!” he rhapsodized. “I cannot wait to hang it in my hall.”

  The young artist exploded with relief and rapture. He leaped at Francis, hugged him and kissed him on both cheeks. He repeated his effusive display of gratitude to Jobe. The other artists in the large studio joined Bassanio. They applauded him, slapped him on the back and called for wine.

  All Francis wanted to do was bundle up the thing and flee with it. He pasted on a cheerful expression. “Alas, I cannot stay. We have an engagement—most pressing. But—” He opened up his nearly empty pouch. “Allow me to pay for your celebration. Here!”

  He tossed a few ducats to the nearest apprentice who looked as if he might faint. Francis had paid enough for several caskets of excellent wine. To the beaming Bassanio, he counted out the portrait fee plus a generous tip. The artist kissed him again.

  While Francis watched with concealed disgust, the painting was carefully wrapped in many layers of sacking, then a wooden case was nailed around it. As soon as this tedious chore was completed, Jobe hefted the painting onto his broad shoulder.

  “Trust me, young painter, I will take good care of this.”

  With more slobbering compliments, Bassanio showed his patrons out the door. Once back in the street, Francis set off at a quick pace. “Pitch that horror into the nearest canal,” he told Jobe.

  The African shook his head. “Nay, it would float too well. The good Bassanio would be devastated if he found out—and you know that he would sooner or later. Besides I gave my promise to take care of it.”

  Francis ground his teeth. “Very well. Just keep the thing out of my sight. It offends my eyes.”

  Jobe chuckled. “It will be aboard my ship before suppertime. But you speak falsely when you say it offends.”

  Francis glared at him. “How now?”

  “In truth, it frightens the very devil out of you,” Jobe observed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sophia rapped on Jessica’s bedroom door, then peered around it. “He’s here,” she announced with a wide grin.

  Jessica put her hairbrush down on the table. “I know. I saw them come across the square from my window.” Her hands felt very cold. “How does he seem?” Was he still angry at her rebuff when he had asked
her to remove her mask? She touched the unsightly stain on her face. “Is he in a gladsome mood?”

  Sophia came into the room and stood behind Jessica. She took up the brush and added a few more firm strokes through Jessica’s glossy black locks. “As merry as a schoolboy released from his books,” she replied. “And impatient to see you.”

  Jessica relaxed her shoulders. “I feared that he might not call again.”

  Sophia giggled. “Have you forgotten his gift of sweet nuts? Mmm! Delicious!” She smacked her lips at the remembrance.

  Jessica smiled up at her cherished friend. “No, Sophia, I did not, but still…” She creased her forehead into a small frown. “I did displease him.”

  Sophia dropped a light kiss on the top of her head. “How could he fail to be pleased with you? You are one of God’s own angels come to earth. Now hand me that red ribbon—and the yellow one, as well.”

  Jessica toyed with her fingers while Sophia wove the colorful strips of satin through her hair. A fluttering sensation rose in the pit of her stomach when she thought of being with Francis again. She tried to throttle the dizzy current of excitement that raced through her, but to no avail. She couldn’t wait to see him—and yet, what if he tried to unmask her when they were alone?

  Sophia stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Perfect! You look like a Gypsy in your red and green skirt. The little golden bells on your sleeves are a stroke of genius.”

  Jessica jingled her wristlets. “Perhaps we will dance the moresca again,” she mused.

  Sophia gave her a prod. “You will do no dancing at all if you continue to sit on that stool. Up, up, child! Time does not wait while maidens dream.”

  Jessica rose, tied on her mask, double knotting it under her hair. Then she draped her long cloak over her shoulders and took up the pair of doeskin gloves that Francis had given to her earlier in the week. The evening was already chilly and promised to grow colder. Smiling at Sophia, she swept out of the door and descended the narrow stairs.

  “Buona sera, my lords,” she greeted Francis and Jobe in her antechamber.