One Knight in Venice

by Tori Phillips

  Sophia followed behind her, clucking like a mother hen. “Good evening, my lords. Now I pray that you do not keep my young mistress out so late tonight. Why, she could barely open her eyes all day.”

  Jessica blushed under her mask. “Hush, Sophia!”

  Francis swept a truncated bow, being somewhat constrained by the small size of the room. “A thousand pardons, Madam Sophia,” he apologized, though he had eyes only for Jessica. “It will not happen tonight, I promise you.”

  Jessica’s cheeks grew even hotter under the heat of his devouring gaze. Dressed entirely in white satin and gold lace, he looked even more stunningly handsome than she had remembered. It was as if the Archangel Gabriel had come to call. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

  “It is good to see you again, my lord…I mean, Francis,” she babbled.

  His smile lit up the room. “And I to see you, madonna,” he murmured to her alone. Then he looked over her shoulder to Sophia. “You should come with us—you and Gobbo. I understand that this Flight of the Turk is a most unusual spectacle.”

  For a moment Jessica feared that Sophia would accept Francis’s generous invitation, then she chided herself for wanting to deny her friends a little pleasure. Relief flooded her when Sophia giggled and declined the offer.

  “Grazie, messere, but we will find our own amusements.” She flapped her little hands at Jessica and her two giant escorts. “Now, go! Away with you! Enjoy, enjoy!”

  Jobe grinned down at her. “You are indeed the very mistress of the revels, Madam Sophia. We will obey your command.” He slipped on a white half mask over his dark face. Then he flung open the door and signaled their torchbearers.

  Francis took Jessica’s hand in his. “Fear not,” he said to Sophia over his shoulder. “I will return her early—right after the fireworks at midnight.”

  “Good!” replied Sophia with mock indignation. “Jessica has several patients to see in the morning. Now go! Go! You waste the torchlight!”

  Jessica waved her farewell to Sophia, then with steps lightened by the love she felt for the tall man at her side, she skipped across the campo while their torchbearers serenaded them.

  This time they did not amble up and down Venice’s maze of winding streets. Instead the party hurried directly toward the Piazza San Marco to be in time to witness one of Venice’s more unusual pre-Lenten traditions. Francis held Jessica close against him while Jobe kept pace on her other side. The feel of Francis’s body heat, the scent of his clove musk, the low timbre of his singing voice lulled Jessica into a state bordering on euphoria—as if she had drunk an elixir of poppy seed. Every time she looked up at Francis, she saw that he was gazing at her tenderly. What a goose she had been to fear his motives! She could tell that he would never seek to harm her. A strange exhalation filled her to the brim. She trembled with happiness.

  I shall remember this night all my life—no matter what happens.

  They heard the roar of the crowds in the huge square long before they entered it. It seemed as if all Venice had gathered in this one spot. Francis put his arm around her, pulling her even closer to him. She reveled in his nearness and in the magic of the night.

  A thin silver crescent of the moon hung over the Moorish domes of the basilica. The piazza blazed with firelight. Wordlessly, Jobe pointed to the top of the tall bell tower that stood opposite the Doge’s pink confection of a palace. Jessica stood on her tiptoes. She could just make out the figure of a thin little man dressed in a pair of gaudy tights.

  Francis whispered in her ear. “Hold my hands tight, cara mia.”

  Before she had time to wonder what he meant, he lifted Jessica above the heads of the people and set her on his good shoulder. A cry of surprise and delight trilled from her lips. Clinging to his strong hands, she surveyed the scene around her. From her perch, she saw that a narrow wire was strung between the top of the campanile and the Doge’s balcony. Just then a fanfare of silver trumpets announced the arrival of Venice’s most important citizen, His Most Serene Highness, Doge Francesco Donato.

  Jessica easily spied him amid a flock of red-robed councillors that clustered on the palace’s loggia. The Doge’s purple gown was covered with a magnificent golden cape and a pure white stole. More gold embroidery decorated his cap of office, the corno, and the precious jewels set in his headband flashed in the light of a thousand torches. Jessica had never before set eyes on this awesome personage and the sight of him now both thrilled and frightened her. The Doge was Venice, representing the great Republic’s power and wealth. She gasped under her breath.

  Jobe again pointed to the little man in the bell tower. “Watch now,” he told her, “and you will see the most marvelous Volo del Turco—the Flight of the Turk.”

  Even as Jobe spoke, the little man saluted the huge crowd over three hundred feet below him, then he climbed to the rail of the tower’s balcony. Jessica squeezed Francis’s hands even tighter when the acrobat stepped onto the thin wire. An assistant handed him a nosegay of bright-colored flowers. The noise in the piazza suddenly ceased. All eyes watched the little man. The spectators seemed to breathe as one.

  Holding out his arms for balance, the fearless acrobat steadied himself. Slowly at first, then gaining speed, the man slid down the long wire. As he neared the palace balcony, the crowd began to roar its approval. With cool aplomb, the wire-walker stepped onto the palace railing and, with a flourish seen in the farthest corners of the piazza, he presented the nosegay to the Doge. This extraordinary feat had taken less than two minutes to complete.

  Jessica joined in the tumultuous cheers. Never had she seen anything so daring in her life! When Francis set her back on her feet she impulsively threw her arms around him.

  “I am amazed and know not what to say!” she exclaimed.

  Francis returned her smile. “Then say nothing, cara. I will stop up your mouth with this.”

  Lowering his head, his last words were smothered on her lips; his kiss achingly gentle. Spirals of ecstasy whirled through her. She rose on tiptoe and wound her arms around his neck. His moist, firm mouth demanded a response and she happily surrendered herself to the pleasure of the moment, drinking in the sweetness of his kiss. The bedlam in the piazza receded from her hearing; the jostling crowds melted into shadows. Shivers of pure delight accompanied his touch. She felt transported high above the noisy square.

  Someone bumped against them, breaking their embrace. When they parted, Jessica’s lips burned with his passion. She raised her eyes to find Francis watching her. His scorching gaze probed her very soul. A new, deeper emotion awoke within her breast. Her breath came in short gasps.

  “Your pardons, Sior Maschera,” mumbled a drunken youth costumed as Apollo in a golden mask and expensive satins. “The young lady looks delicious,” he added with a slur in his voice.

  Francis draped his cloak around Jessica, effectively shielding her from the wine-soaked intruder. “Sì, Sior Maschera,” he returned the nobleman’s traditional carnival salutation. “She is and she is mine.”

  Jessica’s heart swelled with pride. No one had ever desired to possess her. She bit the inside of her cheek. Its pain reminded her that Francis did not yet know her shameful secret. He wouldn’t lay a claim on her so quickly if he thought she was the devil’s spawn. Enjoy the moment, she advised herself. Do not think of tomorrow for it will come soon enough.

  Jobe stepped between the two men. “Hark, my friends! The music begins again! This is not the time for idle chatter, but for dancing. Go to!” With that he spun the drunk around a few times, then headed him in the opposite direction.

  “Poor man,” murmured Jessica watching him lurch through the crowd. “He will have his punishment in due time.”

  Francis drew closer to her. “How so, cara mia?”

  She laughed. “He who gets mad drunk offends himself in three ways. He harms his body, he harms his soul and—” She gave a little shrug. “He loses all the wine that he spent his money to consume.”

  Fran
cis brushed his lips across her forehead. “So wise and yet so fair,” he whispered in her ear. His breath was hot on her cheek.

  Then he cleared his throat. “Let us not waste the beauty of your bells, lovely Jessica,” he said, touching her sleeve. He pulled her cape back over her shoulders and did the same with his, revealing their festival attire to the admiring eyes of the nearby revelers. “Let us dance until our feet grow numb.”

  Jessica gave him both her hands. “An excellent idea, Francis. Then tomorrow, I can soothe your blistered toes with my ointments,” she teased.

  His eyes blazed with indigo fire. “My body will be yours to command.”

  His thinly veiled suggestion weakened her knees. Jessica was thankful that he held her so tightly or she knew she would have collapsed. With an exuberant shout to the cold starry sky, Francis set her twirling in time with the music. The hours of the night flew by as if they, too, danced with the same wild abandon that Jessica felt in her heart.

  At midnight, showers of fireworks rose up from the Grand Canal. The people of Venice greeted each display of gold and silver stars with gasps of delight and cheers of approval. Jessica joined in their applause.

  Where have I been all my life while wonderful things like this were happening? What a fool I have been to hide behind my little blue door and let life walk by me.

  Taking Francis’s hand in hers, she kissed it. “Thank you for opening my shell,” she whispered.

  He leaned over her. “You spoke, cara?”

  She swallowed the bubble of happiness that knotted in the back of her throat. “Thank you for bringing me here tonight,” she said in a louder voice.

  Francis threw back his head and laughed. “It is I who should be thanking you, madonna. You have saved me from myself.”

  His words and the look in his eyes filled her with inexpressible joy.

  Jobe tapped Francis on the shoulder. “The witching hour has come. Remember your promise to Madam Sophia. I, for one, do not wish to incite the dragon that lurks within that plump pigeon’s breast.”

  Francis nodded. “Sì, my friend. I am glad that one of us is still thinking clearly.” He lifted Jessica’s hand to his lips and kissed it softly. “Come, madonna of my heart. I will take you home.”

  “And we will sing a lullaby under your window,” Jobe added.

  Jessica joined in their merriment. “My neighbors will be delighted to hear your voice again, Francis. Indeed, they have asked me why you have not sung recently.”

  “Did you tell them that I have been too busy dancing instead?” he bantered.

  Jobe carved a pathway for them through the dense crowd. Laughing, they stepped between the arches below the elaborate clock tower that chimed a quarter past midnight. Just as they turned into a narrow street that led toward the Rialto, a dozen men dressed in dark clothing surrounded them. Jobe drew two of his knives from his bandoleer.

  “Bravi!” he shouted.

  Francis drew his sword. “Keep close behind me, Jessica.”

  With swift professional dispatch, two of the men disarmed Jobe while a third held a dagger’s point to his throat. The leader of the group advanced toward Francis. He held out his hands to show that he was unarmed. The spill of light from a nearby upstairs window revealed the badge of office that hung about his neck. Jessica whispered a prayer under her breath. This man was one of the dreaded Lords of the Night, Venice’s secret police.

  “Put down your weapon, my Lord Bardolph,” he said in a pleasant voice. “I see that you recognize me.”

  “I do, my Lord Gratiano,” Francis replied, though he did not relax his defensive stance.

  The man smiled. “I fear I must relieve you of your companion, messere.”

  “Jobe has done nothing against the city of Venice,” Francis replied.

  Still smiling, the dark lord shook his head. “Alas, you misunderstand me, my lord. It is the woman cowering behind you that I seek.”

  Jessica clutched Francis’s cloak. Her stomach ached as if the breath had been knocked out of her. Her vision clouded and the street spun around her. Mother of God, save me!

  “Jessica Leonardo,” the man continued. “I arrest you in the name of the Council of Ten for high treason against the state. Seize her!”

  “No!” Jessica screamed as two of the guards grabbed her from behind. Her cry echoed off the walls of the shuttered houses. Windows rattled open and curious heads popped out to see the disturbance.

  “There has been a mistake,” Francis protested. Another guard relieved him of his sword.

  The Lord of the Night shook his head. “The Council does not take treason lightly, Englishman. There is no mistake.”

  Jessica clung to Francis’s cloak but the guards painfully pried off her fingers. “I am no traitor!” she shouted to their leader. “Who dares to say that I am?”

  Lord Gratiano shrugged. “Who am I to know the details? My orders are to deliver you to the Council, not to ask questions.”

  Jessica struggled against her captors. “Francis, I beseech you!”

  He knotted his fists. Jobe, still pinioned against a wall by the guards, shouted to him in English. Francis snapped a reply. Jobe said something else. Jessica recognized her name. Francis dropped his head to his chest and muttered a word that Jessica thought was an oath—or a prayer?

  He stepped to one side, then turned to her. He looked ashen under his white mask. “Jessica, I am sorry,” he croaked.

  White-hot rage overrode her terror. “Vile betrayer!” She shot him a withering glare. “You have played me for a fool and I, that willing fool, believed you!” She pelted him with harsh words, wishing they were stones. “Why pretend to be sorry? You have kept your appointment with this man marvelously well.”

  How right she had been in the first place! This so-called nobleman was indeed one of those scheming Jesuits. All the time he sent her gifts and called her endearing names, he sought to trap her. Did her kisses make him gag? How had he guessed about the mark on her face? Or had they discovered her father’s lapse in his religion? Either way, she was doomed. No one that went before the Council of Ten emerged to freedom.

  Jessica shook with her impotent rage—and her fear. “You are as false as sand!” Her growing fury rendered her practically speechless. Hot tears welled up in her eyes.

  Francis stood stock-still as if he were chiseled in marble. “Forgive me, Jessica,” he finally said.

  She curled her lips with disdain. “Must all men kill the things that they do not understand or love?” Her low voice filled with accusation, stabbed the cold night air.

  His great shoulders shook—with mirth? “Jobe reminds me that I am a stranger in your city. I cannot meddle in the affairs of Venice.”

  Lord Gratiano nodded. “The Ethiope is wise for an infidel; he gives you good advice. Quit this place, my Lord Bardolph. Return to your room at the Sturgeon and think no more of this strumpet. She is nothing but chaff in the wind and you are well rid of her.”

  Francis clenched his hands at his sides. He did not look at Jessica. When he spoke, he broke her heart. “You are right, my lord. I have had my pleasure with her, but that is over now.”

  Jessica’s breath burned in her throat. She thought she would gag on her bile. A loud roaring swelled in her ears. The Lord of the Night snapped his fingers. His guards dragged Jessica back through the clock tower arch.

  She screamed over her shoulder, “May you rot in hell for this, Francis Bardolph!”

  The still figures of Jobe and Francis receded from her sight. Jessica was only vaguely aware of the jeers of the carnival crowds as she was pulled through them. The Doge’s palace, obscene in its pastel beauty, loomed ahead.

  Jessica’s anger drained away from her, leaving her weak with despair. Betrayed! Abandoned! Alone! Heartsick, the anguish of her plight almost overwhelmed her self-control. Hysteria bubbled up inside her and threatened to erupt in a mad frenzy. Jessica bit her lower lip until it throbbed with pain. She tasted the salt of her blood.


  Her feet refused to move of their own accord as the guards pulled her up the wide marble staircase that led into the palace. She did not notice the magnificence of the gilded, frescoed chambers that they dragged her through. Nothing mattered to her now but her survival.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jacopo had followed the Englishman out of the piazza so closely that he nearly stumbled into one of the hidden men-at-arms that accompanied the Lord of the Night. Thanking his guardian saint for protecting him in time, the youth slipped into deep shadows between two houses. Cosma had warned him that there was danger afoot—but this? The young bravo shivered. He had no wish to attract the attention of the minions who worked for the Council of Ten. Yet he must protect Lord Bardolph. Jacopo quaked inside his thin cloak. Madonna Cosma had asked the impossible.

  The confrontation between the nightwatch and the English lord lasted only a few minutes, but to Jacopo it seemed like an hour. For an uncomfortable moment, he thought that Lord Bardolph would attack the men who held Donna Jessica in their grip. The aspiring bravo drew his stiletto and waited. He had no idea how he could protect Cosma’s lover when even the mighty African had been so easily disarmed. The youth tasted his raw fear in the back of his throat.

  Fortunately Jobe said something in English that held Lord Bardolph in check. Jacopo sagged with relief against the clammy stone of the building behind him. Then the men-at-arms dragged away that poor girl. The youth knew that she would be imprisoned in the depths of the prigione—a vile dungeon that Jacopo prayed to never see for himself.

  Once the Lord of the Night and his prisoner had departed the scene, Jobe and the nobleman conversed in low voices, then they turned and headed down the street toward the Rialto Bridge. Jacopo followed as closely as he dared. He had no wish to walk into another ambush amid the winding streets. The pair did not halt their fast pace until they entered the Sturgeon Inn on the far side of the bridge.

  Skulking on the bank of the Grand Canal, Jacopo pondered his next move. Should he linger here until the dawn or could he presume that Lord Bardolph had had enough excitement for one night? The image of Doctor Leonardo’s treasure chest danced in his head. Surely the news of Jessica’s arrest would soon reach the ears of both her father and those dwarves with whom she lived. Judging Jessica’s father to be prudent as well as greedy, Jacopo knew that the doctor would no doubt hurry to her house to retrieve his treasure.