One Knight in Venice

by Tori Phillips

  Her emotions whirled for a moment and then skidded back to reality. “You are not only a rogue but a fool, Francis Bardolph,” she whispered with a fierce intensity. “By such a public demonstration of your affections—” Her tongue savored the place where he had kissed her. “You have put yourself in grave danger. Look around us. See how the people regard me with revulsion? How can you bear the sight of my face?”

  Francis caressed the despised birthmark with a touch as gentle as an angel’s breath. “You have a pleasing face, beloved. One that I cherish.”

  His words rippled through her. “Do not speak to me of love. I pray you, do not mock me. I could not bear your scorn heaped upon all the others.”

  He raised her from her chair and enfolded her in his arms. “Do I look scornful, sweet Jessica?” A teasing smile played across his mouth.

  Despite her harrowing predicament, she returned his smile. “No, Francis, you look like you were dressed by a cross-eyed, color-blind tailor.”

  He chuckled. “I agree.”

  Drawing her against his broad chest, he dipped his head once again to recapture her mouth. His tongue parted her lips in a soul-reaching message of love. Casting her caution to the four cardinal points, Jessica returned his kiss with abandon, savoring every exquisite moment. She knew this would be their last kiss and she did not care if she shocked the Doge and the entire Council of Ten into seizures. Francis’s lips were warm and sweet as spiced wine. She drank him in with a frenzy close to madness.

  The rough hands of the guards pried them apart. When she opened her eyes, Jessica realized that the hall had become deathly still. Their shameless display had accomplished what the red-faced herald could not. Tossing her hair out of her eyes, Jessica resumed her seat. Francis stood close by her side. Jessica closed her eyes until her heartbeat settled back to its regular pace.

  The young lawyer, pale with either anger or outrage, cleared his throat. “Your Highness and my lords, let us return to the question of this casket.” He picked up one of the Hebrew books, but before he could begin his harangue the dark figure of the Lord of the Night stepped to the center of the floor.

  “Most Serene Highness, I beg a word.”

  Jessica opened her eyes. Though this officer of the law had treated her sternly at the time of her arrest, he had not been cruel. For that, she respected him.

  With a small sigh of resignation, the Doge nodded. “Be brief, my lord,” he instructed. “The hour grows late.”

  Lord Gratiano nodded then said, “Regarding the casket, Your Highness, there is a young man in my custody who might shed some light upon this matter. I apprehended him in the act of stealing this chest.”

  A spark of interest flickered in the Doge’s eyes. “Indeed? Bring forth this thief.”

  Two more guards dragged the quaking form of a terrified youth into the chamber. The crowd murmured among themselves.

  “Poor Jacopo,” muttered Francis out of the side of his mouth.

  The lawyer stared first at the boy then at Jessica. “Aha! I see it plainly. This ruffiano is one of Signorina Leonardo’s minions whom she ordered to spirit away this piece of incriminating evidence from her house. Is that not so?” he asked her.

  Jessica shook her head. “No, my lords,” she replied in a clear, steady voice. “I swear that I have never seen this boy in my life.” She regarded him with a perplexed look.

  The thief, viewing her birthmark, made a fluttering sign of the cross and stumbled backward as if he sought to put more distance between them. He dropped to his knees before the dais.

  “I have never had dealings with this witch. Believe me, my lords,” he babbled. “In truth, I am in the employment Donna Cosma di Luna. It was she who ordered me to steal the chest.”

  The box of sweetmeats slipped off Cosma’s lap, clattering to the floor. She bolted from her bench. “No,” she shrieked. “He lies to save his skin. I know nothing of this chest. How could I?”

  A sudden inspiration flashed into Jessica’s mind. This unexpected opportunity might be her salvation. She rose. “Your Highness, Signorina di Luna came to my house a few days ago. She was consumed with jealousy and she ordered me not to see Lord Bardolph again. Furthermore, she threatened me with dire consequences if I did not heed her.”

  Turning around, Jessica faced down her rival. “Perhaps Donna Cosma herself hid the chest while she was in my home in order to convict me of heresy. Indeed, I have every suspicion that it was the hand of Signorina di Luna that wrote to the Council of my so-called crimes.”

  Again, the chamber buzzed with excitement. The city would savor this afternoon’s events for the entire forty days of Lent. Having said her piece, Jessica sat down and smoothed her filthy skirts. I will endure.

  Jacopo, bug-eyed with fear, bobbed his head in assent. “Sì, sì, Your Highness. In fact, I accompanied my mistress when she visited Signorina Leonardo. Indeed, I carried the chest.” He licked his lips.

  Caught off balance by this twist in the trial, the Council conferred among themselves. Jacopo groveled on the polished floor while several guards took the protesting Cosma into their custody.

  “This is news to me,” Francis whispered to Jessica. “Jacopo has been my second shadow for over a fortnight. He must hope to save his miserable hide by casting the blame on Cosma.”

  The Council returned to their seats. The Doge stood under his scarlet canopy of state. The Great Hall dropped into profound silence. The Doge began, “We, the Council of Venice, sentence this thief to three years as a galley slave aboard the military ships of our Republic. It is hoped that the time spent in the service of his city will allow him to repent of his poor choice of employers.”

  Jacopo swooned, whether from shock or relief, Jessica could not tell. The guards lifted him like a sack of grain and dragged him from the chamber.

  The Doge then motioned for Cosma to be brought forward. When she came before the dais, she dropped a deep curtsy to the Doge and his Council. “I am, as always, your most humble servant, Your Highness,” she murmured in honeyed tones.

  The Doge was not moved by either her voice or the generous display of her bosom. He frowned down at her. “Mistress, your part in this sad affair is confusing at best and may never be fully understood.” He held up one pallid hand before Cosma could protest her innocence. “But for the sake of the young gentlemen of Venice who might chance to fall within your snares, the Council has decided that you will enter the convent immediately. There you may pray for God’s forgiveness at your leisure.”

  “What?” Cosma exploded, all simpering guile fled. “How can you do this to me? Many of you have enjoyed my company and my favors. Is this your gratitude?”

  Francis chuckled. “I have heard it said that it is easier to get something out of the mouth of a lion than out of the pocket of a prince,” he observed in an undertone.

  The Doge curled his thin lips with distaste. “You grow tedious, my dear.” He motioned to her guards. “Take her to the Convent of the Maddalena on Giudecca at once. There you may pray for me,” he added as Cosma was pulled away.

  “Rot in hell,” she snarled. Turning to Francis, she spat on him before the guards controlled her.

  Francis wiped his face with his lace handkerchief. “An alley cat to the end, gatta mia.”

  The Doge fastened his steely gaze on the pair before him. “My Lord Bardolph, it seems we have nothing against you save the fact that you are English and are obviously under the spell of this woman.” He pointed his index finger. “On the other hand, we cannot help but suspect that you might be the English spy that has been mentioned in our reports.”

  Jessica quivered. Could Francis really be a spy? And yet she had known from the first he was not the idle gentleman that he pretended to be.

  The Doge coughed, then continued. “Since we prefer not to waste our time or yours, Lord Bardolph, we hereby banish you from Venice forever. You have twenty-four hours from this moment to quit our city or your life will be forfeit.”

  L
ike every other Venetian in the room, Jessica was aghast at the sharp penalty. She could not imagine living—or dying anywhere else but in her beloved city.

  On the other hand, Francis merely shrugged. “Very well, Your Highness, I will obey your edict. In truth, I have grown tired of the gaudy face of this city that hides so much corruption behind it. I will take my dearest betrothed and we will be gone.”

  The Doge narrowed his eyes. “Venice will be well rid of you, messere, but you will sail away alone. Jessica Leonardo, by the demonic brand upon your face and by the strange arts we know you to possess, we find you guilty of witchcraft.”

  Jessica clutched the arms of her chair for support. What a fool she had been to think that she might possibly slip through the Council’s net! Francis put his hands on her shoulders while he addressed the court.

  “Your Serene Highness, noble lords! By what proof do you condemn her other than a most unfortunate accident of birth? Call more witnesses. There must be many—even in this very room—who will testify of the good works and holiness of this most maligned woman.”

  The Doge glared at him, then looked out at the avid spectators. “Is there anyone here who dares to speak on behalf of this witch?”

  No one stirred. The people shrank back against each other. Looking at the masked assembly, Jessica thought she recognized a few of her former patients. How craven and ungrateful they were now! Francis squeezed her shoulders.

  “Courage,” he whispered.

  The Doge flicked away a piece of fluff from his mantle. “Very well, justice has been served.” He returned his attention to Jessica. “But we will not be guilty of shedding your blood. Instead you will be executed at night either by strangulation or by drowning, as it pleases the Council.”

  Though she felt sick to her stomach, Jessica pulled herself to her feet and faced her judges. “May I speak, Your Highness? It is my right as a citizen of Venice.” I will endure.

  The Doge rolled his eyes, then returned to his throne. “Very well. Say your piece and be done with it. My time grows short.”

  Jessica seized upon his words. She stared at the old man in his massive golden chair. “Indeed it does, Your Highness, and soon you, too, will stand before a judge seated upon a throne.” Looking up to the ceiling, she pointed to the painting of Christ at the Last Judgment. “And when that day comes for you and for all of you that condemn me here, you will remember this moment because I will be standing there, too—at the right hand of the Lord God.”

  People gasped and many crossed themselves. The Doge’s skin took on a decidedly greenish tint. Many of the councillors shifted in their chairs.

  Jessica plunged ahead, no longer caring about her fate. She knew her words would live in the memory of every Venetian who heard them. “For I am wholly innocent of these weak and ill-proved charges and well you know it, my lords. Never let it be said that Venice is not diligent in uprooting heretics. I will go to my death to appease the hounds of the Inquisition who snap at your precious heels.”

  “Hold your tongue!” shouted one of the councillors.

  Francis attempted to take her hand. “Sweet Jessica!”

  She stepped away from him. This was her last speech and she would make it unforgettable. “I have done nothing wrong and you, in your dark and devious hearts, know it. How can you hope for mercy when you give none? Yes, my honorable lords and judges, remember me well for we shall meet again, and I promise you, you will rue what you do this day. God Almighty will be my defender then.”

  “B-blasphemy!” cried one of the councillors. “Take her away!”

  Before the guards could prick her with their pikes, Jessica spun on the balls of her feet and stared at Francis. His expression was one of dire calamity. His blue eyes brimmed with unshed tears. He reached for her.

  “Remember me, as well, Francis,” she said more softly.

  “Jessica!” He lunged for her but several guards held him at bay while Jessica was forced from the chamber. “Jessica, I love you!”

  When she glanced back at him over her shoulder, he blew her another kiss. She opened her mouth to shout her love for him but the heavy door slammed behind her. Lifting her chin higher, she refused to give the men-at-arms surrounding her the pleasure of seeing her weep.

  I will hold you close to my heart, my love, and pretend that you really would have married me.

  When the chamber door shut behind Jessica, Francis felt as if the sun had been extinguished. His mind reeled. A red haze clouded his vision. Had he been allowed to keep his sword on his belt, he knew he would have leaped to the dais and slit the gizzard of that sanctimonious weathercock in the purple and gold robes. Everything that Jessica had said was true. Francis knew it—and he realized that everyone else in that huge chamber knew it, as well. Jessica was completely innocent but would be sacrificed so that the great men of the city would not look like the fools they were. Indeed, the Doge would have much to answer for not only in the next world, but in this one, as well, Francis thought with grim satisfaction.

  One of the guards gave him a rough shove toward the exit. “Away with you, dog of an Englishman.”

  Pulling his shattered wits together, Francis smiled at the burly fellow who reeked of garlic. Then he executed a courtly bow full of sarcastic flourishes. “Since you have called me a dog, beware my fangs,” he snapped. He whipped his cape over his left shoulder and walked away.

  People parted before him as if he were a leper. In their eyes, he was as infected as one. Niccolo brushed past him on the stairs and averted his face when Francis looked at him.

  “Excuse my haste, Bardolph. The honor of my family’s name, you understand,” the shallow gentleman mumbled as he ran down the wide marble staircase.

  When Francis found himself outside in the piazza, he noted with surprise that the twilight of this infamous day had crept over the city. Overhead, the campanile struck the evening hour of five. Masked revelers, bent on enjoying the last moments of pleasure before midnight signaled the beginning of Lent, again filled the great square.

  Jobe stepped out from behind one of the white pillars of the palace’s portico. “How goes it?” he asked, falling into step beside Francis.

  Francis headed for the Molo. “All the way to hell,” he snarled.

  Turning sharply to the left, he strode toward the prigione where he knew Jessica was imprisoned. He wanted to examine the outside of this forbidding building before the daylight faded completely. Since his first plan had gone badly awry, the time had now come to take more desperate measures. He would free Jessica or die in the attempt. Now that he had set his mind on this certain course, a feeling of peace settled over him. More surprising, he felt buoyant, almost elated.

  Jobe and Francis halted opposite the prison. Francis studied the building for several minutes, paying special attention to the enclosed bridge arching over the Rio di Palazzo that linked the Doge’s palace with the prigione. “The Bridge of Sighs,” he murmured. Had his beloved Jessica wept when she was led across it to her cell? “For every tear she has shed, I will exact a price in Venetian blood.”

  Jobe whistled through his teeth. “Thus speaks the scholar who exchanged combat of arms for combat of wits? You much amaze me, meo amigo. I have never known you to be so bloodthirsty.”

  Francis bared his teeth. “I have learned a new lesson this day.” He pointed to the stout building. “Oh, coffin of base lead,” he said, referring to the heavy roof that concealed the poor wretches under its eaves. “You hide so rich a prize!”

  Jobe grunted. “And you seek to win this game?” He narrowed his black eyes as he studied the thick walls.

  “I will not leave Venice without Jessica,” Francis replied in a deceptively soft voice.

  “I know,” Jobe agreed without protesting the insanity of such an undertaking. “And I will not leave without you.”

  Francis stared into the African’s face, seeking the answers to questions not yet formed in his own mind. “Tell me true, does your second sight see
my future linked with Jessica’s?” He held his breath as Jobe summoned up the rare gift that had fascinated the entire Cavendish family ever since they had first known Jobe.

  The black giant finally nodded. “Aye, but I cannot tell if you will be together in this world or the next.”

  Francis clapped him on his shoulder. “That is enough for me! Let us quit this doleful place and repair to the Sturgeon. We have not a moment to lose.”

  Jobe pointed to his sleek English corsair that rocked at anchor in the middle of the lagoon. “My ship is ready and the crew are aboard. We will sail at your command.”

  “You are a piece of work, Jobe!”

  As they pushed their way through the holiday crowds, Francis quickly outlined what he required. “Send some of your men to Jessica’s house. We must see to the safety of her two servants.”

  Jobe agreed. “They will be on my ship within an hour’s time.”

  They hurried over the Rialto Bridge. “I need the robes of a friar—a Dominican if possible.”

  The African furrowed his brow. “I know not the types of priests by name. What color robes?”

  “Black,” Francis answered as they entered their inn’s common room. “Also I will need the costumes of Arlecchino and Columbina, as well.”

  Jobe rolled his eyes. “Next you will tell me that you will want the moon in a lantern.”

  Barely greeting their gaping landlord, the conspirators took the stairs two at a time. Once inside their chamber, Francis continued, “Also I require a corpse—a fresh one.”

  Jobe fingered his daggers with a smirk. “How recent?”

  Francis shook him. “Banish that bloody thought! I do not mean one that is even now walking about the city.”

  Jobe frowned. “Your tender conscience is most inconvenient.”

  Francis peeled off his bright-colored doublet and hose. “Find me a body that is already dead—one that is slim of build, with long dark hair.” He changed into black tights and a brown leather jerkin. He kicked the heap of gaudy clothing under the nearest bed. He had shed the skin of pretense once and for all. For the first time in his life, Francis Bardolph was his own man.