One Knight in Venice

by Tori Phillips

  Francis let go of his rope, braced his feet wide apart on the deck and turned Jessica so that she fully faced him. “Then it is time for you to live without fear, starting now. Kiss me, sweet Jessica, to toast this happy beginning.”

  She lifted her lips to his. Her kiss comforted his tired soul. “You are home to me now, my love,” he whispered.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Do you still live?” Jobe asked Francis nearly a week after their flight from Venice. A bright sun streamed into the tiny forecastle cabin where Francis lay wedged in a too narrow bunk.

  Rolling over, Francis barked his raw shins against a protruding beam for the hundredth time since this poxy voyage had begun and opened one red-rimmed eye.

  “That depends upon your definition of living,” he groaned. His joints ached from the confinement of the cramped space. His head ached from bumping it every time he attempted to stand in the low-ceilinged cabin and his stomach lurched with every motion of the ship. “Go away and let me die in peace,” he growled.

  Jobe did not move from the hatchway. “Tis too bad you are not like your kinsman, young Kitt Cavendish. That boy has saltwater in his blood.”

  Francis closed his eyes, wishing that Jobe would disappear. “The Cavendishes come from Viking stock,” he mumbled, “while my mother’s people hugged the land.” He pulled the bran sack that served as his pillow over his head.

  Jobe chuckled. “You will soon become used to the ship’s roll.”

  Francis gritted his teeth. “You told me that two years ago when you brought me down to Genoa.” That short voyage from Marseilles had been a nightmare from start to finish. By the time Francis had arrived in Italy, he was a gaunt man. “Shouldn’t you be doing something else instead of plaguing me with your deuced good health?”

  Jobe crossed his arms over his chest. “The seas run before us like a skein of silk. The wind blows steady and true. We will pass through the Straits of Messina before this day is out.”

  Francis merely groaned in reply. Only halfway around Italy with most of the Mediterranean to sail before they even reached the stormy Atlantic? He would not live to see England.

  “Madonna Jessica has got her sea legs now,” Jobe continued in his blasted cheerful voice. “She even ate a good dish of salt beef this morning.”

  Francis’s stomach heaved at the thought. He swallowed several times in quick succession. “I am glad to hear it,” he muttered. He felt under the low bed for his slop bucket—just in case.

  “She asked to see you,” Jobe continued.

  “Hoy day!” Francis rubbed his chin, now covered with a short reddish-blond beard. “I am not fit for a pigsty much less for a fair maid’s company. Please give her my compliments and tell her that I am reeky and green-sick.”

  With a low chuckle Jobe stepped aside. “Tell her yourself.”

  Like an angel in a dream vision, Jessica took Jobe’s place. She removed her mask and smiled at him. “¡Buon giorno! Francis,” she said in that low musical voice of hers.

  He started to sit up, banged his head on a low shelf above him, and fell back on his pillow, cursing under his breath.

  “If you need a whip to tame him, call me,” Jobe remarked to her before he vanished from sight.

  Francis winced. “Your pardon, madonna. I am not myself.”

  She knelt beside his bunk and put a cool hand on his brow. “Isn’t this how we first met?” she asked with a twinkle in the depths of her lustrous brown eyes. “You were lying in pain under my hands.”

  “My gut did not play the fool with me on that occasion,” he reminded her. “My eyes rejoice to see you, Jessica,” he added. He tried to sit up again, but she gently pushed him back.

  “I am not familiar with this sea infirmity but I know what works for women who are in the early stages of their pregnancy.”

  He rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

  She took his hand in hers, turned it palm up and pressed down hard on a sensitive point between the tendons just above his wrist. She applied that pressure for a few minutes of silence, then released him and vigorously rubbed the area.

  Francis snorted to himself. It was his stomach not his arm that plagued him, but he would say nothing to her. If she didn’t mind his stink and bedraggled appearance, he rejoiced in her company. She massaged the hollow just behind his ears, then she gently rubbed his temples. He almost purred.

  She held up a small covered bowl. “The sea is calm today so the cook was able to light his fires. He made a good beef broth for you.”

  At the aroma of the soup, Francis’s stomach lurched again. “My thanks, but it will not stay with me.”

  She made a soft sound of disagreement. “You need nourishment. Look at your wrists—all bones, no meat.” She lifted the pot cover and stirred the broth with a wooden spoon. “Please, Francis, take some.”

  He wanted to fling the bowl against the bulkhead, but for her sweet sake, he would try. Though his stomach cramped and protested, he opened his mouth and let her feed him. He could barely swallow the scalding stuff.

  “Good,” she crooned. “And another.”

  Francis eyed his slop bucket. “You ask a great deal, cara,” he muttered. He swallowed down another spoonful. To distract himself from his innards, he seized upon the first subject that came to mind. “Why do you still wear the mask?” he asked, pointing to the thing that lay on the floor beside her. “You are among friends now.”

  A blush stained her cheeks. “Sailors are a very superstitious lot. The crew knows I was condemned as a witch. I do not want to give them any cause to toss me overboard.”

  He gripped the low wooden sides of his bunk. “I would run through any man who dares to touch you. I will never again abandon you, Jessica. Forgive me for that lapse.”

  She smoothed his cheek with her fingers. “There is nothing to forgive, Francis. I understand…now. Jobe told me a great deal about you this past week.” She slipped another spoonful between his cracked, dry lips.

  Not all the sordid details, I hope. He swallowed then asked, “Did he tell you that I love you?”

  Jessica looked down at the broth. “Jobe said something like that, but I knew that he was only being kind.” She lifted her head and stared into Francis’s eyes. “I will never forget that moment when you proclaimed to all of Venice that we were betrothed. Your sweet words will linger in my heart forever. But…” She lifted one shoulder in a dismissive gesture. “The time of danger is now past. Both of us must think of the future.”

  A pang of fear added to his discomfort. He cupped her chin with his shaking fingers. “How now? What words hang in the air between us? I meant what I said. I will marry you as soon as I can stand upright.”

  With a sad smile, she shook her head. “You promised marriage merely to save me. I know that and I am most grateful, but now—”

  “You do not love me?” He tried to pull himself up, but she stopped him once again.

  “It is not a question of love, but of practicality, Francis. In England, you are a fine lord, a member of a noble family. Look at me. Even if you were mad enough to pursue this idea of marriage between us, your family would never permit it.”

  He would have laughed if he could muster the strength. Instead he put his hand over hers. “Didn’t Jobe tell you about my mother?”

  Jessica gave him a steady look. “He repeated what you had once said—that she was light of virtue and that she died in a convent a few years ago.”

  Francis lay back on his bran sack and stared at the low ceiling. “You think that Lord Richard Bardolph was my father? A lie—like everything else in my life.”

  She froze, the dripping spoon in midair. “¡Dio mio!” she murmured; her dark eyes grew enormous.

  Francis turned down the corners of his lips. “Lord Bardolph loved young animals—puppies, kittens, colts, piglets—and children. He fathered all seven of us in a perplexed sort of way. You see, he never really knew whether his increasing offspring were his by blood or by…accident.”
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br />   She fed him another spoonful of the now cooling soup. “Were you an accident?” she asked in a low voice.

  He snorted through his nose. “I was the eldest of the cuckoos.”

  Jessica searched her mind for the meaning of his strange word. “I do not understand. What is a cuckoo?”

  He bared his teeth. “It is an English bird that lays its eggs in the nests of other birds. The unsuspecting foster parent hatches the cuckoo chicks and raises them as its own. My stepbrothers—the real sons of Lord Bardolph—turned that word into a name of derision. It went hardest on my younger sisters—half sisters, that is. None of us shared the same father.”

  Jessica fed him in silence while she considered this shocking revelation. Francis watched her face for signs of anger or revulsion.

  When she spoke at last, her voice quivered. “Did you ever learn the name of your natural father?”

  He stiffened.

  “You need not tell me, if you do not—”

  He closed his eyes. “My mother was a clever woman, I’ll give her that much,” he snapped. “When we were old enough to be fostered in another household—a custom in my country—Lady Olivia sent us cuckoos to the homes of our paternal families. The Cavendishes hid their surprise very well when I appeared at Wolf Hall. I did not realize that I might be one of them until the day I began to shave.” He rubbed his bearded chin.

  Jessica furrowed her brow. “What has shaving got to do with it?”

  Francis gave her a short, mirthless laugh. “I saw my true reflection in a looking glass instead of in the muddy waters of the moat. The Cavendish family possess the most singular looks—and they all look alike. If you see one, you have seen them all—even a stray cuckoo.”

  “Oh!” Jessica gasped. “So you are also a Cavendish?”

  He grimaced. “My grandfather, Sir Thomas Cavendish, was the late Earl of Thornbury. He had two sons, Brandon and Guy.” Brandon, so worldly wise, fearless and good-natured, and Guy, the quiet intellectual that once sought his destiny in a monastery. Feeling uncommonly sleepy, Francis yawned.

  “Do you know which one is your father?” Jessica prodded.

  “Sì, I do,” he replied, his eyelids growing heavier. “But my father does not know he has a son.” He yawned again.

  Jessica sat back on her heels. “Sleep well, Francis, it will do you a world of good for your body—and your spirits.”

  He could not keep his eyes open. “Did you put something in that soup?”

  She nodded. “A little juice of the poppy. If you sleep, you will not lose this food too soon for it to help you.”

  “Great Jove!” he muttered in English. “You are a minx.”

  Her laughter tickled his ear. “When you are yourself again, Francis, you must teach me how to speak your language.”

  He started to reply that he would teach her English and a good many other pleasant things, but instead sleep overcame him. He had no idea when Jessica left his side.

  When Francis awoke after dark, he felt a little better in body, though his mind tumbled with disquieting thoughts. He reviewed his conversation with Jessica and wondered how she had reacted to his disclosures. He cursed his seasickness. If he had not felt so weak, he would never have divulged so much of his sordid history to her. Now what did she think of the great English messere who had proved himself to be a coward, a liar and a bastard? He vowed to ask her the next time she visited him.

  But when Jessica returned, Sophia accompanied her. As much as Francis liked the little woman, he could not speak his private thoughts to his beloved with Sophia in attendance. The next day Gobbo came with Jessica and played his lute while she massaged Francis’s temples, coaxed more food into him and fed him an infusion of powdered ginger root to settle the humors of his stomach.

  During the following days this same frustrating pattern repeated itself time and again. Once or twice Francis had ventured to speak of their future together when they reached England, but she always changed the subject.

  One morning Jobe paid him a visit. “You look better, but why the frown?”

  Francis pointed to the ceiling. “That!” he snapped. On the deck just over his head, Jessica held court with several of Jobe’s crew. By the sounds of her laughter mixed with theirs, Francis deduced that the girl had utterly charmed the rough sailors.

  Jobe grinned. “The men worship her and she keeps them happy. I shall be sorry when she leaves us.”

  Francis glared at him. “Leaves? What jest is this? She is going to England with me.”

  Jobe pretended to be surprised. “Indeed? Then why does she plan to join Sophia and Gobbo when we dock at Genoa this afternoon?”

  Francis gaped at him. “Is this her gratitude for saving her from death?”

  Jobe cocked an eyebrow. “Have you made your intentions known to the lady?”

  Francis growled, “Aye, in the middle of the Doge’s Great Hall! By my every look and thought! How could she doubt me, unless…” Unless Jessica was no better than the grasping, greedy Cosma. “I told her the truth of my birth. She knows now that I have neither title nor estate to my name. Mayhap, she is no longer interested in me.”

  Jobe shook his head. “Is that what you think, meo amigo? Then you must speak to her—and quickly. We will enter Genoa’s harbor within the hour.”

  Balling his hand into a fist, Francis pounded the bulkhead. “God’s teeth, I have tried, Jobe!”

  Jobe’s dark eyes warmed with his merriment. “Then I suggest that you take matters into your own hands. Do not wait for moonlight and mandolins, strike now! But first you will have to get out of that bed.”

  Francis gnashed his teeth. “Very well, I will.”

  Ducking his head to avoid the shelf, Francis pulled himself upright. Then he swung his long legs to the floor. Jobe gave him a hand and helped him to his feet. Francis shook his head to clear his giddiness.

  Jobe pushed him through the hatchway. “Go to! Most excellent hunting!”

  Francis climbed the stairs, inhaled the fresh tang of salty air, then looked to where a knot of admirers surrounded his masked beauty. With her black hair billowing about her face like a sea nymph’s, Jessica kneaded the shoulders of a particularly husky Frenchman. Compressing his lips with his jealous anger, Francis crossed the deck in three long strides. Without bothering to apologize for his intrusion, he closed his hand around Jessica’s slim wrist, catching her in the middle of a sentence.

  She stared up at him with her mouth agape. “How now, Francis? You are up! It is good to see you looking so, um…well.” A scarlet stain spread over her cheeks, making her even more beautiful than before.

  Francis pulled her to her feet. “Signorina Leonardo and I have some unfinished business,” he informed the surprised men. He all but dragged her toward the steps that led to Jobe’s large cabin in the ship’s stern.

  Jessica tried to wriggle out of his grasp. “Francis, what is the matter? Please, you are hurting me.”

  He turned a deaf ear to her entreaties until they reached the cabin that Jobe had given to her and her friends for the voyage around Italy’s boot. Inside, Sophia and Gobbo paused in their packing when they saw them. Francis tossed a polite smile to the dumbfounded couple.

  “Per favore, may we have some privacy?” he asked them. He did not loosen his grip on Jessica.

  She tore off her mask with her free hand. “These are my friends—my family. You may speak to me freely in their hearing.”

  Francis ignored her. To Gobbo he said, “You know how it is with women. Sometimes a firm hand is needed. I beg your understanding.”

  Sophia swelled up. “Now see here, my lord! What cause do you have to barge in and order us about as if we were nothing but dogs beneath your feet?”

  Before Francis could muster a reply, Gobbo pulled his sputtering wife out of the cabin. “Sì, it is better that they talk without our ears flapping in the breeze.” He closed the door behind them.

  Francis released Jessica, but blocked her reach for the la
tch. Catching her in his arms, he held her tightly. It had been too long since she had last been in his embrace. “Is this what you really want to do? Leave me and live in Genoa? Cower behind that damnable mask for the rest of your life?”

  Jessica’s lower lip quivered though she did not look away. “I will be better off with my friends. I can do what I did in Venice—be a healer.”

  Francis stroked her hair. “You have not healed me yet,” he murmured. Indeed, the dampness of the ship had aggravated his shoulder though he spoke of the emptiness in his heart.

  Jessica blinked then said, “I thank you for your many kindnesses, Francis, but I—”

  His self-control snapped. “Kindness?” he thundered. He gave her a little shake. “Is saving your life a kindness? Why shouldn’t I do that for the woman I love?”

  She pressed her hand over his mouth. “I pray you, do not misuse such a precious word. I cannot bear to be mocked.”

  Francis knotted his brows together, perplexed by her words. Hadn’t he shown her how much he loved her? “How have I mocked you?”

  After thinking for a moment, Jessica explained, “You confuse love with pity.”

  “I risked my life for you out of pity?” he bellowed. In the back of his mind he suddenly realized that he sounded exactly like his grandfather, Thomas Cavendish. The thought gave him courage. “Do you take me for a complete fool? Do you think that I do not know my own heart?”

  Jessica placed her hand over his. “No, you do not,” she replied in a gentle voice. “You wage a fearful war within yourself. I understand that now. Until you can face the truth of your birth, you will never be fully healed.” She raised one of her raven-winged brows. “Or do you hope that I will fight your battle for you? With this face?” She touched her birthmark.

  Uttering a low sound in the back of his throat that was more like a sob than a growl, Francis crushed her against his chest. He couldn’t let her go—ever! “I need you so much, cara mia,” he whispered.

  He is trembling, Jessica thought as she held him tightly. She cleared her throat. “You will find another woman who will soothe your hurts,” she murmured, though she did not pull away from him. “There will be many English ladies who will be happy to give you comfort.” She laid her cheek against his breast. The pounding of his heartbeat startled her.