One Knight in Venice

by Tori Phillips

  He turned away from the window. “But he never…not once acknowledged me as his natural child, even when my Cavendish looks grew more pronounced.” His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “He always proclaimed Belle as his daughter, though she, too, was born on the wrong side of the family blanket—but me? Never! Yet I always held out a hope that one day…”

  Jessica put her arms around his stiff body. “Why did you flee to France, then to the Lowlands and finally to Italy?”

  He snorted, though he did drape one arm around her. “My mother sent for me. Fool that I was, I thought that Lady Olivia had finally decided to act maternal now that I was twenty-one and no longer needed my nose wiped or my manners improved.”

  Jessica drew his arm tighter around her in a vain effort to shut out the cold that had come between them. “And did your mother tell you that she loved you?”

  He barked a rough laugh. “Love? She never knew the meaning of that word. After all those dalliances of hers, the only thing she learned was that she had the French pox.”

  “¡Dio mio!” Jessica shuddered.

  “Sì,” he replied. “Those were my words exactly when I saw her for the first time in nearly ten years. She made no excuses, merely told me in a matter-of-fact way that she was dying and she wanted to clean her mottled conscience before she locked herself away in a nunnery. Then she told me that Guy was my father. She called their brief affair a delightful amusement that whiled away the time between her seductions of both old King Henry VIII and King Francois of France.”

  “Your mother bedded kings?” Jessica gasped. The woman must have possessed great charm and beauty. No wonder her son was so appealing!

  He drew in a deep breath. “Sì, she told me that she named me Francis after the French monarch because she initially thought I was his bastard. Time, of course, proved her wrong.”

  Jessica could think of nothing to say that would ease the pain in his heart, or hers. Their strained silence hung in the tiny chamber. Only the ticking of the old earl’s curious timepiece on the mantel broke the stillness.

  Finally Jessica gave herself a little shake. “Your grandmother awaits you,” she reminded him. “You must go to her.”

  He suddenly grabbed her by the shoulders, his eyes wild. “We will take our leave in a twinkling. The coach is still here. We will go to London—”

  Jessica drew away from him. “No, Francis,” she said quietly but firmly. “You may continue to run away if you wish, but I will not accompany you. I cannot marry you.”

  He gaped at her. “What madness is this?”

  “I refuse to marry a sponge full of tears of self-pity.”

  His face turned an alarming shade of red. “Ungrateful cat! I saved your wretched life.”

  “Sì,” she replied, though her heart wept. “And for that I will bless your name until my dying day but I cannot marry a man who has only half a heart. I will never be able to make you whole. Only here and now will that happen—and only if you are brave enough to face your demons who have pursued you throughout Europe. Go to your grandmother or go to the devil. There is nothing more I can do for you. You must heal yourself.”

  Though her knees quaked, Jessica walked away from the only man she knew that she would ever love. A string of oaths rang in her ears as she shut the door behind her. She stumbled to a secluded alcove where she sank down on a stone bench and allowed her tears to flow freely.

  Lady Alicia smiled warmly at Francis when he finally made his appearance. Brandon and Guy sat far apart from each other. Brandon’s face was the picture of dejection while Guy looked—impassive. Francis kissed Alicia’s hand. “My lady, I have come as you bid me.”

  The countess arched a wry brow. “I hope you came because you also love me.”

  “Aye, I do,” he mumbled, “though you have much to thank Jessica for. She is your advocate.”

  Alicia glanced at her sulking sons. “Listen to me, you three stubborn mules, tis high time for all of us to shed pretense. It does no one a whit of good and only festers like a canker in our souls.”

  Still holding Francis’s hand, she seated herself on her favorite cushioned chair and continued. “Francis, your grandfather and I knew you were a Cavendish from the beginning—though whose son you might be was a moot point. It mattered nothing to us. We loved you.”

  “Aye, my lady, I know.”

  She gave him a little shake. “Francis! For God’s sweet sake, please call me Grandmama as all my other grandchildren do. Tis your right and I have longed to hear it from your lips.”

  A huge lump rose in his throat. How could anything so painful as this interview also be so joyful? “My lady Gr…Grandmother.” He said the words like a prayer. It felt like one.

  “Better! You will grow more used to it with practice.” She turned to her elder son. “Brandon was never sure if you were his, were you?”

  The new earl flushed. “Ah, that is…did your mother ever mention me? That we had—” He broke off with a cough.

  Francis swallowed. “Aye, my lord, she mentioned you—among others.” He did not dare to look at his grandmother. He didn’t want her to think that her beloved sons were a pair of randy cocks.

  “Ha!” Brandon actually grinned. “So I was merely a jotting in Olivia’s book of memory? I hate to think what a man had to do to earn a full page.”

  Alicia clicked her tongue with a hint of disapproval though her eyes gazed warmly on Francis. Guy stirred himself from his refuge by the hearth.

  “And I?” he asked in a odd, strained voice. “Did Olivia speak of me?”

  For the first time, Francis looked his father squarely in the eye. God’s teeth! We are truly mirror images! “She did. She told me you were my real father.” He could not help adding, “Instead of the King of France.”

  Brandon whistled through his teeth. “I never knew you kept such lofty company at the Field of Cloth of Gold. And only nineteen years old! Well done, little brother.”

  Before Guy could frame a retort, Alicia rapped the floorboards with her cane. “Brandon! This is not a tavern. Watch your tongue.”

  The handsome man looked abashed. “Your pardon, Mother,” he mumbled.

  Alicia now turned her attention to Guy. “I presume you have been shriven for your behavior in France thirty years ago?”

  The tall, angelic-looking man stared at his toes. “Aye, Mother, and I did many penances for my lusty life while I was a novice at Saint Hugh’s.” He gazed at Francis. “I never realized that I had a son,” he said softly. “Olivia should have told me.”

  Alicia pursed her lips. “In my opinion, Olivia Bardolph never knew one end of the alphabet from the other, let alone the family trees of her numerous offspring. Besides,” the countess continued, “you had already joined the monastery when Francis was sent here to be fostered. We thought you would be a monk for the rest of your life.”

  A sheepish grin played across Guy’s lips. “So did I. Thank God, Celeste showed me how wrong I was to run away from myself.”

  Alicia cast a fond glance at Francis. “I perceive that the acorn did not fall far from the tree. Running away appears to be a family trait. Isn’t that why it has taken you seven years to come back home, Francis?”

  “Aye.” They had come to the sticking point. He may as well push the blade in up to the hilt. “After the little chat with my mother, I was afraid to face you—all of you. I didn’t want to hurt Sir Brandon who had always been good to me, nor did I want to upset Sir Guy and his family after it had taken him so long to find his own peace.”

  Guy wet his lips. “You are my son—my own son.” He stared at Francis as if seeing him for the first time. “I always wanted a son but could not tell Celeste. It would hurt her deeply if she thought I had ever been disappointed with her.”

  “Your daughters are growing into lovely, accomplished and beautiful young women,” Alicia pointed out, “but they should have a brother who will look after them.” She paused, then added, “Death comes so very quickly and never
when we expect its arrival.”

  Francis knew that she thought of Thomas—they all did. He kissed her hand again. “Do not upset yourself, Grandmother.” The word rolled more easily off his tongue.

  She shot him a piercing look. “Nay, we need to be shaken up. This family has been slumbering too long.”

  The three men, each one so like the other two, stared at the Cavendish matriarch in wonderment. Francis hoped that her grief at the loss of her husband had not unhinged her wits.

  Alicia gripped his hand. “Help me up, Francis. I have something to show you all—something that has lain in a dark corner for over fifty years.”

  A sense of déjà vu washed over Francis. “A family secret?”

  “Aye,” she answered slowly. “One that transcends the secret of your paternity. How did you guess?”

  Francis answered slowly. “One of Jobe’s weird sayings. You know how vague he can be. He told me once that the Cavendishes harbored a secret that…” He paused to recall the words. “…that was bright-shining like the sun in his splendor but hidden deep among the roots—our roots, me-thinks.”

  Alicia’s face took on an odd expression. “‘The sun in splendor,”’ she repeated. “Jobe said that?”

  “His very words.”

  She chuckled to herself. “I have often thought that Jobe is not a mortal but instead a half angel come down among us unawares.”

  Francis laughed aloud. “He has four wives, Grandmother!”

  She cocked her head. “Indeed? And where in Holy Writ does it say that angels cannot marry?” When no one answered her, she continued. “Whether angel or man, Jobe spoke the truth.” She moved toward a bright tapestry that covered the wall opposite the fireplace.

  Brandon exchanged puzzled glances with his brother and nephew but said nothing. Alicia stepped behind the tapestry. The large needlework bounced on its pole while she rummaged out of sight. Presently, she backed out, pulling a large square package. Francis had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The mysterious thing reminded him of his portrait that was still the object of attention downstairs in the hall. Guy leapt forward to relieve her of the burden.

  She pointed to the window seat with her cane. “Stand it against the wall there for a moment. Now, then.” She faced them with a very serious expression. “Only Thomas knew my secret—aye, mine—and I promise you it is more startling than Guy’s recent discovery.”

  Brandon shifted his feet. “Now, Mother, we know that you were not nobly born. That a goldsmith and his wife adopted you after you were…er, abandoned. There is no need to revive such old news.”

  Alicia again rapped the floor with her cane. “Hush, Brandon, that is the crux of my tale. Now, where was I? Ah! When Thomas took me for his wife we promised each other that the secret would never pass our lips.” She gave a little shake of her head. “How young and foolish we were! We thought that if we did not speak of it, the danger would go away. Alas, it has not.”

  Fear prickled the short hairs on the back of Francis’s neck. “What danger? Who threatens you?”

  Guy placed his hand over his heart. “You know we will defend you to the death, Mother.”

  She dismissed his pledge with a wave of her hand. “Tis not only I but now you and your children that share this danger. It runs in your very blood—your Plantagenet blood.”

  The three men ceased their nervous shuffling. They hardly dared to breathe. Finally, Brandon asked, “Who has Plantagenet blood? King Richard was the last one and he died in the 1480s.”

  Alicia shook her head. “Have you so soon forgotten the shameful execution of the Countess of Salisbury a scant nine years ago?” She curled her lips with scorn. “Poor Margaret Pole was condemned by our late good King Hal under the convenient charge of treason. Her real offense? Margaret’s Plantagenet bloodline made the Tudor uneasy. She was closer to the throne than he liked. The countess was seventy years old—nearly my own age—when they dragged her to the block in the Tower of London. She refused to kneel for the headsman. He had to chase her around the scaffold hacking at her until she finally fell.”

  The iron taste of bile rose in Francis’s throat.

  Alicia straightened her shoulders. “Margaret Pole was the daughter of the Duke of Clarence, the niece of King Edward IV—and my first cousin.”

  Guy stumbled against the stone window seat then sat down hard on it. Brandon’s complexion paled. A vein in Francis’s temple throbbed a warning of an impending headache.

  Only Alicia looked serene. “Surprised?” she asked.

  Brandon mopped his brow with his sleeve. “Aye, the world turned upside down in a single moment.”

  Alicia pointed to the shrouded package. “Uncover the portrait, Guy.”

  With a reverence akin to awe, her younger son untied the bindings and removed the linen that had covered a painting in a gilded frame. With a sickening start, Francis recognized the likeness of King Edward IV. He had seen a portrait similar to it in the old palace of Westminster. That king had been Henry VIII’s grandfather on his mother’s side. “Second cousin,” he murmured. “You are second cousin to the old king and third cousin to his son who now sits on the throne?”

  Alicia smoothed a crease in her sleeve. “You were always quick-witted, Francis. You have hit upon the nut and core of our family problem.” She moved closer to the portrait and gazed upon it with a fond look in her eye.

  “I was Edward’s last living child—quite illegitimate, of course. See the brooch that he wears on his bonnet?” She pointed to a large ruby with an equally large teardrop pearl hanging from its golden setting. “My royal father left it in safekeeping as my dowry. The goldsmith who reared me was in truth one of his loyal courtiers.”

  A deathly chill crept through Francis’s veins. He recognized the fabulous jewel. Alicia had given it to Belle as a wedding gift. Belle wore it on special family occasions. No wonder his grandmother kept this portrait well hidden! Francis’s mind spun with the ramifications. Even though old King Henry was dead, England still seethed with political and religious unrest. Young King Edward VI, sickly a good deal of the time, was under the complete domination of his scheming Seymour uncles. The Catholic Church had been forced underground following Henry’s break with the pope in Rome. Francis had already warned Jessica that she must practice her faith in secret. In the wilds of Northumberland, she would be safe.

  Or so he had thought until this moment. Were all the Cavendishes still in jeopardy? What would happen if King Edward died without an heir, as it looked like he might? The Princess Mary had been declared a bastard; so had the Princess Elizabeth. Would there be another purge of Plantagenets—even remote twigs on the family tree—to satisfy the ambitions of the powerful men that hovered like buzzards around the throne?

  “Tis no wonder you rarely went to court, Mother,” Guy said at last. “I see now where our coloring comes from. I had always thought it was the result of a lusty Viking or two.”

  Alicia smiled at him. “Tis true that your father had Viking ancestors but this—” She pointed to the portrait once again. “This cuts much closer to the bone.”

  Guy exchanged looks with Brandon. “What do we do?”

  The new earl stroked his chin. His eyes looked older and more tired. “We will continue exactly as Papa did. We will live out our lives quietly here among our own people and retire from the brilliant light around the Tudor court. We will pay our taxes on time, make no show of arms and fade from Tudor memory. That is true for you, as well, Francis.”

  “I have already submitted my resignation to Lord Cecil. The life of intrigue holds no appeal for me now that I wish to marry.” If Jessica is still speaking to me. God rot my tongue for what I said to her! He itched to leave the solar with its threatening pall and to seek out the comfort of her arms. He would make a thousand amends to her.

  “And the children?” Guy continued. “What do we say to them?”

  “Nothing!” said Alicia brusquely. “Belle is tucked away at Bodiam and is und
er Mark’s protection. God save us all if that little spitfire ever discovered the truth. Thank the Lord, her boys inherited their father’s looks. Your daughters’ black hair will also serve them well and soon they will be married to perfectly fine, unsuspecting gentlemen.”

  Guy crossed the room to stand beside Francis. “My girls will have both a father and a brother to watch over them in the meantime.” He extended his hand to his emotion-racked son. “God shield us, those three minxes will keep our hands full. Will you help me…my son?”

  Francis could not utter a sound. His heart was too full. Instead he hugged his father and wept away the pain of thirty years on Guy’s broad shoulder.

  Brandon coughed. “What of Kitt?” he asked his mother. “One day he will be the Earl of Thornbury. He should know his heritage.”

  Alicia resumed her seat and spread her skirts. “Aye, in good time, but not now. He’s barely twenty and as wild as an eagle—much like you were, I may add. Let us not clip his wings just yet. Who knows? By the time he is as old as you, the wheel of fortune may turn yet again and the Tudor threat will be a thing of the past, like the faint memory of a nightmare by dawn’s clear light. Now away with you three and make merry with your families. Kill a fatted calf, so to speak. Our prodigal son that was lost has come home again.”

  Brandon lifted up the portrait. “Where shall I put this, Mother?”

  She waved it back to the window seat. “Leave it for a while. I have not seen it for many a year and tis a good thing to feast one’s eyes upon a father’s face. Is that not true, Francis?”

  “Amen,” he murmured.

  The three moved toward the door but paused when Alicia asked, “Did you know that my father’s personal badge was a sunburst? The sun in splendor—Jobe hit the nail squarely on the head.”

  In silence they closed the door behind them.

  “Join us in a cup of malmsey?” Guy asked at the top of the wide staircase to the great hall.

  Francis gave him a sheepish grin. “First, I have a great deal of fence-mending to do, if my sweet mistress has not gone to ground.”