by L. L. Muir
Isobelle said nothing, hoping the strange tone in his voice meant he’d reconsidered that proposition as well.
“But as soon as we’d parted ways, another man came to me and told the same tale, that the captain had decided not to trust a Scot. Can ye believe it? Not to trust a Scot?”
“Oh, Ossian.” She shook her head. “What could they be thinking? ‘Tis plain ye’re more able than most. But why not trust a Scot?”
There was a familiar niggling in the back of her mind, wondering if someone’s distrust of anyone Scottish had something to do with her. But the only trouble she’d caused since arriving in Venice was to anger a bunch of nuns. And if they were cloistered, how could they have aught to do with seamen? Or men of war?
The only unkindness she’d done since then was to send six men away—only one of whom might have been disgruntled enough to cause trouble for her. But if he had set his sights on her, why would he not wish for Ossian to leave the city?
Her cousin shook his head. “All I can imagine,” he said, “is that some other Scotsman has ruined our reputation in one way or ‘tother.”
Isobelle nodded. That made as much sense as anything else. But as much as she wanted her cousin close, she would not have him insulted. Ossian was a braw, brave man who commanded respect. He was fair and honorable. And considering his talent with most weapons, his loyalty was a boon beyond price.
Righteous indignation filled her gullet and she wished she could champion her cousin’s cause in some way. It was the least she could do, after the man had put his life aside to help save hers. And he’d risked that same life for her a dozen times over since they’d left their beloved Scotland.
“What can I do, Ossian? Who are these cowards who would imagine ye to be untrustworthy? Surely there is someone who would give ye the chance to prove yerself. That is all ye need, mavournin’. One chance to earn their fine opinion.”
Ossian smiled at her then, and she felt as if she’d finally done something to make the man happy. Had she never told him before how proud she was to call him cousin? Or husband? Whichever the moment required?
“Auch, but I’m pleased to hear ye say such a thing, Izzy. For ‘tis true I was beginning to think ye a selfish woman to want me with ye forever more.”
Isobelle gave him a shove and he nearly stepped on her precious garden of dirt.
“Yer a fine man, Ossian,” she said. “Even if ye are daft as a pike. Did I not tell ye? Signora Crescento has already been draggin’ every male in Venice past our door for inspection. I’ll have yer arse replaced in but a day or two.” She didn’t plan to tell him she’d rejected every one of them, or that she would continue to reject all suitors.
Ossian walked around her and headed inside. “Glad I am to hear it, Izzy. For I did find a man who wishes to give me that chance to prove my worth. In fact, he has such faith in me, he’s already paid me a reward for signing on. I dinna think he’ll be reconsidering like the others. And since we leave tonight, with the tide, he won’t have much of a chance to do so, aye?”
She took a handful of his shirt and jerked Ossian backward. He moved quickly, but was unable to stop himself from landing on that arse she’s just referred to.
“Yer a daft, daft man, Ossian Ross. Just because I said it, doesna mean I meant it.”
“Weel,” he said with a shrug. “As long as I’m already down here, I may as well tell ye the rest of it. Save ye the need to knock me doon again.”
Isobelle closed her eyes for a moment, putting off the inevitable. But what could possibly be worse news than Ossian leaving her at the mercy of Venetians, while he danced about on a ship waiting for attacks that rarely came?
He rested his arms on his knees and waited.
“Out with it then,” she spat.
He gave a nod. “The ship is leaving for the New World of Columbus, Isobelle. I dinna ken when I’ll be back. If I’ll be back, ye ken?”
She let the news sweep through her, taking her breath and leaving its mark on her heart. The day she’d been dreading had arrived, the day Ossian would leave her for good. She’d overheard enough on their latest voyage to know that hundreds of men and entire ships failed to return from the New World, which meant danger—which meant her fearless cousin wouldn’t be able to resist it. She only wondered how long he’d been hoping for just such an opportunity. If he hadn’t been bound to her, he likely would have left Scotland for such a temptation.
Finally, she nodded and backed toward the front of the house. “Me supper’s getting cold.”
He puffed out his chest. “And what of my supper?”
“I suggest ye go find some foosty pesce and stuff yerself.”
Chapter Seven
Gaspar was at war.
He was certain it was the devil with whom he warred, though anyone watching closely could easily misunderstand what drove him. They would see a beautiful woman and assume he was driven by his baser urges. But they would be wrong. He had simply devised an original strategy for fighting Satan. And since he was a man of few words, beholden to few, he set his plans in motion without the need to explain himself to others. He was God’s Dragon, a powerful, mythical thing driven by his need to serve God. There was no reason he could not do it all.
Prove himself.
Save the woman.
And defeat Satan. All at the same time.
His man, Icarus, knew some of his plans, out of necessity, but it was likely he had no notion as to his master’s reasons for them. The little man simply moved about Venice unnoticed, doing Gaspar’s bidding. If he wondered at his master’s motives, he would have his curiosity settled soon enough.
As God’s Dragon, Gaspar had acquired enough wealth over the past decade to rival the treasure of that legendary beast for which he was named. So it was not surprising when his preparations were completed in a matter of days instead of months.
The iron worker, Ferro, had been quick to do Gaspar’s bidding. He and his men had taken an elaborate rood screen commissioned for the new St. Mark’s church and with it, were able to fill Gaspar’s requirements immediately. The new church was still under construction and there was time enough for another screen to be forged. The second screen would still be an original, since the first would be changed to fit Gaspar’s requirements. Only the artwork would be similar. And few souls would ever lay eyes upon the first screen, let alone complain.
Oh, there would be complaining, but not about the design. He imagined a fiery-haired Scotswoman would have plenty to complain about the moment she laid eyes upon the work of art.
Gaspar finished his simple supper just as the famous iron worker knocked upon the door of his stanza privata. Gaspar bid him enter, then gestured for the man to speak.
Ferro’s eyes were drawn to the white scar and froze there. “It is finished, Signore Dragotti.”
Gaspar nodded, but said nothing, for fear his excitement might reveal too much to the workman.
“So,” the man said, as if searching for a topic that might engage Gaspar in conversation. He forced himself to look away from the scar, but his attention quickly returned.
God’s Dragon frowned. “You have been paid.” It was not a question.
The man’s head bobbed. “Si, mio signore.”
“Paid enough to forget the screen ever existed.”
“Si, mio signore.”
“I suggest, Signore Ferro, you do not allow the devil to tempt you to remember.”
“Si! Si, mio signore!”
Gaspar turned his attention back to the parchment before him. After a moment, Ferro backed toward the door, though as far as the man knew, God’s Dragon had already forgotten he existed. And if he were waiting for praise, well… Gaspar was not foolish enough to examine the creation while standing beside a worker who might question its purpose.
Icarus shuffled into the room as soon as the first man had gone. Gaspar waved a hand for the servant to take his tray away. He’d been too distracted with his plans to eat, and yet he was not hun
gry. Another victory over the temptations of the flesh, he thought, without any effort at all.
“You remember your orders for tomorrow?” he asked the little man.
“Si, mio signore. I will have the second boat ready. Just where you said.”
“Fine, then. You may go.”
In his usual exercise in self-control, he waited one hour, then another, before he allowed himself to go inspect the work. First, he chose to prove to the devil—if he were watching—that Gaspar Dragotti was no slave to desire. Second, he would not give the iron workers the satisfaction of seeing the window light up at the top of the tower the moment their boat was away. If he showed any pleasure in their fabrication, they would no doubt tell others of their custom work for The Patriarch’s Investigator. And the last thing he wanted was for someone to come to his private island unannounced, expecting to have a good look at the work in question.
It would be best for everyone if the iron workers put this commission behind them and looked toward the next—a feat no artist could manage if they might find praise in a work already completed. Had he not seen the same in Michelangelo?
Another hour passed before Gaspar took a single candle up the tower steps. Each stair built the excitement in his breast until, when he reached the landing and opened the door, he thought his heart might burst.
He should have paid Ferro more.
Chapter Eight
Isobelle sat abruptly in her bed.
Had someone knocked upon her door, or had it been a dream? Was it only an echo in her sleepy mind of the knocking two nights before?
That night, before she and her cousin had time for a proper fare thee well, a lad had come to the door to collect Ossian, to help carry his weapons and such to the ship. She could not follow along to wave from the dock—it would hardly be safe for her to head for home alone, in the darkness. But perhaps a quick farewell was for the best. At least she’d been able to shed her tears without getting her cousin wet.
The pounding came again. Not by a small hand.
“Signorina Ross,” came the old woman’s wavering voice. “Signorina!” The rest was Italian. She couldn’t possibly expect Isobelle to understand her. But why would she come so early in the morning to spout nonsense?
Grudgingly, Isobelle got to her feet, wrapped her Ross plaid around her night clothes, and went to the door. Through the wood, she heard a man speak low. Signora Crescento answered.
Isobelle whipped the door open and stood in the entrance with her hands on her hips. “Signora Crescento, this is no hour to start yer wee parade...” Isobelle’s rant was cut short by a sudden loss of wind in her sails.
A striking man, far and away more handsome than the likes of the previous four days’ processions, stood head, shoulders, and chest above the old woman. His hair was dark, but a warm color, not the black of many Italians. The length of it disappeared against the sober darkness of his tunic. His shoulders were broad enough to block her small doorway if he took another step forward. A long scar across his features suggested he was no stranger to battle. The white brand ran from his left brow, across his nose and cheek, then hooked around the edge of his right jaw in an angry pucker.
A fine scar indeed. But the face beneath it was even finer. The chin was square, not unlike that of her brother Monty. The planes of his cheeks were flat and on the hollow side, topped with high, wide cheekbones. His brows formed a dark ridge. His black-brown eyes peered into her soul. They dropped briefly to note her state of dress, including the Ross plaid, then returned her gaze once more. Whether he liked what he saw was a mystery. Not even his lips moved.
Four guards in black and yellow uniforms stood at his back with pikes. Four bees holding their stingers at the ready, she thought. An important man, then.
Isobelle did not yet know how to say, “Too important,” in Italian, but the word she did know was more accurate in any case.
“Troppo perfetto,” she said, stepped back, and shut the door before the man’s gaze persuaded her to reconsider.
Her heart raced with an odd sort of panic, as if the man on the other side of the door might just be handsome enough to weaken her resolve. But she mustn’t give in to temptation. She had to hold strong and hope that one day the suitors would give up hope. She would not marry, no matter what a man’s station, no matter how pretty.
She realized it might be wiser not to learn their language after all. If she couldn’t understand them, they could not impress her, seduce her, or change her mind.
Neither would she teach any of them English, let alone Gaelic. The sound of her own language from the mouth of that handsome man at her door might mean her doom.
The wood shook behind her as the pounding resumed.
She sighed, supposing it might not be so painful to look upon the man one last time, but only once. After all, she’d hardly been gracious. And since he was likely unaware of the men Signora Crescento had previously brought to her door, he would think her quite rude indeed. A pity he didn’t speak English, or she would explain.
But then again, he was no commoner. Perhaps he did speak English.
She whisked the door open once again and offered the little company a smile, despite their frowns. The old woman appeared downright frightened, crushing the skirt of her apron to her heart, her eyes wide and wild. Was she frightened for herself, or for Isobelle? Was it the man’s temper she feared? If he were a tyrant, he would find no welcome from her.
“Signore,” she began. “Do you perhaps speak English?”
The man nodded once, then gestured for her to come forward.
Isobelle left her feet where they were, tipped her head to one side and raised a brow.
Signora Crescento began spouting in Italian again, until a sharp look from the gentleman stopped her mid-sentence. She nodded, bowed, and took a step back.
So. He was a tyrant. Turranos, in Latin. The man had to know his Latin.
“Signore Turranos,” she said, “I am not in want of a husband just the now. I appreciate that ye’ve risen so early to see me this morn, but I assure ye—”
“Silence,” he said, and though he’d not raised it, his deep voice cut through the pale dawn.
His audacity so surprised her, she complied without intending to. But to compensate for lack of speech, she stepped back and took hold of the door once again, prepared to shut it on the man’s nose if need be. But he put a foot forward, over her threshold, to prevent just that.
“Go away,” she demanded.
“Signorina Ross,” he barked loudly, even though they were only an arm’s length apart. He then said something in Italian, no doubt for the sake of anyone who was awake at that hour and of a mind to listen. He took a breath, then lowered his chin and his voice. “Isobella Ross, you are under arrest. In the name and holy office of his Beatitude, The Patriarch of Venice, you are accused of witchcraft and are to be removed for examination and interrogation. I advise you to come willingly, for your actions here and now will be taken into consideration.”
Witchcraft!
Panic flooded her chest and made breathing impossible, but after glancing at a pale and hysterical Signora Crescento, Isobelle resolved not to show her fear. Her actions were being considered? Then she refused to act guilty in front of the tyrant who had apparently not come to consider her for marriage.
Witchcraft was an ugly word that had nearly gotten her killed before. She had no idea how they dealt with witches in Italy, but such a religious state would surely treat her no better than her own kirk had.
She forced a smile and laughed. “Witchcraft? Yer jesting, of course. ‘Tis hardly me own fault, this red hair. It vexes me something awful, so I assure ye, I pay dearly for bearing it. But a reasonable man like yerself would not think to punish a woman for the color of hair God Himself granted her.”
The man glanced briefly at her hair, then back at her face. In his eyes she saw some soft thought, then regret, but that was quickly replaced by something harder.
“This
has naught to do with your hair,” he said. A soldier behind him frowned and Isobelle supposed it was likely no one else spoke English but her and the handsome one.
“Please, sir.” She kept her voice steady so no one might suspect she was begging. “What can I say to help ye believe me? I am not a witch. I’ve known real witches in Scotland and I assure ye, I am not one of them. I have no knowledge of medicines, herbs, or the like. And I’ve been here for six days, no more. Who could possibly know me well enough to accuse me of such a thing?”
She suddenly remembered the abbess, who could not have been pleased with her. Then there was a ship full of oarsmen and passengers who’d avoided her. But she’d supposed that was only because Ossian had hovered over her like an angry wolf. Sophia could not have been displeased with her, after what Isobelle had done to ensure the young woman’s freedom, to run away with the young man she loved. And the only mention of witches, since she’d left Scotland, had been between herself and Ossian, and then only in private—
Or that once, in the abbey, when none had spoken English...
She took another step back, deeper into her house. The guards started, but made no move to come after her. She looked into the tall one’s dark eyes and imagined a rood screen before him.
“It was you,” she whispered. “In the abbey. Behind the screen.”
The man’s eyes widened in alarm, but recovered quickly. “Will you come willingly, Venafica?” His voice poured over her like warm, trickling water. The word venefica might have been an endearment if it had not been for the rest of their conversation.
“Venefica?” she queried.
The old woman crossed herself and whimpered. That alone told her what she needed to know. But he answered her in any case.
