One Knight in Venice

by Tori Phillips

  Cosma leaned closer to the mirror to apply a line of sooty kohl to her eyelids. She reveled in her position as one of Venice’s premier courtesans who entertained in her bed noble senators, sons of the aristocracy and wealthy merchants. She had no need to stoop to servicing a low-born, would-be bravo. Her coin and a well-chosen glance or two of her charms would suffice for the likes of Jacopo.

  “Well?” she prodded the stupefied young man. “I presume that you did follow Messere Bardolph as I asked you?”

  Jacopo ran his tongue over his lips. “Sì, Donna Cosma. First he went to the Rialto, where he drank wine with some acquaintances. He stopped by the beggar that sits on the steps of San Giacomo church and exchanged a few words with the man. Lord Bardolph gave him alms, as is his custom. Then he went to the bookbinders where he stayed a quarter of an hour or so if one can rely on the bells of San Giacomo.” Jacopo scratched his head in thought. “After that he visited the apothecary shop at the corner of Calle del Spezier and the Campo San Stefano.”

  Cosma paused in her cosmetic applications. “What did he purchase?” she asked lightly, though her breath caught in her throat. Pray God, Francis had not caught the French pox. “You did ask, did you not?”

  Jacopo grinned. “Sì, madonna, I know my duties. He procured a vial of an elixir for…that is…” He blushed and coughed into his sleeve. “To render him impotent, or so the apothecary swore to me.”

  Cosma’s fear gave way to anger. Her fingers gripped the ivory handle of her brush until her knuckles turned white. What a villain with a smiling cheek! Though she had been his mistress for nearly four months, Francis had yet to complete the act of love with her. Usually he withdrew himself before the moment of truth. Other times, he claimed to be…uninspired. Was it any wonder that she had resorted to having him followed? If he slaked his appetites with another woman, Cosma knew she could soon remedy that situation. But why use a potion to deliberately deflate his desire?

  The more she dwelled on Francis’s perfidy, the angrier she grew. His fear of impregnating her was truly an obsession, not merely a whim as she had first thought. Cosma narrowed her eyes at her reflection. Was she not the reigning Venus of the city? How dare he use her in such a fashion! Or, more to the point, not use her as any sensible man would.

  “Madonna?” Jacopo intruded. “Do you wish to hear the rest?”

  Cosma drew herself upright. “Of course,” she snapped. “That is why I pay you. What else did the canal rat do this afternoon?”

  Jacopo started to laugh at her remark, but choked instead when she glared at him. “He visited a wine shop where he dined and played at cards with several young gentlemen. I recognized Messere Niccolo Dandelli and his younger brother.”

  Cosma nodded. The Dandelli brothers were notorious rakes with full purses and empty time to fill—two of her favorite patrons. In fact, Niccolo had introduced her to Francis last November. She saw no problems in that quarter. “Go on.”

  The youth rubbed his nose. “Then he returned to his rooms at the Sturgeon where he napped, as is his custom. His landlord told me that Messere Bardolph is not used to the late hours we Venetians keep. He must prepare himself for night sport—and for you, madonna,” he added with a fawning look.

  And drink his kill-love liqueur, Cosma thought. A plague of fleas upon Lord Francis Bardolph! Aloud she asked, “Where is he now?”

  Jacopo folded his arms across his chest. “Still sleeping at the Sturgeon. I took this opportunity to report to you.” He gave her another hungry look.

  Cosma pretended not to notice his lust though she enjoyed her power over the callow boy. Opening a small casket on her dresser she took out a scudo. “Come, Jacopo,” she purred, holding out the money to him. “Come take your fee.”

  He all but ran across the distance between them. Just before he could grab the coin, she closed her fingers over it. “Kneel,” she commanded with a smile.

  He immediately dropped to the floor before her. His slavering obedience soothed her ruffled vanity. Leaning over, she allowed him to view a generous portion of her bosom. “Kiss my foot.”

  With a huge smile displaying a set of white teeth not yet stained with too much wine or missing from decay, Jacopo smothered her right slipper with his loud kisses. When he tried to pry off her shoe for further adoration, she dropped the scudo in front of his nose. The silver coin clinked on the cold tiles.

  “Enough for now, dear boy,” she murmured, pulling her foot free of his grasp. “Too many sweets will dull your appetite.”

  “Never,” he replied with a low groan of despair.

  Waving him away, she gave her attention to her mirror. “Be off! Return to Lord Bardolph’s inn and continue your vigil. Hurry before he wakes from his nap.”

  Jacopo stood, pocketed his wages, and tossed her a shrug. “He will sleep till five. He is a man of habit.” Casting her one final look of longing, the youth left the chamber and clattered noisily down the stairs.

  As soon as her minion was gone, Cosma put down her comb and the jar of hair pomade. Her toilette could wait a bit while she attended to a more pressing matter. Still fuming over Francis’s dishonesty at the apothecary’s, Cosma decided to raise the stakes a notch. If her so-called lover intended to use artifice to cool his ardor, she would employ the same method to bring him to her bed. This English lord was too fine a prize to let him slip away just because of some addlepated notion of his to not father a child. A baby was exactly what Cosma needed to bind herself permanently to Francis, his noble title and his fortune. Then it would be farewell to the exciting but extremely hazardous life of a courtesan.

  Cosma rose and crossed her bedchamber to her library next door. She surveyed her four shelves of precious books with pride of ownership. She possessed one of the finest private collections in all of Venice: books of poetry, romance, history, philosophy—and the arts of love. She ran her finger along the ribbed leather spines until she found the one she sought—a new addition to her store of erotic knowledge. The Perfumed Garden, written with exquisite detail by a Muslim sheik. She flipped through its pages until she came to the section dealing with aphrodisiacs. She chuckled to herself. Francis’s potion would be no match for the delicacies she would prepare for him tonight.

  I shall be a titled English lady before Easter!

  The great bell of Saint Mark’s Basilica tolled six in the evening when Francis put down his quill and rubbed his eyes. Another report completed for Sir William Cecil. Francis blew on the ciphers to dry the ink. He flexed his fingers after an hour of laborious writing in code. Then he raised his right hand and admired the way his fingers still moved without stiffness. God bless the black-haired healer! He wished he had learned of her months ago. What a delightful creature she was! Fresh—and so intriguing behind her mask. Not like Cosma, he reflected with a frown. She hid behind a mask of cosmetics, artfully applied, of course, but false all the same. He massaged the bridge of his nose. Cosma! How was he going to solve that problem?

  Initially she had been amusing and full of helpful gossip. Francis had enjoyed her company and taken the pleasure he allowed himself when sporting with a woman. At first she had only laughed at his precautions against conception, applauding him for his thoughtfulness. He had been happy enough to let her think her protection was his sole concern.

  Since Christmastide however, their easy relationship had undergone a change. Cosma demanded more from him than he was willing to give—and her font of information about the various members of Venice’s Great Council had decreased. Her usefulness now gone, Francis discovered that he had grown tired of her nagging personality. Recently she spoke of marriage in an offhand manner, but Francis had heard those words and seen that same calculating look in a woman’s eye before. The time had definitely come to end the affair, but he knew Cosma well enough to realize that she would not let him go peaceably. The break would be loud and messy; possibly dangerous if she sought revenge. He dreaded the confrontation.

  He stared at the green glass vial
on the table. What sort of witch’s brew had that dog of an apothecary sold him? Francis hated the idea of drinking something foreign, but he hated even more the idea of succumbing to Cosma’s seductive wiles. He vowed to never father a bastard as he had been fathered. His mind comprehended this deepest fear but he could not yet discipline his body’s lustful inclinations. Only this morning, the mysterious Donna Jessica had stirred the desires that he thought he had banked against the assaults of Venus. Jessica’s fingers ensnared him when he had least expected it and her voice entranced him into a state of near bliss. Worst of all—he had enjoyed the entire experience and he looked forward to its repetition in two days’ time.

  Closing his eyes, he groaned aloud. His passionate nature ran too deep for him to completely subjugate it. He should not be surprised, considering the lusty histories of both his natural parents. Their fires flowed in his blood. Francis reached for the vial, uncorked it and sniffed.

  Hoy day! If the devil has an odor, this would be it. He grimaced. Church bells tolled the half hour. He dragged himself to his feet. At this rate he would be late to Cosma’s house and she did not take kindly to his tardiness. Best to keep her content for as long as possible. Only a few more weeks until the spring thaw made the roads passable; then he could kiss Cosma—and Venice—farewell.

  Taking a deep breath, he lifted the bottle to his lips and tossed its vile contents down his throat. Sweet Jesu! The taste alone was enough to convert a man to life-long celibacy.

  Three-quarters of an hour later he was in Cosma’s lemon-yellow house on the Rio di San Cassiano canal. Her second-floor solar was lit with many fat, sweet-scented candles in black iron holders. Her little handmaid, Nerissa, plucked a pleasing tune on her beribboned mandolin. Cosma herself rivaled the Goddess of Love in her diaphanous gown of pale yellow silk. Her perfume wafted across his nostrils with intoxicating invitation. Though the elixir did not sit well in his stomach, Francis was glad he had drunk it. Cosma had obviously woven her gilded web for his complete downfall tonight.

  “Come, let us sup, my love,” she murmured after recovering from his cool greeting. “Tell me the news of your day.”

  He glanced at the table set for a feast. Wine sparkled in pink glass goblets and silver-covered dishes crowded the nearby sideboard. His stomach growled with a mixture of hunger and revulsion. He swallowed. “My day was nothing but loud talk among half-wits.” He dismissed his activities both innocent and subversive. “I had much rather feast upon your conversation, gattina mia—my little kitten.”

  Cosma flashed a wide smile as she pulled him toward her repast. “Then I will not deny you the pleasure of satisfying your appetite—all your appetites,” she purred.

  With a resigned sigh, Francis lowered himself onto the padded leather armchair. He had absolutely no appetite for anything—food or otherwise. Cosma seated herself opposite him. Outside her window a creeping fog swathed the lantern lights of the houses on the opposite side of the canal in a soft damp glow. The misty gray vapor muffled the singing of the gondoliers as they plied their slim black boats through the still water. With graceful movements born of practice, Cosma uncovered a dish.

  Francis’s stomach roiled at the aroma of the savory eel soup. “I fear I am not very hungry,” he muttered. He took a sip from his brimming goblet. Hopefully the wine would settle the discontented humor of his digestion. Damn that poxy apothecary!

  Cosma’s brown eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “A taste here, a bite there, caro mio.” She allowed a small pout to cross her rouged lips. “I had this meal prepared especially for you.”

  Francis picked up his spoon. “Then I shall eat it especially for you,” he replied. It was a shame that he felt so out of sorts since Cosma employed one of the best cooks in Venice.

  Lifting her goblet, she toasted him. “You do me honor, my lord.” She took a spoonful of the soup. “And how was your visit to Signorina Leonardo?” she asked in a light tone.

  At the mention of Jessica, a smile creased Francis’s lips. The memory of her voice and her touch gave him delight despite his current discomfort. “A most welcome one, I assure you, gattina.”

  A small frown knotted between Cosma’s delicately drawn eyebrows. “Indeed? I should think you would find her affectation for the mask a bit…how do I say it? Bizarre.”

  Francis sipped more wine to ease the eel down his throat. His ruffed collar felt very tight. “Not in the least. In fact, I found it added to her charm.” He glanced at the groaning sideboard. Spikes and nails! How many more of these covered dishes was he supposed to consume?

  Cosma blotted the corner of her mouth with her damask napkin. “Did you know that her parents were Jewish? The Spanish Inquisition forced them to convert—or so I have been told.” She poured him more wine from a beautiful pink glass decanter. “One cannot help but wonder how far from the tree the apple falls.”

  Francis concealed a burp behind his napkin. “Are you implying that Donna Jessica is a Jew?” His belly filled with wind of a most disagreeable sort. He unbuckled his belt and allowed it to drop to the floor.

  Cosma lifted her shoulders in a sketch of a shrug. The action bared her flesh down to her breast. “I merely relate the gossip of the city, my love, as I know it entertains you.”

  He gently pushed away the half-eaten soup. “Donna Jessica appeared to be as Catholic as I am.”

  A lie since he had very little interest in religion. The rift between old King Henry and the pope had squashed most of Francis’s interest in spiritual matters. He came from a Catholic household that had been forced to practice their faith in secret now that the young King Edward pursued with zealous fervor the propagation of the Protestant creed throughout England. Whatever her religion, Jessica was probably more devout than Francis had ever been.

  Cosma shrugged again, baring her other shoulder. “It matters not to me in the slightest.”

  Francis mopped his damp brow. “Nor to me. Jew or Catholic, Jessica is a wonder and that is God’s own truth.”

  Cosma pouted. “Indeed,” she muttered. Then she lifted the lid of the largest platter. “Perhaps these will titillate your fancy.”

  Francis gulped down the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. “What are they?”

  “A dish of doves,” she cooed.

  He rolled his eyes to the gilded vaulted ceiling. “Oh, me, pigeons again? It is well that so many of them flutter in the Piazza San Marco to fill your larder, Cosma.”

  She placed one of the tiny golden fowl on his plate then sucked on her fingers in a provocative manner. “Prepared with hot spices from the East and roasted with onions.”

  He groaned inwardly. He should have guessed that Cosma’s supper would harbor an ulterior motive. Lady Katherine Cavendish, Brandon’s wife, was well versed in the lore of aphrodisiacs. Years ago she had taught Francis the hidden properties of many an innocent-looking meal. Onions for a man’s virility; hot spices and peppers to excite sexual impulses; eels to stimulate motion in bedsport—and those blasted doves? The special pets of Venus herself. Francis gulped more wine, but instead of settling his much-distressed stomach it only made things worse.

  Cosma, ignorant of Francis’s gastronomic turmoil, pulled off some of the succulent pigeon breast with the tips of her white teeth. She curled her long pink tongue around one of her fingers and languorously suckled it. “My food is not to your liking? Oh, dear! I have displeased you—and after I tried so hard to make this meal a warm one. To heat you after a day spent in the cold air outside.” A tear shimmered in her eye.

  Francis blew out his breath with exasperation. “Don’t weep!” he snapped. Weeping women completely unnerved him. On the one occasion when his mother had wept in his presence, Francis thought he would die. “Your supper surpasses all delights.” He stuffed a whole roasted onion into his mouth and chewed it with loathing.

  Cosma immediately brightened. “I hope not all delights,” she hinted. “There are others yet to come.”

  Francis’s stomach lur
ched. His gorge rose in his throat. Clapping his hand over his mouth, he bolted from the table. Grasping the nearest chamber pot, he emptied the contents of his tortured innards.

  “I crave your pardon,” he said hoarsely before retching again. I will flay that apothecary by inches if I live through this night.

  With a stricken look, Cosma rose from her chair and came toward him. “I had no idea, my lord…that is to say, I should not have spiced the soup so much.”

  “Stay back,” he gasped before he was sick again. Into your hands, oh, Lord, I commend my spirit. Pray take me soon! Clutching the reeking pot for dear life, he sank to the cool floor.

  Cosma wrung her hands. “Mayhap it was the wine, but I only seasoned it with a little ginger, cinnamon and vanilla.”

  Francis retched again. “Enough! Speak no more of food! Can’t you see that I am dying?”

  From her corner, Nerissa shrieked and dropped the mandolin.

  Cosma’s eyes grew even larger than her cosmetics had made them appear. She pressed her hand against her lips. “Do not say that! You can’t possibly be! I swear upon the crocodile of Saint Theodore I have not poisoned you!” She fell to her knees. Wailing, Nerissa joined her mistress.

  Francis clutched his heaving stomach. “Stop that caterwauling and fetch me another pot—quickly! A plague take that scurvy knave,” he added in English.

  Nerissa dashed into the next room and returned with two more receptacles. She practically threw them at Francis. “Please do not die, my lord,” she whimpered. “I am much too young to go to prison.”

  Despite his agony, he managed to give her a weak smile. “Fear not, little maid. I shall not haunt you in this life or the one to come.” He pulled himself to his feet and staggered around the corner where Cosma kept her closestool. “Your pardon, my dears,” he gasped.