One Knight in Venice

by Tori Phillips

  Francis had never felt so ill in his life—not even when he had made the rough sea voyage from Marseilles to Genoa. Now his head ached, his throat was raw and his skin felt hot and clammy at the same time. Truly methinks that charlatan did poison me. He gritted his teeth until the spasms finally receded, leaving him weak as a newborn calf.

  When he emerged, he found Cosma and Nerissa still on their knees and praying—a sight he would have found highly amusing had he not felt so wretched. “Arise, gattina, and take me to your bed,” he attempted a feeble jest. “Unfortunately, it is sleep I crave and not pleasure. Be of good cheer. I believe I will survive after all.”

  With many soothing words, the women helped him toward Cosma’s wide bed that stood in regal splendor on its platform in the middle of the adjoining chamber. He fell amid the feather pillows and lay as a corpse while Cosma and Nerissa dragged off his clothing. The bed linens smelled faintly of lavender.

  Francis emitted a low groan. The chit would have seduced me past all my restraint tonight if it had not been for that hellish elixir. He drifted into a heavy sleep still wondering whether he should kiss or kill the apothecary on the morrow.

  Chapter Three

  Morning came far too early. Francis felt as if he had barely closed his eyes before Nerissa shook his shoulder.

  “Please, messere.” She shook him again. “Awake!”

  Cosma stirred next to him. “What is it, Nerissa? Go away! The dawn has not yet showed her face.”

  Francis rolled onto his side. If his stomach muscles weren’t so sore and his mouth didn’t taste so full of chicken feathers, he would have sworn he had slept through a nightmare. “How now, little Nissa?” He scrubbed his face with his hand.

  The girl clutched her dressing gown closer about her thin trembling form. “There is a man downstairs to see you.” She bit her lower lip. “A very large man.”

  Cosma frowned at her maid. “You mean to say that I have a guest at this unholy hour? What barbarian would seek the company of a lady so early in the morning? The sky is dressed in wisps of the night.”

  Nerissa shook her head. “No, madonna, the visitor is not for you but for Lord Bardolph and he said it was most urgent.” Bending closer to the bed, she whispered, “He is a blackamoor.”

  Francis tossed back the covers. “Did he give his name?” he asked with mounting excitement. He had not seen Jobe the African for over a year.

  Nerissa held out the parti-colored hose of green and gold that she had peeled off Francis last night. “He gave no name but yours, messere. But he did ask me mine,” she gulped. “He has very large teeth!”

  Francis grinned at her. “I promise he will not bite you.”

  “A pity!” Cosma pouted from the midst of her pillows. “I need a diversion since you are so sluggish. Tell me, Nerissa, is this Moor a handsome man? Well proportioned? Is he able to keep his dinner inside his stomach?” She wrinkled her nose at Francis.

  Despite her fear, the little maid giggled. “He wears a golden earring and has a great many knives across his chest.”

  Francis hurried with his dressing. “That is Jobe to the letter!” He had no idea how much he had missed a friendly face that bespoke of England.

  Cosma motioned for her dressing gown. “Ah! Our early visitor grows more interesting by the minute. Is he rich?”

  Francis laced up his shirt. “That depends upon the wealth of the most recent ship Jobe has plundered.” He chuckled to see both women blanch. “Do not look so pale. Jobe is a very lamb when among ladies.”

  “Now I am intrigued,” Cosma declared, rouging her lips and cheeks with quick deft movements. “Show him up immediately, Nerissa. And, mind you, do not gawk!” After the maid departed, she asked, “Just how are you acquainted with such a fascinating man?”

  Francis assumed his pose as an English dandy. “It is a passion of mine to collect interesting objects whilst on my travels, gattina. A Roman sculpture, a piece of the True Cross, even a wily African or two.”

  She gave him a penetrating look. “Indeed? It seems to me this man is more than one of your passing whims.”

  Francis pulled on his padded velvet doublet. “Indeed,” he agreed.

  As Jessica had forewarned him, his shoulder ached this morning as if he had exercised too much. More than ever he looked forward to his visit with her on the following day. Now that Jobe had arrived in Venice, the next twenty-four hours promised to pass less tediously. He grinned at the thought. Just then Nerissa reappeared with the giant African looming behind her like an avenging ghost.

  Cosma’s eyes widened. “¡Madre del Dio!” she breathed, taking in the African’s amazing height, the width of his powerful shoulders and the dozen tiny knives that crisscrossed his broad chest. “Welcome to my home, Black Apollo.” She retreated to the protection of her elevated bed.

  Jobe looked first at Francis in his state of semidress and then at the sleek-limbed woman in her state of near nakedness. He swept Cosma a flourishing bow. “I wondered why there was no fair moon last night to guide my ship into port, but now I understand. Diana of the silvery orb came down to earth and reclines before me. Madonna, I am your humble servant,” he said in passable Italian.

  Francis smiled behind his hand at his friend’s lavish compliments. Always the master of surprise, Jobe’s cupboard of skills was never empty. Cosma allowed her dressing gown to slip a little, revealing a snowy portion of her thigh.

  “How charming!” she replied in a voice like silk. “I forgive your early arrival when you come with such sweet words on your tongue. Francis, pray tell me, who is this god?”

  Francis gave her a wry look. She already plans to seduce him out of his purse or to make me jealous. Oddly enough, he found he wasn’t the least disturbed by Cosma’s fickleness. “Allow me to present Jobe of Africa. My family calls him our guardian angel as he has often proved to be so.”

  Jobe beamed at his introduction and bowed again, this time including the awed Nerissa in his attentions. “Do not dislike me for my complexion, I beg you, sweet ladies. I have been burnished by the fierce sun of my homeland. But who is this flawless pearl, Francis?” he asked, nodding to Cosma. “Now I see why you do not spend much time in your own lodgings. Your landlord wondered when I asked him where you were.”

  Francis rolled his eyes at his friend. Jobe could butter the bread of compliments very thick. “I have the pleasure to present to you Donna Cosma di Luna, one of the peerless beauties of Venice.”

  Jobe advanced to the thronelike bed, dropped to one knee and kissed Cosma’s bare foot. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”

  You may have her with good riddance.

  Jobe turned to the little maid who stood on tiptoe in order to see him better. “And it is only fitting that Venus should be attended by such a delicate nymph as you, sweet Nerissa,” he added in his deep voice.

  The girl nearly fainted with shock while a dart of anger flashed from Cosma’s eyes. She hated any competition. “Nerissa,” she snapped. “Some wine and bread for our guest and hurry…you slug!”

  With a squeak, Nerissa darted away.

  Francis addressed his friend in English, “A pox on you, Jobe! How can you utter such honeyed phrases at this sober hour? You will need a cask of wine to cleanse your mouth.” He clapped the huge man on his shoulder. “Sweet Jesu! My eyes are glad to see you, you old pirate!”

  Jobe enveloped him in a bear hug. “And you! Though I must confess that I did not expect to find you costumed like a jester.” With a chuckle, he pointed to the wide green bows on Francis’s shoes.

  Francis gave him a rueful look. “Tis a counterfeit pose, Jobe, and a long story best saved for when we are alone.”

  Before the African could reply, Cosma spoke up from her cloud of lace, lavender and goose down. “Fie, gentlemen! It is not polite to speak in a language I cannot understand. Are you plotting the downfall of Venice?”

  Jobe grinned at her. “Not so, lovely dove. We were discoursing upon your downfall. I fea
r you have quite overcome me.”

  Cosma simpered in reply and flashed a little more bare leg. Francis tugged at his friend’s sleeve. “Please wait until after I leave before you ravish her. In the meantime, tell me what brings you to Venice to seek me out before even the pigeons are awake?”

  At that, Jobe’s expression changed to a somber one. “I bear a heavy duty, Francis, but one that had to be done.” He withdrew a thick letter from inside his leather jerkin.

  Francis stared at it, recognizing Lady Katherine’s handwriting. Icy fingers squeezed his heart. “Bad news from…from Wolf Hall?”

  Jobe nodded. “I am sure that good Lady Kat has written her sad tidings with a gentle hand. I will amuse yonder lady while you read it. Take your time, my friend.”

  Francis turned away from Cosma’s bed. Clutching the letter close to his chest, he crossed into the antechamber. Seating himself on one of the armchairs, he drew in a deep breath before he broke open the sealing wax. His sudden hot tears blurred the words before him.

  Dearest Francis,

  Tis with a heavy heart and hand that I take up pen to write such doleful news. Two weeks ago, on the twelfth of November, Sir Thomas Cavendish was taken suddenly from this life. He died as he had lived—in the saddle. The day had been cold and bright with frost. Sir Thomas together with Brandon and Guy and many of the men from the estate went out into the forest to hunt a boar for the coming Christmastide feast. During the afternoon, at the height of the chase, the heart of his great horse burst with the strain, throwing Sir Thomas to the earth. Alas, his neck broke upon landing against a tree trunk. Death was immediate, I am told, and without pain. Dear Lady Alicia bears her sorrow well. She said to tell you that it is a comfort for her to know that Sir Thomas and his beautiful black horse rode posthaste to heaven together and that was the way you know Sir Thomas would have wanted it. I fear that Brandon has taken his father’s loss most heavily, as has Guy. It is hard for me and the children to realize that Sir Thomas is indeed gone from this earth. He seemed to be one of those men destined to live forever. Please remember him in your prayers, Francis. You were always his special pride. He often praised your love of language and poetry—gifts you both shared. In his will he has left you his library…

  Francis wiped his streaming eyes with his sleeve. Only yesterday, he had arranged for a beautiful copy of Sir Thomas More’s Utopia to be especially bound in red leather and embossed with a silver wolf’s head—the Cavendish family symbol. It was a belated New Year’s gift for the man who was his beloved grandfather. Now it was too late! Francis covered his face with his hands. After the first wave of raw grief had receded, he continued Kat’s letter.

  …of books. He knew that you most of all would appreciate them. I am sorry to be the bearer of such sad tidings. Know that I hold you close to my heart in your sorrow. Brandon joins me in sending you our love. Dear Jobe is here and will give you further details as you require. We look forward to the day when you will return to us. Come home soon, Francis! Written this 28th day of November 1549 at Wolf Hall, Northumberland.

  Your loving Katherine Cavendish

  Countess of Thornbury

  Francis reread her signature and title several times as her message sank into his brain. How quickly the world turned and turned again! Of course Lady Kat was now the new countess just as his…as Brandon became the tenth Earl of Thornbury the instant that the breath of life had left his father.

  Gripping the paper in his hand, Francis laid his head down on the table. His silent tears soaked into the green velvet cloth that covered the top. He had not felt one tenth this sorrow when he had learned of his mother’s death three years ago. Francis had barely known her in life and he had liked her even less.

  His emotions were quite different with Sir Thomas’s passing. Francis had lived under Wolf Hall’s roof for over fourteen years. Though a big man, as all the Cavendish men were, and blessed with a powerful voice, Sir Thomas was a gentle friend to the young and weak. On the other hand, the earl was a fierce competitor in the jousting arena and a ferocious foe in combat. Francis remembered the many hours they had spent together in his library studying the plays of Plautus and the writings of Erasmus. Sir Thomas had patiently taught his bastard grandson the joys of Greek and Latin and he had championed the boy’s bent for study when Brandon wanted Francis to spend more time handling a broadsword and lance. “The pen is mightier than the sword,” Sir Thomas had often told his eager pupil.

  Now that grand old man was gone forever.

  Francis read the letter a third and fourth time. He barely noticed the goblet of watered wine and a small loaf of honey bread that Nerissa placed by his hand. He stared out the window at the gloom of the breaking day. As if heaven mirrored his sorrow, rain fell lightly from the leaden skies and rolled like teardrops down the wavy panes of glass. In the distance, he heard church bells calling early worshipers to Mass.

  Francis dragged himself to his feet. I must go to church. He could not remember the last time he had stepped willingly inside a place of worship. Though he believed in God and the existence of a heaven and hell, the daily practice of religion meant very little to him. But it meant all the world to Sir Thomas. Francis must pray for his soul. It was the only thing left he could do for that wonderful old man. He strode into the bedchamber where Jobe sat on the bed’s carpeted platform and conversed with Cosma in low tones. Spying Francis, the African stood and came toward him.

  “How now, friend?” Jobe asked in English.

  Francis held out the letter now wrinkled by his grief. “These are the most loathsome words that ever blotted paper,” he told Jobe. “To think that he has lain cold in his grave for these past three months and I never knew…never knew. I have been drinking, singing and dancing—aye, and wenching while the worms dined upon my…my grandfather.” He could not continue. His shame overwhelmed him. He had never told Sir Thomas how much he loved him.

  Cosma took his hand in hers. For once, there was no artifice in her eyes. “Jobe has told me of your loss and I am sorry to hear it.”

  Francis bowed his head with his wordless thanks. Grief choked him.

  Cosma turned to the African. “His grandfather was a great man?”

  Jobe nodded. “One of England’s finest. Now he takes his place among his noble ancestors and leaves his earthly cares to his son.”

  Cosma’s expression changed subtly. “And his son is…?”

  Jobe hooded his dark eyes. “Sir Brandon Cavendish, the tenth Earl of Thornbury.”

  Francis crumpled the letter. The earl was Sir Thomas—it had always been. Francis could not yet imagine Brandon filling those large shoes.

  Cosma flicked her tongue between her teeth. “Then you are now an earl’s son, Francis,” she whispered. She did not add, “And one day you will be the next Earl of Thorn-bury.” Francis heard her unspoken words inside his head and it sickened him. She sickened him.

  “Guard that rash tongue of yours, madonna,” Jobe told her in a deceptively gentle tone. “One day it will be your downfall.”

  Cosma ignored the warning but Francis heard it. “Heed him,” he snapped at her. Jobe possessed a rare gift—the ability to see events in the future for everyone except himself.

  “The Earl of Thornbury is a very important title in England?” she prodded.

  Francis pulled on his overcoat and grabbed his cloak, hat and doeskin gloves. “God rest his soul, he was the most important man in my life,” he told her as he stalked toward the wide staircase. As he spoke the words, he realized how true they were and his sorrow doubled. “Come, Jobe,” he called over his shoulder in English. “We must hie ourselves to Saint Mark’s. Mass has already begun.”

  Cosma recognized the name of the great basilica that stood in the heart of Venice. Running after Francis and Jobe she asked, “You are going to church, Francis? Now? I thought you and God were in disagreement.”

  “It is time I made some amends,” he shouted back up the marble stairs. “My grandfather deserves
it.”

  “Then return to me soon, caro, and I will comfort you.”

  Jobe clapped his hat on his head. “Hold, woman! Can’t you see that his mirth has fled?”

  Cosma opened her mouth but Jobe held up his hand. The fire in his eyes silenced her. “Remember the words I have told you, mistress.” Then he followed on Francis’s heels.

  Rather than take a gondola to the piazza, Francis and Jobe hurried through the sinuous narrow streets toward the great church. The mist-draped piazza already teemed with masked revelers celebrating the pre-Lenten season of Carnevale. Francis ignored them just as his grief blotted out Cosma’s unashamed avarice. When he had the fortitude, he would deal with her later. For now, he would pray for his grandfather’s soul in the afterlife and remember the great man who had loved him—like a son.

  A reedy-voiced priest droned the Latin ritual as Francis and Jobe slipped through one of Saint Mark’s massive doors. The huge vaulted domes high over their heads gleamed dully with gold-spangled mosaics depicting biblical tales. The white faces of the painted saints looked strained and pouchy under their eyes, as if they had been carousing all night. The hundreds of candles flickering before altars and shrines did little to dispel the pervasive gloom of the massive building’s interior. When Francis’s eyes adjusted to the dimness he noticed that very few worshipers attended the divine services.

  Francis sank to his knees on the cold marble paving and folded his hands in prayer. The geometric pattern of the floor made him light-headed so he closed his eyes. While he half listened to the familiar words of the Mass, Thomas Cavendish flashed through his memory. Dredging up long-forgotten prayers, Francis whispered them in the chill air. Never had he felt so desolated as he did at this moment. His anger at himself for missed opportunities in the past joined his regret for a future now empty of Sir Thomas’s imposing presence.

  Francis roused himself from his meditations when Jobe tapped him on the shoulder. “The priest has finished,” the African whispered. “And my bones are chilled.”