One Knight in Venice

by Tori Phillips

Gobbo rose and hugged his wife. “That’s my good girl! Let us return to our bed. Perhaps you can help warm these chill bones of mine.” He gave her a hearty kiss.

  Sophia giggled like a woman half her age. “Perhaps I will at that.”

  Jessica felt as if she had entered another world; one of firelight, color, music and laughter. She had heard of the merrymaking that took place during the carnival season but never before had she witnessed it for herself. As a child she had been forbidden to leave her parents’ house lest someone denounce her as a spawn of the devil. Once on her own, Jessica continued to hide her shameful secret within the little world she had created for herself. The excitement of tonight’s revels opened her eyes and heated her blood. At each turning of a street corner, a new sight and sound greeted her.

  A troop of actors had set up their impromptu stage in the middle of a tiny square where they entertained whomever stopped to watch the antics of the sly Arlecchino and the befuddled Pantalone, two time-honored characters from the Commedia dell’Arte. Holding tightly to Francis’s arm, Jessica laughed until tears formed in her eyes and her stomach ached with mirth. She had never seen a play enacted and she loved her first experience. With a cheer for their performance, Jobe tossed a shower of silver scudi at the delighted actors.

  Still breathless from her laughter, Jessica was not prepared for the fire-eater who swallowed an amazing number of flaming brands while the crowds at the foot of the Rialto Bridge gasped and applauded.

  “¡Dio mio! How can he stand the pain?” she murmured.

  Francis patted her hand. “I suspect that he has drunk a good deal of wine earlier today and now feels nothing but giddy happiness.”

  Jessica winced as the man consumed another ball of fire with apparent relish. She worried that his throat would be sore in the morning. Francis dropped a coin in the little box that the fire-eater’s young assistant held out to him.

  Jessica leaned over to the urchin and whispered, “Tell your master to drink honey mixed with myrrh and he will feel much better.”

  “Grazie.” The child thanked her with a twinkle in his dark eyes and a snicker in his voice.

  Growing larger by the minute, the cheerful crowd surged across the bridge taking Jessica and her entourage with them. Looking at the sea of masks around her, she realized that Francis had told her the truth. No one knew who she was, nor did anyone care. Everyone was masked with the most outlandish painted faces. Men and women alike dressed in rainbow-hued ribbons, colorful satin rosettes, gaudy tassels, golden bells on their ankles and strings of glass beads around their necks. Tambourines, tabors, recorders and mandolins filled the air with their music. Francis’s torchbearers started a rowdy song that was quickly taken up by everyone nearby. The lusty lyrics both shocked and titillated Jessica. She felt delightfully wicked.

  Conducted by the song and laughter through the maze of winding narrow streets, the merry company came suddenly upon the huge central piazza that throbbed with hundreds of people in the frenzy of enjoyment. Jessica’s eyes widened. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined such a sight. In the huge square, light from a thousand torches had turned the night into day. Lithe acrobats clad in green-and-red-striped tights tumbled and cavorted on the porch of the great basilica. Nimble jugglers tossed balls into the air so quickly that they became a whirl of color. Another man had dressed several small white dogs in red ruff collars and golden ribbons. To the delight of the onlookers, the little animals capered on their hind legs, dancing in time with the music.

  Francis dismissed his torchbearers. They needed no extra light in the piazza. A band of rough-looking men, their leering masks askew, pushed their way through the crowd. Jessica froze when one of them pointed directly at her. Fear and anger knotted together in the pit of her stomach. Had it come to this—a betrayal in the midst of such good cheer? Had Lord Bardolph lulled her misgivings and lured her to this sea of pleasure only to cast her into the hands of those who meant her harm? She glanced at the English nobleman but she could not read the look in his eyes behind his devil’s mask. Would he give the order to drag her away to the chapel of Saint Theodore where the Officers of the Inquisition held their dread court?

  Instead, the leader of the motley band roared with laughter. “What ho, capitano!” he cried. “Think you could hide that great body of yours?”

  Jobe answered with rolling laughter of his own. “Sebastian! You look as if you have been drinking since I last clapped an eye on you!” He smiled down at Jessica. “Have no fear, little one. These men are members of my crew—and the finest blackguards that ever skewered a Turk!”

  Jessica had no idea if she should be relieved or more fearful. Jobe’s sailors looked extremely dangerous. Francis put his arm around her trembling shoulders and drew her closer to him.

  “It seems your fellows have frightened the lady, Jobe. Away with you and amuse your friends with saltier company. I will take good care of Jessica.”

  Leaning against his tall body, she relaxed and reveled in the strength he exuded. She chided herself for doubting his intentions. His warmth enveloped her; his scent of cloves comforted her.

  Jobe looked at them both and his eyes took on a distant smoky glaze. Then he spoke in English to Francis. Jessica had no idea what he said but she felt her protector tense beneath his satin and damask costume.

  Francis recognized that look of Jobe’s. The African’s strange gift of prophecy had often proved true in the past.

  “Give the little dove a night she will long cherish in her memory, meo amigo,” Jobe told him in a deep, faraway tone. “This is her first and will be her last carnival in Venice.”

  Francis held her tighter against him. His throat had gone dry. “What do you see?”

  “Danger,” Jobe murmured in his ear. “It draws nearer with each passing hour.”

  Francis swept his gaze around the square crowded with the multitudes that hemmed them on every side. He fingered the hilt of his rapier. “Should I take her home straightway?”

  Jobe’s expression softened. “Nay, the danger will not come tonight. Though I cannot make out its face or form, it hovers in the distance. But trust me, Francis, it is very real. Tonight, all will be well. Be merry. Let the coming hours overflow with pleasure for both of you. I will carouse with my men. Come the dawn, I will make due preparations.”

  Francis narrowed his eyes. “Of what nature? Do not leave me in this quandary, Jobe. Your words chill me to the very marrow.”

  His friend laid a large hand on Francis’s shoulder. “Heed me. Cast aside all worry for tonight. Enjoy this pleasant time that the Creator has given you. On the morrow, I will ready my ship to leave Venice at a moment’s notice. Now smile, my young friend, for I see that we have frightened your dove.”

  Francis grimaced in return. “Blast your second sight, Jobe! You are like a raven croaking on a stile. Your vision has drained the mirth from my heart.”

  Jobe smiled at Jessica and spoke to her softly in Italian. “Do not tremble, madonna. I merely told my friend to guard you well. Your beauty will attract many men like honey draws a thousand bees.”

  She pursed her lips before replying, “Though I could not understand your language, I think you spoke of more serious matters.”

  He cocked an eyebrow then nodded. “Sì, you are a marvelous reader of minds, madonna. Chiefly, I have commanded this wooden head to make it his first business that you enjoy this night, so smile for us both. Let it fill our hearts with your sunshine. I will go now, and leave you in far better company than mine.” Turning to his sailors, he shouted, “Ho, lads! Let us find the largest butt of wine in Venice! Who will drink with me?”

  His men answered him with a rousing cheer. Within seconds they melted into the throng. Though disturbed by Jobe’s warnings, Francis took heart that the African had seen no immediate trouble. His lips softened when he looked down at Jessica. For her sweet sake, he would banish his foreboding and give her what Jobe had suggested—a memorable night.

  He cupped
her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifted her head so that he could see into those dark brown eyes. “Jobe likes to hear himself talk,” he explained. “Pay him no mind. Are you hungry? I spy a purveyor of pastries by yonder pillar.”

  Though her lips quivered a little, she flashed him a smile in return. “I have always been overly fond of sweets, my lord.”

  He leaned down a little closer. “Please, Jessica, call me Francis.” He longed to hear her say his name.

  She bit her lower lip. “I would not presume to do so, my lord. I am not worthy—”

  He drew nearer to her, enticed by the lushness of her mouth. “You are more than worthy, madonna,” he whispered. “You have no idea who it is who asks you this favor. Please, call me by my given name.”

  Her pink tongue darted out and moistened her lips. “Since you and I have concealed our true identities for tonight, I will do as you ask. But on the morrow—”

  “Let the devil take tomorrow, sweet Jessica,” he murmured.

  Desire fueled by an overwhelming urge to protect her rushed through him like a wildfire. Gathering her into his arms, he held her snugly in his embrace. “What is my name, Jessica?” he whispered into her black silken hair.

  Softer than a butterfly’s wing, her long eyelashes fluttered against his cheek. “Francis,” she breathed. Her rosy lips beckoned his kiss.

  Sizzling fireworks exploded within him. His mouth covered hers with a hunger he had not known until this moment. She gasped; her sugar breath filled his mouth. He moved his lips over hers, devouring their soft sweetness. His tongue explored the corners of her mouth.

  Jessica tensed; her body quivered in his embrace.

  Regaining a measure of control over himself, Francis raised his head and gazed into the beautiful eyes behind her mask. They were wide with surprise—or fear.

  “I crave your pardon, madonna,” he murmured, though he did not release her. “I frightened you. Forgive me. I have been a man of the world for too long. I am rough and woo not like a lover should.”

  With her fingertips, she touched her lips, now slightly swollen from his bruising kiss. “You…you have no need to apologize, my lord…that is, Francis. I wanted you to do it. The fault is mine.”

  He stroked her hair and wished he had the courage to untie the ribbons that held her wild raven tresses in check. “Impossible! You have no faults, sweet angel.”

  Jessica’s lips burned from his touch. Though the intensity of his action had startled her, she had no desire to leave his arms. When she lifted her head and gazed into his eyes, she beheld a heart-rending tenderness in their blue depths. Her heart skipped in response. An invisible warmth enfolded her.

  Jessica trembled though she continued to smile. “I am an unlessoned girl, unschooled, unpracticed in the arts of love,” she confessed. Her cheeks flamed behind her mask.

  Her answer seemed to amuse Francis. He returned her smile with a wider one of his own. “Pray tell me, cara, has no one ever kissed you?”

  The beautiful sound of his voice enthralled her. She tried to hold back the dizzying current that raced through her, but failed miserably. She placed her hands on his chest, lest she collapse on the paving stones.

  Jessica shook her head. “No, Francis,” she replied, savoring his name like a sugar wafer on her tongue. “I have led a very sheltered life.”

  The heat from his body warmed her, banishing the last trace of the night’s growing chill. The hundreds of revelers that surrounded them receded from her vision. The music, bells, laughter, cheering and songs from hundreds of voices dimmed in her ears. Only Francis was real. Her fingers ached to touch him. Flinging aside her carefully nurtured caution, she rose on tiptoe and slid her arms around his neck, burying her hands in his golden hair.

  He chuckled. “Allow me to shelter you now,” he whispered as he lifted her into the cradle of his arms. His mouth brushed against hers. This time his kiss was as gentle as a prayer, though she could not mistake the passionate message that throbbed from his lips. Clasping him tighter around his neck, she shamelessly returned his kiss with reckless abandon.

  The eagerness of her own response shocked Jessica, but she did not pull away. When his tongue again begged entry, she did not deny him. As if he plumbed the depths of a honey jar, Francis explored the recesses of her mouth. Then he teased her tongue to twine with his in a dance of mutual joy. Her wildly beating heart was the only sound in her ears.

  As he deepened his kiss, Jessica’s nipples rose and tingled against the soft fabric of her shift beneath her bodice. Blood pounded in her temples. More giddiness washed over her and she was very glad that he held her so tightly. Leaving her mouth burning with his fire, he moved to nibble her earlobe before trailing a series of light kisses down her neck. She sighed with pleasure.

  With a final lingering kiss in the hollow of her throat, Francis eased back. “You are as heady as summer wine,” he told her in a husky voice. “And the depth of my thirst would frighten you.”

  He set her on her feet again but did not withdraw his arm from around her waist. “Let us enjoy a cup or two of the juice of the grape and dance away the hours. Bestrew me, Jessica, I am as lighthearted as a schoolboy and that is a wonderment, I assure you.”

  Though she missed the touch of his lips on hers, she had to agree with him. This first dip into lovemaking had left her reeling with many unexplored and intriguing emotions. Jessica took several deep breaths to allow her heart to return to its normal rhythm. Then she nodded.

  “I, too, am very thirsty,” she replied. For you.

  It took less than an hour for Jacopo to locate the Englishman and Signorina Leonardo amid the crush of merrymakers in Saint Mark’s Square. Lord Bardolph was literally head and shoulders above the mob and his garish feathered hat made him even more conspicuous. When Jacopo located them, the couple were whirling to the music of a mad moresca dance. Bracelets of tiny bells jingled from their wrists.

  Leaning against a stone lion carved from red marble that sat in a small square to the left of the great domed basilica, Jacopo watched them with half an eye. His thoughts were back at Jessica’s house where her father’s mysterious chest lay. In his imagination, he saw the box filled to the brim with gold coins and jewels of great price—enough treasure for Jacopo to buy himself a grand palace on the canal, coffers of handsome clothes, a pliant wife from one of Venice’s finer families and a beautiful courtesan to be his mistress. He grunted to himself. Why, he might even buy Cosma’s favors!

  When the wild Moorish dance concluded, the Englishman caught up his partner in a tight embrace. The two kissed each other shamelessly for several minutes while the people nearby clapped and cheered their display of passion. Jacopo flicked an eyebrow. Donna Cosma would tear that wench apart if she saw how the girl had charmed Lord Bardolph. Jacopo pondered how many details he would relate to his jealous employer. He had no desire for Cosma to box his ears just because he bore bad news. No wonder the Englishman preferred Signorina Jessica—she had a much sweeter disposition than Cosma. The choice between the two women was an obvious one to any sane man.

  The hours swept past midnight and still the couple remained in the piazza. They laughed, danced, kissed, ate honey pastries, drank wine, kissed, danced again, enjoyed the street entertainers, had their fortunes read at the tarot booth and kissed some more. Jacopo nursed a cup of wine and hunkered against one of the arcade pillars of the Procuratie, an office building that bordered the north side of the piazza. The semi-enclosed area offered the cold youth a respite from the wind that blew around the square. None of the revelers seemed to notice the weather. The two bronze blackamoors in the great clock tower struck their bell once, twice, three times and still no one—least of all the couple that Jacopo watched—showed any signs of going back home to their warm beds.

  The late hour surprised the boy. After several weeks of observation, Jacopo knew that Lord Bardolph was a moderate man in his food, drink and pleasures, despite his attempts to make himself appear the
wastrel. Young as he was, Jacopo was more flagrant in his vices than the Englishman. As for Signorina Leonardo, her behavior tonight went completely against everything the boy had learned of her habits and manner. He yawned. It must be the spirit of the carnival season that had infected them both with a temporary madness.

  By four in the morning, Jacopo’s feet felt like twin blocks of ice. He was cold and decidedly out of sorts. From his new position at the base of the soaring campanile, he glared at the couple who once again kissed and fondled each other with growing familiarity. His envy had long since been frozen out of his heart. His fingers were icy, his ears ached from the cold and his nose ran without ceasing. Jacopo could not think of another night he had spent in more miserable conditions.

  “¡Basta!” he growled deep in his cloak. “I have had enough of this wooing for a decade. They can kiss until midday. I am for my pallet.”

  The youth stamped his feet to get some feeling back into them. Lord Bardolph and his new mistress paid him no mind even when he approached them.

  “May your lips freeze together,” the young bravo snarled at them.

  Only then did the couple break apart. The signorina turned away from the boy but Lord Bardolph laughed. He drew a ducat from the seemingly inexhaustible supply in his pouch and tossed it to Jacopo.

  “Sleep well, my friend,” the Englishman said. “May your dreams be as sweet as mine are this moment.”

  Jacopo did not trust himself to reply in a civil manner. Clutching the gold in his stiff fingers, he hurried away in the creeping fog of dawn. Lord Bardolph’s hearty laughter echoed behind him.

  Chapter Eleven

  The sky already lightened with the dull pewter color of pre-dawn when the piazza clock tower chimed six. Its fluted tones were immediately followed and underscored by the deeper peal from Saint Mark’s Basilica. Most of the night’s revelers had already tottered off to their beds. The diehards shuffled toward the church with many yawns behind their masks, perhaps to seek forgiveness for whatever sinful foolishness they had indulged in during the night hours.