Francis stepped in front of her. He would not allow her to carry out her obvious plan. Instead he pointed to the stool, the only seat in his sparse room. She ignored it.
“I am not in a sporting mood.” He tied his neck band-strings, then buttoned up his doublet to emphasize his lack of desire. “What do you want?”
Cosma licked her lips as if she savored honey. “You,” she murmured in a husky tone. She reached for him. “I burn for you.”
Francis stepped away from her. “Then I fear you must seek solace from another source. I have grown weary of you.”
She pouted her lips in the most provocative manner she knew. “Then let me spark your interest again.” She withdrew a lacy handkerchief from the reticule that hung from her girdle and dabbed her dry eyes. “You were not always so cruel to me. How can you treat me so shamefully when we are such good friends?” She tried to wrap herself around him.
Her touch made his flesh crawl. Grasping her hands by the wrists, he pulled them off his neck. “We were never friends, Cosma. It was merely a business arrangement that pleased us both for a time. Now that time has run its course.”
True enough. Cosma had been delighted to introduce her new lover to her wide circle of acquaintances: merchants, councillors, sons of the nobility—in short everyone Francis needed to know for his work. He released her, then made a point of washing his hands at his basin as if touching her had defiled him. The ploy was cruel but Cosma would get the message. “You have done well enough by me,” he continued, drying his fingers one by one. “I have heaped ducats by the handful in your lap.”
Under her layer of cosmetics, Cosma paled with wrath. She glared at him with wide reproachful eyes. Fury choked her voice, turning her purr to a yowl. “Fie upon you! You have played false with me!”
Francis gave her a sardonic smile. “Sheath your claws, gatta. I was always true to you—as your, uh…client. In fact, I paid you double for your time and favors. It is you who has been false—to yourself.” He stepped closer to her. “Look inside your heart. That is where you will find the lie.”
Clenching her teeth, she ripped open her bodice. Several decorative pearls fell to the floor and bounced under the bed. Her nipples, hardened by her emotions, were heavily rouged in a color that nature had never intended. “Tell me, Francis, does your manroot play false with you when you behold these paps? Once you fell on your knees and worshiped them.”
Francis winced at the memory. He had degraded himself for King Edward, England’s merchant fleet and the glory of Saint George—not out of rapture for Cosma. Her breasts looked ridiculous in their artificial coloring. Barely moving his lips, he replied, “False idolatry.”
She waggled her shoulders. Her breasts swayed ponderously. “Tell me, does that black-haired slut have such a handsome pair of tette as these? Or are they as deformed as her face?”
He glanced at her sharply, his eyes burning with his ire.
Cosma jutted out her chin. “Not lain with her yet?” she sneered. “Such virtue is commendable in Venice. Have you even seen her face?” she spat out with contempt.
Francis gritted his teeth. If he were less than a gentleman he would toss this baggage out the window into the Grand Canal. What a pleasing splash she would make!
She spread her mouth into a thin-lipped smile. “I do not blame Signorina Jessica for keeping you at a distance.” Her tone dropped to a more menacing note. “Trust me, Francis, to see her unmasked is to look upon the face of hell itself.”
At this attack on Jessica, Francis’s careful control over his emotions snapped. He exploded with anger. “Get out!”
Cosma backed away from his towering wrath. She snatched up her cloak from the floor and clutched it in front of her like a shield. Her voice shook. “You…will…rue…those…words, Englishman,” she spat. She dashed hot tears—real ones—from her eyes. “I have many friends in this city—more than you can imagine—who owe me a favor or two. Jessica Leonardo is a piece of trash that needs to be swept clean from Venice.”
Francis knotted his hands into fists behind his back. He could not remember ever being so furious at a woman—not even his feckless mother. “Out!” he bellowed.
Her sharp voice clawed him like talons. “Jessica’s very presence fouls the air of our good city.”
Grabbing Cosma by her upper arms, Francis lifted her off her feet. “I give you fair warning, strumpet. Do nothing to Donna Jessica. She is honest and pure—a state of grace you will never enjoy.” To keep himself from shaking her like a rag poppet, he dropped her back to her feet and then turned away.
“Is she so innocent?” Cosma snarled with contempt. “You have much to learn, my Lord Bardolph.”
Startled by the menace in her voice, Francis whirled around to face her but Cosma had already slipped out the door, slamming it behind her.
Glad to be rid of her, Francis sank down on his bed. Absently, he rubbed his right shoulder. The old wound ached. As the red haze of his temper drained away, he considered Cosma’s parting shot and he shuddered at her open threat against Jessica. Was this the danger that Jobe had foreseen? Francis glanced at the empty bed across the room.
Where the devil was Jobe, anyway?
By the time Cosma returned to her house, she had already formulated her plans. Francis was obviously snared in the wicked thrall of that black-haired witch. The sooner Jessica Leonardo met her just fate, the safer everyone in Venice would be—especially Francis. Once freed from his unholy infatuation of the sorceress, he would revert to his right senses and seek Cosma’s favor again. Nothing was going to thwart Cosma’s ambition—not even black magic. Feed Jessica to the flames or drown her in the lagoon; her ending made no difference to Cosma. Signorina Leonardo would be only a dim memory by the time Cosma embarked for England as the new Lady Bardolph.
“Nerissa!” Cosma shouted. She flung her cloak into a corner.
When the little maid appeared, she stared aghast at Cosma’s torn gown and angry expression. “¡Madonna! What happened?”
Cosma sat down at her table. “Shut that prattling mouth, fool!” she snapped. “Fetch my writing portfolio and a bottle of ink. Quit gaping at me! Have I turned green as old brass?”
“Sì…no,” the flustered girl replied. She dashed into Cosma’s antechamber to get the writing materials.
Cosma drummed her nails on the green velvet that covered the marble tabletop. She stared through her window at the pink-and-white palazzo across the wide canal, though she was blind to the delicate beauty of its Moorish architecture. Instead she pondered the words she would write to the Council of Ten, Venice’s feared governing body that was responsible for the safety of the Republic. Several of her former lovers were members of that most powerful group. Once they learned Jessica’s little secret and the danger that the woman posed to the welfare of the city, the Council would waste no time in dispatching Cosma’s rival.
When Nerissa returned with the ink and the leather portfolio that held Cosma’s writing paper, pens and sealing wax, her mistress sent her to the kitchen for wine and sugar wafers.
Once alone Cosma dipped her quill into the ink, then wrote, “Most Honorable Lords of the Council of Ten….”
The words, fueled by her poison as well as by the ink, spewed across the page. Cosma suggested that Jessica Leonardo, the daughter of a known marrano, Doctor Leonardo, had relapsed to the Jewish faith of her forebears—a charge Cosma knew would spark the interest of the Holy Office. Furthermore, she continued, Signorina Leonardo bore an unsightly port-wine stain on one side of her face, a sure sign of her relationship with the devil. Jessica possessed unusual powers to heal the body yet corrupt the mind. She had already bewitched a visiting English lord. Venice was not safe with such a powerful and evil witch in its midst. The city must be purged before this godless woman led any more souls down the pathway of perdition, she wrote.
Cosma reread her letter, mumbling the damning sentences under her breath. She smiled with satisfaction. I will set down the words
“treason” and “heresy” on this paper, as well. They should be enough to send the Council into a full cry for Jessica Leonardo’s blood.
The work completed, Cosma leaned back in her armchair and sipped the wine that Nerissa had brought. When the ink had dried, she folded the letter into quarters then dabbed a blob of glossy red wax to seal it. No name graced the bottom of the missive; no impression from a signet ring would denote the author. In Venice, this omission did not matter. It was up to Jessica to prove her innocence to the Council—if she could. Within a week, she would be dead. Cosma drained her glass and rang her silver bell to summon her maid.
“Sì, madonna?” Nerissa asked a moment later.
Cosma fanned herself with the folded letter. “Tell me, is Jacopo within the house?”
Nerissa dimpled. “He is in the garden, madonna, with the monkey.”
Cosma curled her lip at the mere mention of the dratted furry beast. “Send Jacopo to me at once—without the monkey. Be quick!”
The maid whirled away toward the staircase. Cosma glanced down at the torn bodice she had not bothered to change. Should she cover herself before the boy arrived? She chuckled. No, the youth had become too swaggering of late. Time to bring him to heel, and what better way than by using her ample arsenal of charms? Sex always worked for her.
When Jacopo caught sight of her bare breasts, he nearly fell over his large feet. Cosma pretended not to notice the lust in his eyes.
“Do you grow tried of my employment?” she asked.
Turning red as a radish, he stammered, “N-no, madonna, never!”
She stretched, arching her back to display her bust to its fullest advantage. “I am so glad to hear that, Jacopo. I had wondered. No matter, your task will soon be completed to our mutual satisfaction.”
He inched closer to her. He practically salivated. “You will satisfy me, madonna?” He quivered with expectation.
Hiding her grin, Cosma sat up straighter. “Of course, if you prove your worth.”
Jacopo licked his lips. “Try me, madonna.”
She narrowed her eyes. “In due time, not before. Meanwhile, I want you to stay very close to Lord Bardolph—”
“I have been doing that for a fortnight,” he complained.
Hating to be interrupted, Cosma glared at him. “Be even more vigilant. Danger stalks the alleyways of Venice.”
The youth shrugged. “There is always danger in Venice. A misplaced step on a slippery quayside, a stiletto at midnight, a crack on the head—”
“¡Basta!” she said through her teeth. Jacopo was such a dolt. “Enough! You will make my head ache.”
He threw himself to his knees. “Never, madonna!” He still could not wrench his gaze from her nipples.
Cosma cast a stern look at him. “Pay attention to me, you pantaloon, not to my paps.”
He blinked but remained silent.
Cosma ran her finger around the blob of sealing wax on her letter. “Good. Listen to me very carefully, Jacopo. I speak of the Council of Ten.”
The young bravo paled at the name. “Jesu!” he moaned.
Cosma nodded. “Exactly. You must insure that Lord Bardolph stays out of any action taken by our officers of the law. Is that clear, Jacopo?”
He swallowed. “Do you anticipate that there will be trouble?”
She smiled at the letter in her hand. “I do indeed and it could happen very soon, perhaps even tonight.”
“¡Dio mio!” he mumbled.
Cosma hurried on, eager to be rid of this groveling insect. “I do not care a fig for what may happen to Lord Bardolph’s companions, including Jessica Leonardo or the African giant. But the Englishman is to remain safe from any fracas—even if you have to lock him up somewhere. Do you understand me, Jacopo?”
He pulled himself to his feet. “Sì, madonna.” He looked thoroughly unhappy.
Cosma realized that the boy needed some incentive. After all, Francis outweighed Jacopo by a good deal. The English lord could turn the slim bravo into a battered pulp if given cause. She rose, crossed the distance between them and kissed Jacopo full on the lips. For good measure she delved her tongue deep within his mouth. Before he could gather his paltry wits and press his presumed advantage, she pulled away from him and moved to the window. “Be gone, Jacopo, and pray, do not fail me.”
“Never, madonna!” Panting heavily, he rushed from the room.
The winter’s early twilight gathered outside her casement. Without calling for Nerissa’s help, Cosma quickly shed her tattered golden gown and changed into a plain black one. Then she wrapped herself in her black velvet cloak. Once dressed and masked, she picked up the incriminating letter from her table. Taking pains to make no noise or to attract the attention of her servants, she slipped down the back stairs and exited her house through the tiny garden.
Cosma’s heart beat with anticipation as her feet raced through the labyrinth of Venice’s back streets. Already revelers emerged from their doorways eager for another evening of riotous celebration. Cosma joined a group until she had crossed the Rialto Bridge, then she fell behind the noisy crowd and continued alone toward her destination. Turning the corner into the Campo San Moise, she saw it—a bocca di leone, one of the stone lion’s mouths that were scattered about the city. Looking like an ornamental bas-relief on the side of a building, the fanciful lion’s head was in fact a post box for Venice’s secret police. Sensitive information and denunciations like Cosma’s could be dropped through its open mouth into a locked box. She knew that the boxes were emptied several times daily and that the letters were given immediate attention by the authorities. The bocca di leone had trapped many a transgressor in its jaws.
Cosma slowed to a walk. She ambled across the campo toward the letter drop. Just before reaching it, she paused and looked over her shoulder. No one was in sight. Her hands trembled. Cosma had never before used the bocca. She knew that once she dropped her letter, there was no turning back from the events she set into motion. Thinking of the future she craved, she summoned up her courage. The Cavendish fortune and family title were worth a hundred Jessicas.
With a quick flick of her wrist, she shoved the paper inside the lion’s mouth. For a fleeting instant she had the uncomfortable feeling that its stone jaws would clamp down on her fingers. The letter rattled through the metal tube of the beast’s throat then dropped into the hidden box. Cosma melted into the shadows of the nearby church.
Mischief, you are afoot. Take whatever course you will.
Chapter Thirteen
Shortly after Cosma left Francis, Jobe returned from his night-long revel, looking none the worse for wear. The African’s cheerful expression darkened when Francis described his encounter with his former mistress.
Jobe made a sign against the evil eye that he had learned on his travels throughout England. “Madam di Luna is very bad juju,” he warned.
Francis shook his head. “Cosma? She’s an expensive whore, but dangerous? Nay, she is more of a danger to herself than to me.”
Jobe shook his head. “Mark me, my friend. I see evil when I see her.”
Francis chuckled. “Aye, she is a nasty piece of work but I can survive her claws.”
Jobe shoved him backward onto the bed. “What do you know of women, scholar? Aye, you can swive them like the best of men, but what do you know of the species? Pah! Nothing!”
Francis narrowed his eyes. If he hadn’t respected Jobe’s opinion so much and if he didn’t count him as his best friend, Francis would have challenged him for his ill treatment. “How now?” he asked.
Jobe lowered himself onto the stool. “What do you know of women?” he repeated, this time in a softer tone.
Francis rubbed his chin. “My mother, for one. She had not a brain in her head. She lived for her own pleasure, never caring whom she hurt like my stepfather, myself and my poor little half sisters.”
Where were his Bardolph siblings now? A few had died in the sweating sickness epidemic of 1528; the rest were marri
ed and scattered among England’s lesser nobility. When the Bardolph heir had come into the estate, he had made it plain to Francis that he never wanted to hear from his bastard brother again. No huge loss. Since the age of seven, when Francis had been fostered with the Cavendishes, he had rarely returned to Cloverdale. While he grew to manhood at Wolf Hall, Belle Cavendish was first his playmate, sometimes his nemesis, but always his most beloved sister.
He smiled when he thought of her. “Then there is Belle. You know what she is like.”
Jobe rolled his eyes and grinned. “A wildcat, though she has softened since her marriage. Motherhood becomes her.”
Francis winced inwardly when he thought of Belle’s younger son, Tom. As an uncle and the boy’s godfather, Francis had been sorely remiss. He shook away his guilty feelings. He would make it up to Tom in the future. “Belle has wit and cunning, I agree, but she does not have the stomach to plot serious harm. Neither does Lady Kat nor Lady Celeste nor even Lady Alicia, though all of them are highly intelligent women.”
Jobe leaned closer so that his broad ebony face was inches away from Francis’s. “If danger threatened the children of any of those sweet ladies, I warrant that you would be most surprised at the awesome fury those three could unleash. Listen to me well. While you spent your youth inside great universities, I traveled over much of the world and I have known the women of many countries. Each was different in character but one thing was common to them all. When their anger is aroused, women become more dangerous than men.”
Francis laughed aloud. “You jest!”
Jobe did not blink. “Women have no sense of honor nor do they believe in a fair fight. They can turn an innocent toothpick into a deadly weapon. They are devious and have fine-tuned subterfuge into an art. Men with a quarrel will face each other in broad daylight. Women will poison you in the middle of the night. Aye, even good Lady Alicia would do so if her cubs were threatened. Trust me when I tell you that Cosma di Luna is your deadliest enemy.”
One Knight in Venice Page 14
