Jobe grinned at him. “Your plan sounds like most excellent sport.”
Francis slipped a thin stiletto down his boot. “You can count on it.”
Chapter Eighteen
While Jobe prowled the backwaters of Venice in search of a suitable body, Francis packed the belongings and gifts he wanted to take with him or to be sent back to England to his diverse relations. Hesitating in front of the huge crate that contained his portrait, he considered what he should do with the thing. Though the likeness unsettled him, he realized that the work was well done and did not deserve a bonfire as its final fate. Taking a piece of scrap parchment, he wrote “To Lady La Belle Hayward, Bodiam Castle, East Sussex, England,” then tacked the address to the crate’s frame.
Each time the nearby church bells chimed the quarter hour, Francis’s skin prickled. How long did it take to find a body? Every morning, the canals were filled with them; poor people that could not afford the cost of a decent burial. Now, when he needed a corpse, the population of Venice seemed uncommonly healthy. Two sailors from the Jinn arrived, gathered up Francis’s bags, boxes and the painting and then departed without a word. Francis wondered if he would ever see his books again, then put that depressing thought out of his mind. He needed to concentrate on the hours ahead of him—and to pray that Jessica’s execution was not to take place until after midnight.
Outside Francis’s window, the merry noise of Carnevale’s last night filled the streets and canals. The Doge and all the nobility would be busy celebrating the traditions of Martedì Grasso—Shrove Tuesday—until the great bells of the campanile ended the festivities at twelve o’clock.
Where in God’s good name was Jobe?
Just as the church bells struck the half hour past eight, a handful of pebbles pattered against Francis’s shutter. At last! Jobe’s prearranged signal. His heart pounding with a surge of excitement, Francis lifted his lighted candle and traced the sign of the cross in front of the window before he extinguished the flame. Jobe would know that he had heard him.
Francis pounded down the stairs and filled a wineskin from the small cask on the counter in the common room. He thrust a full pouch of ducats into the landlord’s hands. “For your many services,” Francis muttered. Then he dashed out the door before the man had a chance to count the coin. No matter. Francis had paid his reckoning twice over. Where he was bound, he had no need of money.
Francis joined Jobe and a number of the crewmen in a narrow side street. All the houses were shuttered against the cold and thieves. “Were you successful?” he asked.
Jobe rumbled a chuckle in the back of his throat. “Did you know that tis harder to find a holy man’s robe than a corpse in this city?” He handed a bundle to Francis. “I located the laundry of a monastery. No time to choose the correct size.”
Francis shook out a Dominican’s hooded robe and nodded his approval. It would fall a bit short on him but in the darkness of the prigione who could tell? “And the other item?”
Jobe pointed to a long bundle that lay against the wall. “Twas a pretty Greek boy by the look of him. Fifteen years or so with lovely long black hair. He died of a fever—or so I was told.” He wrinkled his nose. “He does not stink too much as yet, but his joints are stiff as pokers.”
Francis eyed the dead boy. “Fever?” he echoed.
Jobe clapped him on the shoulder. “Not the plague. Too early in the year.” He pointed to one of his men. “And David, my first mate, persuaded a pleasant company of actors to part with these.” He held up costumes from the Commedia dell’Arte.
Francis smiled grimly. “You have done very well, my friend.”
Jobe pulled the robe of the doctor character over his head, then he adjusted the long-nosed mask. “Spare me your thanks until a later time. We must hurry. The tide will turn against us soon after midnight.”
Without another word, Francis donned the Arlecchino’s cheerful red-and-yellow-diamond motley. He stuffed the friar’s robe into a pack and wedged it under his shirt in the guise of a hump. Together, Jobe and Francis dressed the corpse as Columbina. As a final touch Francis uncorked his wineskin and doused the body with the sour vintage so that the boy reeked more of cheap wine than of death. Then he hoisted the body over his shoulder. The youth had been ill-nourished and weighed less than Francis had expected.
“Heigh ho, Jobe! Let us join the festivities.”
Despite the press of people, the band of conspirators arrived at the edge of the piazza within a short time. None of their fellow revelers noticed that a member of the comedy troupe had passed out from too much drink. Many people in the great square were in similar states of intoxication. Laughing good-naturedly and pretending to be tipsy, Jobe, Francis and the costumed sailors wove their way across the great square until they reached the comparative quiet under the arches of the palace portico. Here and there amid the shadows, couples engaged in vigorous lovemaking and took no notice of the ragged pack of actors.
Jobe pointed to the clock tower. “We have come just in time.” The great statues of the Moors began to strike their bell, signaling ten.
Just then, trumpets blared overhead, alerting all within earshot that the Doge and his court were about to make their appearance. Francis hunched inside his cloak and hoped he looked shorter. He watched the colorful procession pass close by them. The throng cheered as the Doge and the noble senators marched to the base of the campanile. The annual carnival ritual of the Twelve Pigs was about to begin.
“Twill take those old men some time to mount the stairs to the top and more time to throw down the pigs,” Francis whispered to the others. He hoped that the condemned porkers would put up a fight before they were tossed from the top of the bell tower. He needed every precious minute those piglets could buy him.
Eyeing the crates that held the squealing guests of honor, Jobe snorted. “And they call me a barbarian!”
As soon as the last of the scarlet-gowned men and their ceremonial guards had disappeared into the campanile, Francis and Jobe each hooked one of “Columbina’s” arms over their shoulders, supporting the corpse between them. The Greek boy’s head fell forward; his long hair and the cheerful mask covered his ashen face.
Francis winked at Jobe. “Let us charge into the lion’s den.”
Jobe gave his men the signal and they tottered their way through the palace’s open gate and into the courtyard. At the base of the wide staircase, a lone guard stopped them.
“Ho, there, my friends,” the man said with a grin on his face. “You’ve come the wrong way. The piazza is through there.” He pointed to the tall archway.
One of the sailors, a native-born Venetian, pushed himself to the front of the group. Francis and Jobe hung back beyond the circle of light cast by the watchman’s torch.
The sailor, dressed as Pantalone, returned the guard’s grin. “No, worthy officer, we were just commanded to go to the Doge’s suite where we will have the honor of entertaining our noble prince and his family as soon as the pig ceremony is done.”
The guard’s expression turned wary. “Who told you this?”
The sailor merely shrugged. “He did not give me his name. Who are we but motley players? The noble gentleman did not exchange pleasantries with our lot. He was the one who wore a red gown and he stood close to His Serene Highness.” The sailor drew closer to the guard. “We are to be a surprise, you see.”
Francis tightened his grip on the body. If the guard became difficult, they might have to kill him. Despite the vow he had made in the heat of his anger, Francis hoped to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.
The guard studied the “players” one by one. When he spotted the sagging Columbina in the shadows, he relaxed. “Oh, ho, I see why you look so abashed. You had best sober up your little lady there before the Doge returns.”
The sailor and his companions, including Francis and Jobe, bowed and scraped before the guard. “Sì, very unfortunate,” the Venetian agreed. “Please, my friend, say nothing. We will wake her, I swea
r on my mother’s soul. She will delight, I promise you.” He thumped his chest. “We are the best—the very best actors in all of Venice this night.”
Amen to that, thought Francis.
Grinning again, the guard waved them by. “I hope so for your sake. And, Signor Pantalone, if the Doge is generous…” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “I pray that you remember me.”
The sailor laughed. “We will indeed, good signore. Arrivederci!”
With more words of cheer and bawdy jokes, the masked invaders hurried up the huge staircase into the palace. Jobe and Francis with their ghastly burden kept to the middle of the group until they reached the long gallery on the second floor. As Francis had hoped, the great palace appeared deserted. Everyone had gone to see the grisly highlight of Fat Tuesday’s revels.
Jobe posted the Venetian sailor as their lookout at the head of the stairs. Tossing the Greek boy over his shoulder, Francis ran down the gallery to the room he knew led to the Bridge of Sighs. At various intervals along the gallery, Jobe stationed his crew members. Finding the bridge’s antechamber deserted, Jobe and Francis slipped inside and closed the door.
Francis laid the body down near the bridge entrance. Then he took the Dominican’s robe from his pack and dropped it over his colorful costume. Jobe removed his doctor’s costume so that he was once more attired all in black. He held up his red devil’s mask to Francis. The Englishman grinned in the darkness. A most excellent idea in case the next guard is not as stupid as the last one.
Francis wrapped the body in his dark cloak, then peered across the bridge. Beyond the narrow enclosed passage, he saw the glow of a lantern. Before stepping onto the bridge, Francis added one more touch to his disguise: pox marks made of wax on his forehead and cheeks. For good measure, he added a large wart on the end of his nose.
Jobe came up beside him. “Good hunting and may the spirit of your noble grandfather be with you,” he whispered into Francis’s ear.
Sir Thomas would have indeed enjoyed this adventure. Francis clasped Jobe’s forearm, then he stepped onto the bridge. From now on he could not—would not—turn back from this enterprise. He had never felt so exhilarated nor so alive as he did at this moment.
Once across the bridge Francis cleared his throat and called, “Peace be upon you” to the guard that sat on a stool under the lighted lantern.
Jumping to his feet, the man shielded his eyes with one hand while he gripped his pike with the other. “Who goes there?”
Keeping his black hood well down over his bright hair and face, Francis sketched a quick blessing in the air in front of him. “A friend. Peace be with you,” he repeated in a guttural tone.
The guard reacted with an automatic “And with your spirit, good father.”
Francis stepped to the left of the guard, forcing him to turn away from the bridge. “Tell me, my son, does the witch still live?” Pray God that Jessica did. Francis held his breath.
The guard spat against the wall. “Sì, father, but not for long.”
We’re in time! Aloud, Francis continued, “I have been sent to shrive her of her sins—if she will listen to me.”
Again he took another step to the left. Now the guard had his back to the bridge. Francis saw Jobe’s shape, blacker than the night, flit across the divide. He carried the dead boy in his arms. Safely across, he flattened himself against the wall.
The guard swore an oath, then apologized. “The girl is a clever minx, father. Best not get too close to her. I heard tell that she damned His Highness and the whole Council this afternoon.”
Francis folded his hands as if in prayer. “Wicked!” he agreed, though he laughed inside. “But perhaps there is still some little spark of hope I can give her.”
“Hope for what?” the guard snarled. “A quick death?”
“Hope for her immortal soul,” Francis answered. “To save her from the fires of hell. Is she lodged above—under the roof?”
The guard chortled. “No, they put her deep in the Wells.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of a downward spiral staircase.
“Below the water. It must be freezing there,” Francis remarked more to himself than to the man before him. Poor Jessica! If they had taken away her cloak, her dainty little costume would afford her sparse protection from the cold.
The minute he learned where Jessica was located, Jobe with his bundle snaked under the low arch and down the stairs to the dungeons. Meanwhile the guard regaled his listener with a vivid description of the horrors that awaited the condemned witch when she rejoined her demonic master.
“She’ll be warm enough there I’ll warrant,” he concluded.
Francis gave him a solemn look though he seethed inside. He itched to throttle the unfeeling brute for his cruel thoughts toward Jessica. “Be it as God ordains, my son, but the hour grows late. Lead me to this most unfortunate sinner.”
The guard rested his pike against the wall, then unhooked his lantern. He picked up a candle stub from a nearby table and lit it. Holding it out to Francis, he remarked, “You’ll need this, father. It is blacker than the devil’s throat down there.”
Francis gripped the taper. Jessica—alone and waiting for death in the dark! When they were married, he would light a hundred candles in her honor. The guard brushed past him and began the descent into the lower depths of the prigione. Francis followed closely behind him, marveling how Jobe had managed to find his way down these treacherous steps in the pitch black. The African had always sworn that he had the night vision of a hunting owl; now Francis believed his boast.
At the bottom of the stairs a foul stink of urine, stagnant water and raw fear assailed his nostrils. Francis nearly gagged. Jessica had already endured four days of this stench. Squinting against the light of his candle, Francis cast anxious glances on both sides of the passage in search of Jobe, but the giant had melted into the darkness. Snores, an occasional cough and low moaning told Francis that Jessica was not the only prisoner on this level. When the time came, he must move very quietly, as well as quickly lest the other wretches raise a clamor for their own release.
The guard reached the far end of the passage, then turned to the left. He stopped before a stout wooden door pierced by a double-barred window. Though Francis could see nothing inside that black hole, he detected soft breathing. His blood pounded in his temples. Jessica was there. Even though he could not see her, he felt her presence. He wanted to call out to her not to be afraid but he dared not give away his game just yet. He gripped the candle stub tighter.
The guard fumbled for several agonizing minutes trying to find the right key. Down the passage, an unseen prisoner howled and wept. The sound sent chills down Francis’s spine. With a grunt of satisfaction, the guard inserted the key into the rusted lock and turned it.
The door swung open on creaking hinges.
Chapter Nineteen
No one had brought Jessica food or water since she had returned to her cell. By that sign, she knew that her execution would take place before the next morning. Standing on tiptoe at her narrow window, she watched her last sunset fade into purple. After dark, a breeze blew through the opening and slopped the canal water down inside her cell.
In the waning twilight, Jessica traced the words carved into the wall with her fingertip. “Learn to endure.” I will endure, she vowed, even to the very end. The wind carried the sounds of carnival through the bars. How cheerful the flutes and tabors sounded! Remembering her fleeting few hours and the pleasure of dancing in the piazza with Francis, her heart ached. She longed to whirl away this nightmare in his strong arms.
I must not be afraid. I am going to a much better place where there is no pain or hunger.
Sinking to her knees beside her hard cot, she buried her face in her arms and prayed for courage and strength. She must face her death bravely so that her executioners would know that she was truly not a witch. But sheer terror closed in around her. Her breasts rose and fell under her labored breathing. Once when the ja
iler had walked past her door, her throat closed up. She gripped the wooden board of her cot until the man’s footsteps receded down the passageway.
Jessica clasped her hands together. “Please, dear God, please let it be over quickly for me. Don’t let it be painful. I am so afraid of pain.” Her mouth tasted like old parchment, dry and dusty.
Her one crumb of comfort was the memory of Francis’s last words to her. How brave and splendid he had looked in the middle of the Hall of the Great Council—like the Archangel Michael! How his eyes had flashed with that special blue fire she had grown to love! How golden his hair gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight like a halo! “I love you,” he had shouted; his declaration echoed around the room and in her brain.
No one had ever said “I love you” to her—not even her own mother. She knew that Sophia and Gobbo loved her, but they had never said it in so many words. Her patients had liked her; some of the men had even tried to pursue her with a lusty intent, but none of them had loved her—until Francis came into her life.
She played with the red ribbon she had tied around her wrist—his gift. Four days ago—a lifetime, it seemed—she had worn it in her hair. Now her tresses were tangled and matted with dirt and straw from her bed. Kneeling on the rough wooden floor in the cold darkness, she caressed the smooth piece of satin against her cheek and held her memories of Francis’s love close to her heart.
A lantern’s feeble light shining through the window of the cell door startled her. The key rattled in the lock. Jessica’s pulse throbbed erratically. An iron weight sank into the pit of her stomach. Panic rushed into her mind.
The hour has come! I will be dead very soon. Courage! I must be strong now! She rose to face her fate.
The guard pushed open the door. Jessica squinted against the brightness of the candlelight.
“A priest for you,” the man wheezed. “Come to save you, says he.”
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