Her reprieve almost undid her. Her knees trembled. She put her hand on the damp wall for support. “Welcome, father,” she rasped, her throat sore with her anxiety. “You come in good time.”
A man dressed in dark robes stepped past the jailer and into her cell. “Peace be with you, my child,” he growled at her. He held a small candle.
A familiar scent wafted around her—one of cloves that made her instantly think of Francis. She braced herself against the wall. What cruel trickery did her wits play on her taut nerves?
“Withdraw,” the priest instructed the other man. “I need some privacy if I am to attempt to do God’s work with this sinful soul.”
The guard guffawed. “A waste of your time, father.”
The priest lifted his candle higher; its golden beams fell across Jessica’s face. “It is my duty as a priest from the Holy Office to proffer God’s mercy to even the most wicked of sinners.”
¡Dio mio! The dreaded Inquisition! Putting her hand over her eyes, Jessica leaned back against the rough wall. Now that they had condemned her, couldn’t they leave her alone? Would this man torture her through the night before they killed her? She dug her broken nails into the skin of her palms. I will endure this. I must show my innocence by my strength. God be with me!
The jailer shut the door with a thud. “Very well, father, go to. Give a call when you are done with her. I will be at the bend of the passage.” He turned the lock and departed.
The priest anchored his candle on the end of her cot then stepped toward her. “Jessica,” he whispered as he drew closer. “Do not be afraid. It is me.”
Had her ears deceived her? Was she going mad with hysteria? “Francis?” she croaked. What had happened to his face?
In answer, the priest swept her into his arms, and rained kisses on her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, her mouth. He whispered her name over and over. “My love, my sweet Jessica! Oh, angel mine!”
She blinked back her sudden tears of joy. “Francis! But how—”
When he stopped her mouth with a hard kiss, she knew he was truly with her by the touch of his lips on hers. She threw her arms around his neck and clung to him.
The key rattled in the lock again though there was no light without. Francis sprang away from her.
Once against the door swung open. “There is time enough for wooing later, Francis,” said Jobe, stepping inside the cell. “For now, we must make all haste.”
Francis clapped his hand over Jessica’s mouth to muffle her cry of surprise. Then he closed the door once more. “The guard?” he asked.
The giant, blacker than night, chuckled under his breath. “I tripped him. When he awakes, he will think that he stumbled over his own big feet. But he has a hard head and will not sleep for long.” He dropped a long bundle onto the cot.
When Jessica beheld a youth dressed in the garish costume of Columbina, she almost screamed again. Pulling her against his chest, Francis stroked her quaking body. “Hush, cara,” he crooned. “It is only a poor boy whose death this morning will do you a great service tonight. He is your passport to a new life.”
Jessica recoiled. “I will not have someone’s blood pay the price for my freedom. I could not bear to live with myself.”
Francis continued to stroke her, running his warm hands along her spine. “He died of a fever sent by the Angel of Death, not by my hand.”
From his place by the door, Jobe hissed at them. “¡Silenzio! Be quick!”
Francis gave her a hurried kiss. “Trust me, my love. Now undress! Do not stand on modesty. We must exchange your clothing with the boy’s. Courage!” he added.
Though she still trembled from the shock of Francis’s unexpected appearance with his lifeless companion, Jessica understood exactly what he had in mind. Moving quickly, she unlaced her tattered costume and stepped out of it. Meanwhile Francis undressed the corpse. He handed her the pink-and-white skirt. Wrinkling her nose against its strong odor of wine and decay, she tied it around her waist; then the black bodice and finally the beribboned cap. Francis quickly clothed the dead boy. By the time Jessica had finished tying the mask’s ribbons under her hair, the body on the bed looked remarkably like her. She shuddered at the sight.
“Done,” Francis told Jobe.
“Good, for the jailer stirs.”
Francis led Jessica to the door. “Now we must fly like the wind on silent feet.” He reached for his candle. Then he paused over the cot. “Sleep in peace, young Greek, and may the angels escort you to heaven with joy, for you have well earned your reward.”
“Amen,” Jessica murmured.
Jobe pushed open the door as quietly as its hinges allowed. Holding her with one hand and the candle stub in the other, Francis drew Jessica behind him along the narrow stone corridor. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see Jobe shut and relock the cell door.
Francis tugged at her, then pointed to where the dazed jailer groaned next to his lantern. Hopping over his prostrate form, the two fled down the long passage to the staircase. Jobe paused long enough to place the ring of keys in the guard’s hand, then he dashed after them.
Though Francis held his candle high, Jessica could barely see where to put her feet on the murky stairway. When she stumbled, Jobe scooped her under his arm. She curled herself around him and shut her eyes, opening them only when a cold breeze of fresh air blew against her face. They crossed the far end of the connecting bridge. Once inside the Doge’s palace, Jobe set her on her feet again. She almost fell, but Francis caught her. He blew out the candle.
“Now we will transform ourselves once more,” he told her as he pulled off his priestly robe.
When Jessica adjusted her eyes to the darkness, she saw Francis stuff the robe under the back of his colorful shirt.
He chuckled to her. “I fear your reputation as a witch will be assured after this night’s work. That man will have a hard time explaining to the authorities how you changed into a boy and how you made me disappear.”
“We are not out of the bag yet,” Jobe mumbled from behind his comic doctor’s mask. “Getting in was easy. Now comes the sticky part.”
Outside of the palace, a great cheer went up. “They must be throwing down the pigs,” Francis muttered. “Time to be on our way.”
Another cheer filled the air.
Jobe stuck his head out into the gallery. “My men are still in place. Let us go!”
He slid through the narrow opening like a shadow. Jessica followed, her hand in Francis’s. As they raced down the long hall Jobe’s crew members fell in behind them. Jessica saw the glint of naked daggers in their hands, but there was no time to think what the men might do for her sake.
At the top of the great staircase Jobe tucked her arm through his. Francis took her other arm. “Look a little dazed,” the African told her as they descended. “The guard below thinks you are drunk with wine.” Then he said to Francis, “If the need arises, we will run with her to the Molo. One of my skiffs waits there for us. My men will delay any pursuers.”
Francis nodded, then he whispered to her. “Ready?”
Jessica gulped then nodded. “Sì,” she replied and added, “but don’t let go of me.”
Freedom danced before her eyes. She drank in the sweet cold air as they crossed the tiled landing to the final flight of stairs. The roars of the crowd grew louder as another pig fell squealing to the pavement of the piazza. Jessica had heard of this strange ritual that had its roots in the pagan days of ancient Rome, but she was glad she did not have to witness it. Death had hovered far too close to her for comfort.
Hearing them, the guard turned. He grinned when he saw Jessica. “I see you have managed to revive your Columbina.”
One of Jobe’s sailors replied, “Sì, a lot of water did the trick. Now we are ready for the Doge!” He puffed up his chest.
Ready for what? Jessica wondered. She never wanted to lay eyes on that dreadful old man again.
The guard frowned at the costumed sailor. “But
the Doge has not yet returned from the piazza. What is this?” He punched the sailor in the stomach with the butt end of his pike. “Why have you returned so soon when the Doge has not even seen your performance? He is still with the pigs. Have you stolen anything?”
“Only a witch,” Francis whispered in Jessica’s ear. He tightened his grip on her arm. They sidestepped a few paces nearer to the gateway’s arch.
The sailor raised both hands in protest. “Of course not! I may look like a fool but I assure you I have all my wits.” He moved closer to the guard and confided in a loud whisper, “The truth of the matter is that our little Columbina…well, she puked on the floor of the gallery before we could stop her. It did her a world of good.”
The guard’s face turned mottled red. “What?”
“Jesu,” Francis swore under his breath to Jobe. “That idiot’s mouth will doom all of us. Be ready to run,” he told Jessica.
She swallowed the knot in her throat. She didn’t need to feign sickness now; her stomach lurched. She gripped the sleeves of her two supporters.
With a show of bravado, the sailor hung his arm about the guard’s neck. “Have no fear, my friend. We cleaned it up. We did not want that mess to be our surprise for the Doge. We are men of honor.” He belched in the man’s face.
The guard shoved him away. “Get out of here, you drunken sots!” He swept his pike in a semicircle, forcing the conspirators to back toward the gate. “Away with you! If I ever catch any of you near here again, I will skewer you like one of those puling pigs!”
While the Venetian sailor continued to play his sniveling role, Francis and Jobe hustled Jessica through the gate just as the last pig fell from the bell tower. It landed near its brethren with a sickening thunk. Jessica averted her eyes.
“This way!” Jobe turned toward the Molo where a number of gondolas and other watercraft bobbed at the landing.
Jessica didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Was she really free? Or would the nightwatch suddenly close in upon them? She glanced over her shoulders. The ducal heralds trumpeted again, announcing the end of the Twelve Pigs and the imminent return of the Doge to his palace.
At the edge of the landing, Jobe whistled into the glistening darkness of the Grand Canal. An answering call to the right signaled where the promised skiff lay. Jobe guided Jessica and Francis to the boat. He jumped in, then lifted Jessica and placed her on a seat in the middle of the craft. Francis followed heavily. The boat wobbled while the two oarsmen cursed.
Francis dropped down beside her. “I am no sailor, cara, as I fear you will soon discover.”
She snuggled against him, savoring his warmth. “Are we safe yet?”
Untying the mooring line, Jobe pushed the boat away from the landing with a mighty shove of his foot. Then he sat in the stern and took the tiller in his hands.
“Soon, little one,” he told her in a low tone. “See out there?” He pointed over her shoulder.
Turning in their seats, Jessica and Francis peered down the canal toward the wide entrance of the lagoon. A number of large vessels swung on their anchors.
“The second one from the right,” Jobe continued. “That is the Jinn, my wife at sea.”
The dismaying truth dawned on Jessica. She squeezed Francis’s hand. “We are going to sail away from here? L-leave Venice?” she stammered.
He kissed her forehead. “If you stay, you will die,” he told her in a gentle voice. “There is no other way.”
“Sophia and Gobbo are already on board,” Jobe added. “They were more than happy to quit this city.”
She twisted her fingers nervously in her lap. “They were not born in Venice as I was,” she responded in a low, agonized voice.
Tears of deep regret filmed over her eyes. The torchlights in the piazza melded into a blur of color. The sounds of gaiety and music grew fainter. The oars dipped and rose in the water with silent precision, pulling her farther away from her beloved home.
Francis kissed her again. “Where did you think we would hide you?” When she gave him no answer, he continued, “Venice has cast you out, my sweet—and me, as well.”
With a dull inner pain in her breast, she acknowledged, “You speak the truth, Francis. I am quite literally adrift.”
He held her closer to him. “You are with me now.”
But for how long?
Jessica remained silent for the rest of the journey to Jobe’s ship. Suddenly it loomed out of the darkness above them. Used to seeing only gondolas, the large vessel’s bulk startled her. Before she had time to think about it, the skiff bumped along the dark wooden sides of the Jinn. One of the oarsmen grabbed onto a rope ladder, then he held out his hand to Jessica.
She stared at the gently rocking ship. “Up there?”
Jobe chuckled behind her. “Sì, madonna, freedom and peace of mind await you—and so do your friends.” Reaching around her, he placed her hands on the ropes. “Now, step up. Don’t look down. I will not let you fall.”
She cast a quick glance over her shoulder. “Francis?”
He gave her a wobbly grin. “Let Jobe escort you for now, Jessica. It is better that I make my own clumsy way myself.”
“He suffers from seasickness,” Jobe confided to her as he guided her up. “Even in this little pond. In an hour when we reach the Adriatic, he will look like walking death. You’ll see.”
“Oh,” said Jessica, wondering if she, too, would fall prey to the same illness.
Many hands helped her over the ship rail onto the deck. With a cry of joy, Sophia ran to her and threw her arms around Jessica’s waist. Gobbo took her hand and kissed it. Both their eyes glittered with tears.
“We prayed for you, my child.” Sophia hugged her. “Oh, how we prayed! And when Jobe said they would spirit you away, well—” She could not continue but instead gave way to her tears.
Overcome by their love, Jessica wept with them. It was the first time in four days that she had allowed herself that comforting release.
While Jessica and her friends clung to each other in a tight circle, Francis pulled himself onboard.
As soon as his feet touched the bobbing deck, he groaned under his breath. “God’s teeth,” he muttered. He put his hand over his stomach.
Jobe grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “What ho, meo amigo, we did it!”
Francis staggered to the nearest masthead. “Aye.” He swallowed back his queasiness. “Is the tide still running with us?”
Jobe chuckled. “Tis, and here comes the rest of my crew.” Leaning over the rail, he called down, “Is everyone accounted for?”
“Sì,” answered the Venetian sailor as he clambered over the side. “You owe me a bounty, capitano, for my stupendous performance.”
Jobe lifted the man off his feet in a giant bear hug. “You will have your reward—as soon as we catch the next Turkish merchant.” He put his finger to his lips. “Shush, softly now, my children. We must slip away before the lion of Venice notices that we have bolted from his cage.”
Within minutes men of many nationalities swarmed over the ship. The last crewman was barely out of the second skiff before it was hauled aboard. With a low rumble, the sailors winched up the anchor. A dozen agile men ran barefoot up the spiderweb of ropes to the great crosstrees where the sails were tied. Within minutes they freed yards of ivory-colored canvas that billowed out with the freshening wind from the nearby sea. In silence, Jobe’s sleek ship moved slowly away from her sleeping neighbors.
Resting his head against the base of the mast, Francis watched Jessica’s reunion with her friends. Now that their bold escapade was completed, a strange weakness overtook his limbs. He gripped one of the ropes that hung down from somewhere aloft. For the first time the full impact of their daring hit him. Not until this moment did he realize that he had fully expected to fail and to die at Jessica’s side. He closed his eyes in a silent prayer of thanks to the Cavendish patron, Saint Michael.
Jessica’s hand touched his face. “Francis
? Are you ill?”
When he opened his eyes, he found himself staring into the unmasked face of the loveliest woman in the world. He gave her a weak smile. “Have I died and gone to heaven for I see an angel before me.”
She laughed—her first laugh since she had been dragged from his side on that dreadful Friday night—then shook her head. “I do not think that angels have such dirty faces or such ragged clothing.”
He reached for her and she glided into his embrace. “I have paradise in my arms now,” he murmured.
She laid her head on his shoulder. Together they watched the glow that was Venice grow smaller. Just then, over the water, the great bell of the campanile tolled. “Twelve,” counted Jessica. “Midnight.”
Francis gave a little laugh. “In England we call it the witching hour. Have I a witch in my arms?”
She did not return his smile. “I am afraid I cannot join in your mirth. The scars are still too fresh.”
He kissed her forehead. “A thousand pardons, my love, but I am in a lighthearted mood. In fact, I feel reborn.”
She slipped her hands under his cape and encircled his waist. “So do I,” she whispered.
They watched the islands melt into the darkness behind them. “Soon they will discover that I am gone. Do you think we will we be able to get away in time?”
Jobe materialized beside them. He laughed. “First someone will have to be brave enough to approach your cell.”
Sophia marched up to him. “How so?” she asked with her hands on her hips.
Jobe regarded her with a grin. “Because, Madam Mouse, I put my devil’s mask over the boy’s face. In the lantern light, they will swear that Madonna Jessica had turned herself into the devil and that she ate up the poor priest.” He laughed again. “By the time those guards have matched their slack wits together and pieced out our device, we will be sailing on the high seas!”
Francis swallowed hard again. “Mother of God,” he murmured. He hated ships and sailing!
Gobbo yawned and his little wife led him belowdecks, clucking like a mothering hen.
Jessica sighed. “I have never left my city. It is a strange thing. Even though I lived in fear every day of my life in Venice, I loved her. It is my home.”
One Knight in Venice Page 21
