One Knight in Venice

by Tori Phillips

  “You are very kind,” she murmured to Belle.

  Belle tossed her beautiful head. “Nonsense! I am practical, which is more than can be said about my woolly-headed brother. Venice is a warm city, isn’t it?”

  Jessica nodded. “Much warmer than here,” she said with a trace of homesickness.

  Belle gave her a little squeeze. “Then we shall heap high the logs on the fire and fill you full of hot spiced wine.” She dropped her voice. “But first you must meet my papa who guards the door like one of our mastiffs.”

  A tall man in the prime of his middle years smiled at them; his striking wife by his side. Taking Jessica’s hand in his, Francis led her to the landing. “My lord, my lady,” he said to the imposing couple before them. “May I present my betrothed, Jessica Leonardo? We crave your welcome and your blessing.”

  Doffing his hat, Francis swept a courtly bow. Jessica followed suit with her best curtsy. Her knees trembled beneath her layers of plain woolen skirts. She did not dare to look into the probing eyes of the Earl and Countess of Thorn-bury.

  Sir Brandon Cavendish rumbled a deep laugh. “He asks our welcome, Kat?” He turned to the auburn-haired beauty at his side. “And our blessing? Aye, Francis, you have them both in full measure. By the rood, tis long past due time for you to return home.”

  Francis rose, bringing Jessica with him. “Tis good to see you again, my lord,” he answered with the reverence of a retainer, not a son.

  The earl enveloped him in a bear hug that threatened to knock both the men off their feet. The countess took Jessica by the arm.

  “Welcome to our home, Jessica,” she said with a sincere smile on her lips and in her green eyes. Leaning forward, she kissed the shivering girl on both cheeks as her son Kitt had done. Straightening up, the countess cast a fond glance at her husband and his former squire. “You must forgive Brandon, my dear. He has sorely missed Francis. It has been seven long years since the boy was last at Wolf Hall.”

  Far too long to hide from himself.

  Merry laughter rippled behind Jessica. “Heigh ho, Kat!” teased a lady in a lilting French accent. “Do you mean to keep Francis’s jewel all to yourself? Ha! I think not!”

  With an answering laugh, Lady Kat turned Jessica to face the raven-haired speaker. “A thousand pardons! Jessica, this is my sister-in-law Celeste Cavendish and that gentleman over there who looks like our holy patron Saint Michael is her husband, Guy Cavendish.”

  Jessica again curtsied. “I am very honored to meet you, my lady,” she intoned, wishing she knew something else appropriate to say. Francis had not taught her any other English greeting. Jessica had not expected to meet his family one-by-one.

  Like the other members of the Cavendish clan, Celeste kissed her on both cheeks. Were they all blind? Jessica wondered. Surely they could see the damning mark in the bright sunlight. Why didn’t they say something as the spectators at her trial had done?

  When she saw Guy at closer range, she gasped aloud. The man was an older version of Francis!

  He tilted his head and smiled in the same way that Francis smiled with one corner of his mouth turned up higher than the other. “Welcome to Wolf Hall, Signorina Jessica. Thank you for bringing the prodigal son home to us.”

  You do not realize the truth of your own words, messere. Couldn’t anyone else besides Jessica notice the uncanny resemblance? She looked around at the milling family and servants, but everyone seemed oblivious to the truth. Perhaps they saw Francis as they remembered him when he was younger and not fully developed. A man changed much in seven years. Glancing at Jobe, she saw that he intently observed Guy through hooded eyelids. Then he noticed Jessica. He nodded once.

  The countess flung open the heavy oaken door and pulled Jessica through its portals. “We would stand outside all day if we waited until those two men regained their senses. Francis is like a son to Brandon,” she explained as she led Jessica into the castle.

  Though the interior of Wolf Hall was not as colorful as a Venetian palace, it was cheerful and inviting. Sunlight streamed through the diamond panes of glass in the great arched windows. The northern light illuminated the colorful tapestries that hung on the paneled walls. Turkish carpets covered much of the polished wooden floor, reminding Jessica of the rugs she had seen in the homes of some of her wealthy patients. Crimson banners, each one displaying the Cavendish wolf head, hung down from the dark rafters. Cupboards gleamed with a plethora of polished silver and gold plates. Dogs of all sizes, colors and descriptions lounged everywhere.

  In the center of the great hall a large fire crackled in a massive stone hearth. Standing in front of the blaze was a tall woman. The silver amid her golden hair revealed her great age far more than the lines in her face, or the ebony and ivory cane that she held. This must be Lady Alicia Cavendish, Jessica thought, the Dowager Countess of Thornbury. The woman’s plain dark gown and black headdress proclaimed her widowed state. She held out her hand to Jessica. Unlike her bejeweled daughters-in-law and her granddaughters, Lady Alicia wore only a single ring—a broad golden wedding band.

  “Draw near, child,” she invited in a warm voice that was still firm in its gentle authority. “My eyes are not what they used to be.”

  This will be my undoing, Jessica thought as she crossed the floor. Half in anticipation, half in dread, she stopped in front of Lady Alicia and nearly fell into her curtsy.

  “I am very honored to meet you, contessa bella,” she said, her panic making her forget the rest of her English.

  Keeping her head bowed, Jessica clenched her teeth. Now she will see it. This great noble lady has the eyes of a hawk. She will not allow her grandson to marry the mistress of the devil.

  Glad that Francis was not here to witness her downfall, Jessica raised her face to Lady Alicia. She pushed back her veil and turned her bad side toward the light cast by the fire so that the old countess and the younger one standing beside her could not miss seeing her shame. Now, Jessica thought in the lingering silence, now they will scream and cross themselves, then toss me outside their thick doors. Jessica swallowed the lump in her throat. Her lower lip trembled.

  Lady Alicia smoothed her fingers across Jessica’s cheeks. With the pad of her thumb, she circled the strawberry-shaped birthmark that had given Jessica such a lifetime of misery.

  Tears welled up behind Jessica’s eyelids. Farewell, Francis my love! “Forgive me, contessa,” she whispered to Lady Alicia. “Forgive my shame and my…my….” She groped for the English word for boldness but could not think of it. “Arditezza mia. I tell Francis not to bring me here, but his heart…” She floundered with her emotions as well as her vocabulary. “My heart…it is impossibile. I will go away.”

  The new countess looked to her mother-in-law. Lady Alicia’s expression filled with warmth and understanding. “I perceive that Francis has chosen a pearl of great price, Kat,” she remarked while she still stroked Jessica’s face. “He wrote to us of your courage and your strength as well as your intelligence. I see now that he underestimated you.”

  Jessica blinked. “But this?” She pointed to her disfigurement.

  Lady Alicia raised her up. “An accident of birth, nothing more, my child. Ah! Your eyes tell me that your mind tosses on an ocean of doubt. Robe yourself with your courage, Jessica. You are most welcome to Wolf Hall—and to our family.”

  Jessica’s confidence spiraled upward. “And Francis? Is he, too, welcomed to your family?”

  “How now?” murmured Lady Kat. “This is his home.”

  Lady Alicia nodded. “Ah,” she murmured to herself.

  Having opened this Pandora’s box, Jessica plunged ahead. “Your pardon, my lady. You welcome me into your family and I am most grateful, but have you ever welcomed Francis?”

  Lady Kat frowned. “Mamma?” she asked her mother-in-law.

  Lady Alicia twined Jessica’s fingers through hers. “You are as wise as you are beautiful, my dear. Indeed, Francis chose well.”

  When Brandon releas
ed Francis from his friendly tussle at the top of the steps, Francis turned to speak to Jessica and found her gone.

  “Oh-la-la,” Celeste said with a broad smile. “Kat took her to meet Mamma.”

  “Jesu!” Francis muttered under his breath. He had meant to be at Jessica’s side when she faced the Cavendish matriarch for the first time. Not that his grandmother was unkind by nature, but Francis knew from past experience that Lady Alicia could be formidable if she chose.

  Without further ado, he pushed open the door and raced down the passageway to the great hall where he suspected Kat had taken Jessica. The rest of the family as well as the servants followed behind him, anxious to not miss a thing.

  He found the three women chatting before the cheerful hearth in the hall; his grandmother seated in a high-backed chair, Jessica on the footstool beside her and Kat in the armchair opposite. The three sipped wine from silver goblets and nibbled on sugared wafers that were in a silver dish upon a spindle-legged table beside Kat.

  Alicia smiled at Francis. “Come here, you wicked boy! Tis a sin to have stayed away so long.”

  Francis knelt beside her chair and kissed her hand. Under his lips, her skin felt as fragile as thin vellum. “I have missed you, my lady,” he replied in a voice grown husky with tenderness. “The sad news of Sir Thomas’s death…” He swallowed.

  Alicia tucked a bit of his wavy blond hair behind his ear. Her touch was a caress of comfort. “He loved you very much, Francis,” she told him. “And he would have rejoiced as I do to meet this most excellent woman who has snared your heart.” She smiled at Jessica.

  Francis gave her fingers a little squeeze. “Then we have your blessing to marry?”

  Alicia took Jessica’s hand and placed it in Francis’s. “Aye, with all my heart and soul.” She chuckled. “Mayhap she will keep you in England.”

  Francis gazed into Jessica’s brimming eyes. “I have already promised her that.”

  The gentle scene was broken by the arrival of the children—the young and middling ones. Jobe followed behind them with the look of a cream-filled cat on his face.

  Tom Hayward skidded to a noisy stop before the adults. He held up a small linen sack of sweetmeats in an already-sticky fist. “Look, grand ladies!” he entreated, not knowing to which grandmother or grandaunt he should direct his announcement. “Uncle Frank has brought all the wealth of Venice back to us!”

  Francis kissed Jessica’s hand. “The boy speaks the golden truth,” he whispered to her.

  Jessica blushed and dipped her head with a grin.

  Johnny joined his brother. He produced a small dagger, its scabbard embellished with silver filigree. He planted his short legs wide apart in front of his great-grandmother. “Mama says I am too young to have this!” he all but shouted.

  Belle, a bit breathless, materialized behind her son. “Tis not a plaything! Francis, what were you thinking when you got him such a weapon? The boy is barely seven.”

  Johnny opened his mouth to protest, but Lady Alicia held up her hand for silence. “Belle, my dear, you were much younger when you sliced up the hunting tapestry in the west gallery,” she remarked with a twinkle in her eyes. The hall filled with good-natured laughter at Belle’s expense.

  “¡Madre del Dio!” Jessica whispered in Italian to Francis. “You told me your sister was high-spirited but you forgot to elaborate.”

  Francis lifted his brow. “I feared that you would jump overboard if I told you the infamous details.”

  Twenty-year-old Tonia, Guy’s eldest daughter, touched the shimmering glass beads at her throat. “Look, Maman,” she crowed to Celeste. “Francis got these for everyone! Your taste has improved with age,” she added to him.

  “So has yours,” he shot back with a grin.

  “Look! Look!” chorused Tonia’s younger twin sisters who brought up the rear of the giggling mob. “See what Francis has brought for Belle! Open it, coz!”

  Between them, they half carried, half dragged the wooden crate containing Francis’s portrait. In his excitement to be back at Wolf Hall, he had completely forgotten about it. But Jobe should have known! He shot the African a frown. Jobe returned his look with a slight smile and the lift of an eyebrow.

  God’s teeth! He put the girls up to this!

  “I am undone,” he muttered in Italian.

  Jessica caressed his hand. “Why, Francis? What ails you?”

  Belle, her eyes wide with surprise and excitement, clapped her hands. “For me? Stars! Open it, someone! Quickly! Oh, Francis!”

  Fighting to keep his composure, he rose. “Tis nothing, I assure you.”

  “Tis his portrait,” rumbled Jobe from the back of the gathering. “Painted by an apprentice of the renowned Titian.”

  Francis knotted his fist behind his back. Why are you doing this to me? Aloud he said, “Tis a knavish piece of work. I thought Belle could use it on her archery range as a target.”

  Jobe laughed. “Francis protests too much. The likeness is most excellent.”

  Francis glared at the traitor. Didn’t Jobe realize that once the family saw this painting, they would know without a shadow of doubt who his father was? What would Brandon say? Or Guy? For seven long years, Francis had fled from just this moment.

  Two of the menservants worked to pry open the protesting wood. Belle danced around them, urging their labors and dismissing their splinters. The seated women, Jessica included, looked on with interest. Brandon, Guy and Belle’s husband, Mark Hayward, moved closer. A buzzing noise grew inside Francis’s head. Silently he damned the portrait, damned the artist and damned himself for not pitching the thing into the Mediterranean Sea when he had the chance.

  Francis wiped his dry lips. “Do not look upon it. Tis trash.”

  Everyone laughed at him and they encouraged the servants to greater speed. Francis glanced at Jessica. Only she looked at him while all the rest were riveted by the emerging mystery. He read uncertainty in her eyes.

  “What is it?” she asked him in Italian.

  He tightened his jaw as the men sliced the canvas wrappings. “The end of my happiness.”

  “I thought I was your happiness,” she replied with a note of sadness in her voice.

  Before he could explain what he meant, the twins pulled away the last covering. With a collective “Oh!” everyone stepped back to admire the work. A silence filled the hall. Clenching his hands, Francis closed his eyes. Why, Jobe? Why?

  Almost in answer, the African’s strange prophecy “You will die, be reborn and new baptized” echoed in the recesses of Francis’s mind. He looked again at Jobe and the latter nodded several times. A sick feeling swooped through Francis’s stomach.

  Alicia rose from her chair and moved closer to the painting that was held by the twins. The family parted before her. “Get a candle, Brandon,” she instructed her elder son.

  Jessica moved to Francis’s side. She said nothing but slipped her arm around his waist. He did not lean toward her, though he was glad of her comfort. Nothing could heal the breach that was about to happen, not even Jessica’s skill.

  Brandon lifted a fat taper from the chimney piece and brought it closer to the portrait.

  Finally, Alyssa, the elder of the twins, broke the spell. “Tis not Francis at all,” she scoffed. “Tis Papa!” She grinned at Guy.

  “Tis Papa to the letter—only younger,” Gillian, the other twin, concurred. “You jested with us, Francis. Shame on you!”

  Francis opened his eyes to find the entire family looking at him—except for Guy who stared at the work as if he had never before seen paint on a piece of canvas. Surprise and disbelief filled his expression.

  Alicia nodded with an enigmatic smile on her lips. “You speak the truth, my chicks. Tis the very image of your father indeed.”

  The buzzing in Francis’s head increased. Breaking away from Jessica, he spun on his heel and fled the hall, wishing he could flee to the ends of the earth.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jessi
ca finally found him in the old earl’s library, thanks to the help of Belle and some of the castle servants. When Francis did not respond to her knock on the closed door, she lifted the latch and entered the tiny book-lined sanctuary. With his head bowed, he stood at the narrow lancet window, staring with vacant eyes across the expanse of moor beyond the castle walls. He did not move until Jessica touched his elbow.

  She looked up into his pain-etched face and wished she had some soothing ointment to erase the lines of sorrow there. “Francis, your lady grandmother wishes you to attend her in her solar.”

  A muscle ticked at his jawline. “With Brandon and…Guy?”

  Jessica ached for him. “They accompanied her when she left the hall.”

  He said nothing but returned to his study of the empty countryside.

  Jessica laid her cheek against his arm. His muscles tensed into knots. “Do you intend to keep running away all your life?” she asked.

  “That is my business,” he snapped, not looking at her.

  At his stinging rebuke, she bit her lower lip in dismay. Summoning resources from deep within herself, she shook her head. “No, Francis, if I am to be your wife, then this…this thing is our business.”

  He leaned his forehead against the chill glass of the windowpane. “How can you know what anguish lodges in my soul?”

  “Tell me,” she whispered. She could feel him slipping away from her like water through her fingers.

  He groaned deep within himself. “That rank painting has torn asunder all that I held dear.”

  Jessica winced at these words. “Not me—not Belle, and certainly not Lady Alicia.”

  He continued as if he had not heard her. “When I first came to Wolf Hall as a child, Brandon took me as his page. He treated me as a son, making no attempt to mask his affection for me. And I…like a starving dog…lapped it up.”