One Knight In Venice
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She lifted the blanket. The cool air stung his skin.
“Ah, I see.” She traced her finger along the track of the ancient scar. “It was a deep wound. How did it happen?”
Visions of that long-ago midsummer’s morning crowded into his memory. A sunny, warm day. Astride the huge warhorse of his…his master—and presumed father, Sir Brandon Cavendish. Belle’s childish laughter in his ear. The cry of a startled bird, then literally a bolt out of the blue sky. “I was shot by a crossbow,” he answered with a snap.
Jessica lifted his shoulder and touched the larger scar on his back. “Clean through,” she observed.
“My, uh…the knight I served pulled out the shaft.” He swallowed with the memory of that excruciating pain.
Her fingers gently prodded the area. “How old were you at the time?”
“Nine years and a few months.”
She sucked in her breath. “What evil creature would shoot so young a boy?”
Francis curled his lips with disgust. “One who sought my…master’s life.” He couldn’t call Brandon his father even though Brandon informally considered him as his son. “I took the arrow meant for my lord.”
“¡Dio mio!” she murmured. “So young and yet so brave.”
Poor aim was more like it, he thought, but said nothing aloud. He liked the way she called him brave.
She continued to prod the scars as if she sought to find the path of the bolt. “Did the wound fester? Did you have a fever?”
“Sì,” he replied. “There was a wisewoman who sewed me up and fed me herbs. They told me I was delirious for over a day. I was weak for a long time after that.”
She traced her fingers down the length of his arm and took his right hand in hers. “I am going to test your range of motion,” she told him. “Tell me when it hurts or pulls. And please, messere, do not mince your words. I must know exactly where the pain lives in order to help you.”
In my heart where there is no cure for it.
Aloud, Francis said, “Begin, but I warn you, I might bellow like a bear.” Despite his words, he knew he would rather die than admit that such a gentle creature as Jessica could hurt him.
Supporting his elbow, she slowly raised his arm straight up. With habit born of long suffering, Francis tensed when she lifted his arm above his head. The knotted muscles and battered flesh screamed in protest.
“There?” she asked, returning his arm to his side.
“Sì,” he replied through his teeth. The pain eased away.
She moved his arm out from his body in a long, slow arc. Again he tightened when she reached the level of his shoulder. “There again?” she asked.
He nodded. He hated to admit his weakness but since he was now committed to this path, he would endure it. Cosma swore Signorina Jessica could heal him. In any case, Jessica now stood between him and his clothes.
She stroked his hand. “Please make a fist for me,” she asked.
His long fingers protested as Francis folded them against his palm. “It is more difficult on days like today,” he apologized. No doubt she would think him the gaudy fop he pretended to be. “Cold and wet,” he added.
She lowered his arm to the divan. “Just so,” she murmured. “I am surprised how firm your muscles are in spite of the pain.”
A little warning bell jangled in the back of his mind. This sweet-voiced minx could be the agent of his destruction if he wasn’t careful. Venice literally crawled with secrets and informers.
“I have no desire to grow fat and ruin the line of my clothes, signorina,” he replied in the languid manner of his dandy’s role. “I usually exercise by riding when I am not living on an enchanted island that floats in a lagoon. Since I have been in Venice, I have taken lessons from one of your renowned sword masters.” True enough. Furthermore, the man had taught Francis a great many new and lethal techniques that the brigands in England had not yet envisioned.
Jessica said nothing for a few minutes while she massaged his neck and shoulders. Then she remarked, “You must enjoy your swordplay very much for I see that you fight left-handed although you naturally prefer your right. Please try to relax, messere,” she added. “Your muscles feel as if they are tied in knots.”
Her keen observation twanged Francis’s already taut nerves. He took several deep breaths and forced himself to remain as calm as possible. Would Jessica Leonardo slip a piece of paper with his name on it into the nearest bocca di leone, denouncing him as a traitor to the Republic of Venice? Francis had never felt so vulnerable as he did at this moment while he lay half-naked and blindfolded in the house of a strange woman. He should never have come.
And yet how wonderful he felt as the melodic strains of the lute washed over him and the fingers of the lovely sorceress kneaded away his pain! Even his heart, that stone-cold organ, did not feel quite as heavy as it usually did. And his loins? They were on fire. He hoped that the blanket covered the evidence of his desire.
“Buono,” Jessica murmured as she worked deeper into his scar tissue. “Good, let your mind and body be at rest. Here there is nothing but peace and tranquillity.”
With a deep sigh Francis drifted on the gentle tide of relaxing sensations. His body felt as if he floated above the divan.
“Breathe deeply,” Jessica whispered. “Draw in God’s pure light and healing presence. Breathe out the vile humors that give pain and disquiet. In…out…in…out…”
The desire to sleep crept over him. Francis knew he should fight the urge but his body craved the blissful peace. The notes of the lute grew fainter.
“Messere?” Jessica laid a warm hand on his arm. “The sands in the hourglass have run their course. I have done for today.”
Francis pulled himself back into the wakeful world. Jessica placed one hand on his good shoulder and the other on his opposite hip. She rocked him in a soothing manner. Then she laid her hands lightly on his chest. A healing warmth seemed to flow from her fingers into his body, rejuvenating him. Fire licked between his legs.
A groan escaped his lips.
“How do you feel, messere?” she asked as she stepped away from him. The lutist concluded his concert with a long final note.
“In paradise,” Francis murmured.
“And your pain?”
He lifted his right shoulder. His muscles moved without protest. He flexed his fingers. They operated smoothly even when he balled them into a fist.
“Tis a miracle!” he whispered in English, then said in Italian, “You have done a wondrous deed, sweet sorceress.”
“Oh, no, messere,” she answered in a rush. “I have no special powers. I am only a simple woman. Please believe me, my lord.”
Francis pulled himself into a sitting position on the divan. For the first time in months, perhaps even years, he felt strong and full of…joy. “I am new-made indeed. What spell did you cast?”
She gasped. “I did no magical thing, my lord. I only loosened those hard knots. But,” she cautioned, “the good feeling is temporary at first. I worked your muscles hard today. When you wake tomorrow you may be as sore as if you had been fighting the Turkish army single-handed.”
He curled his lip. “Those words bring me much cold comfort.”
She moved further away from him. “It will pass, I assure you. Understand this, messere, I have not cured you—only time and il Dio can do that. If you wish for a lasting effect, you will need many treatments such as I have given you.
“Think of your body as a fine palazzo,” she continued in her delightful voice. “One day, a gang of bravi took possession of your beautiful house. For years and years, they lived there, destroying your fine furnishings, drinking your prize wines and fouling your gorgeous paintings. Then one day, a little woman enters your house armed only with a broom.” She laughed again. “A big broom, of course.”
“Of course,” Francis agreed, enchanted with the storyteller as well as her story.
“She sweeps the evildoers out into the canal, then begins to put your house in order. But the bravi do not like this new state of affairs. They want their comfortable life back, so they return.”
“And she must sweep them out again?” he ventured.
“Exactly so,” Jessica replied. “The bravi have dwelled within you for a very long time. It will take many sweepings to expel them forever. Do you understand?”
Francis drew in a deep breath, thinking of the darker devils that plagued his soul. “More than you realize, little one. When may I come again? Tomorrow?” What a delicious way to spend each day!
“Tomorrow is too soon, messere. You must allow your body to rest after the work I made it do today. Even the Good Lord had a day of rest. But you may come on the next.” She shyly added, “If you wish.”
Francis placed his hand on his chest where hers had so lately lingered. “With all my heart. At what hour will you receive me?”
“Is ten in the morning too early for you?”
Francis shook his head. “I would be here at dawn, if you commanded me, madonna,” he replied with heartfelt truth.
She laughed once again. “Then you would be most unusual, my lord, for no gallant in Venice is abroad before noon, unless he is still awake from the night before.”
Francis allowed a smile to form on his lips. “But I am English and practice my strange ways even in your civilized city.”
Jessica opened a door. A sudden cool draft brushed his bare skin.
“At ten of the clock on the day after tomorrow. And your name, my lord?”
Without his usual caution, he replied, “Francis Bardolph at your service, Madonna Jessica. I will count the hours until then.”
She gave a little cough. “You may leave my fee on the table after you dress, Messere Bardolph. Good day.” With that, she closed the door.
Francis untied the blindfold and looked around for the musician, but the lutist had also disappeared. Francis’s clothing and accoutrements still hung undisturbed as he had left them, including his heavy money pouch on his sword belt. He pulled his shirt over his head, wondering anew at the unaccustomed ease he experienced when he pushed his arms into his sleeves. As he buckled his shoes, someone knocked on one of the doors.
Francis’s heart skipped a beat. The enchantress had returned! “Enter,” he called. He wet his lips with expectation.
Instead of the fair Jessica, her elfish maid appeared. “Feeling better?’ she asked, giving him an appraising look.
Francis resisted the urge to laugh at the officious little woman. Instead he swept her a bow—and marveled how smoothly he accomplished the maneuver. “I am indebted to your mistress. She has made me a new man.”
The dwarf crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “Good!” She eyed his purse. “Be sure to show Madonna Jessica your appreciation by paying her in full. My mistress is not a rich woman. We cannot live on credit as the wealthy do.”
Francis grinned down at her. He fastened his cape around his shoulders, then untied his purse. “A ducat, I believe you told me?”
“Sì,” the woman nodded. “And it is money well spent, I assure you.”
Francis said nothing. He placed two shining gold pieces on the table. He noted with pleasure the maid’s startled look. He handed her a third ducat. “Please give this to the musician. He is most gifted.” Then he bent far down and kissed her pudgy hand. “And you, signora, are the light of the world.”
Leaving her gasping with astonishment, Francis settled his hat on his head and let himself out the front door into the narrow street. An old English country song hummed in his head. By the time he crossed the little campo, he was singing the words aloud—something he never did.
As he approached the boat landing on the canal, he spied, out of the corner of his eye, a furtive shadow move behind him. Grasping the hilt of his rapier, he whirled to face his pursuer. Except for several old men sunning themselves by the wellhead in the center of the square and a woman hanging out her wet linen on a pole from her second-story window, the campo was bare. Francis gave himself a shake. Now I jump at shadows and alley cats. Still warm with the afterglow of his visit to the peerless Donna Jessica, he banished his misgivings. Why ruin a perfectly lovely day?
Launching into the second verse of his childhood song, he hailed a passing gondola.
Chapter Two
Cosma di Luna cast a glance over her creamy white shoulder and asked, “After the Englishman left the house of the healer, where did he go?”
In her dressing-table mirror, she observed her young informant gaping at her near-naked beauty with an ill-concealed hunger. Jacopo was such a pliable youth. The merest flash of her breasts was enough to enslave him to her command. She knew she could save herself many ducats if she paid for his information with her favors.
Cosma leaned closer to the mirror to apply a line of sooty kohl to her eyelids. She reveled in her position as one of Venice’s premier courtesans who entertained in her bed noble senators, sons of the aristocracy and wealthy merchants. She had no need to stoop to servicing a low-born, would-be bravo. Her coin and a well-chosen glance or two of her charms would suffice for the likes of Jacopo.
“Well?” she prodded the stupefied young man. “I presume that you did follow Messere Bardolph as I asked you?”
Jacopo ran his tongue over his lips. “Sì, Donna Cosma. First he went to the Rialto, where he drank wine with some acquaintances. He stopped by the beggar that sits on the steps of San Giacomo church and exchanged a few words with the man. Lord Bardolph gave him alms, as is his custom. Then he went to the bookbinders where he stayed a quarter of an hour or so if one can rely on the bells of San Giacomo.” Jacopo scratched his head in thought. “After that he visited the apothecary shop at the corner of Calle del Spezier and the Campo San Stefano.”
Cosma paused in her cosmetic applications. “What did he purchase?” she asked lightly, though her breath caught in her throat. Pray God, Francis had not caught the French pox. “You did ask, did you not?”
Jacopo grinned. “Sì, madonna, I know my duties. He procured a vial of an elixir for…that is…” He blushed and coughed into his sleeve. “To render him impotent, or so the apothecary swore to me.”
Cosma’s fear gave way to anger. Her fingers gripped the ivory handle of her brush until her knuckles turned white. What a villain with a smiling cheek! Though she had been his mistress for nearly four months, Francis had yet to complete the act of love with her. Usually he withdrew himself before the moment of truth. Other times, he claimed to be…uninspired. Was it any wonder that she had resorted to having him followed? If he slaked his appetites with another woman, Cosma knew she could soon remedy that situation. But why use a potion to deliberately deflate his desire?
The more she dwelled on Francis’s perfidy, the angrier she grew. His fear of impregnating her was truly an obsession, not merely a whim as she had first thought. Cosma narrowed her eyes at her reflection. Was she not the reigning Venus of the city? How dare he use her in such a fashion! Or, more to the point, not use her as any sensible man would.
“Madonna?” Jacopo intruded. “Do you wish to hear the rest?”
Cosma drew herself upright. “Of course,” she snapped. “That is why I pay you. What else did the canal rat do this afternoon?”
Jacopo started to laugh at her remark, but choked instead when she glared at him. “He visited a wine shop where he dined and played at cards with several young gentlemen. I recognized Messere Niccolo Dandelli and his younger brother.”
Cosma nodded. The Dandelli brothers were notorious rakes with full purses and empty time to fill—two of her favorite patrons. In fact, Niccolo had introduced her to Francis last November. She saw no problems in that quarter. “Go on.”
The youth rubbed his nose. “Then he returned to his rooms at the Sturgeon where he napped, as is his custom. His landlord told me that Messere Bardolph is not used to the late hours we Venetians keep. He must prepare himself for night sport—and for you, madonna,” he added with a fawning look.
And drink his kill-love liqueur, Cosma thought. A plague of fleas upon Lord Francis Bardolph! Aloud she asked, “Where is he now?”
Jacopo folded his arms across his chest. “Still sleeping at the Sturgeon. I took this opportunity to report to you.” He gave her another hungry look.
Cosma pretended not to notice his lust though she enjoyed her power over the callow boy. Opening a small casket on her dresser she took out a scudo. “Come, Jacopo,” she purred, holding out the money to him. “Come take your fee.”
He all but ran across the distance between them. Just before he could grab the coin, she closed her fingers over it. “Kneel,” she commanded with a smile.
He immediately dropped to the floor before her. His slavering obedience soothed her ruffled vanity. Leaning over, she allowed him to view a generous portion of her bosom. “Kiss my foot.”
With a huge smile displaying a set of white teeth not yet stained with too much wine or missing from decay, Jacopo smothered her right slipper with his loud kisses. When he tried to pry off her shoe for further adoration, she dropped the scudo in front of his nose. The silver coin clinked on the cold tiles.
“Enough for now, dear boy,” she murmured, pulling her foot free of his grasp. “Too many sweets will dull your appetite.”
“Never,” he replied with a low groan of despair.
Waving him away, she gave her attention to her mirror. “Be off! Return to Lord Bardolph’s inn and continue your vigil. Hurry before he wakes from his nap.”
Jacopo stood, pocketed his wages, and tossed her a shrug. “He will sleep till five. He is a man of habit.” Casting her one final look of longing, the youth left the chamber and clattered noisily down the stairs.
As soon as her minion was gone, Cosma put down her comb and the jar of hair pomade. Her toilette could wait a bit while she attended to a more pressing matter. Still fuming over Francis’s dishonesty at the apothecary’s, Cosma decided to raise the stakes a notch. If her so-called lover intended to use artifice to cool his ardor, she would employ the same method to bring him to her bed. This English lord was too fine a prize to let him slip away just because of some addlepated notion of his to not father a child. A baby was exactly what Cosma needed to bind herself permanently to Francis, his noble title and his fortune. Then it would be farewell to the exciting but extremely hazardous life of a courtesan.
Cosma rose and crossed her bedchamber to her library next door. She surveyed her four shelves of precious books with pride of ownership. She possessed one of the finest private collections in all of Venice: books of poetry, romance, history, philosophy—and the arts of love. She ran her finger along the ribbed leather spines until she found the one she sought—a new addition to her store of erotic knowledge. The Perfumed Garden, written with exquisite detail by a Muslim sheik. She flipped through its pages until she came to the section dealing with aphrodisiacs. She chuckled to herself. Francis’s potion would be no match for the delicacies she would prepare for him tonight.
I shall be a titled English lady before Easter!
The great bell of Saint Mark’s Basilica tolled six in the evening when Francis put down his quill and rubbed his eyes. Another report completed for Sir William Cecil. Francis blew on the ciphers to dry the ink. He flexed his fingers after an hour of laborious writing in code. Then he raised his right hand and admired the way his fingers still moved without stiffness. God bless the black-haired healer! He wished he had learned of her months ago. What a delightful creature she was! Fresh—and so intriguing behind her mask. Not like Cosma, he reflected with a frown. She hid behind a mask of cosmetics, artfully applied, of course, but false all the same. He massaged the bridge of his nose. Cosma! How was he going to solve that problem?
Initially she had been amusing and full of helpful gossip. Francis had enjoyed her company and taken the pleasure he allowed himself when sporting with a woman. At first she had only laughed at his precautions against conception, applauding him for his thoughtfulness. He had been happy enough to let her think her protection was his sole concern.
Since Christmastide however, their easy relationship had undergone a change. Cosma demanded more from him than he was willing to give—and her font of information about the various members of Venice’s Great Council had decreased. Her usefulness now gone, Francis discovered that he had grown tired of her nagging personality. Recently she spoke of marriage in an offhand manner, but Francis had heard those words and seen that same calculating look in a woman’s eye before. The time had definitely come to end the affair, but he knew Cosma well enough to realize that she would not let him go peaceably. The break would be loud and messy; possibly dangerous if she sought revenge. He dreaded the confrontation.
He stared at the green glass vial on the table. What sort of witch’s brew had that dog of an apothecary sold him? Francis hated the idea of drinking something foreign, but he hated even more the idea of succumbing to Cosma’s seductive wiles. He vowed to never father a bastard as he had been fathered. His mind comprehended this deepest fear but he could not yet discipline his body’s lustful inclinations. Only this morning, the mysterious Donna Jessica had stirred the desires that he thought he had banked against the assaults of Venus. Jessica’s fingers ensnared him when he had least expected it and her voice entranced him into a state of near bliss. Worst of all—he had enjoyed the entire experience and he looked forward to its repetition in two days’ time.
Closing his eyes, he groaned aloud. His passionate nature ran too deep for him to completely subjugate it. He should not be surprised, considering the lusty histories of both his natural parents. Their fires flowed in his blood. Francis reached for the vial, uncorked it and sniffed.
Hoy day! If the devil has an odor, this would be it. He grimaced. Church bells tolled the half hour. He dragged himself to his feet. At this rate he would be late to Cosma’s house and she did not take kindly to his tardiness. Best to keep her content for as long as possible. Only a few more weeks until the spring thaw made the roads passable; then he could kiss Cosma—and Venice—farewell.
Taking a deep breath, he lifted the bottle to his lips and tossed its vile contents down his throat. Sweet Jesu! The taste alone was enough to convert a man to life-long celibacy.
Three-quarters of an hour later he was in Cosma’s lemon-yellow house on the Rio di San Cassiano canal. Her second-floor solar was lit with many fat, sweet-scented candles in black iron holders. Her little handmaid, Nerissa, plucked a pleasing tune on her beribboned mandolin. Cosma herself rivaled the Goddess of Love in her diaphanous gown of pale yellow silk. Her perfume wafted across his nostrils with intoxicating invitation. Though the elixir did not sit well in his stomach, Francis was glad he had drunk it. Cosma had obviously woven her gilded web for his complete downfall tonight.
“Come, let us sup, my love,” she murmured after recovering from his cool greeting. “Tell me the news of your day.”
He glanced at the table set for a feast. Wine sparkled in pink glass goblets and silver-covered dishes crowded the nearby sideboard. His stomach growled with a mixture of hunger and revulsion. He swallowed. “My day was nothing but loud talk among half-wits.” He dismissed his activities both innocent and subversive. “I had much rather feast upon your conversation, gattina mia—my little kitten.”
Cosma flashed a wide smile as she pulled him toward her repast. “Then I will not deny you the pleasure of satisfying your appetite—all your appetites,” she purred.
With a resigned sigh, Francis lowered himself onto the padded leather armchair. He had absolutely no appetite for anything—food or otherwise. Cosma seated herself opposite him. Outside her window a creeping fog swathed the lantern lights of the houses on the opposite side of the canal in a soft damp glow. The misty gray vapor muffled the singing of the gondoliers as they plied their slim black boats through the still water. With graceful movements born of practice, Cosma uncovered a dish.