Читать книгу One Knight In Venice - Tori Phillips - Страница 11

Sophia looked up from her kettle of thick soup as Jessica entered the tiny kitchen at the back of the house. The savory aroma of simmering chicken and onions comforted the young woman. Still out of breath from her dash through the maze of alleyways and squares between the great piazza and the safety of her little home north of the Rialto Bridge, Jessica sank onto a short-legged wooden stool. Tossing back her hood, she plucked the mask from her face.

Sophia planted a hand on her ample hip. “How now? I thought you went to church?”

“I did,” Jessica replied. Her heart still raced within her bosom.

“Then why have you returned looking as if you were pursued by a demon?”

Drawing in a deep breath, Jessica leaned back against the cool plaster wall. “He was at Saint Mark’s.”

The little woman’s eyes widened. “Who? Il diavolo in a house of God? Tell me, does he truly have horns and cloven feet?”

Despite her recent fright, Jessica smiled. “No, Sophia. I speak of the English lord from yesterday.” She sat up straighter. “He was there and he stopped me as I was leaving.”

“And?” Sophia cocked her head like one of Venice’s gray-feathered pigeons.

Jessica twisted her fingers in her lap. “How did he know I would be there?” she whispered. “Unless he had me watched. Did he station a man outside my door to see if I consorted with Jews? Perchance he hopes to trap me, to prove that I am not a good Christian woman.”

“Mayhap he expects you to fly over the rooftops on a broomstick,” Sophia remarked wryly. “Or invite nine or ten alley cats to a dance.”

Jessica glared at her. “Tis no laughing matter. Why do I feel that I tread upon eggshells when Lord Bardolph is near? He frightens me.”

Sophia snorted. “Only that? Are you sure there is nothing else he does to you when he is standing next to you?”

Closing her eyes, Jessica allowed herself to explore the myriad unfamiliar feelings that had assailed her when Sir Francis had held her hand. Though he had worn gloves, she felt his heat penetrate her skin. Setting her blood afire. Leaving her breathless. Making her giddy with a strange emotion that she had never experienced.

“He is not like other men,” she responded lamely.

Sophia turned back to the soup that threatened to bubble over into the fire. “Agreed. He is as tall as a ship’s mast.”

Jessica rolled her eyes. Sophia could be so annoying at times. “I mean he is not like the others who have sought my help. I know how to slip away from the searching hands of those Lotharios old and young who seek to press their advantage upon me. They laugh and shrug and tell me that there will be another day. And I know how to listen to those sad-faced men who complain of their aches and pains when it is really their wives and their dull marriages that make them feel ill. They leave happier and call me sweet names that they will not remember by the time they reach the canal. But this man…”

Shivering, she hugged herself as she recalled his low gentle voice and the infinite beauty of his face. “He is so different. He dresses as if he had not a care in the world, yet he bears a weight inside of him greater than all the henpecked husbands of Venice.” She caught Sophia’s gaze. “He told me this morning that he had just learned of his grandfather’s death.”

The little woman paused in her soup stirring and sketched a hasty sign of the cross. “Poor man!”

Jessica stared at the glowing red coals in the hearth. “And I think that is the truth, yet he was sad yesterday when he did not know of his grandfather’s passing. Is he sad because he must disguise his true self? Sophia, I cannot banish the fear that he is really a secret agent of the Holy Office.”

Sophia tasted her concoction and added a pinch of salt. “And yet?”

Jessica massaged her temples. “I swear I must be going mad for I cannot wait until he returns here tomorrow. Just thinking about him makes my heart pound. Do you suppose I am coming down with a fever?”

Sophia turned slowly around and surveyed Jessica. She crossed her arms over her breasts with an odd gleeful look in her eye. “Just so, cara mia. I think you have been bitten by a strange malady that usually comes in the springtime.”

Jessica gasped. “The plague? Please, Sophia, tell me it is not so!”

Sophia chuckled. “No, my sweet girl, you are safe from that scourge. Let us speak no more about it today for I could be wrong and I do not wish to alarm you further. Wait and see. Perhaps tomorrow I can better tell.”

Jessica felt her forehead and cheeks with her palms but found that she was not unusually hot. “Is it a fatal illness?”

Sophia laughed behind her hand. “Not usually. Enough of this idle prattle. Go attend to your business and allow me to tend to mine. Little Miriam is due to arrive at any moment and she needs all the soothing care that you can give her.” The small woman shook her head. “If you ask me, fourteen years is too young to have a baby, no matter what her dolt of a husband thinks. Bah! Men!”

Jobe regarded his young friend with a keen interest. He was heartened that the most serious member of the Cavendish family had finally given evidence of his passionate nature. “Be of good cheer, Francis. You said you will see your elusive dove on the morrow. For today, let us walk about this delightful city and share goodly talk. I confess I am consumed with curiosity. Why these gaudy garments that are better suited to a rake than to a man of intelligence and somber wit?”

Francis curled his lips. “You do not approve of my rags? They are the very last word in fashion, I assure you.”

The African arched his dark brow. “If those are the last words, then put a period to end their sentence.”

A ghost of a smile hovered on Francis’s lips. “Tis for the future of England’s foreign trade that I play the fool. I am dressed to blend into the background.”

Jobe snorted. “Aye, as the red nose of a drunkard blends in with his green face.”

Francis waved away this observation. “When I was in Paris, I played the part of a roving jongleur. Thank God, Lady Alicia insisted that I learn how to play a lute and recorder! That disguise served me well for over two years. In Padua, I became a dense medical student. In Pisa and Rome, a stuttering cleric. The stutter spared me from having to say a Mass, hear a confession or to answer probing questions.”

He continued, “In Genoa, I worked as a dockhand until my muscles screamed in protest. In Florence, I pretended to be an artist. That was a mistake of the first order for I discovered that I could not draw to save my life. When I came here I adopted the guise of an English rake who is somewhat addled in his wits.” He kissed the back of his hand with a flourish. “Naturally I was accepted by the ruling class as one of their own.”

Jobe chuckled. “Belle would die laughing if she could see you now.”

Francis grimaced. “Don’t remind me and I pray you, never tell her. She would tease me for a lifetime. How fares my sister and her rogue of a husband? Are they well? And her children? Tis an odd thing to think of Belle as the mother of two boys.”

Jobe guided their steps toward the Rialto Bridge where he hoped the bustle of early morning commerce and gossip-mongering would lighten their mood. “All are in most excellent health and pine for your return. Tis seven years since you last set foot in Wolf Hall. Do you intend to roam the wide world forever?”

Francis avoided Jobe’s gaze. “I am needed abroad in the service of the king,” he replied without emotion.

“Belle’s son Thomas needs his godfather to give his young mind direction toward books instead of pranks. And your father yearns for your company again.”

“Which father is that?” Francis mumbled into the collar of his cloak. “I had several.”

The African narrowed his eyes. Since Jobe had last seen Francis in Rome the previous year, the young man’s melancholy had grown worse and the canker in his soul had festered. If it were not lanced soon, Jobe feared that his friend would not live to see his fortieth birthday. And yet, this morning had given the African a spark of hope. He vowed he would not leave Venice or Francis until that spark could be ignited into a blaze of joy. “Tis the season of mirth,” he remarked aloud.

Francis cast him a glum look. “I am too heavy for sporting tricks.”

They entered a crowded square near the Rialto Bridge. Vendors of vegetables and fish did a lively business with the early rising housewives of the district. The mouth-watering aroma of fresh bread took the chill off the day. Even the sun’s watery eye seemed to burn brighter. Clusters of bearded men in bright yellow hats spoke among themselves in low tones. The Jews who controlled the intricate web of international financing discussed the price of gold and the rates of interest on the cargoes of rare spices from the Turkish empire: nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon and peppercorns. The paving stones of the square and the stucco walls of the surrounding houses reverberated with the pulse of life.

Clapping Francis on the back, Jobe pointed to the marketplace. “My purse is full and these goods entice me. Let us lose ourselves in some wanton shopping.”

Francis surveyed the cheerful scene. “Methinks I should buy a mourning band for Sir Thomas.”

Jobe nodded. “Aye, that as well, but first you must help me select some fripperies for my wives.”

Surprise etched Francis’s handsome face. “I never knew you were married.”

The African laughed. “Four times and each one is a priceless jewel.”

The young man shook his head. “Methinks there is something unholy in that arrangement.”

Jobe disagreed. “Not so, my friend. You forget that I am not a Christian and so am not bound by your laws, though my Portuguese captors did their best to beat the word of the Lord into my head. At least I learned how to swear most religiously in a number of tongues.”

Francis rewarded him with a grin. The boy should laugh more often, Jobe thought. A man with such a face as his commits a grave sin against the Creator by not enhancing his good looks with a smile.

“Very well, my dear pagan, what sort of gifts have you in mind for your women?” Francis asked.

Jobe steered him toward one of the goldsmith shops that edged the campo. “My darlings come from Africa, Alexandria and Cyprus, but they all have one thing in common. My delicate flowers adore jewelry. I shall deck them in gold necklaces, copper bracelets and those colorful glass beads. Come, help me choose!”

Francis ducked through the shop’s low door. “Your last voyage must have been a profitable one.”

Jobe grinned. “Aye, both legal trade of English wool and some conveyance of goods courtesy of several unfortunate galleys belonging to the sultan.”

Francis nodded a greeting to the eager shopkeeper. “One of these days you will find yourself dancing on the point of a scimitar.”

Jobe placed his forefinger against his nose. “But not yet and tis only today that counts.” Then he turned his attention to the glittering wares that the goldsmith displayed for them. “You have all the wealth of the world,” he complimented the snaggletoothed little man in Italian.

By the time Jobe had completed his purchases, the weak sun had managed to dispel the last of the morning’s dank mist. The African was pleased to note that Francis’s mood had also warmed, especially after a mug of spiced red wine and a repast of juicy roasted fowl from the wine shop. The sounds around them increased as masked merrymakers ebbed in and out of the square leaving laughter and music in their wake.

“Ah! I love carnival time!” Jobe exclaimed. “Especially in Venice. Tis the only good reason to have Lent for—”

At that moment his inner sixth sense told him that a pair of secretive eyes watched them.

Without altering his cheerful expression, Jobe said in a low tone, “We have interested a shadow.” He touched one of the knives he wore in a bandoleer across his chest. “Shall I tickle him to see how well he squeals?”

Francis glanced over his shoulder, then shook his head. “You mean that thin whipster in the stained brown cloak? He has been with us since we left Saint Mark’s. He is one of Cosma’s lapdogs.” He gave Jobe a rueful grin. “Methinks my mistress does not trust me to be faithful to her.”

Jobe’s intuition scented an undercurrent of danger. “Are you sure this dog has no teeth?”

Francis shrugged. “Tis but a pup—all ears and tales. Trust me. I have seen him skulking around Cosma’s house on several occasions.”

“Pups can grow into vicious jackals,” the African muttered.

Jobe spent the rest of the day in Francis’s company helping him to ease the pain of his loss. While the young Englishman paid their shadow no mind, Jobe kept a wary eye on the sallow-faced boy who hovered behind them at a short distance. The guttersnipe needed to learn a thing or two about the art of concealment and pursuit, Jobe decided. He almost pitied their dogged follower.

In midafternoon, Francis surprised Jobe by announcing, “What a dolt I am! I have an appointment that almost slipped my mind.”

Thinking that his companion meant that he had a meeting with an informant, Jobe turned to go. Francis put his hand on his arm. “Nay, do not leave me now. You must accompany me and keep me entertained for one more hour at least.”

Mystified by Francis’s sudden animation, Jobe nodded. “I am yours to command for this whole day. Do we visit a house of pleasure, perchance?”

Francis shook his head. “Surely you jest, my friend. Donna Cosma is all I can manage as it is. I speak of something that you will find infinitely more amusing—I am having my portrait painted by one of Maestro Titian’s pupils.”

Laughter bubbled up from Jobe’s broad chest. “You? I did not realize that a rivulet of vanity ran through your veins. Tis rich news indeed.”

Francis’s ears turned red. “Tis not for vanity’s sake but as part of my false persona. All wealthy travelers to Venice must have their portraits painted. Tis expected. I had barely been in the city a fortnight when I received at least a half dozen invitations to visit the studios of the city’s famous painters.”

He turned down a calle. “Titian’s studio is at the far end of this street. The maestro’s work is superb but very costly. His pupils are apt enough for Lord Cecil’s expense account. Is our fledgling still with us?”

Jobe did not need to turn around to know the answer. “Aye, though he grows weary.”

Francis grinned. “A pity he cannot come inside. I fear he will have a long cold wait.”

Jobe chuckled. Francis knocked upon a door that was in desperate need of a fresh coat of green paint. After a few minutes’ wait and a second rap of the knocker, a harried young boy admitted them. With scarcely a nod of recognition, the child ushered the two tall men up a narrow flight of stairs and into a large chamber filled with the most amazing jumble of clutter that Jobe had ever seen. Half-finished paintings of every size leaned against the walls in haphazard formations. More paintings sat on easels that stood at random angles on the wide bare floor. A dozen or so young men, most of them covered with daubs of paint and all of them looking intense, worked at various projects. The odor of turpentine, paint and rotten eggs hung overhead. Jobe sneezed.

Their page interrupted the most frazzled member of this fraternity and pointed to Francis. By way of greeting, the Englishman executed the most outlandish court bow. Jobe covered his snicker with another sneeze.

“Signor Bassanio, a thousand pardons,” Francis gushed. “My dear friend Jobe, standing here before you, arrived quite unexpectedly this day and we have been gamboling about La Serenissima, Venice the most Serene, enjoying its delights. I fear that I have overstepped my time. I beg your forgiveness.”

Jobe hid his grin. If he punctured Francis at this moment the boy would spew treacle instead of blood.

Bassanio wiped his hands on his smudged smock. “No apology is necessary, my lord. It is always a pleasure to wait upon you.” He pointed to the high-legged stool set in a spot that caught the faint glow of the afternoon’s playful light. “Please take your accustomed seat, messere.”

Francis doffed his cloak, shook the dampness from the plume on his hat and fluffed his sleeves. With a wide smile and graceful movements, he approached the humble stool and perched his hip upon it. He winked at Jobe.

Despite his mummery, Jobe liked like him better for the pose. Francis should adopt it as his own—in moderation.

Bassanio selected a covered canvas, screwed it into place on his easel and removed the cloth. “¿Signore?” He gestured to Jobe. “You may wish to see what I have done while I prepare my palette.” He stepped away with an expression of shy pride on his round face.

“My pleasure,” replied Jobe, advancing closer to view the nearly completed portrait. He drew in a quick breath at the sight.

“Tis that bad?” Francis asked in English. “I had planned to give it to Belle. Mayhap she should use it as a target for her archery practice. Well? What do you think of it?”

“Tis a wonder to behold,” Jobe replied.

Why had he never marked the resemblance before? The tilt of the head was the same. So was the merry sparkle in the blue eyes that Francis usually shielded from public view. The long legs, the tapered fingers and the easy set of the shoulders mirrored those same attributes of Francis’s true paternity. Unknowingly, the Venetian artist had set in paint a study not of Sir Brandon Cavendish but of his brother Sir Guy, the most handsome member of that illustrious family.

Staring at the canvas, Jobe experienced a rare flash of hindsight. As if he were an invisible onlooker, he observed a scene in his mind that must have taken place thirty years beforehand. As clearly as he saw Francis perched on the stool before him, Jobe saw Guy as a young man glowing with good health and the pride of his victory in the day’s tournament. A ripe beauty with nut-brown hair sauntered into view, smiled and beckoned to the too handsome youth. With a lusty but silent laugh, Guy followed her into a colorful pavilion. The image shimmered in Jobe’s brain for a final moment before it shattered into the present.

“Heigh ho, Jobe!” Francis called. “Have you wax in your ears? Tell me what the devil do I look like.”

The African gave himself a shake. Clearing his throat, he smiled at his bewildered friend. “You have not seen it for yourself?”

Francis made a face. “Bassanio has strictly charged me not to view my visage until he gives me leave to do so. Methinks he fears I will be displeased and refuse to pay him. Well? What say you?”

Bassanio came up behind Jobe. The young painter eyed the bandoleer of knives. He gulped. “Does my work please you, signore?”

Jobe smiled at him. “You have a true gift. You have caught his very soul.” And much more, Jobe realized as his prophetic insight once again took hold of him. A secret, greater than anyone suspected, lay hidden over the shoulder of the painted Francis.

Bassanio grinned like a schoolboy. “Grazie, signore. Now, my Lord Bardolph, wipe away your doubts and do not move a muscle. I have much work still to do.” He dipped his brush into a golden hue and mixed it with a light brown color. “It is the highlights in your hair that elude me and I must work quickly. The daylight fades even as we speak.”

Francis sighed with exasperation but said nothing while Bassanio commenced to paint. While Jobe watched him, he mulled over the scant knowledge of Francis’s birth that he had learned from Belle’s husband, Mark Hayward. It was no shame among the Cavendish family that both Belle and Francis had been conceived out of wedlock in June 1520 during the near legendary meeting between the kings of England and France that the chroniclers now called the Field of Cloth of Gold. Belle was the love child of Brandon Cavendish and a French vintner’s daughter while Francis was born to a noblewoman of infamous reputation, Lady Olivia Bardolph.

When seven-year-old Francis was fostered to the Cavendish family, his distinct Viking looks bespoke of his true parentage. Since Brandon had also slept with the lascivious lady, he presumed Francis to be his own, as well. But Brandon had never claimed Francis, not even when Lord Richard Bardolph, Francis’s father of record, had died.

Studying the portrait, Jobe willed his vision to appear once more but it did not. No need. Under the light strokes of Bassanio’s brush, Guy returned Jobe’s penetrating look. The African wondered if he should tell Francis now or wait to see if the young man would notice the resemblance himself. Jobe decided to remain silent on the matter. Francis had suffered enough shocking family news for one day. The time of this latest reckoning—and its hidden secret—would come soon enough.

Francis longed to scratch his nose but he did not dare move. Why was it that his nose never itched until he sat for this poxy portrait? He hoped that Belle would appreciate Bassanio’s labors. To distract himself from the annoying tickle, he stared into middle space and listened to the idle chatter of the other apprentices in the chamber. Since he had first sat for Bassanio, he had overheard several interesting tidbits of news that he had passed on to Sir William. This mindless exercise turned out to be well worth the ducats and tedium.

He tried not to let his mind wander back to his grandfather’s demise. That wound in his heart was still too raw to allow much thought in such a public place. He was deeply grateful that Bassanio had not asked the meaning of the black armband that Francis now wore in Sir Thomas’s memory. Instead, Francis cast furtive glances at Jobe’s serious countenance. He has that look he gets when he sees the future.

Bassanio clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Per favore, messere,” the painter pleaded. “Do not roll your eyes so. You try me to the quick.”

“Your pardon,” Francis replied, barely moving his lips.

He wished he could read Jobe’s inscrutable mind. There was something about the portrait that had surprised the African. Yet he did not seem displeased. Francis prayed that the painter had not given his skin that greenish tinge that appeared on some paintings he had seen during a covert trip he had made to Madrid. It was bad enough that he would be preserved in these gaudy clothes for all time. In any event, Belle would have a good laugh at his expense.

Bassanio stepped back and cocked his head. “Fine,” he pronounced.

With relief, Francis got off his stool. “Finished? May I see it now?”

The painter shook his head. “I only meant that I was finished for today. The good light is gone.” He dropped his cloth over the easel. “You can come next Wednesday?”

Francis hid his disappointment. Portrait-sitting was indeed a rare form of torture. “Sì,” he agreed. He retrieved his cloak and turned to Jobe who still appeared to be lost in the forest of his own thoughts.

“Have you seen enough art for the day?” he bantered.

Blinking, Jobe nodded. He placed a ducat in the hand of the surprised painter. “My thanks, signore, for a most excellent afternoon.”

Bassanio’s face lit up with a wide smile. “Come again, signore! Come often. Indeed, it would be an honor to paint you! I am your humble servant.” With more drivel of the same sort, Bassanio showed them out into the narrow street.

Francis drew in a deep breath of the early evening air. Another light mist from the lagoon curled around the house corners. “Tell me, Jobe, what did you see in there?”

The ebony giant chuckled. “I saw a painted fool.”

Francis knew there was more. “And what else? Come now, I saw your face. You had another vision. Tell me.”

Jobe gave him a searching look before he answered. “Very well. I beheld a dangerous secret, one that is bright-shining like the sun in splendor. For many years it has lain hidden deep amid the roots of your family. Soon it will be revealed but how or when, I do not know.”

Which family, Francis wondered, Bardolph or Cavendish?

Assuming a lighter mood, Jobe draped his arm over Francis’s shoulder. “Where away? Do we sup with the delectable Donna Cosma?”

Francis stared up at the chimney pots across the way. He had no desire to see his husband-hunting mistress. “Not I tonight, my friend, though I would not deny you that singular pleasure if you wish it.”

Jobe stroked his beardless chin. “How now? Surely the wench expects you. Your landlord gave me the impression that you always spent your evenings at her establishment.”

Francis thought of the sweet, mysterious, fascinating Jessica. “Tis time for a change, methinks. Let us repair to my inn where mine host serves a passable meal, and we shall have a long talk in private. I am anxious to hear all the news of…of home.”

Jobe nodded with a grin. “Then I am your man. I will purchase a bottle of sweet wine and then I will fill your nighttime hours with so many tales that you will cry ‘enough!”’

“Good!” Francis savored his pleasant thoughts of Jessica. “The morrow will come more quickly.”

Jobe’s laughter rumbled up from his throat. “Methinks I scent l’amore!”

Francis snorted. “When pigs fly.”