One Knight in Venice Read online

  Wincing a little, he peeled off the tight jacket. Francis chided himself for dwelling on the signorina’s tresses. He had enough female worries on his mind as it was. Lately, Cosma had become more demanding, not for the glittering baubles provided by Lord Cecil’s generous purse, but for Francis’s body and soul. Last night she had all but suggested that he marry her. Francis rolled his eyes at the low-beamed ceiling. He could just imagine the reactions of the Cavendish family if he returned to England with that piece of painted baggage.

  What a difference between these two women—Cosma and Jessica! Francis paused before untying the laces of his silken shirt. Cosma’s hair was that red-gold color favored by practically every woman in Venice. On sunny days droves of fashionable ladies could be seen on hundreds of flat housetops sunning their henna-streaked locks in crownless broad-brimmed hats. Young gallants often climbed to the top of the campanile in Saint Mark’s Square just to admire the rippling ocean of gilded tresses.

  But Jessica’s hair was black as midnight. It beckoned Francis to weave his fingers through it, though his sense of propriety and good manners forbade his hands to follow his lusty thoughts. He wondered why Jessica didn’t use cosmetics to mend her looks, as Cosma and the other votaries of Venus did, instead of hiding behind that blasted mask. He had seen only her mouth and yet it hinted of richer beauty above. Jessica’s unrouged lips were as lush and full-ripened as any courtesan’s skill could render. What would it be like to kiss lips that did not taste of paint? Francis snorted. He had wallowed too long among the fleshpots of the Continent to recall the simple pleasures of an innocent maid in a flowering meadow.

  He wondered if Jessica was still a virgin as he pulled his shirt over his head. He guessed that she was past her twentieth year, and most women had been bedded by then unless they were locked inside high-walled convents at an early age. He grimaced. Why should the state of Jessica’s maidenhead matter to him anyway? The pain that coursed down his right arm reminded Francis that this visit to a woman was strictly business of a medical nature.

  He stepped out of his shoes and pushed them against the wall with his foot. He glared at the nodding pom-poms. Ridiculous footwear! How Belle would howl with laughter if she ever glimpsed her somber brother arrayed in these gadabouts! His favorite sibling would never let him forget this indignity.

  Sitting on the divan, Francis picked up the blindfold. Small goose bumps prickled his bare flesh. Once he donned this innocent-looking scrap he would become extremely vulnerable. He would literally be in the hands of a woman who was a lovely eccentric. For all he knew, Jessica Leonardo could be in the employ of Venice’s notorious secret police. The Republic would not take kindly to an English spy prowling the dark corners of their unique city. England’s expanding merchant fleet already threatened Venice’s near monopoly of trade with the fabulous East. The merchant princes of the Republic would be exceedingly glad to end Francis’s nefarious career. The mysterious Signorina Jessica could easily stab him with a stiletto while he lay placidly on her couch like a fish on a cutting board.

  His shoulder throbbed. He flexed his stiff fingers. The devil take it! He had been in worse spots than this. This woman was said to be a notable healer. He would chance his life—once again. Francis tied the mask firmly in place then gingerly lay down and pulled the blanket up to his neck. His feet hung over the edge of the divan.

  “Signorina Jessica!” he called. “I am ready as you have commanded me.”

  The door opened behind him. He instinctively tensed; his fingers curled under the blanket. His rapier hung within arm’s reach. He caught the aroma of her perfume, a heady scent that whispered Arabian mysteries.

  “I thank you for your trust,” she said in that thrilling low voice of hers. “Please relax now.”

  Someone else entered the room—a man’s soft tread drew nearer to the divan. The hairs on the back of Francis’s neck prickled. He jumped when she placed her hand on his brow.

  “Pray be at ease, messere,” she murmured, once again addressing him as if he possessed a noble title. “It is only Gobbo, my lutist. He will play for us while I work. If the mind is soothed, so will be the body.”

  Her invisible accomplice tuned his instrument and began a gentle ballad. An accomplished musician himself, Francis admired the talent of the unseen fingers that conjured such sweet beauty from his strings. The enchanting melody hovered over him and sank into his very pores.

  A pungent odor filled his nostrils. He flinched when Jessica stroked his forehead. She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Tut-tut, messere, it is only a little camphor mixed in a light oil base. Pray forgive its aroma but it does wonders for aching joints and pounding heads.”

  She massaged his temples. Her touch was the most exquisite thing that Francis had experienced in a long time. Sensual, beguiling. He drew in a deep breath. His imagination wandered into a lush-appointed bedroom—with Jessica waiting for him between silken sheets. What those knowing fingers could do to a man if she—

  She interrupted his wanton reverie. “Before I begin, I must examine the area that afflicts you.”

  He cleared his mind. “The right shoulder,” he muttered hoarsely.

  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 a
ny 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 r
ich 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.