One Knight In Venice

The bells of the nearby church chimed ten melodic strokes. Using a pair of wooden tongs, Jessica laid a thick piece of toweling over the pile of hot stones that hissed with clouds of steam when she ladled a dipper of water over them. Sophia rushed into the kitchen and shut the door behind her as if all the demons of hell had arrived by gondola.

“He’s back!” she told Jessica, her eyes wide with fright.

Her little companion’s demeanor unnerved Jessica. She swallowed. “I presume you mean the Englishman. He promised to come this morning at ten.” Jessica’s hands trembled. “What is amiss?”

Sophia glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. “Sì, the sad lord is in the antechamber but he is not alone.” She lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. “He is accompanied by another who is even taller.”

Jessica experienced a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “¡Madre del Dio! They have come to drag me before the Inquisition. But I have done nothing wrong, Sophia,” she protested. “Though my parents have returned to their former religion, I have always obeyed the Holy Church of Rome. I have done nothing wrong,” she repeated under her breath like a prayer.

The little woman did not hear Jessica’s plaintive words. She stared fixedly at the door. “The new one is black as midnight. An Ethiope, I warrant.” She made a face. “And he smiles exceedingly much!”

Jessica blinked. An African in company with Lord Bardolph? Could such a one also be a member of the Holy Office? She discarded the very notion. She had seen a few blackamoors in the piazza, especially during the Carnevale season, but never one inside a church. And yet—yesterday, the English gentleman had been accompanied by a tall man, one who lingered in the shadows. Like a dark shadow himself.

She gave herself a shake. She could not hide in her kitchen for the rest of her life. “Come, Sophia! We must not tarry or they will grow restive and knock the house down with their elbows.”

Sophia crossed her arms over her tight bodice. “This is not the time to jest, child. We must look to our safety. I shall tell Gobbo to be armed with his stiletto as well as his lute.”

Jessica refrained from pointing out that the little man’s dagger would be as effectual as a mouse’s tooth against a lion. “Prepare a tray of sweetmeats and pastries for the African. Pour him a generous goblet of wine—our best vintage, Sophia, and…do not water it too much. Perchance we can lull him with food until we learn their true intent.”

Sophia snorted as she bustled about the small chamber. “I vow that Ethiope could drink a full keg of thick wine and still keep a sober head. Wait until you see the size of him!”

Jessica nodded, then donned her mask. It wasn’t her curiosity to meet the giant African that caused her heart to pound against her rib cage and her skin to tingle. Her thoughts centered on the handsome English lord. She squared her shoulders just before she lifted the latch of the door. “Be quick,” she whispered to Sophia.

Both men swept her courtly bows when Jessica entered her waiting room. Sophia had not exaggerated. Their physical size filled the antechamber almost to bursting. She faltered a step.

“Good morrow, Madonna of Mystery.” Displaying a surprising grace, the African greeted her in good Italian spoken in a deep rolling bass. “Your fame is exceeded only by the beauty that you try to hide.”

I wonder where he acquired such a silky tongue? Under her mask, Jessica returned his infectious smile. “You are welcome to my home, signore.”

She glanced at his silent companion. Her breath caught in her throat. Though grief rimmed his blue eyes, the gentleman appeared ten times more handsome than when she had last seen him. Must be a trick of the light.

She cleared her throat. “Good morrow, messere.” She tried to smile at him but her lips trembled too much. “Everything is prepared for you, if you are ready.”

Before the lord could answer, the African chuckled. “Francis has been ready for you since yesterday morning, madonna.”

His friend muttered something in his own language. The African laughed again but said nothing else. Then the gentleman replied in Italian, “Forgive, Jobe, Signorina Jessica. My friend speaks more nonsense than any man in Venice.”

Jessica made a fluttering motion with her fingers. “There is nothing to forgive, messere. It is I who must beg your pardon for I see that you are not well. I fear that my cure was not as effective as I had hoped. I will gladly refund your fee. Indeed, you overpaid—”

The blond man unfastened his cloak and tossed it to the African. His blue velvet bonnet followed. “I paid you a mere pittance and your healing did me a world of good, though I must confess that I did ache a bit as you had warned me.” A tiny smile flitted across his lips before it disappeared. “It is my recent sorrow that adds bitter pangs to the old hurt. Like a pilgrim on a holy quest, I have come seeking your solace, madonna.”

Jobe whistled through his teeth. “My friend speaks the truth, fair mistress. He is much sicker than I suspected.”

The gentleman glared at the blackamoor. Just then Sophia barged through the doorway laden with a large wooden tray that was piled high with the sweet provender that Jessica had requested. Setting the platter on a small Turkish table, Sophia fixed a stern eye on the African.

“You, Signore Treetop, sit!” She pointed to the larger of the two chairs in the room. “I’ll not stretch my neck out of joint so that I can see you clearly.”

“Sophia!” Jessica gasped. What had gotten into her companion that made her speak so rudely, especially to a man who wore a brace of wicked-looking daggers across his chest?

The African broke into rolling laughter as he sank down onto the chair. “Most excellent!” he rumbled with delight. “By my beard, if I had one, I think I have met my match!”

Sophia cocked her head. “I am already married!”

The Englishman cast her a wry look. “So is he, signora. Four times!”

“Truly?” Jessica eyed the grinning giant. If he practiced such a heathenish custom he could not possibly be a cleric. Relief relaxed the knots in her stomach.

The African popped a sugared almond into his mouth. “Indeed, madonna. Now go to, Francis. I know that I leave you in good hands.” He turned his merry eyes on Sophia. “Meanwhile, little pigeon, draw up the other chair and tell me your whole life’s history and I will tell you mine.” He winked at his friend before returning his gaze to Sophia. “Methinks you and I will be spending a goodly amount of time in each other’s company.”