One Knight In Venice

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?”