One Knight In Venice. Tori Phillips

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ are glad to see you, you old pirate!”

      Jobe enveloped him in a bear hug. “And you! Though I must confess that I did not expect to find you costumed like a jester.” With a chuckle, he pointed to the wide green bows on Francis’s shoes.

      Francis gave him a rueful look. “Tis a counterfeit pose, Jobe, and a long story best saved for when we are alone.”

      Before the African could reply, Cosma spoke up from her cloud of lace, lavender and goose down. “Fie, gentlemen! It is not polite to speak in a language I cannot understand. Are you plotting the downfall of Venice?”

      Jobe grinned at her. “Not so, lovely dove. We were discoursing upon your downfall. I fear you have quite overcome me.”

      Cosma simpered in reply and flashed a little more bare leg. Francis tugged at his friend’s sleeve. “Please wait until after I leave before you ravish her. In the meantime, tell me what brings you to Venice to seek me out before even the pigeons are awake?”

      At that, Jobe’s expression changed to a somber one. “I bear a heavy duty, Francis, but one that had to be done.” He withdrew a thick letter from inside his leather jerkin.

      Francis stared at it, recognizing Lady Katherine’s handwriting. Icy fingers squeezed his heart. “Bad news from…from Wolf Hall?”

      Jobe nodded. “I am sure that good Lady Kat has written her sad tidings with a gentle hand. I will amuse yonder lady while you read it. Take your time, my friend.”

      Francis turned away from Cosma’s bed. Clutching the letter close to his chest, he crossed into the antechamber. Seating himself on one of the armchairs, he drew in a deep breath before he broke open the sealing wax. His sudden hot tears blurred the words before him.

      Dearest Francis,

      Tis with a heavy heart and hand that I take up pen to write such doleful news. Two weeks ago, on the twelfth of November, Sir Thomas Cavendish was taken suddenly from this life. He died as he had lived—in the saddle. The day had been cold and bright with frost. Sir Thomas together with Brandon and Guy and many of the men from the estate went out into the forest to hunt a boar for the coming Christmastide feast. During the afternoon, at the height of the chase, the heart of his great horse burst with the strain, throwing Sir Thomas to the earth. Alas, his neck broke upon landing against a tree trunk. Death was immediate, I am told, and without pain. Dear Lady Alicia bears her sorrow well. She said to tell you that it is a comfort for her to know that Sir Thomas and his beautiful black horse rode posthaste to heaven together and that was the way you know Sir Thomas would have wanted it. I fear that Brandon has taken his father’s loss most heavily, as has Guy. It is hard for me and the children to realize that Sir Thomas is indeed gone from this earth. He seemed to be one of those men destined to live forever. Please remember him in your prayers, Francis. You were always his special pride. He often praised your love of language and poetry—gifts you both shared. In his will he has left you his library…

      Francis wiped his streaming eyes with his sleeve. Only yesterday, he had arranged for a beautiful copy of Sir Thomas More’s Utopia to be especially bound in red leather and embossed with a silver wolf’s head—the Cavendish family symbol. It was a belated New Year’s gift for the man who was his beloved grandfather. Now it was too late! Francis covered his face with his hands. After the first wave of raw grief had receded, he continued Kat’s letter.

      …of books. He knew that you most of all would appreciate them. I am sorry to be the bearer of such sad tidings. Know that I hold you close to my heart in your sorrow. Brandon joins me in sending you our love. Dear Jobe is here and will give you further details as you require. We look forward to the day when you will return to us. Come home soon, Francis! Written this 28th day of November 1549 at Wolf Hall, Northumberland.

      Your loving Katherine Cavendish

      Countess of Thornbury

      Francis reread her signature and title several times as her message sank into his brain. How quickly the world turned and turned again! Of course Lady Kat was now the new countess just as his…as Brandon became the tenth Earl of Thornbury the instant that the breath of life had left his father.

      Gripping the paper in his hand, Francis laid his head down on the table. His silent tears soaked into the green velvet cloth that covered the top. He had not felt one tenth this sorrow when he had learned of his mother’s death three years ago. Francis had barely known her in life and he had liked her even less.

      His emotions were quite different with Sir Thomas’s passing. Francis had lived under Wolf Hall’s roof for over fourteen years. Though a big man, as all the Cavendish men were, and blessed with a powerful voice, Sir Thomas was a gentle friend to the young and weak. On the other hand, the earl was a fierce competitor in the jousting arena and a ferocious foe in combat. Francis remembered the many hours they had spent together in his library studying the plays of Plautus and the writings of Erasmus. Sir Thomas had patiently taught his bastard grandson the joys of Greek and Latin and he had championed the boy’s bent for study when Brandon wanted Francis to spend more time handling a broadsword and lance. “The pen is mightier than the sword,” Sir Thomas had often told his eager pupil.

      Now that grand old man was gone forever.

      Francis read the letter a third and fourth time. He barely noticed the goblet of watered wine and a small loaf of honey bread that Nerissa placed by his hand. He stared out the window at the gloom of the breaking day. As if heaven mirrored his sorrow, rain fell lightly from the leaden skies and rolled like teardrops down the wavy panes of glass. In the distance, he heard church bells calling early worshipers to Mass.

      Francis dragged himself to his feet. I must go to church. He could not remember the last time he had stepped willingly inside a place of worship. Though he believed in God and the existence of a heaven and hell, the daily practice of religion meant very little to him. But it meant all the world to Sir Thomas. Francis must pray for his soul. It was the only thing left he could do for that wonderful old man. He strode into the bedchamber where Jobe sat on the bed’s carpeted platform and conversed with Cosma in low tones. Spying Francis, the African stood and came toward him.

      “How now, friend?” Jobe asked in English.

      Francis held out the letter now wrinkled by his grief. “These are the most loathsome words that ever blotted paper,” he told Jobe. “To think that he has lain cold in his grave for these past three months and I never knew…never knew. I have been drinking, singing and dancing—aye, and wenching while the worms dined upon my…my grandfather.” He could not continue. His shame overwhelmed him. He had never told Sir Thomas how much he loved him.

      Cosma took his hand in hers. For once, there was no artifice in her eyes. “Jobe has told me of your loss and I am sorry to hear it.”

      Francis bowed his head with his wordless thanks. Grief choked him.

      Cosma turned to the African. “His grandfather was a great man?”

      Jobe nodded. “One of England’s finest. Now he takes his place among his noble ancestors and leaves his earthly cares to his son.”

      Cosma’s expression changed subtly. “And his son is…?”

      Jobe hooded his dark eyes. “Sir Brandon Cavendish, the tenth Earl of Thornbury.”

      Francis crumpled the letter. The earl was Sir Thomas—it had always been. Francis could not yet imagine Brandon filling those large shoes.

      Cosma flicked СКАЧАТЬ