One Knight In Venice. Tori Phillips

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      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 any 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!

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