One Knight In Venice. Tori Phillips

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      Chapter Three

      Morning came far too early. Francis felt as if he had barely closed his eyes before Nerissa shook his shoulder.

      “Please, messere.” She shook him again. “Awake!”

      Cosma stirred next to him. “What is it, Nerissa? Go away! The dawn has not yet showed her face.”

      Francis rolled onto his side. If his stomach muscles weren’t so sore and his mouth didn’t taste so full of chicken feathers, he would have sworn he had slept through a nightmare. “How now, little Nissa?” He scrubbed his face with his hand.

      The girl clutched her dressing gown closer about her thin trembling form. “There is a man downstairs to see you.” She bit her lower lip. “A very large man.”

      Cosma frowned at her maid. “You mean to say that I have a guest at this unholy hour? What barbarian would seek the company of a lady so early in the morning? The sky is dressed in wisps of the night.”

      Nerissa shook her head. “No, madonna, the visitor is not for you but for Lord Bardolph and he said it was most urgent.” Bending closer to the bed, she whispered, “He is a blackamoor.”

      Francis tossed back the covers. “Did he give his name?” he asked with mounting excitement. He had not seen Jobe the African for over a year.

      Nerissa held out the parti-colored hose of green and gold that she had peeled off Francis last night. “He gave no name but yours, messere. But he did ask me mine,” she gulped. “He has very large teeth!”

      Francis grinned at her. “I promise he will not bite you.”

      “A pity!” Cosma pouted from the midst of her pillows. “I need a diversion since you are so sluggish. Tell me, Nerissa, is this Moor a handsome man? Well proportioned? Is he able to keep his dinner inside his stomach?” She wrinkled her nose at Francis.

      Despite her fear, the little maid giggled. “He wears a golden earring and has a great many knives across his chest.”

      Francis hurried with his dressing. “That is Jobe to the letter!” He had no idea how much he had missed a friendly face that bespoke of England.

      Cosma motioned for her dressing gown. “Ah! Our early visitor grows more interesting by the minute. Is he rich?”

      Francis laced up his shirt. “That depends upon the wealth of the most recent ship Jobe has plundered.” He chuckled to see both women blanch. “Do not look so pale. Jobe is a very lamb when among ladies.”

      “Now I am intrigued,” Cosma declared, rouging her lips and cheeks with quick deft movements. “Show him up immediately, Nerissa. And, mind you, do not gawk!” After the maid departed, she asked, “Just how are you acquainted with such a fascinating man?”

      Francis assumed his pose as an English dandy. “It is a passion of mine to collect interesting objects whilst on my travels, gattina. A Roman sculpture, a piece of the True Cross, even a wily African or two.”

      She gave him a penetrating look. “Indeed? It seems to me this man is more than one of your passing whims.”

      Francis pulled on his padded velvet doublet. “Indeed,” he agreed.

      As Jessica had forewarned him, his shoulder ached this morning as if he had exercised too much. More than ever he looked forward to his visit with her on the following day. Now that Jobe had arrived in Venice, the next twenty-four hours promised to pass less tediously. He grinned at the thought. Just then Nerissa reappeared with the giant African looming behind her like an avenging ghost.

      Cosma’s eyes widened. “¡Madre del Dio!” she breathed, taking in the African’s amazing height, the width of his powerful shoulders and the dozen tiny knives that crisscrossed his broad chest. “Welcome to my home, Black Apollo.” She retreated to the protection of her elevated bed.

      Jobe looked first at Francis in his state of semidress and then at the sleek-limbed woman in her state of near nakedness. He swept Cosma a flourishing bow. “I wondered why there was no fair moon last night to guide my ship into port, but now I understand. Diana of the silvery orb came down to earth and reclines before me. Madonna, I am your humble servant,” he said in passable Italian.

      Francis smiled behind his hand at his friend’s lavish compliments. Always the master of surprise, Jobe’s cupboard of skills was never empty. Cosma allowed her dressing gown to slip a little, revealing a snowy portion of her thigh.

      “How charming!” she replied in a voice like silk. “I forgive your early arrival when you come with such sweet words on your tongue. Francis, pray tell me, who is this god?”

      Francis gave her a wry look. She already plans to seduce him out of his purse or to make me jealous. Oddly enough, he found he wasn’t the least disturbed by Cosma’s fickleness. “Allow me to present Jobe of Africa. My family calls him our guardian angel as he has often proved to be so.”

      Jobe beamed at his introduction and bowed again, this time including the awed Nerissa in his attentions. “Do not dislike me for my complexion, I beg you, sweet ladies. I have been burnished by the fierce sun of my homeland. But who is this flawless pearl, Francis?” he asked, nodding to Cosma. “Now I see why you do not spend much time in your own lodgings. Your landlord wondered when I asked him where you were.”

      Francis rolled his eyes at his friend. Jobe could butter the bread of compliments very thick. “I have the pleasure to present to you Donna Cosma di Luna, one of the peerless beauties of Venice.”

      Jobe advanced to the thronelike bed, dropped to one knee and kissed Cosma’s bare foot. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”

      You may have her with good riddance.

      Jobe turned to the little maid who stood on tiptoe in order to see him better. “And it is only fitting that Venus should be attended by such a delicate nymph as you, sweet Nerissa,” he added in his deep voice.

      The girl nearly fainted with shock while a dart of anger flashed from Cosma’s eyes. She hated any competition. “Nerissa,” she snapped. “Some wine and bread for our guest and hurry…you slug!”

      With a squeak, Nerissa darted away.

      Francis addressed his friend in English, “A pox on you, Jobe! How can you utter such honeyed phrases at this СКАЧАТЬ