One Knight In Venice. Tori Phillips

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      “Madonna, there is a man waiting to see you,” said the dwarf.

      Blowing a tendril of her black hair out of her eyes, Jessica Leonardo smiled at her diminutive friend and confidante. “Many of my clients are men, Sophia. What is so unusual about this particular one?”

      The little woman pursed her lips. “He is tall. His head brushes the ceiling.” Sophia shrugged. “Well, almost. And…he is foreign. A Viking, I think.” She shuddered.

      Jessica suppressed a grin. “You are not sure?”

      Sophia fluttered her pudgy fingers. “God in Heaven, how can one tell? The man speaks our language but with an accent and he is dressed in all the fashions of the world. His hose reek of Paris while his doublet could only be from Verona. His overcoat looks like something the English would fancy, and his bonnet? I cannot begin to guess what nationality his hat calls itself.” She narrowed her eyes. “But this I do know. Though his clothing fits him well, he looks to me as if he wears borrowed finery.”

      Jessica cocked her head. “How now? You speak in riddles, Sophia.”

      “Then let me tell you plainly. Though he is dressed like a wastrel, he learned his manner in a monastery. I swear that he could hear a merry tale, yet never crack a smile.”

      Jessica wiped her marble pestle clean of the dried lavender she had ground. Then she rinsed her hands in a nearby basin of water. “I long to behold this wonder,” she said, drying her fingers on her work apron.

      She crossed to the wall that separated her still room from the antechamber. Sliding back a small rectangle of the paneling she squinted through the peephole. “¡Dio mio!” she whispered under her breath.

      As Sophia had described him, a giant of a man paced around her comfortably appointed waiting room like a mighty lion in a too confining cage. He clutched his ruby-colored feathered bonnet in his right hand while he ran the fingers of his left through hair that was the color and sheen of old gold. Jessica scrutinized him with a practiced gaze that had beheld many men’s bodies of all ages and stages.

      The stranger’s red-and-white-striped hose accentuated the muscles of his unusually long legs. He sported a golden codpiece in the shape of a scallop shell and his tight red-velvet doublet ended just at the waistline instead of below it. A shirt of cream silk billowed through the slashed gold-embroidered sleeves, making his shoulders appear even wider than nature’s design. The sleeveless outer coat that dropped almost to his knees was fashioned from gold brocade and lined with red fox fur—very costly. The short scarlet cape that covered his shoulders gave him the appearance of having wings. Cheerful crimson pom-poms crowned the straps of his golden square-toed shoes.

      Yet the gentleman’s most arresting feature was his face. Finely chiseled, as if he were a saint carved by the great sculptor Sansovino, the stranger’s expression belied the gaudy cheer of his apparel. He looked intense, intelligent and extremely dangerous.

      “Am I not right?” Sophia whispered behind her. “I told you he is not what he appears to be.”

      An icy chill clutched Jessica’s heart. Could the stranger be a priest from the Holy Office disguised to test my faith? She shivered. Please, dear Lord, she prayed, give me strength and courage.

      Then she noticed that the man rubbed his right shoulder and flexed the fingers of his right hand. Though his expression did not change, a whisper of pain flickered in his sky-blue eyes. No matter what he pretended to be, Jessica could tell that her mysterious client suffered true discomfort. After replacing the peephole cover, she turned to Sophia.

      The little woman cocked her head to one side. “Will you see him? Shall I tell Gobbo to wear his stiletto?”

      Taking a deep breath to quell the spasms in the pit of her stomach, Jessica nodded. As she untied her stained apron, she asked, “Did you tell the gentleman of my conditions?”

      “Sì,” Sophia snapped, “though he knew about them before I even spoke.” She drew closer to Jessica. “Take care, madonna. This man has no mirth in his soul.”

      Jessica swallowed a hard knot in her throat. “Of course not. He is in pain.”

      Sophia jutted out her double chins. “Ha! He has no laugh lines around his eyes. You shall see.”

      Jessica lifted her leather mask from its peg by the door. The white-painted face depicted Columbina, one of the characters from the popular Commedia dell’Arte. Jessica threaded its black ribbons over her ears and tied a tight knot under her thick braid. Her mask must not slip down at the wrong moment.

      She turned to Sophia. “Is it on straight? Does it cover the—” She could not bear to say the word “mark”—not when an officer of the dreaded Inquisition might be the man that waited so impatiently for her appearance.

      Sophia stroked her cold hand. “He will see nothing he should not.”

      Sending another quick prayer to heaven, Jessica opened the door to the adjoining chamber and stepped inside. The giant lord instantly stopped his prowling. He is even taller than I thought. He must be close to seven feet. Jessica dropped a curtsy. Under her green woolen skirt, her knees trembled.

      “Good morning, messere. It is an honor to welcome your lordship to my establishment. I am Jessica Leonardo. How may I serve you?”

      To her surprise, he sketched a small bow in return. Obviously the man had recently arrived in the city. No proper Venetian gentleman ever gave reverence to a common woman. Does he mock me or does he hope to put me off my guard?

      “Greetings, Signorina Leonardo,” he replied in a deep melodic voice. “I thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

      Jessica indicated one of the padded half-moon chairs. “Will it please you to be seated, messere?” Her hand shook a little. She tucked it within a fold of her skirt.

      To her relief, he eased his long frame onto the seat. Now she could see his face better. How beautiful his eyes were—yet filled with more than mere physical pain. “Tell me how I may help you?”

      He blinked. “I have an old injury—here.” He touched his right shoulder. “The damp, chill weather has aggravated it.”

      “Ah,” Jessica remarked, drinking in the music of his voice. “Then you have not lived long in Venice?” she asked in a casual manner. Observing the way he held his body, she noticed that he favored his right side.

      His lips parted as if to smile but stopped before they could complete the action. “I was born in England.”

      Jessica nodded. “A very cold, wet country, I am told.”

      “Indeed,” he replied. His even white teeth flashed in the pale morning’s light that glinted off the water of the narrow canal outside Jessica’s grilled window. “That is why I have spent my recent years seeking warmer climes.”

      Jessica had the uneasy feeling that her visitor pursued goals other than the sun’s rays. “You speak Italian well—even our own dialect that many visitors to Venice find confusing.”

      He lifted one of his dark golden eyebrows. “I have a good ear for many languages. It is one of my few talents.”

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