A ghost of a smile hovered on Francis’s lips. “Tis for the future of England’s foreign trade that I play the fool. I am dressed to blend into the background.”
Jobe snorted. “Aye, as the red nose of a drunkard blends in with his green face.”
Francis waved away this observation. “When I was in Paris, I played the part of a roving jongleur. Thank God, Lady Alicia insisted that I learn how to play a lute and recorder! That disguise served me well for over two years. In Padua, I became a dense medical student. In Pisa and Rome, a stuttering cleric. The stutter spared me from having to say a Mass, hear a confession or to answer probing questions.”
He continued, “In Genoa, I worked as a dockhand until my muscles screamed in protest. In Florence, I pretended to be an artist. That was a mistake of the first order for I discovered that I could not draw to save my life. When I came here I adopted the guise of an English rake who is somewhat addled in his wits.” He kissed the back of his hand with a flourish. “Naturally I was accepted by the ruling class as one of their own.”
Jobe chuckled. “Belle would die laughing if she could see you now.”
Francis grimaced. “Don’t remind me and I pray you, never tell her. She would tease me for a lifetime. How fares my sister and her rogue of a husband? Are they well? And her children? Tis an odd thing to think of Belle as the mother of two boys.”
Jobe guided their steps toward the Rialto Bridge where he hoped the bustle of early morning commerce and gossip-mongering would lighten their mood. “All are in most excellent health and pine for your return. Tis seven years since you last set foot in Wolf Hall. Do you intend to roam the wide world forever?”
Francis avoided Jobe’s gaze. “I am needed abroad in the service of the king,” he replied without emotion.
“Belle’s son Thomas needs his godfather to give his young mind direction toward books instead of pranks. And your father yearns for your company again.”
“Which father is that?” Francis mumbled into the collar of his cloak. “I had several.”
The African narrowed his eyes. Since Jobe had last seen Francis in Rome the previous year, the young man’s melancholy had grown worse and the canker in his soul had festered. If it were not lanced soon, Jobe feared that his friend would not live to see his fortieth birthday. And yet, this morning had given the African a spark of hope. He vowed he would not leave Venice or Francis until that spark could be ignited into a blaze of joy. “Tis the season of mirth,” he remarked aloud.
Francis cast him a glum look. “I am too heavy for sporting tricks.”
They entered a crowded square near the Rialto Bridge. Vendors of vegetables and fish did a lively business with the early rising housewives of the district. The mouth-watering aroma of fresh bread took the chill off the day. Even the sun’s watery eye seemed to burn brighter. Clusters of bearded men in bright yellow hats spoke among themselves in low tones. The Jews who controlled the intricate web of international financing discussed the price of gold and the rates of interest on the cargoes of rare spices from the Turkish empire: nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon and peppercorns. The paving stones of the square and the stucco walls of the surrounding houses reverberated with the pulse of life.
Clapping Francis on the back, Jobe pointed to the marketplace. “My purse is full and these goods entice me. Let us lose ourselves in some wanton shopping.”
Francis surveyed the cheerful scene. “Methinks I should buy a mourning band for Sir Thomas.”
Jobe nodded. “Aye, that as well, but first you must help me select some fripperies for my wives.”
Surprise etched Francis’s handsome face. “I never knew you were married.”
The African laughed. “Four times and each one is a priceless jewel.”
The young man shook his head. “Methinks there is something unholy in that arrangement.”
Jobe disagreed. “Not so, my friend. You forget that I am not a Christian and so am not bound by your laws, though my Portuguese captors did their best to beat the word of the Lord into my head. At least I learned how to swear most religiously in a number of tongues.”
Francis rewarded him with a grin. The boy should laugh more often, Jobe thought. A man with such a face as his commits a grave sin against the Creator by not enhancing his good looks with a smile.
“Very well, my dear pagan, what sort of gifts have you in mind for your women?” Francis asked.
Jobe steered him toward one of the goldsmith shops that edged the campo. “My darlings come from Africa, Alexandria and Cyprus, but they all have one thing in common. My delicate flowers adore jewelry. I shall deck them in gold necklaces, copper bracelets and those colorful glass beads. Come, help me choose!”
Francis ducked through the shop’s low door. “Your last voyage must have been a profitable one.”
Jobe grinned. “Aye, both legal trade of English wool and some conveyance of goods courtesy of several unfortunate galleys belonging to the sultan.”
Francis nodded a greeting to the eager shopkeeper. “One of these days you will find yourself dancing on the point of a scimitar.”
Jobe placed his forefinger against his nose. “But not yet and tis only today that counts.” Then he turned his attention to the glittering wares that the goldsmith displayed for them. “You have all the wealth of the world,” he complimented the snaggletoothed little man in Italian.
By the time Jobe had completed his purchases, the weak sun had managed to dispel the last of the morning’s dank mist. The African was pleased to note that Francis’s mood had also warmed, especially after a mug of spiced red wine and a repast of juicy roasted fowl from the wine shop. The sounds around them increased as masked merrymakers ebbed in and out of the square leaving laughter and music in their wake.
“Ah! I love carnival time!” Jobe exclaimed. “Especially in Venice. Tis the only good reason to have Lent for—”
At that moment his inner sixth sense told him that a pair of secretive eyes watched them.
Without altering his cheerful expression, Jobe said in a low tone, “We have interested a shadow.” He touched one of the knives he wore in a bandoleer across his chest. “Shall I tickle him to see how well he squeals?”
Francis glanced over his shoulder, then shook his head. “You mean that thin whipster in the stained brown cloak? He has been with us since we left Saint Mark’s. He is one of Cosma’s lapdogs.” He gave Jobe a rueful grin. “Methinks my mistress does not trust me to be faithful to her.”
Jobe’s intuition scented an undercurrent of danger. “Are you sure this dog has no teeth?”
Francis shrugged. “Tis but a pup—all ears and tales. Trust me. I have seen him skulking around Cosma’s house on several occasions.”
“Pups can grow into vicious jackals,” the African muttered.
Jobe spent the rest of the day in Francis’s company helping him to ease the pain of his loss. While the young Englishman paid their shadow no mind, Jobe kept a wary eye on the sallow-faced boy who hovered behind them at a short distance. The guttersnipe needed to learn a thing or two about the art of concealment and pursuit, Jobe decided. He almost pitied their dogged follower.
In midafternoon, Francis surprised Jobe by announcing, “What a dolt I am! I have an appointment that almost slipped my mind.”
Thinking that his companion meant that he had a meeting with an informant, Jobe turned to go. Francis put his hand on his arm. “Nay, do not leave me now. You must accompany me and keep me entertained for one more hour at least.”
Mystified by Francis’s sudden animation, Jobe nodded. “I am yours to command for this whole day. Do we visit a house of pleasure, perchance?”