Francis blew out his breath with exasperation. “Don’t weep!” he snapped. Weeping women completely unnerved him. On the one occasion when his mother had wept in his presence, Francis thought he would die. “Your supper surpasses all delights.” He stuffed a whole roasted onion into his mouth and chewed it with loathing.
Cosma immediately brightened. “I hope not all delights,” she hinted. “There are others yet to come.”
Francis’s stomach lurched. His gorge rose in his throat. Clapping his hand over his mouth, he bolted from the table. Grasping the nearest chamber pot, he emptied the contents of his tortured innards.
“I crave your pardon,” he said hoarsely before retching again. I will flay that apothecary by inches if I live through this night.
With a stricken look, Cosma rose from her chair and came toward him. “I had no idea, my lord…that is to say, I should not have spiced the soup so much.”
“Stay back,” he gasped before he was sick again. Into your hands, oh, Lord, I commend my spirit. Pray take me soon! Clutching the reeking pot for dear life, he sank to the cool floor.
Cosma wrung her hands. “Mayhap it was the wine, but I only seasoned it with a little ginger, cinnamon and vanilla.”
Francis retched again. “Enough! Speak no more of food! Can’t you see that I am dying?”
From her corner, Nerissa shrieked and dropped the mandolin.
Cosma’s eyes grew even larger than her cosmetics had made them appear. She pressed her hand against her lips. “Do not say that! You can’t possibly be! I swear upon the crocodile of Saint Theodore I have not poisoned you!” She fell to her knees. Wailing, Nerissa joined her mistress.
Francis clutched his heaving stomach. “Stop that caterwauling and fetch me another pot—quickly! A plague take that scurvy knave,” he added in English.
Nerissa dashed into the next room and returned with two more receptacles. She practically threw them at Francis. “Please do not die, my lord,” she whimpered. “I am much too young to go to prison.”
Despite his agony, he managed to give her a weak smile. “Fear not, little maid. I shall not haunt you in this life or the one to come.” He pulled himself to his feet and staggered around the corner where Cosma kept her closestool. “Your pardon, my dears,” he gasped.
Francis had never felt so ill in his life—not even when he had made the rough sea voyage from Marseilles to Genoa. Now his head ached, his throat was raw and his skin felt hot and clammy at the same time. Truly methinks that charlatan did poison me. He gritted his teeth until the spasms finally receded, leaving him weak as a newborn calf.
When he emerged, he found Cosma and Nerissa still on their knees and praying—a sight he would have found highly amusing had he not felt so wretched. “Arise, gattina, and take me to your bed,” he attempted a feeble jest. “Unfortunately, it is sleep I crave and not pleasure. Be of good cheer. I believe I will survive after all.”
With many soothing words, the women helped him toward Cosma’s wide bed that stood in regal splendor on its platform in the middle of the adjoining chamber. He fell amid the feather pillows and lay as a corpse while Cosma and Nerissa dragged off his clothing. The bed linens smelled faintly of lavender.
Francis emitted a low groan. The chit would have seduced me past all my restraint tonight if it had not been for that hellish elixir. He drifted into a heavy sleep still wondering whether he should kiss or kill the apothecary on the morrow.
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