“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 sober hour? You will need a cask of wine to cleanse your mouth.” He clapped the huge man on his shoulder. “Sweet Jesu! My eyes are glad to see you, you old pirate!”
Jobe enveloped him in a bear hug. “And you! Though I must confess that I did not expect to find you costumed like a jester.” With a chuckle, he pointed to the wide green bows on Francis’s shoes.
Francis gave him a rueful look. “Tis a counterfeit pose, Jobe, and a long story best saved for when we are alone.”
Before the African could reply, Cosma spoke up from her cloud of lace, lavender and goose down. “Fie, gentlemen! It is not polite to speak in a language I cannot understand. Are you plotting the downfall of Venice?”
Jobe grinned at her. “Not so, lovely dove. We were discoursing upon your downfall. I fear you have quite overcome me.”
Cosma simpered in reply and flashed a little more bare leg. Francis tugged at his friend’s sleeve. “Please wait until after I leave before you ravish her. In the meantime, tell me what brings you to Venice to seek me out before even the pigeons are awake?”
At that, Jobe’s expression changed to a somber one. “I bear a heavy duty, Francis, but one that had to be done.” He withdrew a thick letter from inside his leather jerkin.
Francis stared at it, recognizing Lady Katherine’s handwriting. Icy fingers squeezed his heart. “Bad news from…from Wolf Hall?”
Jobe nodded. “I am sure that good Lady Kat has written her sad tidings with a gentle hand. I will amuse yonder lady while you read it. Take your time, my friend.”
Francis turned away from Cosma’s bed. Clutching the letter close to his chest, he crossed into the antechamber. Seating himself on one of the armchairs, he drew in a deep breath before he broke open the sealing wax. His sudden hot tears blurred the words before him.
Dearest Francis,
Tis with a heavy heart and hand that I take up pen to write such doleful news. Two weeks ago, on the twelfth of November, Sir Thomas Cavendish was taken suddenly from this life. He died as he had lived—in the saddle. The day had been cold and bright with frost. Sir Thomas together with Brandon and Guy and many of the men from the estate went out into the forest to hunt a boar for the coming Christmastide feast. During the afternoon, at the height of the chase, the heart of his great horse burst with the strain, throwing Sir Thomas to the earth. Alas, his neck broke upon landing against a tree trunk. Death was immediate, I am told, and without pain. Dear Lady Alicia bears her sorrow well. She said to tell you that it is a comfort for her to know that Sir Thomas and his beautiful black horse rode posthaste to heaven together and that was the way you know Sir Thomas would have wanted it. I fear that Brandon has taken his father’s loss most heavily, as has Guy. It is hard for me and the children to realize that Sir Thomas is indeed gone from this earth. He seemed to be one of those men destined to live forever. Please remember him in your prayers, Francis. You were always his special pride. He often praised your love of language and poetry—gifts you both shared. In his will he has left you his library…
Francis wiped his streaming eyes with his sleeve. Only yesterday, he had arranged for a beautiful copy of Sir Thomas More’s Utopia to be especially bound in red leather and embossed with a silver wolf’s head—the Cavendish family symbol. It was a belated New Year’s gift for the man who was his beloved grandfather. Now it was too late! Francis covered his face with his hands. After the first wave of raw grief had receded, he continued Kat’s letter.
…of books. He knew that you most of all would appreciate them. I am sorry to be the bearer of such sad tidings. Know that I hold you close to my heart in your sorrow. Brandon joins me in sending you our love. Dear Jobe is here and will give you further details as you require. We look forward to the day when you will return to us. Come home soon, Francis! Written this 28th day of November 1549 at Wolf Hall, Northumberland.
Your loving Katherine Cavendish
Countess of Thornbury
Francis reread her signature and title several times as her message sank into his brain. How quickly the world turned and turned again! Of course Lady Kat was now the new countess just as his…as Brandon became the tenth Earl of Thornbury the instant that the breath of life had left his father.
Gripping the paper in his hand, Francis laid his head down on the table. His silent tears soaked into the green velvet cloth that covered the top. He had not felt one tenth this sorrow when he had learned of his mother’s death three years ago. Francis had barely known her in life and he had liked her even less.
His emotions were quite different with Sir Thomas’s passing. Francis had lived under Wolf Hall’s roof for over fourteen years. Though a big man, as all the Cavendish men were, and blessed with a powerful voice, Sir Thomas was a gentle friend to the young and weak. On the other hand, the earl was a fierce competitor in the jousting arena and a ferocious foe in combat. Francis remembered the many hours they had spent together in his library studying the plays of Plautus and the writings of Erasmus. Sir Thomas had patiently taught his bastard grandson the joys of Greek and Latin and he had championed the boy’s bent for study when Brandon wanted Francis to spend more time handling a broadsword and lance. “The pen is mightier than the sword,” Sir Thomas had often told his eager pupil.
Now that grand old man was gone forever.
Francis read the letter a third and fourth time. He barely noticed the goblet of watered wine and a small loaf of honey bread that Nerissa placed by his hand. He stared out the window at the gloom of the breaking day. As if heaven mirrored his sorrow, rain fell lightly from the leaden skies and rolled like teardrops down the wavy panes of glass. In the distance, he heard church bells calling early worshipers to Mass.
Francis dragged himself to his feet. I must go to church. He could not remember the last time he had stepped willingly inside a place of worship. Though he believed in God and the existence of a heaven and hell, the daily practice of religion meant very little to him. But it meant all the world to Sir Thomas. Francis must pray for his soul. It was the only thing left he could do for that wonderful old man. He strode into the bedchamber