One Knight In Venice

“My pleasure,” replied Jobe, advancing closer to view the nearly completed portrait. He drew in a quick breath at the sight.

“Tis that bad?” Francis asked in English. “I had planned to give it to Belle. Mayhap she should use it as a target for her archery practice. Well? What do you think of it?”

“Tis a wonder to behold,” Jobe replied.

Why had he never marked the resemblance before? The tilt of the head was the same. So was the merry sparkle in the blue eyes that Francis usually shielded from public view. The long legs, the tapered fingers and the easy set of the shoulders mirrored those same attributes of Francis’s true paternity. Unknowingly, the Venetian artist had set in paint a study not of Sir Brandon Cavendish but of his brother Sir Guy, the most handsome member of that illustrious family.

Staring at the canvas, Jobe experienced a rare flash of hindsight. As if he were an invisible onlooker, he observed a scene in his mind that must have taken place thirty years beforehand. As clearly as he saw Francis perched on the stool before him, Jobe saw Guy as a young man glowing with good health and the pride of his victory in the day’s tournament. A ripe beauty with nut-brown hair sauntered into view, smiled and beckoned to the too handsome youth. With a lusty but silent laugh, Guy followed her into a colorful pavilion. The image shimmered in Jobe’s brain for a final moment before it shattered into the present.

“Heigh ho, Jobe!” Francis called. “Have you wax in your ears? Tell me what the devil do I look like.”

The African gave himself a shake. Clearing his throat, he smiled at his bewildered friend. “You have not seen it for yourself?”

Francis made a face. “Bassanio has strictly charged me not to view my visage until he gives me leave to do so. Methinks he fears I will be displeased and refuse to pay him. Well? What say you?”

Bassanio came up behind Jobe. The young painter eyed the bandoleer of knives. He gulped. “Does my work please you, signore?”

Jobe smiled at him. “You have a true gift. You have caught his very soul.” And much more, Jobe realized as his prophetic insight once again took hold of him. A secret, greater than anyone suspected, lay hidden over the shoulder of the painted Francis.

Bassanio grinned like a schoolboy. “Grazie, signore. Now, my Lord Bardolph, wipe away your doubts and do not move a muscle. I have much work still to do.” He dipped his brush into a golden hue and mixed it with a light brown color. “It is the highlights in your hair that elude me and I must work quickly. The daylight fades even as we speak.”

Francis sighed with exasperation but said nothing while Bassanio commenced to paint. While Jobe watched him, he mulled over the scant knowledge of Francis’s birth that he had learned from Belle’s husband, Mark Hayward. It was no shame among the Cavendish family that both Belle and Francis had been conceived out of wedlock in June 1520 during the near legendary meeting between the kings of England and France that the chroniclers now called the Field of Cloth of Gold. Belle was the love child of Brandon Cavendish and a French vintner’s daughter while Francis was born to a noblewoman of infamous reputation, Lady Olivia Bardolph.

When seven-year-old Francis was fostered to the Cavendish family, his distinct Viking looks bespoke of his true parentage. Since Brandon had also slept with the lascivious lady, he presumed Francis to be his own, as well. But Brandon had never claimed Francis, not even when Lord Richard Bardolph, Francis’s father of record, had died.

Studying the portrait, Jobe willed his vision to appear once more but it did not. No need. Under the light strokes of Bassanio’s brush, Guy returned Jobe’s penetrating look. The African wondered if he should tell Francis now or wait to see if the young man would notice the resemblance himself. Jobe decided to remain silent on the matter. Francis had suffered enough shocking family news for one day. The time of this latest reckoning—and its hidden secret—would come soon enough.

Francis longed to scratch his nose but he did not dare move. Why was it that his nose never itched until he sat for this poxy portrait? He hoped that Belle would appreciate Bassanio’s labors. To distract himself from the annoying tickle, he stared into middle space and listened to the idle chatter of the other apprentices in the chamber. Since he had first sat for Bassanio, he had overheard several interesting tidbits of news that he had passed on to Sir William. This mindless exercise turned out to be well worth the ducats and tedium.

He tried not to let his mind wander back to his grandfather’s demise. That wound in his heart was still too raw to allow much thought in such a public place. He was deeply grateful that Bassanio had not asked the meaning of the black armband that Francis now wore in Sir Thomas’s memory. Instead, Francis cast furtive glances at Jobe’s serious countenance. He has that look he gets when he sees the future.

Bassanio clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Per favore, messere,” the painter pleaded. “Do not roll your eyes so. You try me to the quick.”

“Your pardon,” Francis replied, barely moving his lips.

He wished he could read Jobe’s inscrutable mind. There was something about the portrait that had surprised the African. Yet he did not seem displeased. Francis prayed that the painter had not given his skin that greenish tinge that appeared on some paintings he had seen during a covert trip he had made to Madrid. It was bad enough that he would be preserved in these gaudy clothes for all time. In any event, Belle would have a good laugh at his expense.

Bassanio stepped back and cocked his head. “Fine,” he pronounced.

With relief, Francis got off his stool. “Finished? May I see it now?”

The painter shook his head. “I only meant that I was finished for today. The good light is gone.” He dropped his cloth over the easel. “You can come next Wednesday?”

Francis hid his disappointment. Portrait-sitting was indeed a rare form of torture. “Sì,” he agreed. He retrieved his cloak and turned to Jobe who still appeared to be lost in the forest of his own thoughts.

“Have you seen enough art for the day?” he bantered.

Blinking, Jobe nodded. He placed a ducat in the hand of the surprised painter. “My thanks, signore, for a most excellent afternoon.”

Bassanio’s face lit up with a wide smile. “Come again, signore! Come often. Indeed, it would be an honor to paint you! I am your humble servant.” With more drivel of the same sort, Bassanio showed them out into the narrow street.

Francis drew in a deep breath of the early evening air. Another light mist from the lagoon curled around the house corners. “Tell me, Jobe, what did you see in there?”

The ebony giant chuckled. “I saw a painted fool.”

Francis knew there was more. “And what else? Come now, I saw your face. You had another vision. Tell me.”

Jobe gave him a searching look before he answered. “Very well. I beheld a dangerous secret, one that is bright-shining like the sun in splendor. For many years it has lain hidden deep amid the roots of your family. Soon it will be revealed but how or when, I do not know.”

Which family, Francis wondered, Bardolph or Cavendish?

Assuming a lighter mood, Jobe draped his arm over Francis’s shoulder. “Where away? Do we sup with the delectable Donna Cosma?”

Francis stared up at the chimney pots across the way. He had no desire to see his husband-hunting mistress. “Not I tonight, my friend, though I would not deny you that singular pleasure if you wish it.”

Jobe stroked his beardless chin. “How now? Surely the wench expects you. Your landlord gave me the impression that you always spent your evenings at her establishment.”

Francis thought of the sweet, mysterious, fascinating Jessica. “Tis time for a change, methinks. Let us repair to my inn where mine host serves a passable meal, and we shall have a long talk in private. I am anxious to hear all the news of…of home.”

Jobe nodded with a grin. “Then I am your man. I will purchase a bottle of sweet wine and then I will fill your nighttime hours with so many tales that you will cry ‘enough!”’

“Good!” Francis savored his pleasant thoughts of Jessica. “The morrow will come more quickly.”

Jobe’s laughter rumbled up from his throat. “Methinks I scent l’amore!”

Francis snorted. “When pigs fly.”

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