Tori Phillips - One Knight In Venice

“Come, let us sup, my love,” she murmured after recovering from his cool greeting. “Tell me the news of your day.”

He glanced at the table set for a feast. Wine sparkled in pink glass goblets and silver-covered dishes crowded the nearby sideboard. His stomach growled with a mixture of hunger and revulsion. He swallowed. “My day was nothing but loud talk among half-wits.” He dismissed his activities both innocent and subversive. “I had much rather feast upon your conversation, gattina mia—my little kitten.”

Cosma flashed a wide smile as she pulled him toward her repast. “Then I will not deny you the pleasure of satisfying your appetite—all your appetites,” she purred.

With a resigned sigh, Francis lowered himself onto the padded leather armchair. He had absolutely no appetite for anything—food or otherwise. Cosma seated herself opposite him. Outside her window a creeping fog swathed the lantern lights of the houses on the opposite side of the canal in a soft damp glow. The misty gray vapor muffled the singing of the gondoliers as they plied their slim black boats through the still water. With graceful movements born of practice, Cosma uncovered a dish.

Francis’s stomach roiled at the aroma of the savory eel soup. “I fear I am not very hungry,” he muttered. He took a sip from his brimming goblet. Hopefully the wine would settle the discontented humor of his digestion. Damn that poxy apothecary!

Cosma’s brown eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “A taste here, a bite there, caro mio.” She allowed a small pout to cross her rouged lips. “I had this meal prepared especially for you.”

Francis picked up his spoon. “Then I shall eat it especially for you,” he replied. It was a shame that he felt so out of sorts since Cosma employed one of the best cooks in Venice.

Lifting her goblet, she toasted him. “You do me honor, my lord.” She took a spoonful of the soup. “And how was your visit to Signorina Leonardo?” she asked in a light tone.

At the mention of Jessica, a smile creased Francis’s lips. The memory of her voice and her touch gave him delight despite his current discomfort. “A most welcome one, I assure you, gattina.”

A small frown knotted between Cosma’s delicately drawn eyebrows. “Indeed? I should think you would find her affectation for the mask a bit…how do I say it? Bizarre.”

Francis sipped more wine to ease the eel down his throat. His ruffed collar felt very tight. “Not in the least. In fact, I found it added to her charm.” He glanced at the groaning sideboard. Spikes and nails! How many more of these covered dishes was he supposed to consume?

Cosma blotted the corner of her mouth with her damask napkin. “Did you know that her parents were Jewish? The Spanish Inquisition forced them to convert—or so I have been told.” She poured him more wine from a beautiful pink glass decanter. “One cannot help but wonder how far from the tree the apple falls.”

Francis concealed a burp behind his napkin. “Are you implying that Donna Jessica is a Jew?” His belly filled with wind of a most disagreeable sort. He unbuckled his belt and allowed it to drop to the floor.

Cosma lifted her shoulders in a sketch of a shrug. The action bared her flesh down to her breast. “I merely relate the gossip of the city, my love, as I know it entertains you.”

He gently pushed away the half-eaten soup. “Donna Jessica appeared to be as Catholic as I am.”

A lie since he had very little interest in religion. The rift between old King Henry and the pope had squashed most of Francis’s interest in spiritual matters. He came from a Catholic household that had been forced to practice their faith in secret now that the young King Edward pursued with zealous fervor the propagation of the Protestant creed throughout England. Whatever her religion, Jessica was probably more devout than Francis had ever been.

Cosma shrugged again, baring her other shoulder. “It matters not to me in the slightest.”

Francis mopped his damp brow. “Nor to me. Jew or Catholic, Jessica is a wonder and that is God’s own truth.”

Cosma pouted. “Indeed,” she muttered. Then she lifted the lid of the largest platter. “Perhaps these will titillate your fancy.”

Francis gulped down the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. “What are they?”

“A dish of doves,” she cooed.

He rolled his eyes to the gilded vaulted ceiling. “Oh, me, pigeons again? It is well that so many of them flutter in the Piazza San Marco to fill your larder, Cosma.”

She placed one of the tiny golden fowl on his plate then sucked on her fingers in a provocative manner. “Prepared with hot spices from the East and roasted with onions.”

He groaned inwardly. He should have guessed that Cosma’s supper would harbor an ulterior motive. Lady Katherine Cavendish, Brandon’s wife, was well versed in the lore of aphrodisiacs. Years ago she had taught Francis the hidden properties of many an innocent-looking meal. Onions for a man’s virility; hot spices and peppers to excite sexual impulses; eels to stimulate motion in bedsport—and those blasted doves? The special pets of Venus herself. Francis gulped more wine, but instead of settling his much-distressed stomach it only made things worse.

Cosma, ignorant of Francis’s gastronomic turmoil, pulled off some of the succulent pigeon breast with the tips of her white teeth. She curled her long pink tongue around one of her fingers and languorously suckled it. “My food is not to your liking? Oh, dear! I have displeased you—and after I tried so hard to make this meal a warm one. To heat you after a day spent in the cold air outside.” A tear shimmered in her eye.

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.