LITMIR.BIZ

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of something that you will find infinitely more amusing—I am having my portrait painted by one of Maestro Titian’s pupils.”

      Laughter bubbled up from Jobe’s broad chest. “You? I did not realize that a rivulet of vanity ran through your veins. Tis rich news indeed.”

      Francis’s ears turned red. “Tis not for vanity’s sake but as part of my false persona. All wealthy travelers to Venice must have their portraits painted. Tis expected. I had barely been in the city a fortnight when I received at least a half dozen invitations to visit the studios of the city’s famous painters.”

      He turned down a calle. “Titian’s studio is at the far end of this street. The maestro’s work is superb but very costly. His pupils are apt enough for Lord Cecil’s expense account. Is our fledgling still with us?”

      Jobe did not need to turn around to know the answer. “Aye, though he grows weary.”

      Francis grinned. “A pity he cannot come inside. I fear he will have a long cold wait.”

      Jobe chuckled. Francis knocked upon a door that was in desperate need of a fresh coat of green paint. After a few minutes’ wait and a second rap of the knocker, a harried young boy admitted them. With scarcely a nod of recognition, the child ushered the two tall men up a narrow flight of stairs and into a large chamber filled with the most amazing jumble of clutter that Jobe had ever seen. Half-finished paintings of every size leaned against the walls in haphazard formations. More paintings sat on easels that stood at random angles on the wide bare floor. A dozen or so young men, most of them covered with daubs of paint and all of them looking intense, worked at various projects. The odor of turpentine, paint and rotten eggs hung overhead. Jobe sneezed.

      Their page interrupted the most frazzled member of this fraternity and pointed to Francis. By way of greeting, the Englishman executed the most outlandish court bow. Jobe covered his snicker with another sneeze.

      “Signor Bassanio, a thousand pardons,” Francis gushed. “My dear friend Jobe, standing here before you, arrived quite unexpectedly this day and we have been gamboling about La Serenissima, Venice the most Serene, enjoying its delights. I fear that I have overstepped my time. I beg your forgiveness.”

      Jobe hid his grin. If he punctured Francis at this moment the boy would spew treacle instead of blood.

      Bassanio wiped his hands on his smudged smock. “No apology is necessary, my lord. It is always a pleasure to wait upon you.” He pointed to the high-legged stool set in a spot that caught the faint glow of the afternoon’s playful light. “Please take your accustomed seat, messere.”

      Francis doffed his cloak, shook the dampness from the plume on his hat and fluffed his sleeves. With a wide smile and graceful movements, he approached the humble stool and perched his hip upon it. He winked at Jobe.

      Despite his mummery, Jobe liked like him better for the pose. Francis should adopt it as his own—in moderation.

      Bassanio selected a covered canvas, screwed it into place on his easel and removed the cloth. “¿Signore?” He gestured to Jobe. “You may wish to see what I have done while I prepare my palette.” He stepped away with an expression of shy pride on his round face.

      “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.

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