Bertrice Small - Until You

“And the duke did not remarry?”

“He had a grown heir, and by then Rudi had one son and three daughters. I imagine he saw no need. Besides, he has always enjoyed the attentions of many women. The duchess Maria-Theresa was a patient woman with a good heart. I suspect he might even have loved her.”

Rosamund nodded. “Where is the guest of honor, I wonder?” she said.

And at that moment the majordomo at the entry to the lovely hall called out, “My lords and my ladies, Maestro Paolo Loredano di Venetzia!”

And all eyes turned to the man atop the steps.

Paolo Loredano was a tall, slender man with bright red hair. He was dressed in the most elegant and fashionable garb. His silken breeches were striped in silver and rich purple, and his hose was cloth of silver with a gold rosette garter on one leg. His doublet was lavender and gold satin brocade embroidered in deep purple. His short silk coat was of cloth of gold and cloth of silver with large puffed and padded sleeves. On his head was a purple velvet cap with an ostrich plume. The gold chain that fell from his neck and lay on his chest was studded with sparkling gemstones. His round-toed shoes were purple silk, and on each of his fingers he had a ring of some sort. He carried a single silver glove in his hand, and at his waist was a light dress sword with a cruciform hilt.

He stood a moment atop the steps leading down into the hall, observing. Then, with mincing steps, he descended as the duke came forward to greet him.

“My dear maestro, I bid you welcome to San Lorenzo. We are so honored you have decided to make it your winter home,” the duke said.

“Grazia,” Loredano said. “Anywhere is preferable to Venice in February, my dear duke. Your little enclave, however, has everything I like. Sunny weather, the sea, and an abundance of good light for painting. I have taken a villa overlooking the harbor for my servant and myself.” He took in the hall again. “And,” he continued, “you seem to have many beautiful women and young men as well. I think I shall be quite content here, my dear duke. The doge sends you his greetings.”

“He is well, I hope,” Duke Sebastian replied.

“Considering his age, he is indeed well. We fully expect him to continue to rule for at least another ten years, if not more,” Paolo Loredano answered.

“Excellent! Excellent!” the duke said jovially. “Come now, and meet my son and some of our guests.” And he drew the artist forward by the arm so he might be introduced to his son and his daughter-in-law. One by one the other guests came forward to meet the Venetian. “And here is another visitor to my duchy. She joins us each winter,” the duke said. “May I present to you Baroness Irina Von Kreutzenkampe of Kreutzenburg.”

“Baroness,” the artist, said bowing over the beautiful woman’s plump beringed hand, his bright black eyes surveying her bosom. “You must pose for me,” he said, smiling. “I shall paint you as a barbarian warrior queen.”

The baroness’ blue eyes looked directly at the artist. “And how shall I be costumed?” she asked. Her tone, while quiet, was also teasing.

“You shall have a helmet, a spear, and a discreet drapery,” he told her, “but your bosom must be bared. Barbarian warrior women were always bare breasted,” he finished.

The baroness laughed a low and smoky laugh. “I shall consider it,” she said.

“I would gift your husband with the painting,” the artist murmured.

“I am a widow, maestro,” Irina Von Kreutzenkampe answered him, and then she moved away.

“And this is Lord MacDuff, the ambassador from King James of Scotland,” the duke continued, sorry that the previous conversation had been ended.

Lord MacDuff bowed, nodded, and moved on.

“And the Earl of Glenkirk, who was King James’ first ambassador to me many years ago. He has returned this winter with his companion to escape the cold. May I present Lady Rosamund Bolton of Friarsgate,” the duke said.

The earl bowed, but the artist’s eyes went past him to fix themselves on Rosamund.

“You are beautiful, Madonna,” he said softly.

“Grazia, maestro,” Rosamund responded. She was beginning to learn the Italian language now.

“I shall paint you, too,” the artist said enthusiastically. “You, I shall envision as the goddess of love, Madonna. Do not say no to me.”

Rosamund laughed lightly. “You flatter me, maestro,” she said.

“But you have not said yes,” he cried.

“I have not, have I?” she answered him, and then, taking Patrick’s arm she moved off.

“You flirted with him,” the earl said, sounding slightly aggrieved.

“I did,” she agreed, “but I did not say I should allow him to paint me with my breasts bare or otherwise.” And Rosamund laughed.

“If it would help me to gain my ends with Venice, would you?” he asked wickedly.

“Yes!” she told him. “Yes, I would, Patrick! He wants to seduce me, you know. But before or after he has had his way with the baroness I am not certain,” she giggled.

He laughed. “You are probably right. Now, the baroness interests me very much. My information tells me that she is the daughter of one of Emperor Maximilian’s contemporaries. She comes to San Lorenzo each winter. MacDuff thinks she is the emperor’s eyes and ears here, for the duke is much in favor with the Germans, who visit his port on a regular basis. Who would suspect a woman of spying?”

“She is very beautiful,” Rosamund noted.

“If you like large-bosomed women with gold hair, blue eyes, and an inviting smile,” Patrick said mischievously.

“Well, she has had her eye on you this evening,” Rosamund muttered, “but don’t you think she is a bit, er, large?”

“These Germanic woman tend to be big-boned,” he replied. “They make a right armful, I am told. Are you jealous, my love?”

“Of the baroness? No more than you are of the Venetian, my lord,” Rosamund responded smoothly. And she looked up at her lover and smiled.

Before he might reply, however, the lady in question glided to his side. “My lord Leslie,” she said. “I believe there are matters we must discuss soon. When may we speak?”

Close up, Rosamund could see the baroness’ face was lightly pockmarked. She did not speak to the earl’s companion.

“My ambassador will be giving a small feast in a few days. You will be invited, madame, and there we may speak with each other in the privacy of the embassy and not arouse suspicions by doing so,” the Earl of Glenkirk told her.

She held out her plump hand to him. “That is suitable,” she said.

“I shall look forward to our next meeting,” he murmured, kissing her hand.

“I did not know Lord MacDuff was giving a feast in a few days’ time,” Rosamund said.

“Neither does MacDuff,” the earl replied with a grin. “I would prefer it if I could speak with Venice first. That is why you will tell the artist that you are considering his invitation but that you would like to see his studio first. I will come with you. If he is our man, he will use that opportunity to approach me. Our visit to his studio will not arouse anyone’s suspicions. Neither will the baroness’ visit to the embassy for a feast.”

“I think that if you come with me the Venetian will not approach you. He will have his guard up and consider that you come because you don’t trust him to be alone with me. He may even think I am King James’ emissary. Let me go alone, and then you shall call for me. When you do, you shall ask to see his studio and say you are considering allowing the maestro to paint me. I shall feign weariness and retreat to the street for fresh air at that point. If he is your contact, he will certainly speak with you then, and no one shall be the wiser.”

The Earl of Glenkirk smiled admiringly at Rosamund. “You really do have a taste for intrigue, my love,” he said. “I think King Henry has lost a valuable ally in you.”

“Hal does not consider women intelligent enough for much more than futtering,” she answered him dryly. “I do not understand it, for his grandmother, the Venerable Margaret, was highly intelligent, and his father respected her for it. Everyone who knew her did. Everyone but Hal. I always thought he was a little afraid of her.”

“I like your plan, my love, but we shall execute it together, lest the maestro think you otherwise interested in his advances,” the earl said. “Come, and let us tell him.”

They crossed the room together to where Paolo Loredano was now standing surrounded by a bevy of young women. Rosamund almost laughed aloud at the look in his eye as he contemplated each lady with the delight of a boy offered an entire plate of his favorite sweets all for himself. The artist, she decided, was vain and had obviously been quite spoiled by the women in his life. But their path to him was suddenly blocked by Lord Howard, the English ambassador.

“What,” he demanded of the earl without any preamble, “are you doing here, my lord? I find it odd that James Stewart should send his first ambassador back to San Lorenzo after so many years.”

Patrick looked almost scornfully at the Englishman. “I am no longer a young man, my lord. Highland winters are difficult for me now. It is not your affair why I am here, but I shall tell you, for you English have such an untrusting nature. This lady is my mistress. We wished to be out of the eye of the court at Stirling in order to enjoy each other’s company without interference. San Lorenzo has a marvelous climate in the winter, and so I chose to bring us here. There is nothing more to our visit than that. What could have possibly made you think otherwise?”

“Who would care what you do, my lord?” Lord Howard said scathingly. “Except for the brief time in which you served your king as ambassador here, you are unimportant.”

“The lady is a close associate of the queen’s, my lord,” the earl replied. “Does that satisfy your curiosity? Now, step out of my way, please. I wish to speak with the artist about painting my lady’s portrait.”

Lord Howard moved aside without another word. The woman with Lord Leslie was vaguely familiar to him, but he could not quite place her. He would have to think upon it. Was she one of Margaret Tudor’s English ladies? But no. They had all been returned to England years ago. Still, he knew he had seen the woman with the Earl of Glenkirk at some time and place before today. And he did not believe for one moment that Patrick has casually decided to come to San Lorenzo to escape the cold of Scotland’s winter. Yet that part might actually be true. Scotland’s winters could be vile.

But no ships from Scotland had put into the port of Arcobaleno recently. How had Glenkirk and his companion gotten here? A French ship? Most likely, as the Scots were so tight with the French. He would consider it, for his instincts told him that all was not quite as it appeared.

“I believe he has recognized me,” Rosamund said softly when they were well past the English ambassador. “He does not know who I am, but he knows he has seen me before. We have not ever been formally introduced, so hopefully he cannot make the connection.”

“Even if he did, what would he make of it? You are a beautiful woman who has run away with her lover. There is nothing more to it,” Glenkirk reassured her. They had now reached the Venetian and his admirers. “Maestro!” the earl said jovially. “I believe I may want you to paint my lady’s portrait, but she is hesitant. May we come and see your studio one day soon?”

“But of course,” Paolo Loredano said in equally jocund tones. “I will receive guests between ten o’clock in the morning and siesta, and again in the evening. Send to me when you are to come.” His black eyes caressed Rosamund’s features. “Ah, Madonna, I shall make you immortal!” Then he took her small hand up in his and kissed it lingeringly, releasing it with reluctance.

“You flatter me again, Maestro Loredano,” Rosamund murmured, and her lashes brushed against her cheeks but once before she looked up at him again and smiled a brilliant smile. “I shall look forward to visiting your studio, but I am not yet certain if I will allow you to paint me. Are you a very famous painter in Venice?”

He laughed at what he considered her naivety. “Only my friends Il Giorgione and Titian surpass me, although it is said my portraits are better than theirs,” the artist bragged. “If I paint you, Madonna, your beauty will be everlasting even if you grow old and haggish.”

“I suppose you mean to reassure me.” Rosamund pretended to consider. “But first I must see just what it is an artist does to obtain a portrait.”

“Come, my love,” the earl said. “The dancing will soon begin. Grazia, Maestro Loredano. I shall inform you when we are coming.” He took Rosamund’s arm and moved them away, back into the crush of the duke’s guests. “Must you flirt with him?” he demanded of her.