He smiled down at her and bent his lips to brush hers. “The artist will be waiting for me, sweetheart,” he said. “Your portrait is almost finished, but mine is not, and I would have it done before we leave so I may make arrangements to ship the paintings back to Scotland.”

“The maestro will not give you my painting,” Rosamund said. “He paints it for himself. I have told you before that he does.”

“We will see,” the earl said with a smile, and then he left her. He told the artist what Rosamund had said, and Paolo Loredano smiled.

“She is correct, and she is not,” he told the Earl of Glenkirk. “Wait, my lord, and you will see. You will not be disappointed, and you will pay me well, I guarantee it.” Then he laughed. “You are an excellent subject, my lord. Where will this painting hang when it is yours?” He peered around the large canvas.

“Over a fireplace in the Great Hall of Glenkirk Castle, opposite a painting done of my daughter. Rosamund has commissioned this portrait, but she has given it to me.”

“Sм, she told me that was what she wanted. I have done for her, however, a miniature of your head, my lord. She requested it.”

He had not known that, and he was touched. A shadow passed over his face. How long? he wondered. How long until the fates would part them again?

“Do not look so serious, my lord,” the artist said. “You have lost your happy expression. Think of the bella Rosamund, and be glad!”

Patrick laughed, his bleak mood dispelled.

“Ah, that is better!” Paolo Loredano cried.


San Lorenzo was abloom with spring now. Flowering vines climbed house walls, and the fields along the road were ablaze with color. The air was growing warmer each day. The sea was as warm as their bathwater. They rode out, passing vineyards now green with new growth. They swam and made love whenever and wherever the mood took them. March was coming to a close, and their April departure loomed. Annie and Dermid in a euphoria of newly wedded bliss had to be prodded to complete their daily tasks. Rosamund finally threatened to separate them at night if they did not do their duty.

They would not travel incognito on their return. It was unnecessary. There would be horses for them to ride and a traveling coach when they did not choose to ride. Their route was set, and the duke sent a rider ahead of them to book accommodations at the best inns along their route. They would travel to Paris under the duke’s protection, and from there to the coast to take passage home to Scotland on a vessel that would be awaiting them.

Finally their trunks were packed, and they went to the palace for a farewell dinner with Duke Sebastian. And after the meal was over, Paolo Loredano and his servant brought three canvases into the hall.

“And now, Madonna,” he said, looking directly at Rosamund, “your portrait.” Slowly he drew the covering from the first canvas.

There was a delighted cry from the audience. There Rosamund stood, garbed as the goddess of love in her lavender draperies, her auburn hair blowing in the soft breeze, a single breast bared. She was surrounded by hills, and beyond her lay the blue sea.

“It is beautiful!” the painting’s subject cried. “You have surely made me more than I am, maestro, and while I know you have painted this for yourself, I regret I cannot have it. I remember once telling Queen Margaret that country folk did not have their portraits painted, as did the noble folk. I never thought to see myself portrayed in a painting.”

“Then,” Paolo Loredano said with a delighted grin, “you will be happy with what else I have done, and your lover will pay well for it.” He whipped the covering from the second canvas.

Rosamund gasped with surprise. The artist had done two paintings of her. In this one however, he portrayed her wearing her favorite green velvet gown. She stood proudly, holding a sword pointed downward, a stone edifice and a blazing sunset behind her. It was a truly magnificent portrait, and Rosamund was absolutely stunned.

“It is how I will always think of you, Madonna,” the artist told her. “The mistress of your Friarsgate, defending your beloved home. I have heard your England is green, and you have said your land is surrounded by hills. It is how I have represented it. I hope it pleases you.”

Rosamund rose from her place at the duke’s table and walked over to Paolo Loredano to kiss him full upon his lips. “I have no words to thank you, maestro,” she told him. “I could have never dreamed such a portrait of me. Grazia! Mille grazia!” Then she returned to her seat.

The Venetian put his fingers to his lips. “You have paid me more than my work is worth, Madonna,” he told her gallantly. Then he moved to the third canvas and disclosed its subject, Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk, standing tall and handsome as he stared from the painting. “And lastly, San Lorenzo’s first ambassador from Scotland. I hope it pleases you, my lord.” He bowed in the earl’s direction.

“It more than pleases me,” the earl said. “You have certainly earned yourself an excellent commission, maestro, and I gladly pay it. You will see the paintings are made safe for shipping?”

“I will, my lord. Yours shall be sent to Glenkirk, and I shall have the lady’s sent to England.” He came back now to his place at the duke’s table, saying to Rosamund as he did, “The miniature has been packed by your servant and is with your possessions, Madonna.”

When the evening had finally concluded and most of the guests departed, the duke said to the artist, “You have not forgotten you promised me the portrait of the goddess of love, Paolo, have you?”

“I have not forgotten, signore,” the Venetian replied. “And you have not forgotten the price agreed upon, have you?”

The duke reached into his embroidered satin doublet and drew out a bag of coins, which he handed to the artist. “Count it if you will, but it is all there,” he said.

“There is no need, signore, for I accept your word. The painting will remain with you, but I should not hang it until I am certain your friend the Earl of Glenkirk is gone.”

“Were you able to seduce her?” the duke wondered.

“I am ashamed to admit I was not,” the artist said. “She is an unusual woman.” Then he bowed to the duke. “Good night, my lord,” he said. He left the hall and returned to the villa he was renting.

A great grin suffused his features as he stood looking at the third portrait he had painted of Rosamund. It was somewhat similar to the one he had sold to the duke, but not quite. The beautiful goddess of love in this particular painting was entirely nude. Paolo Loredano chuckled to himself. The sheer draping he had chosen for her to wear had, in the proper lighting, provided him with an excellent view of her delicious body. He had sketched her first in charcoal, and once he returned to his studio he had copied the sketch onto the large canvas, completing this painting at his leisure in the evenings. Some nights he had slept as little as two hours, but it had been worth it. This goddess stood upon delicate gold-edged clouds, surrounded by small winged cupids, the deep blue sea below her, the paler blue sky above and around her. Her luxuriant auburn hair blew delicately about her lush body. Her head was topped by a wreath of spring flowers. He had perfectly captured her exquisite round breasts and the plump mound of her mons.

He sighed, regretting his inability to possess Rosamund Bolton. Her love for Patrick Leslie had rendered her impervious to Paolo Loredano. And that in itself made his loss all the worse, for he had never before failed to woo a woman he fixed his sights upon into his bed. Fortunately, they were far from Venice, and his reputation would be safe. Particularly when he returned with this magnificent rendition of love. It would be assumed that he had made this beauty his mistress during his winter sojourn in San Lorenzo. And when it was suggested he would neither confirm nor deny it. But this was a painting he would retain in his own possession for some time to come. He almost wished he might show her, and her alone, this secret rendition just to see her delightful outrage. But no. It was over, and Rosamund Bolton was now gone from his life.

Paolo Loredano sighed a final time before snuffing out the lamps in his studio and climbing the stairs to his empty bed. He slept well past the dawn, and when he finally awoke, Patrick Leslie and his beautiful mistress were many miles from Arcobaleno, on the road to Paris.


Lord Howard, the English ambassador, had not been invited to the previous evening’s farewell. He arrived at the duke’s palace the following morning to discuss his master, King Henry’s dissatisfaction with the current trade agreement between England and San Lorenzo. Ushered into the Great Hall where the duke was overseeing the hanging of his new portrait of the goddess of love, Lord Howard stared hard at the other two paintings that awaited the artist’s supervision for their transport. He looked at the young woman in the green gown with her sword and her almost defiant look, and he suddenly knew where he had seen her before! It had been at his master’s court several years ago. She was a friend of Queen Katherine’s. Now, what was a friend of the queen’s doing with a Scottish nobleman? He was not certain the answer was of any import, but he would mention it in his next dispatch to his master, the king. He gazed again at the painting. She was very lovely. He wondered that his master had not been enchanted by her, but then, it was soon after that disgraceful episode with two of his female cousins who had been in the queen’s service. The king would have been discreet in his wanderings at that point and would have looked farther afield for his amusement.

The duke turned to greet his visitor now. “Ah, Howard, what do you think of my painting? Does the Lady Rosamund not make a wonderful goddess of love?” He chuckled. “Of course, Lord Leslie believed the artist was keeping this painting for himself. I made a little arrangement with Loredano, for I found the lady quite lovely. What a pity she is so in love with her earl. I would have enjoyed having her in my own bed, and so would have the Venetian, I have not a doubt.” He chuckled again.

“That is why there are two paintings?” Lord Howard thought he understood. “Was not Lord Leslie aware that his mistress was being painted with her breast bared?”

“He knew, but they both found it amusing for her to do so. She commissioned the portrait of him as a gift for her lover. Magnificent, isn’t it?” The duke admired both paintings. “He is a great artist, Paolo Loredano. Every bit as worthy as Titian.”

“Titian?” Lord Howard looked confused.

“Another Venetian artist,” the duke said. “Now, let us get down to business, my lord. The day is warm, and there is a pretty flower seller in the market square I wish to visit this afternoon. She shows much promise,” and he chortled wickedly, winking broadly at the English ambassador. “I remember Patrick Leslie in his younger days. He would have vied openly with me for such a lovely prize.”

“Then, perhaps it is better he is now gone,” Lord Howard replied dryly, and as he said it he wondered just where the Earl of Glenkirk and his mistress had gone. To France? To Venice or Rome? Back to Scotland? He could not ask the duke without seeming overly interested. Besides, did it really matter? Patrick Leslie was not important. He was a man in the twilight of his years, having a final fling with a beautiful young woman. He had no power or influence. He had obviously come to San Lorenzo for no other reason than to escape the Scots winter and impress his mistress with a minor accomplishment that he had held in his younger days. Still, Lord Howard considered, it would not harm him to err on the side of caution and put this in his next report to King Henry. Everything, even the most seemingly minor detail, was important to the king.


The two subjects of Lord Howard’s interest now cantered along the coast road towards Toulouse. They stopped the first night in a town called Villerose, in another little duchy, Beaumont de Jaspre. The weather was fair and warm. And, as they gradually began to travel in a more northerly direction towards Paris, the sunny skies remained with them. They followed a road along the Rhфne River as far as Lyon, turning west then to ride cross-country to Roanne on the Loire. The vineyards in the Loire Valley were green with new growth, but several weeks behind those of San Lorenzo. Their road led to Nevers and from there to Chateauneuf, where they picked up the main road to Paris. There was more traffic as they moved towards the capital. They saw more soldiers than they had previously seen. It was obvious that France was on a war footing and already fighting with the pope’s league.