Patrick closed the door behind him. “Good day to you, Paolo Loredano,” he said in his deep voice. “Do we have anything to discuss between us?”
“Sit down, my lord, and have some wine,” the artist said, pouring a goblet for the earl and then joining him as he sat down in the opposite chair. “You have already ascertained that I am here on behalf of my cousin, the doge. We need play no silly games, you and I. What is it that Scotland wants of Venice?”
“So, you are not the fool you pretend to be,” Patrick noted.
Paolo Loredano laughed. “Nay, I am not. But the pose gains me far more than if I did not play the fool, my lord.”
The Earl of Glenkirk nodded. “His Holiness, the pope, has put my master, King James, in a difficult position,” Patrick began.
“Pope Julius has always favored your master,” Loredano said.
“Aye, he has, but now he needs something that my master cannot give him,” the earl continued. “Scotland and England have ever been the most contentious of neighbors, as everyone knows. King James married an English princess in order to ensure peace between the two kingdoms. Peace has helped Scotland grow prosperous, and prosperity is good for the people who share in it. Jamie Stewart is a good king. He is intelligent, and he governs well. His people truly love him. He is devout and loyal to the Holy Mother Church. But most of all, James Stewart is the most honorable and loyal of men. While his father-in-law ruled England all was good between us. Now, however, his brother-in-law, the eighth Henry, sits on the throne. He is young and reckless. He is jealous of his brother-in-law, and he wants above all things to be known as the greatest ruler in all of Europe. He believes that King James, so long favored by the pope, stands in his way.
“Last year Pope Julius the second sided with France against Venice. Now, at King Henry’s instigation, he would stand with Venice and others against France. And he has demanded that my master do so, too.”
“He is very clever, this English king,” the artist noted softly.
“He is ruthless,” the Earl of Glenkirk said. “England knows that Scotland has an old alliance with France. My king cannot break that alliance without just cause, and there is no cause. At England’s insistence, the pope demands Scotland join his Holy League against France. We cannot.”
“And Venice?” the artist asked.
“My master seeks to weaken the alliance so that the pope has greater concerns than Scotland. I was sent to speak with the representative of Venice and of the Holy Roman Emperor. Frankly,” Patrick said, “I see little hope in this plan, but King James is desperate to avoid the war that is sure to ensue between Scotland and England should we refuse to betray our alliance with France and join the league. King Henry will use our refusal as an excuse to attack Scotland. He will declare us traitors to Christendom. There is no profit in war, as I am certain you understand, Maestro Loredano. Venice is a great commercial empire. Should you not be looking to the east and the Ottoman to protect yourselves? If you allow your troops to join with the league’s, do you not enfeeble Venice’s power?”
Paolo Loredano chuckled. “You present a good case for your king, my lord, and your argument is a fine one. However, the doge is determined to keep on Pope Julius’ good side in this matter.”
“Could you not remain neutral?” the earl asked. “Could you not plead your own city’s danger from the Ottoman and promise not to interfere on either party’s behalf?”
“That,” Paolo Loredano said, “would be the best course, I agree, but the doge will not do it. He thinks if the Ottomans attack us, the league will come to our aid. I, frankly, cannot imagine the English king, or Spain, or the emperor sending troops to deliver us, but I am not the doge. He is old, and sometimes when I see him I think he does not even know who I am. I have no real influence on him. I am his messenger sent here to listen and to report back to him. But I tell you, your mission, as you well know, is a useless one. I am sorry, my lord.”
Patrick nodded. “King James expected as much, but he must try for his own country’s sake. Will you, however, send a messenger to Venice with what we have spoken on today?”
“Of course,” the artist replied. “I have a fine, well-trained coop of pigeons for just that purpose. I must remain the winter, not an unpleasant task, so as not to incur any suspicion. Will you be staying, as well?”
“Aye. I always found the winters here salubrious. Now, do you really want to paint Rosamund? If you do, I shall commission the painting from you.”
Loredano sighed. “She is very fair and most in love with you, my lord.”
“In other words,” the earl chuckled, “you attempted to seduce her, and she rebuffed you.”
“She did,” he admitted, “but strangely, I was not offended, as I might have been with another woman. She slapped me and scolded me, but there were no tears or recriminations. And then we continued on as if I had not approached her so boldly at all.”
“She is a practical country woman,” the earl said quietly.
“And you do not wish to challenge me to the duel?” the artist asked.
“If Rosamund is no longer offended, then neither am I, Maestro Loredano. Besides, you are too young for me to engage in battle,” he concluded with a smile.
The artist laughed. “There are, I am beginning to see, certain advantages to old age. You may speak freely and do as you choose to do. And have a lovely young mistress. I have always been afraid of growing older, my lord. Now I think I am not.”
Patrick rose from his seated position, as did his companion. He towered over the Venetian by at least four inches. “I shall,” he said, “accept your conclusions as a compliment, Maestro Loredano. You may come to the ambassador’s villa tomorrow to begin your portrait of Rosamund Bolton.” He bowed slightly, but politely. “I bid you good day.”
“And you also,” the Venetian said, bowing a deeper, more respectful bow.
The Earl of Glenkirk departed the artist’s villa and joined Rosamund outside. They mounted their horses, and they began their ride back to the Scots villa. The day was actually growing quite warm, and the earl suggested, a gleam in his eye, that perhaps they should have their tub filled and enjoy the afternoon together.
Rosamund laughed. “We will not be using our tub until I can have an awning put up, Patrick. Our terrace, it seems, is visible from the artist’s studio. He has sketched us in our tub and out. I have the sketches with me, but we must see his view is compromised so we may retain our privacy.”
Patrick didn’t know whether or not to laugh. “He’s a bold fellow, this Paolo Loredano. Tell me, Rosamund, have you ever been swimming in the sea?”
“I have never really been swimming at all,” she told him. “I paddled about a stream at Friarsgate as a child, but I do not really know how to swim.”
“Then I shall teach you,” he said. “This afternoon we shall go to a little hidden beach outside of town. The sea here is gentle and warm.”
“Can we take a picnic?” she asked him.
“ ’Tis a fine idea, sweetheart,” he replied.
They arrived back at Lord MacDuff’s villa to find the servants bustling about for the supper party that the earl had promised the baroness was to be held late the next afternoon. There was much preparation to be done before then. Still, the cook in the embassy kitchens was happy to make up a basket for the earl. He filled it with fresh bread, a soft wax-covered cheese wrapped in cheesecloth, half of a cold chicken, some thinly sliced ham, and a large bunch of green grapes. Lastly, he tucked in a bottle of wine and sent his helper off to bring the basket to the earl.
Rosamund had gone to their apartments to change into something less formal than she had been wearing. She slipped into a dark-colored skirt and a shirt. Annie was nowhere to be found, but Rosamund was quite capable of dressing herself. The earl entered, and she spread the charcoal sketches that the artist had given her upon a table for him to see. There was one of her in the tub, another of her completely naked as she stepped from the tub, and several studies of her using the drying cloth. There was a sketch of the earl as God had made him and another of him in the tub with her. Rosamund blushed again as she looked at that particular view, for it was obvious that they were coupling in the tub.
“He has a good eye,” the earl remarked dryly as he studied the sketches.
“It is too sharp for my taste,” Rosamund said. Then she picked up the last sketch, which had been lying facedown, and turned it over. “God’s foot!” she exclaimed.
Patrick chuckled wickedly.
“It is not funny!” Rosamund said angrily. “I am responsible for the girl!” The sketch they viewed was of Annie
