“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.
They finally reached Paris in late April. Rosamund was exhausted and glad for this respite from their travels. Annie was obviously already with child and equally relieved to stop. The duke had arranged for them to break their long journey at a small house he owned just outside the city. The concierge had been alerted to their coming. The house was freshly cleaned and aired. Two servants, a maid, and a stableman had been brought in for their visit. The morning after their arrival, Patrick left to seek out an audience with King Louis, if indeed the king was in Paris.
He was, and after waiting almost the entire day, he was finally admitted to King Louis XII’s august presence. He bowed low and said quietly so that only the king might hear, “I come from James Stewart, but I must speak with you privately, monseigneur.”
The king’s eyes flickered, curious. He was a tall, handsome man with a warm smile. “Leave us!” he said to his attendants, and they immediately vacated the chamber. “Sit down, my lord,” he invited the earl, “and tell me why you have come.”
“I had no doubt he would,” the French king responded. “Your mission, of course, failed.”
“It did. However, I was able to plant within the minds of both emissaries a suspicion of King Henry,” Patrick said.
“And how did you do that?” King Louis asked, smiling.
“I told them the truth of his personality and his ambitions,” the Earl of Glenkirk replied with an answering smile. “You know, of course, the story of the Venerable Margaret’s jewels.”
“I do,” King Louis said. “ ’Twas shocking and most meanly done. I do not believe I should like this Henry Tudor if indeed I ever met him. I doubt I shall, but my son-in-law, Francois, will have to deal with him one day. I think, perhaps, they might get along, for they have similar characters. Francois, like Henry Tudor, is a large man with a large appetite and a great lust for all that life has to offer. Still, he is a good husband to my daughter Claude.” Then
