Eric Flint - The Shadow of the Lion

Francesca smiled, as she neatly twitched the neckband of Manfred's shirt into shape. "He is the man who believes he will be the next Doge."

"I don't think you can do that, Erik," said Manfred seriously. "I don't think even my?the Emperor?could stop the Venetians hanging the lot of us."

"Besides," said Francesca, "Aldanto is reputed to be for sale, confidentially, to the highest bidder. It may have had nothing to do with Brunelli."

"He sounds like the sort to have influence with these Venetian Schiopettieri."

Francesca shook her head. "Not really. Any of the Signori di Notte could have done it. But Brunelli is not one of them."

Manfred stretched. "I know you don't like the idea, Erik. But I still think you need look no further than our dear abbot."

Erik shrugged. "Sachs says he sent Pellmann to me with a message that the raid was off. Pellmann has enough of a grudge against me to not deliver it. I'm not a North German Ritter."

"And you didn't beat him, so he didn't respect you," said Manfred with a grin. "You're a callous brute, Erik. How could you treat the man like that? No wonder he ran off."

Francesca laughed. "And what the two of you do not see is that that does not add up. Aldanto being the organizer of that ambush, and the time at which the Schiopettieri arrived, adds up to two things: money and influence. Venetian influence. How would this Pellmann have access to either? He was not a Venetian, was he?"

"Pomeranian," said Erik. "Couldn't even make himself understood in the local dialect. Despised all Southerners, and Venetians most of all."

Francesca sighed. "I think you will find he's dead."

Manfred snorted. "Well, that's no loss to the world. Unless sharing Von Tieman's squire-orderly is worse, Erik?"

Erik shook his head. "No. He's a nice enough old fellow. A bit slow upstairs. Probably from all those slaps around the head Von Tieman gives him. He's pathetically grateful that I don't. But why kill Pellmann? And if it wasn't him, arranging it in a piece of spite, who was it? It can't be the abbot, Manfred. Me being wounded or killed or even captured in a raid by the local constabulary on a brothel would have shamed the Knights?and by extension, the Servants."

Manfred shook his head. "Believe me. If they had caught you, the abbot would have been the first person to be shocked that you were there. It was a set-up, I tell you."

"I don't believe it," said Erik, stubbornly. "I have opposed him, true?in a relatively minor matter?but surely that's not worth the effort and money such a plot would take. He could just send me home."

Manfred grinned. "Heh. I'd be sent off on the next boat. Just think. No Uncle Erik to ride herd on me."

Erik didn't say anything. Francesca was there. But he smiled and shook his head. His duty was to protect Manfred. There were certain steps he would have to take if the abbot tried to send him away. A signet ring to be used. In dire emergencies.

"Well, the thought of my running wild has shut Erik up. He's even forgotten he's come to hale me away for guard duty. Goodbye, my sweet. Until tomorrow."

Francesca shook her head. "Not until Thursday, Manfred, as you well know."

A look of pouting hurt spread over Manfred's face. "I wish you'd give this up. I thought you loved me."

She smiled, and patted his cheek. "And I do! But not exclusively."

He put his bulky arms around her waist and drew her close, his face growing sulky.

Francesca gave him a quick, easy kiss, but her hands were on his chest gently pushing him away. "Please, Manfred. You could not begin to afford keeping me for yourself, and you know it as well as I do. So enjoy what we have."

"But… Francesca," he pouted.

"Thursday. Build up your strength." Her next kiss was firm, and dismissive.

On their way back, observing Manfred's clumping steps from the corner of his eye, Erik found himself fighting down a smile. For once?ha!?even the happy-go-lucky imperial prince seemed to have met a woman who confounded him.

Perhaps sensing his companion's humor, Manfred shrugged thick shoulders. "What can I do?" he demanded, in a tone which was half-amused and half-exasperated. "Next to Francesca, all the other women in this town are just… boring."

His still-young face seemed, for just a moment, even younger than it was. "It's not fair! I'm being ruined for a normal life of whoremongering." Blackly: "You watch! Before you know it, she'll be reading to me in bed."

Erik held his tongue. But he finally decided Francesca was right. Maybe some young girl out there?some eventual princess?would thank her for the training she was giving Manfred. He was far too used to getting his own way; with women as much as anything else. Being stymied and befuddled was undoubtedly good for the royal young lout.

As a guardian and a warrior-mentor, Erik still regretted the incident that had led Manfred into consorting with Francesca. Because of the debt between them, he hadn't been able to deal with it as decisively as he usually would have. But…

Yes, there was truth in what she'd said. He simply couldn't watch the young hellion twenty-four hours a day. Manfred was as safe with Francesca as in the Imperial embassy… from which Manfred had found at least three unofficial exits. If he could leave, then anyone could enter too. Erik had pointed this out to the abbot, to be told that the rite of enclosure precluded it. All Erik could say was that the rite appeared?as testified by Manfred's presence in the Casa Louise?to be ineffectual.

And, he supposed, just as he was seeing to some aspects of the education of the future Duke of Brittany and possible heir to the Holy Roman Emperor's throne, Francesca was also. Erik blushed a little. These were certainly areas he was ignorant of. And besides that, she was knowledgeable about other things which Erik knew little about?such as the political intrigue that seemed to be the heart of the Venetian Republic. The Italians seemed to relish it. It left him puzzled and with a feeling of distaste. But this was what Manfred would have to deal with when Erik went back to Iceland and thence to Vinland.

Benito hadn't missed the subtle little signals Aldanto was passing to those shadow-lurkers canalside. Benito knew those shadows, knew them for Giaccomo's. Knew how much they cost. Was totaling up that cost in his head, and coming to a sum that scared the socks off of him.

All that?for Marco?

Oh, hell.

He began doing some very hard thinking about the time they hit the Grand Canal. He'd made up his mind by the time they reached the house in Castello.

Aldanto helped to get Marco as far as the kitchen, then let Maria take over; he headed for the sitting room, and stood looking out of the window in the dim sunlight, arms crossed over his chest, handsome face brooding and worried. Benito made himself a silent shadow following him.

"M'lord?" he said quietly, as soon as they were alone.

Aldanto started?barely visibly; controlling an automatic reaction of defense. Benito's quick eyes caught it all, and his evaluation of Caesare rose considerably.

Damn?he's good. If he can pull his reaction after all this?he's damned good. Better'n anybody I've ever seen.

"What?" the man said shortly, obviously not in a mood for more nonsense.

"M'lord," he said soberly, as Caesare regarded him over one shoulder. "I?I'm sorry about the?" he gestured, flushing, "?where I hit you."

"You're sorry?" The ex-Montagnard was actually speechless.

"M'lord?listen a minute, please? I didn't know what to think. Thought maybe you might have?well?Marco might be worth a bit, to the right people."

"Thought I might have turned my coat again, is that it?" Aldanto looked very odd; a little amused, and maybe a little understanding.