Chapter 23
Well, that was certainly interesting.
Francesca pulled on an open-fronted robe, in case someone came back, tied it around her waist with a tasseled cord, and shook out her hair. Then she turned to the ewer and basin on the top of the table across the room where it wouldn’t be knocked over in a moment of passion. She rinsed her mouth with herb-scented water and spat it into the basin.
And why did I do that, anyway?
It was not an idle question. Francesca had reacted to the situation based on reflex, because there had been no time to think things through carefully. But her reflexes had been honed by a perilous life, and she had come to trust them. Now that it was over and she did have a chance to think, she probed her memory to discover what twisted chain of logic had led her, almost without conscious thought, to behave in a way that she would normally have not.
Most certainly not! If men wanted her favors, they could damn well pay for them. She was no silly maiden to rescue a handsome man from danger without good reason—much less two of them, neither of whom was really that handsome anyway.
A pair of Knots, ambushed by the Schoppies. And not just any pair of Knots, either. Whoever arranged this particular episode either had no idea what kind of a mess he would create—or intended to. I wonder which?
She picked up the wooden comb from beside the basin and ran it through her hair, walking back to the bed as she did so. Francesca had not come from the streets. Before her family’s ruination, they had been skilled players in the subtle and deadly intrigue which was the principal sport of Aquitaine’s aristocracy. Her father had trained her in the political and diplomatic arts as thoroughly as her mother had trained her in other ways. So, a mind far better educated than anyone would have expected to find in that brothel worked at the problem, while she sat on the edge of the bed and combed her hair.
She had known, of course, from the moment she saw the two men, that they were what her mother—as chauvinistic as any Aquitaine—would have called, disdainfully, étrangers. The embarrassed blond was too fair to be Prussian or Austrian; and his companion had called him “Erik.” He could only be a Norse of some kind. And that was odd, because there were very few Norse in the Knots. The Christian Norse who belonged to the Holy Roman Empire were Danes; and the Danes were rivals of the Knights of the Holy Trinity in the Baltic. The other Christian branch of Scandinavia were the Icelanders and their various offshoots—but they gave their allegiance to the League of Armagh, not the Holy Roman Emperor.
Except—
Her eyes widened. Like a flash, her mind focused on the other of the two men—the very large and square one. Very large, she remembered with some amusement, and in all respects; but he hadn’t been rough at all, so she didn’t hold it against him. He had spoken with a pronounced Breton accent—unmistakable, to one born and bred as Francesca had been in the Aquitaine.
And his name was “Manfred.” His companion Erik had used it once.
Her eyes widened still further. Manfred of Brittany? The Manfred of Brittany? Is it possible?
Hair-brushing was too sedate. Francesca set down the comb, got to her feet and began pacing slowly about. Her quick mind raced, tracing the connections.
Nephew of the Emperor . . . probably second in line to the throne . . . third in line, for a certainty . . . still a just a youth, he’d be . . . bit of a rakehell, supposedly . . . what would Charles Fredrik do with such an imperial scion?
Of course! It’s practically a tradition now with the Hohenstauffens!
Back and forth, back and forth. Her bare feet made no sound on the floor. That, too, her mother had taught her. Noise is something you make to please a man, when it suits your purpose. Otherwise—move silently.
Yes, it all made sense. Charles Fredrik would have reached beyond the Empire altogether, called in that ancient clan favor. Brought in someone who could be trusted in such a matter, have no ties or links to the complex web of imperial politics, and also be quite capable of—