She winced, slightly, remembering the noise that had erupted earlier from the entry salon downstairs. Those fools! They might as well have tried trapping a tiger with a fishnet.
She was sure of it, now. The two men she had rescued were an imperial prince—Manfred of Brittany—and his Icelandic bodyguard.
Then, remembering Kat’s description of her frightening encounter with the Knights in the church two weeks earlier, Francesca began laughing softly. Kat had not mentioned the name of either of the knights who had come to her defense, on that occasion, but she had described them. Her description, of course, had borne precious little resemblance to the two men Francesca had just finished . . . entertaining in her room. Granted, Manfred was very big; but he was not a giant. Nor—here Francesca’s laugh almost gurgled—had the shy and red-faced Erik seemed quite the Nordic werewolf that Kat depicted.
Still . . . thinking about it, Francesca could well believe that those two young men—especially Erik—could be utterly terrifying under different circumstances. Judging from the sounds she had heard coming from below earlier that evening, a number of would-be ambushers had certainly found them so.
She had not, however. And, now that she was certain of their identity, Francesca found herself strangely delighted by the entire episode. She had chosen to rescue the two men out of half-conscious calculation, true. But . . .
Kat’s a friend of mine. So I suppose I owed those two boys a favor anyway. Not—again the little gurgling laugh—that Erik seemed to enjoy it much, even if Manfred certainly did.
The laugh died away. Favors were favors, true, but self-interest remained. Where was the benefit to her in this thing?
This called for more leisurely reasoning. Once again, Francesca resumed her seat on the bed and went back to combing her hair.
She began by examining the ambush. She hadn’t seen it, of course, but she didn’t need to. She had seen the key piece of evidence—Erik’s naked body, completely unmarked by any wound. Whoever set that trap had no idea what kind of ferocious “prey” would be walking into it. Which meant they were quite unaware of the true identity of Erik and Manfred. Whatever had been the purpose of the ambush, it had been aimed at two—or perhaps only one—junior members of the militant order. Not an imperial prince and his special companion.
That ruled out any of the Venetian factions immediately. Neither the Metropolitans nor the Montagnards would have any reason to ambush ordinary knights. Not in such an elaborate manner, at any rate, in a well-known brothel where there was bound to be a risk of capture by the Schiopettieri. If either of the factions had a quarrel to settle with a common knight, they would have stabbed him in the streets. A quick thrust from a doorway, followed by easy escape through crooked alleys in the dark.
Then . . . why had the Schiopettieri shown up so quickly? That was completely atypical. To have gotten here so quickly, the Schiopettieri had to have been forewarned—suborned, in fact. And whoever could wield that much influence would hardly have done it for the petty purpose of killing or injuring a simple knight.
Nor, again, was it something either the Montagnards or the Metropolitans would have done anyway. Not for their own purposes, at any rate. It was conceivable one of them might have done so as a favor to an ally, or for pay.
What ally, or paymaster? Not any of the powers within official Venice, for a certainty. The last thing official Venice wanted was any cause for quarrel with the Holy Roman Emperor. Charles Fredrik was a grim and dangerous man to have ruling the most powerful realm in Europe, especially one which was almost a neighbor of the island Republic. But—unlike some emperors of the past, Charles Fredrik was not given to grandiose ambitions. He was not a conqueror by temperament. Despite occasional frictions, Venice had gotten along quite well with the Empire since Charles Fredrik came to the throne, all things considered. It would be sheer insanity for the Venetian oligarchy to attack the Emperor’s nephew.
All of which led Francesca to one inescapable conclusion. She set down the comb, folded her hands in her lap, and stared sightlessly at the far wall of her room.