” ‘Certain critical persons,’ ” husked Francesca. “Who?”
“Petro Dorma, for one.”
Francesca tried to keep from smiling. Not entirely with success. “That should not be, ah, too difficult. Who else?”
Eneko was silent for a moment, studying her. “You know perfectly well ‘who else,’ Francesca. When the crisis comes, the actions of the Holy Roman Emperor will be decisive. My own contact with the Emperor is circuitous and would take far too long to set into motion when the time arrives. And besides, I suspect I will be preoccupied with other matters. Whereas you—you are but one step removed from Charles Fredrik.”
Francesca froze. Diego coughed into his fist, discreetly. “The Hohenstauffen dynasty,” he murmured, “has perhaps dipped too often into that well for the subterfuge to work as nicely as it did once. And the Earl of Carnac is a rather distinctive young man. And . . . well, as it happens, I met him once.” Hastily: “I’m sure he doesn’t remember. He was only sixteen at the time, visiting Orleans with his mother. And, ah, quite drunk. Sad to say, the lad fell into bad company—roistering students, the city’s plagued with them—and, ah . . .”
Francesca rolled her eyes. “I can imagine,” she muttered. She brought her eyes back to meet Eneko’s. “He doesn’t even know that I know who he is. I’m his whore, not his confidant.”
The Basque priest’s gaze remained level. He said nothing. After a moment, Francesca looked aside. “I suppose I’m being a bit disingenuous.”
“More than a bit, I think. The earl trusts you, Francesca.”
The look which came on Francesca’s face made her seem much younger, for an instant. “I think he does,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Why is that?”
Eneko’s gaze was still level. Francesca sighed again. “I’m a disgrace to the Aquitaine,” she muttered. “What kind of respectable whore can be trusted?”
Still, level. Francesca threw up her hands. “All right, then! Damn you. I’ll do it.” She rallied briefly: “When the time comes, not before. And how will I know that?”
Still, level. Francesca glared at Diego and Pierre. “Does he ever glance aside?”
The Basque’s two companions grinned. “Welcome to our brotherhood, Francesca,” said Pierre. Diego coughed behind his fist. “In a manner of speaking,” he added.
* * *
As they were about to leave, Francesca placed her hand on the door and held it shut. “This will cost you, Eneko.”
He smiled. “Not in coin, I trust.”
“Coin I’m not short of,” she snorted. She glanced at Pierre. “Although I’m a little shorter now than I was. Your Savoyard here is not the only one who can smell the stink coming from Casa Brunelli. I hired a bodyguard a week ago, after the Doge’s last soiree. I do believe Lucrezia Brunelli has placed me on her list of enemies, and she’s got a reputation. At least two courtesans have been murdered in Venice in the past year, both of whom apparently attracted too much attention from her.”
The three priests frowned simultaneously. “We did not notice any bodyguard, coming in,” said Diego.
Francesca smiled. “He’s very good. Cost me plenty, but it was worth it. Another Aquitaine, unfortunately. So he insisted on coin rather than, ah, taking part of his payment in trade.”
“How long do you intend to keep poking me, Francesca?” asked Eneko. His tone was very mild. “It’s quite pointless. I have no doubt you will set a record for the longest stay in purgatory, when the time comes. Purgatory is not my concern.”
She made a face. “No, it wouldn’t be. And how stupid can I be to get involved with a priest who doesn’t care about my sins?” Stubbornly: “It’ll still cost you. And you know the payment I want.”
The Basque nodded. “Trust. Confidence. To play a part—as you thought you did once, as a girl—in the great affairs of the world. Sitting again at your father’s table, excited by knowledge; excited, even more, by the feeling that your knowledge mattered.”
She lowered her head and removed her hand from the door, squeezing her eyes shut to hold in the sudden tears. “Thank you.” Then, in a very small voice: “Forgive me, Father, for my sins.”