Manfred nodded in turn. “Power games. Charles Fredrik needs to rein them in.”
Erik could almost see him taking it down in his mind. He’d bet he’d repeat it to Francesca within the next few days. Erik sighed quietly. It was all very well Erik’s father telling him to stay out of politics. “Your loyalty is to the Godar Hohenstauffen, boy. Let them enjoy their wrangles.” If Manfred was going to survive, he had to understand these wrangles, as much as he had to understand swordplay.
“So.” Erik poked him in the ribs. “What are you lolling around for? We have to be at the church for the test of faith before this wedding. We’ve got barely an hour before Abbot Sachs is going to be squalling for his escort.”
Manfred stood up. “Easy on those ribs. Between you and the hammering they take from Giuliano at the salle d’armes of his, I’m too tender for Francesca to appreciate me.”
Erik began hauling out the quilted underclothes for their armor. Well suited to armor; ill suited to Venetian summer. “And we’re no closer to finding out whether he had anything to do with killing Father Belgio yet,” he grumbled. More brightly: “But my rapier-work is coming on.”
“Yes, Giuliano said you were better than a blind drunken cow with a rapier handle up its butt . . . but only just.” Manfred retreated, grinning, out of the door, bellowing for Erik’s squire-orderly as he went.
He left Erik to his preparations and reflections. Giuliano insulted them both copiously. But he had rapidly moved them under his own, personal tuition. Very few attained that. And while Manfred’s weapons of choice would always be dictated by his strength, they were both picking up techniques . . . techniques that could kill armored, broad-sword-wielding knights. Lessons that should be part of their armory of skills. It was high time the Knights of the Holy Trinity stopped playing religious politics and moved into the real world.
* * *
Politics and religion. Marco looked at the assembled people in the chapel. They were a cross section of the powers of Venice, not “wedding-guests” in the normal sense of the term. Everyone who was anyone was there. The Doge had graced the occasion with his elderly presence. Ricardo Brunelli and his legendarily beautiful sister Lucrezia were there too. The head of the Ventuccio—who looked at Marco as if he’d never seen him before. Other Case Vecchie he’d really never seen before, making their appearance, coming to examine the Valdosta.
And plenty of non-Venetian folk, too:
The peacocky condottiere Aldo Frescata. The head of the Milanese “trade delegation,” Francesco Aleri. Marco looked him over very, very carefully. Yes. He was the man they’d seen at the mouth of the alleyway. The man Maria said had taken her prisoner, who was in cahoots with the Casa Dandelo. Who was probably the director of the Montagnard spies and assassins. Maybe even the man who’d had Mama killed. They greeted each other with urbane politeness and every appearance of disinterest. It left him feeling a bit sick and unconsciously putting his hand onto the hilt of his rapier.
Petro Dorma was making sure that the whole of the power of Venice—of the entire region—saw Marco, knew that he had the Doge’s blessing, and also that he had passed this test of faith. The Servants of the Holy Trinity, too, were glorying in this display of power. A nun and several gray-clad monks were doing the slow rounds, sprinkling holy water, chanting psalms. The air was heavy with holy incense. Bishop Capuletti, resplendent in his robes, there to conduct the wedding ceremony later, looked faintly put-out.
Then the bells began their solemn tolling. And the chapel was hushed. In the front of the chapel the abbot had the chalice, the bread, sword and bible arrayed. Obedient to the nudge from Petro, Marco walked forward. The monks began their chanting plainsong. Both fear and misery suddenly knotted his stomach. By the poisonous look that the abbot had given him, he clearly thought Marco ought to fail. And even if he didn’t . . . he was going to be married to Angelina. He should make best of it.