He tried an appeal to piety and reason. “Manfred. You’re a Knight of the Holy Trinity, even if only a confrere. A moral example to these soft, corrupt southerners. Not a mercenary out for the customary three nights of sacking.”
The young knight-squire grinned. “That’s why I was planning to pay my way. Not being a ladies’ delight like you . . .”
“I’ve got guard duty, tonight,” interrupted Erik, hastily. “And so have you, come to think of it.”
Manfred yawned. “I’ll swap out. Come on, Erik. I’ll go without you, otherwise.”
This was a dire threat. It had worked when Manfred had wanted to sample the taverns of Innsbruck. But it was a vain threat this time.
“Abbot Sachs himself put up the list,” said Erik, grimly. “And besides, my Breton friend, your court Frankish isn’t going to get you anywhere. Without a grasp of the local dialect you couldn’t ask your way to the nearest church, never mind anything else.”
“That’s why I need a linguist like you, Erik,” grinned Manfred. “And I sure couldn’t get back without my sober, respectable mentor to guide me. Come on, Erik . . .”
“Not a chance.” Erik glanced at the light from the high enchased window. “Now you’d better leg it back to get suited up. I’d better yell for that useless Pellmann.”
“You’d do well to shove his surly face up his hinder-end instead,” said Manfred, rising and stretching.
Erik had yet to get used to the way these continentals treated their servants. Thralls back home were more like part of the family, and as likely to yell at you as you were at them. But Pellmann’s insolent attitude toward serving anyone but a North German Ritter was beginning to rub even the egalitarian Icelander raw. “I think I will, if I don’t find him in two minutes,” he said grimly.
Pellmann bustled in abruptly. The nasty piece of work had plainly been listening outside.
Manfred snorted. “Ah, well. I’ll see you at the banquet. Maybe there’ll be some pretty women there.” He left, leaving Erik to Pellmann’s mercies. The Pomeranian knew by now that the worst Erik would do when a buckle pinched him was curse under his breath. Erik would swear the Pomeranian used this opportunity to make the foreign confrere knight’s life a misery.
Pellmann’s knuckles dug into his rib cage, harder than was necessary. Erik clenched his jaws, restraining a fierce impulse to use his own knuckles on the surly underling’s pudgy face. Instead, he satisfied himself with glaring at the walls of the embassy. Even in this modest suite, the walls were covered with wood paneling, ornately carved in the imperial manner.
The sight of those paneled walls darkened his mood further. The very fact that this ceremony was being held here, in the embassy of the Holy Roman Empire, was a sign of the rot. By rights, it should have been held in the Knights’ own hospital. And if the one in Venice was too small for the purpose, a suitably neutral site could have been easily found in a city as large as this one. Holding it here simply reinforced the common perception that the Knights had become nothing more than an extension of the imperial power, pure and simple.
Erik sighed, remembering his father’s words as he bade his younger son farewell. Remember, lad, stay out of politics! Church or state, it matters not. Your duty is that of the clan, to the Emperor alone. Nothing less, mind—but also nothing more. Nothing else.
But between the Pomeranian squire and the Prussian knight-commander it was hard. The Prussian, Von Stublau, was irritating him even more than Pellmann.
* * *
“Prussian son of a bitch,” muttered Manfred, as he marched into the banqueting hall. He said it quietly, though. He’d been hoping for duty carrying the Woden-casket from the chapel nave to the banqueting hall. Instead he’d drawn the delightful duty of being one of the door-wardens. To stand for the entire length of the banquet and watch while the church delegations and the imperials wined and dined the oligarchy of Venice.
Not for the first time he wished he could pack this up and go home to Bretagne. Or even back to Mainz. However, his mother and his uncle had made it painfully clear that he was going to do service as confrere knight in a monastic order . . . or else. And Uncle Charles was quite grimly capable of making the “or else” a long stay in the imperial dungeons. On the whole being a confrere was a better option. Just.