* * *
He sat on the doorstep of Dorma for a very long time before the doorkeeper opened the outer protective grate for the day. The doorkeeper was a withered old man who stared at him with a pride far more in keeping with a House Head than that of a doorkeeper.
“Away with you, boy,” he grated, looking down his nose as Benito scrambled to his feet, and clasped his hands behind him. “We don’t need idlers or beggars. If you’re looking for work, present yourself at the kitchen.”
“Pardon, sir,” Benito interrupted, looking out of the corner of his eye at the huge pile that was Dorma, and feeling more than a little apprehensive at what he was getting himself into. “Your pardon—but—I’ve got a message. For Milord Dorma.”
“Well?” The ancient drew himself up and sniffed disdainfully. But his disdain was short-lived.
“Caesare Aldanto sent me, sir. If it’s convenient . . . I’m supposed to speak to Milord Petro. I’m—” He gulped, and watched the surprise flood the old man’s face. “I’m Benito Valdosta. Marco’s brother. I think Milord Petro wants to see me.”
Chapter 73
“Who in the name of God is this Francesca?” demanded the Holy Roman Emperor. He held up the second of the two letters Count Von Stemitz had brought with him from Venice. The letter was quite a bit longer than the first, which consisted of a single page.
The count cleared his throat. Then, cleared it again. “Ah. Well, as it happens, Your Majesty, your nephew has taken up with a Venetian courtesan. For quite some time now. He’s kept the liaison more or less secret from Abbot Sachs and his coterie. But Erik Hakkonsen quietly informed me of the situation early on.”
“Hakkonsen allowed this to continue?” demanded the Emperor, his heavy brows so low that his dark blue eyes seemed a deep purple.
“Well . . . yes, Your Majesty.” Again, Von Stemitz cleared his throat. “Actually, in an odd sort of way, I get the feeling Hakkonsen rather approves of the arrangement.”
The Emperor’s brows lifted. “I’ll be damned,” he grunted. “I didn’t think the young Icelander was that smart. His father—God rot his soul—would have beaten me black and blue.”
“It was a simpler world in those days, Your Majesty. If you’ll permit me the liberty of saying so.”
“Indeed it was,” sighed Charles Fredrik. “Jagiellon’s father was a brute, and the uncle he usurped the throne from was even worse. But they weren’t as ambitious.” He fanned his face with the sheaf of papers held in his left hand. “Not to mention that accursed Emeric of Hungary. Either he or Jagiellon would be bad enough. To have both of them coming to power within a year of each other . . .”
He sighed again and picked up the single sheet of paper which contained Manfred’s letter to him. Then, hefted it a bit, as if he were weighing the one letter against the other.
“They say essentially the same thing. But this Francesca’s so-called ‘addendum’ is ten times longer, twenty times more sophisticated, and lays out in fine detail all of the nuances Manfred missed.”
“I thought Manfred’s letter was quite thoughtful,” said the count, rallying for the moment to the young prince’s behalf.
The Emperor snorted. “For an eighteen-year-old boy who’s never given any evidence in the past of thinking past the next tavern or whorehouse, the letter’s a bloody miracle.” He squinted at Francesca’s letter. “Still—there’s nothing in Manfred’s letter we didn’t know a year ago. Whereas this one . . .”
“She claims to be from the Aquitaine. I tend to believe the claim, even though I’m certain the name she uses is fraudulent.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt she’s from the Aquitaine,” mused the Emperor. “Nobody else in the world—not even Italians—has that subtle and convoluted way of looking at things.” His eyes left the letter and drifted toward the narrow window. An arrow-slit, that window had been once. Probably half the arrows fired from it, over the centuries, had been aimed at Aquitainian besiegers.
“I’d be a lot happier if I knew exactly who she was.”
The third man in the room coughed discreetly. The Emperor and Von Stemitz moved their eyes to gaze on him.