They waited on them and the arrival of the Knights of the Holy Trinity.
* * *
Abbot Sachs looked thin on patience. He didn’t get up when Erik entered but remained at his piled scriptorium. “I have all this correspondence from our courier out of Trieste, and now this note from Dorma. It seems better-natured than our last encounter. And we could still use the man’s good graces. He wants Von Gherens and any other of the Knights or Servants of the Holy Trinity who were with the injured in that raid of ours at the Accademia. Go, Ritter. Take Von Gherens. He is up on his feet again. Brother Uriel helped attend him too, along with that student. Take Uriel along. Go.” He shooed.
Erik was only too glad to go. The embassy had been full of things going on for the last while that he wasn’t on top of—and whose consequences for Manfred worried him. He wanted out, for both of them. He didn’t ask permission to take Manfred. He could always claim that he’d needed Manfred to support Von Gherens. So what if Manfred had been safe at the embassy—actually, with Francesca—that night?
The palace was crowded, but a couple of Schiopettieri were waiting for them at the doors, and escorted them to Petro Dorma, who was sitting with a couple of the Venetian justices, and a stripling Erik recognized. It was Dorma’s ward. Yes, he had been there at the raid. Von Gherens probably owed his leg to the boy, and one of the students probably his life. Erik hadn’t put two and two together at the time. There had been other things on his mind.
Petro Dorma greeted them. “So Abbot Sachs was not able to come personally? A pity. But never mind. We need you as witnesses to the truth or falsehood of a particularly unpleasant accusation. We are questioning statements allegedly made by this young man. Do any of you recognize him?” He pointed at his ward. Uriel, Von Gherens and Erik all nodded.
Dorma smiled. “Right. If you don’t mind, could you wait in the antechamber? You will be called one at a time. I’ve sent for some wine.”
Manfred brightened visibly. “I’ll stay here and look after the wine,” he said cheerfully. “I wasn’t there.”
Dorma smiled humorlessly. “I suspect the ‘Accusers’ might well not have been there, either. This way, gentlemen.”
* * *
Filippo Recchia, the handsome and wealthy champion fencer, looked sulky, angry, and just a little overawed. His sycophant Vittorio just looked terrified. They were led one at a time to bear witness. Dorma insisted they each testify separately.
Recchia spoke first, his face stiff but seemingly calm. “He was angry. He said to that friend of his, Rafael de Tomaso. ‘I wish we’d killed all of these German monks and knights. I wish we could get rid of Bishop Capuletti. I would do it myself if I had half the chance.'”
One of the Justices pointed at Marco: “And it was definitely this man who said that?”
Both Filippo, and then Vittorio, confirmed the statement. Yes. They knew him well. Would recognize him with certainty.
“But it was not him you saw lurking in the alley next to the Fondamenta Pruili,” the justice asked Recchia.
“I thought so, Your Honor, but I realized I must be mistaken and it must be his brother.”
“Ah. But you saw him well enough to recognize him?”
Recchia crossed himself. “My oath on it.”
“Thank you. Stand down, Signor Recchia.”
Marco watched as the first of the knights was called. What if he were part of this conspiracy? Fear of the Knots and their reputation rose in his throat as the young blond knight with the chiseled features took the stand.
Unnecessarily, it seemed. “No. He was with us all the time from when the Schiopettieri arrived, until we were summoned individually.”
“And did he at any stage say anything about killing anyone?”
The knight, Erik Hakkonsen, frowned. “No. Definitely not. He said very little. His attention was on the wounded. A good young fellow. An innocent bystander who came to provide assistance, that’s all. The Knights of the Holy Trinity are in his debt.”