Manfred was clearly struggling not to glare outright. So all he managed in reply was a muffled grunt which could be taken as a form of agreement.
“I declare you honorary Italians,” pronounced the Old Fox. Then he faced Lopez, his smile disappearing. “There’s no point in discussing the matter, Father. I know perfectly well why you came. Venice is Venice, Ferrara is Ferrara. I’ve done enough for Venice this morning. The rest of the day—and tomorrow, and the day after, if that’s what it takes—belongs to me and mine.”
He turned his head, his fierce old eyes glaring at the distant Milanese lines. “I will have Sforza’s head. And spend the rest of my days planning to reap Visconti’s.”
“Me and mine?” demanded Lopez. The priest reached into his cassock and drew forth a small object. When he presented it to the duke, Erik could see that it was a miniature portrait. He had wondered what the object had been that he’d seen Lopez tucking into his saddlebag when they left the fort.
“Do you remember what you said to me when you gave me this, so-called ‘Old Fox’? ‘Old Boar,’ more like. Dumb as a nearsighted pig.”
Erik was surprised to see that Dell’este did not bridle under the sarcasm. Indeed, for a moment his lips even twitched, as if he were trying to control a smile.
“Lamb of Christ, is it?” murmured the duke. ” ‘Lynx of Christ,’ more like. Feral as a starving cat.”
Lopez ignored the riposte. He simply held the portrait up in front of Dell’este’s face.
After a moment, the old man looked away. “Most of all, you must remember the mother.”
Eneko lowered the portrait. “Exactly so.” He pointed toward the Milanese. “It was not Sforza who murdered your daughter. Other crimes can be laid at his feet, I’ve no doubt. But not that one.”
“Had he not abandoned her,” hissed the duke, “Visconti would never have dared to strike at her.”
“The same could be said of you,” retorted Lopez instantly.
Dell’este’s face turned white as a sheet. His hand—old and veined, but still muscular—clenched the hilt of the sword buckled to his waist. The eyes he turned on Lopez were hot with fury.
Erik held his breath. Next to him, he could feel Manfred tensing.
Eneko—
Never flinched. The little Basque priest returned the Duke of Ferrara’s glare with one of his own. Which, in its own way, seemed just as hot.
Indeed, he rubbed salt into the wounds.
“The father condemns the lover?” he demanded. “For the same deed which he committed himself?”
Lopez pointed a stiff finger at the unseen figure of Carlo Sforza. “What that man did was give you a grandson. A grandson who is—today; now; this minute—fighting for his life in the streets of Venice.”
The Basque dropped his arm contemptuously. “Like father, like grandfather. No doubt you will abandon the grandson as you did the mother. Nothing may be allowed to interfere with a petty lord’s overweening pride. A sin which he will try to mask by giving it the name of ‘honor.’ ”
Erik’s eyes were on the duke’s hand, clutching the sword hilt. The knuckles were ivory white, and the sword was now drawn an inch out of the scabbard. So he couldn’t see the expression on Dell’este’s face or that of Lopez. But he couldn’t mistake the sneer in the Basque’s voice.
” ‘Old Fox.’ Was ever a man more badly misnamed? To give up his chance for vengeance on Visconti—who did murder his daughter—in order to salvage his pitiful dignity on the body of a lover?”
Erik glanced up quickly, seeing the twitch in the hand holding the sword. The fury in Dell’este’s eyes seemed . . . adulterated, now. Filling with cunning—surmise, at least—instead of sheer rage.
The duke’s teeth were clenched. His next words were more hissed than spoken.
“Explain.”
Lopez, once again, demonstrated what Erik was beginning to believe was an almost infinite capacity for surprise. The priest’s face suddenly burst into an exuberant grin.
“Finally! The Italian asks the Basque’s advice on a matter of vendetta! About time.”
He rubbed his hands, almost gleefully. Then, crossed himself. “I cannot speak to the point concretely, you understand. I’m sworn to the work of Christ. But, at a glance, it seems to me that the son is better suited to settle accounts with the father than you are. At the appropriate time. And—given some sage advice and counsel from his grandfather, in the months and years to come—is certainly the best choice to settle accounts with the mother’s murderer.”