“See to it, Hans,” murmured Charles Fredrik. “Use Wilhelm Gneiss and his Bavarians. You can leave the military details to him. But make sure the Scaligers are bloodied. You needn’t besiege Verona, I don’t imagine—but tell Wilhelm not to hesitate if necessary. I want the territory under the control of the Scaligers shrunk—in half, as the Duke of Ferrara says. Spread the pieces around as seems best to you during the negotiations.” He glanced at the Old Fox. “Make sure Ferrara gets the biggest slice.”
“I’ve always been partial to Legnano,” said Dell’este, almost idly. “Pretty town.”
After Trolliger trotted off, riding his horse about as awkwardly as a man can and still stay in the saddle, the Emperor glanced behind him at a figure who was riding her own saddle with considerably greater ease and skill.
“Would you allow us a moment in private, Enrico?”
“Certainly, Your Majesty.” The Duke of Ferrara trotted his horse away with the same superb skill that the old man handled a sword or a hammer. The Emperor waved Francesca forward.
When she drew alongside him, Charles Fredrik glanced at her manner of riding and made a face. “How do you manage that, anyway?”
Francesca smiled. “It’s the fashion in the Aquitaine for ladies, Your Majesty. I learned to ride sidesaddle when I was barely old enough to walk.” She plucked the dusky folds of silken lace-trimmed twill covering her thighs. “I could hardly wear something like this straddling the horse.”
“It’s quite a costume,” agreed the Emperor. His tone was . . . meaningful.
Francesca gave him a sidelong glance. “I did not think Your Majesty would appreciate it much, if I were seen in my usual costume. Discretion and modesty seemed . . . well advised.”
“Smart woman. Not—” The old man gave her a sidelong glance of his own. For a moment, his eyes seemed those of a much younger man. “—that I wouldn’t have appreciated the other, I’m quite sure.”
Francesca said nothing. Her smile was almost that of a Madonna.
Charles Fredrik cleared his throat. “And why didn’t I see that other costume, Marie-Françoise de Guemadeuc? Since your arrival at Innsbruck, you’ve both dressed and behaved as a most modest and chaste demoiselle. In my experience—which is considerable—most courtesans would have cheerfully pitched over a prince for the sake of snaring an emperor.”
Francesca hesitated, a little play of subtle emotions running over her face. Before she could speak, the Emperor continued.
“Three possibilities come to mind. The first is that you have a rigid sense of honor, which would preclude that course of action on the grounds that it skirts incest. But since you are Aquitainian, I think we can dismiss that possibility out of hand.”
“We do have a reputation.” Francesca’s accompanying chuckle was soft and throaty. “Indeed, I agree. We may dismiss it out of hand.”
“The second possibility, then. You have formed an attachment with my nephew which transcends the obvious bond between a courtesan and a young nobleman.” He stopped abruptly, cocking an eye at her.
“Um. I am fond of Manfred, Your Majesty. Genuinely so, in fact. But—”
Charles Fredrik heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank God. I’m not dealing with a madwoman.”
Francesca’s chuckle, now, was neither soft nor throaty. Indeed, it was almost an open laugh. “Please. Manfred is charming, vigorous, good-humored—often genuinely witty—and far more intelligent than he likes to pretend. His company, more often than not, is quite delightful. Far more so than that of most of my clients. But anything more serious . . .” She shook her head firmly. “There’s nothing in it, neither for Manfred nor myself. Although I’m good for him now, Your Majesty. That I do believe.”
The Emperor nodded. “I also. I have no objection to a continuation of your liaison. Actually, I’m in favor of it.” He cleared his throat. “You do understand, of course . . .”
“Yes, yes—certainly. Now that Manfred’s identity is in the open, he can hardly remain simply one of my clients. A rich young knight can share a courtesan. A prince requires an exclusive mistress.”
It was her turn to clear her throat.
Before she could speak, Charles Fredrik snorted. “Yes, yes—certainly. I know it’ll cost me.” He examined her briefly, spending more time on the modest but expensive clothing than on her well-covered but intrinsically immodest figure. “Plenty.”