This Rough Magic

'Traveling with a letter that bears the seal of the Grand Metropolitan in Rome? Not exactly 'simple,' I'd say. However that may be, you will do me the honor of staying here, I hope? Rooms will be made available for you.'

'We'd be pleased to. But we do not intend to stay very long. We want to find a passage to the Holy Land.'

Petro Dorma allowed himself a small smile. 'Well, unlike Manfred of Brittany, you haven't walked in here and asked me to do so for you. He was here doing that not two hours ago. And—of course!— space for a couple of hundred knights, and—of course!—their horses. Emperor Charles Fredrik doesn't mind asking the impossible.'

'The Emperor is here?'

Petro shook his head. 'No, just Manfred, Erik, Ritter Eberhard of Brunswick—and an old friend, Francesca de Chevreuse. Oh, yes—and two hundred of those steel-clad Teutons. On their way to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage. Manfred needs one, I should think.'

Eneko Lopez smiled. 'I will talk to Prince Manfred. I suspect our journey is for the same purpose. Perhaps he'll have space for a few priests among his knights.'

'He seemed to assume you would be joining them, in fact,' said Petro. 'Or, at least, he said so in our conversation. However, I'll pass on a message that you are desirous of seeing him, as I'll be seeing the fascinating Francesca this evening. And, speaking as the person who organized his ships, he does have space. Now, not to make too fine a point of it, Signor, but you and your companions appear to be generously splattered with marsh mud. I'm sure you'd all appreciate an opportunity to get clean, put on some fresh raiment, and then join us for our evening meal.'

Father Pierre laughed. 'You mean, Milord Dorma, we smell like a swamp, and you'd prefer us to come to dinner without the bouquet?'

'Well, I wouldn't have put it quite like that,' said Petro Dorma, tinkling a small bell. 'But . . . yes.'

'We're lucky we just smell of swamp,' said Father Francis, looking across the piazza to the column where the winged Lion of Saint Mark gleamed in the late afternoon sun.

A factotum arrived, bowed. 'You called, milord?'

'Alberto, take these good men and see them to the rooms reserved for our guests. Arrange hot water, baths, and fresh clothes, and the cleaning of their present clothes. See them comfortable and happy, please.'

The factotum bowed again. 'If you will follow me, sirs.'

 

Chapter 17

It was easier, Kat had learned, to say yes than to plan a wedding.

The momentous day when Marco's marriage was annulled and she had been able to actually say 'yes' had been a wonderful one. The trouble then began immediately, although she had not realized it until the next day.

But the next day . . .

She awakened, remembered with a rush everything that had happened, but most importantly, that she was going to marry Marco! Accordingly, she had plotted her way through a wonderful bath, perfumed and luxurious, that Madelena set up for her before the fire, as soon as she had finished breaking her fast.

A small wedding, she had planned. Just the grandfathers, Benito, Maria—perhaps a few guests. At St. Hypatia di Hagia Sophia. . . . Dare I ask Francesca?

She would certainly ask Father Lopez to officiate.

As the day progressed Kat had gotten the sinking realization—sinking like a stone anchor at sea—that the 'small private wedding' she'd been planning was going to be a matter of public—very public—celebration. And she would have very little to say in the matter.

* * *

There was no question of where—the basilica. The Basilica di San Marco. With the banquet to follow at the Doge's palace, of course. Nor any question of who would be invited—everyone. Those not important enough for a place inside would be crowding the Piazza di San Marco. She had stopped worrying about who would pay for all of this once she got to that point. This was no longer a wedding, it was a state occasion, and the state would absorb it. The state would also absorb the feast for the common folk, which she insisted on.

'My friends will be out there!' she had said stubbornly. 'So unless you wish to have the ambassadors sharing their tables with Arsenalotti . . .'

Petro Dorma had gotten her point immediately. There would be a feast with enough to stuff every man, woman, and child in Venice until they were sick.

On one other thing she put her foot down. 'My attendants will be Maria Garavelli, and Francesca de Chevreuse,' she said to Dorma, flatly, when he presented her with a list of suitable bridal attendants. 'Just Maria and Francesca. No one else.'

She fixed him with her best glare, the one that had usually cowed her most dangerous customers back in the days she'd been smuggling in order to keep Casa Montescue financially afloat. A canal-girl and a whore. But also the woman who got you the Arsenalotti and the woman who kept the Knots on your side.

Dorma, caught in that glare, folded. 'Maria Garavelli . . . Verrier,' he agreed, swallowing. 'That will please the Arsenalotti a great deal, certainly. And Francesca de Chevreuse has the good will of the Emperor Charles Fredrik.'

He did not ask her if she could render up the canal-girl in an acceptable guise; he had wisely left her alone to deal with the piles and piles of paper this behemoth of a celebration had already begun to generate.

Benito, of course, would be one of Marco's attendants. She didn't know who the others would be, but it