* * *
They slid down into the darkness. It was just as well they hadn't jumped, thought Erik. When he dropped lightly off the end of the rope, he found not water but the deck of a vessel. The boatman who had been waiting for the Schiopettieri didn't expect the 'prisoner' to land on his boat. Not, at least, when that prisoner was armed and unescorted except for an even larger friend. But with Erik's Algonquian war hatchet at his throat, he wasn't going to argue about taking them away from there.
They left him tied up in his own boat, on the edge of the Grand Canal, a hundred yards away from the Imperial embassy.
Manfred looked back with regret. 'You know, that Francesca had a certain something.'
Erik shuddered. 'She had a great deal of everything. But still. I owe her a debt.'
'I owe her,' said Manfred, shaking his head. 'That sort of thing doesn't come for free. That's a mercenary profession if there ever was one.'
'Even ladies of that stamp must have kindly impulses,' said Erik stiffly.
Manfred pulled a wry face. Despite being five years younger than Erik he knew a great deal more about whores. He remembered the look on Francesca's face when she'd first seen Erik's surcoat. It had been . . . calculating. The Knights were all at least minor aristocracy. Many were confreres, merely serving a three-year novitiate. He would certainly not put it past that worldly-wise woman to know that. He'd already prepared himself for a hasty argument on price when she'd suggested hiding them, until she suddenly changed her mind or thought of something else. A few moments of Erik's reactions to a naked woman would have convinced the stupidest harlot that this one was a pure young knight. Francesca'd been very speculative, very suddenly. Manfred gave a low chuckle. He could see that perhaps he'd have to protect Erik against predatory female wiles. Well. It might not be unpleasant. 'Yep. Maybe she did,' was all he said.
'I will have to reward her,' said Erik slowly. 'Mary Magdalen too . . .'
'Oh, I think she'll be happy enough with a few ducats,' said Manfred calmly, with an ease he didn't feel.
In the moonlight Erik looked doubtful. 'Do you really think so? I mean it was an act of great v-v-virtue,' he stammered.
Manfred swallowed his amusement. Only Erik could describe a harlot performing fellatio on one man while straddling another as 'virtue.' And believe it too. For all the Icelander's ferocious skill in combat, he was an innocent country boy in so many other ways.
'I'm sure,' he agreed cheerfully. 'And I think Abbot Sachs will be surprised to see you back. Unharmed.'
Erik shrugged. 'Maybe it was just some kind of mix-up.'
'That'll be his story,' growled Manfred, with court-honed wisdom far beyond his years.
Chapter 23 ==========
Well, that was certainly interesting.
Francesca pulled on an open-fronted robe, in case someone came back, tied it around her waist with a tasseled cord, and shook out her hair. Then she turned to the ewer and basin on the top of the table across the room where it wouldn't be knocked over in a moment of passion. She rinsed her mouth with herb-scented water and spat it into the basin.
And why did I do that, anyway?
It was not an idle question. Francesca had reacted to the situation based on reflex, because there had been no time to think things through carefully. But her reflexes had been honed by a perilous life, and she had come to trust them. Now that it was over and she did have a chance to think, she probed her memory to discover what twisted chain of logic had led her, almost without conscious thought, to behave in a way that she would normally have not.
Most certainly not! If men wanted her favors, they could damn well pay for them. She was no silly maiden to rescue a handsome man from danger without good reason--much less two of them, neither of whom was really that handsome anyway.
A pair of Knots, ambushed by the Schoppies. And not just any pair of Knots, either. Whoever arranged this particular episode either had no idea what kind of a mess he would create--or intended to. I wonder which?
She picked up the wooden comb from beside the basin and ran it through her hair, walking back to the bed as she did so. Francesca had not come from the streets. Before her family's ruination, they had been skilled players in the subtle and deadly intrigue which was the principal sport of Aquitaine's aristocracy. Her father had trained her in the political and diplomatic arts as thoroughly as her mother had trained her in other ways. So, a mind far better educated than anyone would have expected to find in that brothel worked at the problem, while she sat on the edge of the bed and combed her hair.
