She had known, of course, from the moment she saw the two men, that they were what her mother--as chauvinistic as any Aquitaine--would have called, disdainfully, etrangers. The embarrassed blond was too fair to be Prussian or Austrian; and his companion had called him 'Erik.' He could only be a Norse of some kind. And that was odd, because there were very few Norse in the Knots. The Christian Norse who belonged to the Holy Roman Empire were Danes; and the Danes were rivals of the Knights of the Holy Trinity in the Baltic. The other Christian branch of Scandinavia were the Icelanders and their various offshoots--but they gave their allegiance to the League of Armagh, not the Holy Roman Emperor.
Except--
Her eyes widened. Like a flash, her mind focused on the other of the two men--the very large and square one. Very large, she remembered with some amusement, and in all respects; but he hadn't been rough at all, so she didn't hold it against him. He had spoken with a pronounced Breton accent--unmistakable, to one born and bred as Francesca had been in the Aquitaine.
And his name was 'Manfred.' His companion Erik had used it once.
Her eyes widened still further. Manfred of Brittany? The Manfred of Brittany? Is it possible?
Hair-brushing was too sedate. Francesca set down the comb, got to her feet and began pacing slowly about. Her quick mind raced, tracing the connections.
Nephew of the Emperor . . . probably second in line to the throne . . . third in line, for a certainty . . . still a just a youth, he'd be . . . bit of a rakehell, supposedly . . . what would Charles Fredrik do with such an imperial scion?
Of course! It's practically a tradition now with the Hohenstauffens!
Back and forth, back and forth. Her bare feet made no sound on the floor. That, too, her mother had taught her. Noise is something you make to please a man, when it suits your purpose. Otherwise--move silently.
Yes, it all made sense. Charles Fredrik would have reached beyond the Empire altogether, called in that ancient clan favor. Brought in someone who could be trusted in such a matter, have no ties or links to the complex web of imperial politics, and also be quite capable of--
She winced, slightly, remembering the noise that had erupted earlier from the entry salon downstairs. Those fools! They might as well have tried trapping a tiger with a fishnet.
She was sure of it, now. The two men she had rescued were an imperial prince--Manfred of Brittany--and his Icelandic bodyguard.
Then, remembering Kat's description of her frightening encounter with the Knights in the church two weeks earlier, Francesca began laughing softly. Kat had not mentioned the name of either of the knights who had come to her defense, on that occasion, but she had described them. Her description, of course, had borne precious little resemblance to the two men Francesca had just finished . . . entertaining in her room. Granted, Manfred was very big; but he was not a giant. Nor--here Francesca's laugh almost gurgled--had the shy and red-faced Erik seemed quite the Nordic werewolf that Kat depicted.
Still . . . thinking about it, Francesca could well believe that those two young men--especially Erik--could be utterly terrifying under different circumstances. Judging from the sounds she had heard coming from below earlier that evening, a number of would-be ambushers had certainly found them so.
She had not, however. And, now that she was certain of their identity, Francesca found herself strangely delighted by the entire episode. She had chosen to rescue the two men out of half-conscious calculation, true. But . . .
Kat's a friend of mine. So I suppose I owed those two boys a favor anyway. Not--again the little gurgling laugh--that Erik seemed to enjoy it much, even if Manfred certainly did.
The laugh died away. Favors were favors, true, but self-interest remained. Where was the benefit to her in this thing?
This called for more leisurely reasoning. Once again, Francesca resumed her seat on the bed and went back to combing her hair.
She began by examining the ambush. She hadn't seen it, of course, but she didn't need to. She had seen the key piece of evidence--Erik's naked body, completely unmarked by any wound. Whoever set that trap had no idea what kind of ferocious 'prey' would be walking into it. Which meant they were quite unaware of the true identity of Erik and Manfred. Whatever had been the purpose of the ambush, it had been aimed at two--or perhaps only one-- junior members of the militant order. Not an imperial prince and his special companion.
That ruled out any of the Venetian factions immediately. Neither the Metropolitans nor the Montagnards would have any reason to ambush ordinary knights. Not in such an elaborate manner, at any rate, in a well-known brothel where there was bound to be a risk of capture by the Schiopettieri. If either of the factions had a quarrel to settle with a common knight, they would have stabbed him in the streets. A quick thrust from a doorway, followed by easy escape through crooked alleys in the dark.
