'The Society of Chrysostom.'
The Emperor stroked his thick beard. 'Better. Better. Still . . . they'll shorten it to something like 'the Socks.' Then, within a week, to 'the smelly Socks.' Be certain of it.' He paused. Then: 'Call yourselves the Society of the Word,' he stated. Firmly, even imperiously.
Francis seemed to bridle. The Emperor barked a little laugh. 'Don't be stupid, Francis! Allow me the luxury of command in small things, if you would--since you do need my permission to operate in imperial territory. My cooperation, in fact, even if it is kept at a certain official distance.'
Francis' stiff shoulders eased. 'True, Your Majesty.' A little crease appeared between his eyebrows. 'But I don't see how calling ourselves--' The crease disappeared into a much deeper one. 'Your Majesty! 'The Swords?' We are not a militant order.'
The most powerful man in Europe simply stared at him. And, after a moment, the priest looked away.
* * *
When Antimo finished his report, the Duke of Ferrara rose from his chair and moved over to the blade-rack along the wall. There, for a moment, his eyes ranged admiringly over the blades before he selected one and took it down from its rack.
'Benito has made his decision, has he?' mused the Old Fox. He hefted the dagger in his hand, holding it with an expert grip. 'The main gauche, Antimo. Not so glorious as the sword, of course. A plebeian sort of weapon.' His left hand glided through a quick motion. 'But, in the end, it's often the blade sinister which spills the enemy's guts on the field.'
Dell'este replaced the dagger and turned back to Bartelozzi. 'Show in Baron Trolliger now, if you would. I assume he's brought the rest of the money with him.'
Antimo nodded. 'Enough to hire all the condottieri we'll need.' Smiling grimly: 'Ferrara will seem like a veritable military giant, when the war erupts.'
The Old Fox shook his head. 'Don't fool yourself, Antimo. The great swords will remain in the hands of the Emperor and the Grand Duke and the King of Hungary. But for the needs of the moment, here in northern Italy?' Again, his left hand made that swift, expert motion. 'Ferrara will be Charles Fredrik's main gauche.'
PART VII August, 1538 A.D. ====================================
Chapter 74 ==========
When Manfred strode into Erik's chamber, the Icelander was struggling with a letter. Erik had met up with an Icelander pilgrim, and the chance to send a letter home was a rare one. Now he just had to choose his words with some care. There was always a chance the letter might not get home. There were things going on that he didn't want to tell the world about. Besides, there was Manfred's identity to be kept secret. He was tempted to write in runic, but that would convince any curious person this was full of secrets worth reading--or destroying if they could not read it.
'We need some air, Erik,' said Manfred loudly.
Something about that tone stopped Erik from saying he had a letter to finish first. He put the letter carefully aside, the quill balanced across the inkpot.
They walked out. Full summer was coming and the smell rising off the canals was as unpleasant as the shimmering water was beautiful. Manfred picked a spot where they could lean against a wall in the shade. 'Count Von Stemitz just came back from his visit to the Emperor. Who is now in Innsbruck, by the way.'
Manfred snorted. 'Yes--Innsbruck. He never leaves Mainz if he can help it! Which means . . .' Manfred glowered at nothing in particular--or the world in general. 'Von Stemitz brought a reply for me from Charles Fredrik.'
Manfred took a deep breath. 'And he sent me this also.'
It was a plain heavy gold ring, set with a polished bloodstone.
Erik raised an eyebrow. Plainly there was more to the ring than mere jewelry.
'Charles Fredrik is like the Doge,' said Manfred. 'He likes mechanical gadgets.' He pressed the ring on the inside, under the stone, with a knife point. The bezels opened. And Manfred took the bloodstone out. He handed it to Erik. Upside down.
It was an imperial seal.
'He trusts you,' Erik said mildly. The seal could be cut by any competent forger . . . but wouldn't be. The
