“Yes,” he said with a start. He found himself smiling. “There cannot be another city like it in the world.”
Florent did not answer.
Monk was suddenly aware of a sense of grief. He looked across at Florent’s dark face and saw in it not only the easy sensuality that made it so attractive to women, the dramatic widow’s peak and the fine eyes, but the loneliness of a man who played the dilettante but whose mind was unfashionably aware of the rape of his culture and the slow dying of the aching splendor of his city, as decay and despair eroded its fabric and its heart. He might have followed Friedrich’s court for whatever reason, but he was more Italian than German, and under his facile manner there lay a depth which Monk, in his prejudice, had chosen not to see.
He wondered now if Florent were, in his own way, fighting for the independence again of Venice, and what part Friedrich’s life or death might play in that. In the last few days he had heard whispers, jokes from the ignorant, of Italian unification also, a drawing together of all the different city-states, the brilliant, individual republics and dukedoms of the Renaissance, under one crown. Perhaps that also was true? How insular one could be, wrapped in the safety of Britain and its empire—an island world, forgetful of changing borders, the shifting tides of nations in turmoil, revolution and foreign occupation. Britain had been secure for nearly eight hundred years. An arrogance had developed unlike any other, and with it a lack of imagination.
He was there as Zorah’s guest. It was long past time he did all he could to serve her interests—or, at the very least, the interests of her country. Perhaps that was why she had made this absurd, self-sacrificing accusation—to expose the murder of a prince and awaken her countrymen to some sense of loyalty before it was too late.
“I could fall in love with Venice very easily,” he said aloud. “But it is a hedonistic love, not a generous one. I have nothing to give it.”
Florent turned to look at him, his dark brows raised in surprise, his lips in the torchlight twitched with humor.
“So does almost everyone else,” he said softly. “You don’t think all those people are here, the dreamers and the would-be princes of Europe, except to live out their own personal charades, do you?”
“Did you know Friedrich well?” It was not an answer, but Florent could not have expected one.
“Yes. Why?” he asked.
Out on the water, someone was singing. The sound of it echoed against the high walls and back again.
“Would he have gone back if Rolf, or someone else, had asked him?” Monk said. “His mother, perhaps?”
“Not if it meant leaving Gisela.” Florent leaned over the stone parapet and stared into the darkness. “And it would have. I don’t know why, but the Queen would never have allowed Gisela back. Her hatred was boundless.”
“I thought she would have done anything for the crown.”
“So did I. She’s a remarkable woman.”
“What about the King? Wouldn’t he allow Gisela back if it was the only way to persuade Friedrich?”
“Override Ulrike?” There was laughter in Florent’s voice, and the tone of it was answer in itself. “He’s dying. She is the strength now. Perhaps she always was.”
“What about Waldo, the Crown Prince?” Monk pressed. “He can’t want Friedrich home!”
“No, but if you are thinking he had him killed, I doubt it. I don’t think he ever wanted to be king. He stepped into his brother’s place only reluctantly, because there was no one else. And that was not affected. I know him.”
“But he will not lead the battle to keep independence!”
“He thinks it will mean war, and they will still be swallowed up in Germany anyway, sooner or later,” Florent explained.
“Is he right?” Monk shifted his weight to turn and look more directly at him.
On the canal, a barge went by with pennons flying, music floating behind it, and torchlight glittering on the dark water. Its wake surged and lapped over the steps of the landing with a soft sound, whispering like an incoming tide.
“I think so,” Florent answered.
“But you want Venetian independence.”
Florent smiled. “From Austria, not from Italy.”
Someone called out, his voice echoing over the water. A woman answered.
“Waldo is a realist,” Florent went on. “Friedrich was always a romantic. But I suppose that is rather obvious, isn’t it?”
“You think a fight to retain independence is doomed?”
“I meant Gisela, actually. He threw duty aside and followed his heart where she was concerned. The whole affair had an air of high romance about it. ’All for love, and the world well lost.’ ” His voice dropped, and his banter died. “I am not sure if you can really love the world and keep love.”
“Friedrich did,” Monk said quietly, but he thought even as he spoke that perhaps he meant it as a question.
“Did he?” Florent replied. “Friedrich is dead—perhaps murdered.”
“Because of his love for Gisela?”
“I don’t know.” Florent was staring over the water again, his face dramatic in the torchlight, the planes of it thrown into high relief, the shadows black. “If he had stayed at home, instead of abdicating, he could now lead the struggle for independence without question. There would be no need to plot and counterplot to bring him back. The Queen would not be making stipulations about whether his wife could come, or if he must leave her, set her aside and marry again.”
