"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 wouldn't surprise her to discover one would be his friend Rafael. Two more . . . interesting choices.
But at least this way, none of the Case Vecchi can be offended, because we won't have chosen any of them. Or if they are offended, they can all be offended equally.
* * *
There had never been any question of what dress she would wear. "Your grandmother's," her grandfather had said with pride and a tear in his eye. There was no choice, really. The dress would reflect Casa Montescue, and that dress was, perhaps, the only piece of clothing in the entire house that reflected the fortune that had been in possession of the old House of Montescue.
She had gone to the storeroom with no doubt in her mind that one thing, at least, would be as it had been in those happier times. After all, hadn't she rummaged out her mother's old gowns to remake for Francesca, and hadn't they been as sound as a bell? The gown she'd found to remake into Maria's attendant's dress had been a glory of scarlet brocade, still, despite all these years.
So the ruin that met her eyes when she opened the chest that contained her grandmother's wedding gown came as a total shock.
Silk had discolored, rotted in some places; the brocade was tarnished, the bullion dulled and blackened, the pearls—
She burst into tears, there on her knees beside the chest in the storehouse, and that was how Francesca had found her.
Francesca had taken one look at the contents of the chest and gathered her into her arms to let her sob, rocking her a little, and making hushing sounds while she stroked Kat's hair.
The last person to hold me like this was mother . . .
"Here, now," Francesca murmured. "This isn't as bad as you think."
"But it's ruined!" Kat wailed.
"Not . . . quite." Francesca took her chin in one hand and tilted her face to look up. "First, I don't think this is as bad as it looks. And second—" Her eyes twinkled, and Kat gulped down her sobs and sniffled "I've been casting about for a gift that you won't already have three dozen of. Unless you really, truly, desire another incomparably, grandiosely hideous silver saltcellar?"
Kat shuddered. "A twenty-third? None of which I dare have melted down?"