Erik realized that he'd been so taken up with looking at the Scandinavian woman that he hadn't noticed the two men accompanying her. Once he did, it was very clear to him why the blond woman was not being mobbed by cisebeos. Looking at the two of them, Erik was wary himself. They were as blond as the woman, even taller, and much wider. And they had beards, something she lacked.
Still . . . she was a magnificent, queenly figure. "Who is she?"
Manfred took a pull from his goblet. "I only know half the women in Venice, Erik. I'll have to find young Benito. He knows the other half."
Erik shrugged. "Wouldn't do me much good. See the furs she's wearing? And the jewelry, and the escorts. That is a very wealthy noblewoman."
"The wildest kind, believe me," said Manfred.
He stood up. "Anyway. Francesca asked that I come up to speak with the happy couple. She's scheming away for my uncle, I suspect. Wasting her time. Marco is a nice boy even if butter won't melt in his mouth, but there's steel in him that not all of Francesca's wiles will turn. Y'know one of my father's duniwassals back at Carnac caught me stealing arrows from the war-stores to go duck shooting with, when I was about eleven. I was the duke's son, and I wasn't really worried. He fetched me such a clip around my ear I thought it might come out of the other side of my head. I squalled blue murder, and threatened to go to my father about him."
Manfred pulled a wry face. "I still remember what he said: 'I don't care if you go and talk to the Ard Ri himself, boy. Siege stores are my duty. I keep them frae pilfering by anybody, even your father hisself. Now run along and tell him.' The old devil was as unlike young Marco as possible, but the two are cut from the same cloth in one way. They know what they believe is right and you can't turn them from that."
Erik nodded, his eyes still following the blond woman. "Besides, if what Francesca tells us is true—and after what happened here I have no reason to doubt it—he is at least in part possessed by the Lion of Saint Mark." Dryly: "That's quite a creature to try to talk into something."
Manfred snorted. "I don't think the Lion half is as easily distracted by Kat's figure." He turned and walked off.
Erik made no move to go with Manfred. After the prince was out of sight, he got up and found his way across to the three Scandinavians.
"Goddag," he greeted.
He wasn't surprised at the Vinlander twang when one of the men turned and greeted him in return. "Icelander! What are you doing here?"
He was the slightly larger of the two men, who were obviously brothers, as well as the older. A smile on his face—matching that on the other man and the woman, also—now displaced the wary reserve that Erik had seen characterizing the Vinlanders' response to the Venetian pomp.
Awkward questions first, dealt with as he had been instructed to do when he first took on Manfred as his charge. The role of the Hakkonsen family in imperial affairs was not something discussed. Few if any people in Iceland had any idea that Clann Harald, to which Erik's family belonged, did loyal service to the imperial house of the Holy Roman Empire. It was best so, Erik's father had always said.
"I am just passing through," said Erik calmly. "And yourselves? My name, by the way is Hakkonsen . . . Erik. Eirikur, actually, but I've grown accustomed to using the Danish version. These continentals have less trouble with it."
Hakkonsen was an honorable patronymic, as was Harald as a clan designation. Erik's own father was well known, in Iceland, and there were always some of the clan in the Althing. True, Clann Harald was not rich; in fact, wealth seemed to avoid them. His father's own holding at Bakkafloi was a place of stark beauty but little else. Still, it was a name that was well respected.
The Vinlander obviously recognized the name. The smile grew, considerably. "Bjarni Thordarson, at your service. This is my brother Gulta and our little sister Svanhild. We're setting up a trading house for Vinland goods. We have a Venetian factor and partner." The big Vinlander gestured. "This is his daughter's wedding."
"An honor to meet you all." Erik's smile might just have been a fraction brighter for Svanhild, but he thought he'd done well keeping it under control. "So, here you are invited to a Venetian function, and you don't know anyone, and your host is buried in having his daughter married. Uncomfortable."
"And it is quite an affair," said Gulta, looking at the laden tables, the richly dressed people. "As an Icelander you must find all of this ostentation odd."
Erik smiled, remembering his first Venetian banquet. The ostentation had been overwhelming, yes, but it had been less so than the magical murder of the monk. "It was quite a shock, yes, but I've gotten used to it. Why don't we find a few glasses of wine and somewhere quiet to sit and talk? It has been five years since I went to Vinland. Where is your clan based?"
If he could find a quiet spot Manfred might actually not come and join them. Under the circumstances Erik thought he'd prefer that. Manfred had far more than his share of female attention anyway.
Something about what he'd said had made Svanhild smile upon him. Erik found himself hoping Manfred would stay away a long while. She was stunning.
Fortunately, her brothers seemed to approve. "The Thordarsons are a trading house," said Bjarni. "We have our headquarters at Cahokia in the Mississippi valley, deep in the interior, but we have factors on the coast also. And I agree. It has done us no harm to be seen at this gathering as guests of the Doge's ward's wedding, but I'm tired of all these people staring at my sister and none of them having the manners to come and speak to us."
Erik reflected silently that he'd nearly been amongst them.
"I don't mind," Svanhild said. But there was an undertone of faint unhappiness that told Erik that she minded a great deal. "After all, they don't know us, either. We must be odd to them."
We look like polar bears in a room full of lap-spaniels, said her tone.
"Well, if there isn't any business that you need to be doing, why don't we get out of the crush," Erik said, but said it to her. "I like these people, but I have to say that they must be the most obtuse lot I've ever seen. Nothing can be said or done directly, and they use occasions like this one to chatter around and around subjects they've already made their minds up about."
The older brother heaved a sigh of relief. "So I'm not the only one who thinks that!"
"I think I know where there will be a quiet room. Or quieter, anyway." Erik caught a passing page by the elbow, and gave him instructions. "Just follow me."
One thing that his previous visits had done was to give him a good grasp of the geography of the Doge's palace, and what was more, let him know what rooms were likely to be closed off to the general invitees. The little chamber off to the side of the council chamber, for instance. It was too small to be useful in a great gathering, and there was no comfortable furniture for assignations.
Not that something like that would stop Manfred . . . But, fortunately, Manfred wasn't there.
"Oh . . ." Svanhild said, as he closed the door behind the three Vinlanders. She looked around at the rather somber room with no hints of gilding or the usual Venetian opulence anywhere, only cold stone and dark wood and grim portraits of former Doges. "I thought all of the palace was red and gold."