The woman mournfully shook her head. "Erik is not married. But he is just a lowly bodyguard. We are the Thordarsons. We are one of the wealthiest families in Vinland. I cannot just marry a Nithing. Mama wants me to marry a man of position. That would help the family. But . . . but he was so wonderful."
She began to hiccup, and Maria patted her back. Good Lord. How long has she been crying like this? Hours? Days?
She knew all too well what the girl felt like. She'd been there—before she learned just what a scum-bred bastard Caesare Aldanto was.
Cogs began to turn in Maria's head, though. And if this Erik was the Erik she knew, he certainly wasn't a scum-bred bastard. "Who was he guarding?" she asked.
The Vinlander girl shrugged, as if anyone other than Erik was of no importance at all, and pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve. By the sodden look of it, she had been crying for hours. "I do not know. A guard is a guard."
Maria bit her lip again. "You don't know the rest of his name do you? Erik what?"
"Hakkonsen. It is a good family . . ."
Maria almost choked. Just a bodyguard! "Ah. Well. Have you heard of Prince Manfred?"
Svanhild nodded. "Of course. The heir to the Emperor. The son of the Duke of Brittany. He was at the wedding." Her tone turned bitter. "It is very good for business, these connections that Katerina brings to the Thordarsons, ja."
"Well, he's actually not the heir. That's his cousin, Conrad. Manfred's next in line after him. That makes him the third most important person in the Holy Roman Empire, which is the most powerful state in Europe. Maybe in the whole world."
"Ja," the girl said, indifferently. "And also the Duke of Brittany has great standing in the League of Armagh. He is a very important man. If only my Erik could have such friends—" She began to sob again.
Maria shook the woman's shoulders, just a little, although it was like trying to shake one of those Teutonic warriors that had come into Venice among the Knots. Mostly, she was trying not to laugh.
"Listen to me! Erik Hakkonsen is Prince Manfred of Brittany's personal bodyguard and master-at-arms. Only bodyguard is the wrong word to use to describe him. It's more like—"
She scrambled for some phrase that might describe what Erik did besides "keeper." Or maybe, "nursemaid." And if Benito only had someone like that to knock some sense into him—
"He's a sort of teacher, or companion, and—well, he keeps Manfred from getting into too much trouble. Being a bodyguard is just a small part of it. Kat's friend tells me they are really much more like friends. What he certainly isn't is a—" Again she searched her memory for what the girl had said. "—a Nithing. I suspect if you asked Manfred, he would say that Erik is very important to him."
The sobs stopped, abruptly, and the blond woman stood up from the stern rail, a look of fierce delight on her face. "Really?" she breathed, hope replacing the despair in her sea-blue eyes so quickly that Maria's breath caught.
Maria nodded firmly. "Really."
The blonde hugged Maria. "Svanhild Thordardottar is forever in your debt!" she said thickly. "I must now go and turn this ship."
Maria didn't try to tell her that you can't alter the course of a great galley in the Venetian Western convoy, not short of being the Bora-wind in person. But, by the looks of it, Svanhild would have a damned good try. Bless her heart, the girl had a good steel spine to her, when she wasn't sobbing in heartbreak!
Well, the captain had survived Alessia's bellows. He'd survive Svanhild.
* * *
The next day Svanhild and her two brothers sought Maria out, where she, Alessia and Umberto sat in the lee of the mound of deck-cargo. There was a bright, steely look in Svanhild's eye. "The captain says you and your husband are going to Corfu," she said.
Maria nodded.
"Do you know how often the ships sail back to Venice from this port?" demanded Svanhild. "And can you recommend to us a good vessel and captain? Not like this stupid captain! We even offered to buy his ship. He said it was the state's ship, not his to sell. What kind of captain doesn't own his own ship? At least, as a partner."
Umberto stared at them, openmouthed. Then he shook his head.
Maria was just as dumbfounded as he was. Buy a Venetian great galley? She couldn't even begin to guess how much that would take, even if one were for sale!
"We don't know Corfu," Umberto stammered.
"We've never been there," explained Maria, sitting Alessia up and rubbing her back. The baby rewarded her with a milky belch.
Svanhild deflated a little. "Oh. We thought . . ."
But some of Francesca's gossip had come back to Maria, and she'd been saving it for the next time she saw the girl. "But Svanhild, you don't want to go back to Venice! Erik and Prince Manfred are coming along somewhere behind us. They're going to the Holy Land."
One of Svanhild's brothers looked speculative and asked: "This ship will also stop in Corfu?"
Umberto nodded. "Almost all of our ships do."
The big Vinlander patted his sister. "There, Hildi—you see! It is good that we did not turn the ship! We can just wait for them."
"They won't be more than a few days behind us," Umberto offered helpfully. "A pair of weeks, at the very most."
"But—if they go to the Holy Land—" Svanhild began, desperately.
"Then maybe . . ." the boy replied, manfully, "maybe we need to see about the trade opportunities in the Holy Land too. Sven and Olaf can go to set up the warehouse in Bruges and then go back across to the family and tell them we will be delayed."
Svanhild burst into tears again, but they were tears of relief, as her brothers seemed to recognize. And she nodded, smiling around the tears. She had, Maria thought, a lovely smile. She only hoped that Erik was going to be receptive to it. Or, Manfred or no Manfred, Svanhild's brothers might just break him in half.
* * *
High on the hillside overlooking the sea, the King of Hungary watched, unmoving. Out on the white-flecked Adriatic, the Venetian convoy sailed past. He counted ships. Sixteen great galleys, carrying a small volume of valuable cargo. Pilgrims, too—rich ones. High quality furs from as far afield as Vinland. Bullion. Amber. Twenty-three round ships of varying size laden with salt, fish, timber. Strange that Venice should export timber, but really, Venice was just a clearing house. The produce of Europe was funneled through it. Half a dozen minor galliots, carrying anything from pilgrims to arms. A lot of Ferrara steel went to the east.
He would have loved to seize that convoy, just as he would have loved to seize the convoy of ships that had overwintered in Outremer. But it would not be wise to make the attempt, even with the help of Genoa or Aragon, or even the Barbary corsairs. The eastern fleet of the Republic was not a target to take lightly. Not at sea. Where land bombards and fortifications could be brought into play, as Alexius could manage in the Bosporus, it might be worthwhile.
The Atlantic fleet had been smaller, but it was all great galleys, so it had more men, and was far faster. Emeric had been in no hurry to tackle that either. Not even outbound for Flanders, laden with the rich goods of the east. He'd get it all, if he just waited. The Greek galleys were no match for this number of Venetian ships, but later, when traffic was down to occasional vessels, they and the Dalmatian pirates out of the Narenta could seize anything that came through the Straits of Otranto.