Impossible in Vinland. Well, perhaps not
impossible,
but difficult. The only unmarried men who were not somehow tied into the Thordarson clan were thralls (her mother would have died),
skraelings
(actually, not unacceptable, but she didn't really want to set up housekeeping in a bark lodge or a skin tent), or trolls. Trolls, at least, so far as she was concerned. Nasty, fat, obnoxious, hairy, smelly, uncouth, elderly
trolls.
So for both Svanhild and her mother, this trade expedition was heaven-sent. For her mother, it would be an opportunity for Gulta and Bjarni to find their sister a fine, unattached nobleman, and if this furthered their trade alliances, all the better. For Svanhild, well, if unattached young men were so thick on the ground as all that back in the Mother Countries,
she
would make sure that any noblemen that the boys presented to her were young and handsome. Or at the least, not trolls.
She had strode confidently off the ship once it reached the harbor in Venice—and then, for the first time in her life, discovered something that intimidated her as bears, catamounts, and blizzards had never been able to do.
The women of Venice.
In the Piazza San Marco she encountered the women of Venice, and, though Gulta and Bjarni were deaf and dumb to such nuances, knew that although she might be considered to be one of the prettiest maidens in Vinland, here she was . . .
A troll.
The women of Venice were tiny, dainty, slim-waisted and small-breasted. Their perfumed hair was either dark as a raven's wing, or a becoming honey-colored shade. They did not stride, they glided. They did not wear leather and fur and homespun in tunics and trews, nor aprons and plain dresses; they wore elegant gowns of silk and brocade, velvet and linen, embroidered and trimmed with laces and ribbons. Their hands were soft and white; their complexions pale and faintly blushed. Svanhild towered over them; with her sun-browned face and brassy-gold hair, she looked like a huge, cheap trinket among a box full of dainty, gold-set jewels. Or a cow among a herd of deer, a goose swimming with swans. And she knew it, and
they
knew it; she saw it in their eyes, in the amused side-glances they bestowed on her.
No young man, noble or otherwise, would look at
her
with anything other than amused contempt.
In the time it took to walk from the ship to the lodgings her brothers had arranged for her, she had read this lesson in a thousand eyes, a thousand veiled smirks, a thousand smothered laughs behind their backs. Gulta and Bjarni were indeed oblivious to it all, excited as children at Christmastide by the newness and the bustle. So she put up a good front for them, marching with head high and cheeks burning with shame, pretending that she did not notice what was going on, either.
But she did, and it didn't stop at the door of the lodging, either.
Even the servants here looked at her in that scornful way, until she was afraid to leave her room, lest she meet with their sneers and arch glances. And it quickly became clear that Venice had more people in a single one of its many districts than there were in entire cities in Vinland . . . so finding Carlo and Clan Montescue was
not
going to be the simple matter of appearing on the docks and calling out the name.
While Bjarni and Gulta searched the city for someone who could take them to Clan Montescue, she hid in her room, took comfort in what luxuries the boys found for her—food, primarily, which was of
immense
comfort, since food did not have sneers or scornful eyes—and felt despair creeping over her. And wondered if—just perhaps—Carlo Montescue, plausible fellow that he was, had somehow tricked them. That his clan was not the leader of trade that he had said. That he did not even
have
a clan. That she and Gulta and Bjarni had come here on a fool's errand, and she the most foolish of all . . .
Then her brothers finally returned after days of searching, with the news that Clan Montescue had been found, that it
was
as great as Carlo had claimed, that although Carlo had unaccountably vanished between Vinland and Venice, the ancient Clan Chief Lodovico had welcomed them and their plans with every bit of warmth and enthusiasm they could have hoped for. Which was all the more gratifying, since the resurrection and second banishment of the old man's son had been a heavy blow to him.
But then came a heavy and horrid blow to Svanhild, delivered lovingly out of the mouths of her own dear brothers.
"And we are to come to dinner with them, this night, and sit in honor at their table!" crowed Bjarni.
"Now
we will be sought for, and taken seriously! In fact, we are to come to their table most nights, and feast with them, and they will introduce us to all of the great clan chiefs of the city!"
"This will be your chance, Sister," Gulta said, in a kindly voice, as she felt the blood draining from her face. "For surely there will be many young men there. Ah, but I must warn you, do not cast those blue eyes upon the one called Marco Valdosta, for he is spoken for by the daughter of Clan Montescue."
"The daughter is clever as well," Bjarni tossed off, casually. "Well read, and canny, and of an age with you. You must cultivate her; the old one dotes upon her, and it is clear that she has great influence upon him."
The bare thought made her stomach turn over.
Oblivious as ever, the boys tramped off noisily with more of the samples of the trade goods that they had brought. In a sick panic, Svanhild looked over her best gowns, then sat down, and ate an entire basket of pastries. And in food, found what little comfort there was to be had.
If she ate like this all the time, marveled Kat, the svelte Svanhild would be the size of a barn by the time she was fifty. Unless she was one of those people who just never got fat. Looking sidelong out of her eyes at the Vinlander, Kat decided this probably wasn't the case. Svanhild had a perfect northern complexion, creamy-white with blossoming roses in her cheeks, but there was already a hint of a second chin. Well, thought Kat, uncharitably and just a touch enviously, most men would be far too distracted by the magnificent and well-exposed frontage to notice that.
Kat wondered what conversational gambit to try next. Her grandfather was deep in animated conversation about hunting with their male guests, Svanhild's brothers Gulta and Bjarni. They were as blond as their sister, and considerably larger, not that Svanhild was any midget. They were partners in her father's enterprise. It behooved her, as a good Venetian hostess, to talk to the womenfolk. Only . . .
What did one say to someone who answered your comments with "Ja" or "Nu" and continued to eat as if there were a famine coming?
"Do you like Venetian food?" asked Kat, watching Svanhild mopping the last droplets of
mostarda di cremona
on her platter with a slab of
ciabatta
. The piece of
prosciutto
-stuffed capon breast was long gone.
Svanhild smiled. "Nu."
Kat was about to give up when Svanhild at last volunteered something: "I like more cream, ja."
"Oh. We don't use cream much in Venice. There are not many cows on the islands."
Svanhild swallowed the last mouthful. "Not many young men either, nu?"
Kat couldn't tell if that was relief or if the beautiful Svanhild was upset by the lack. "Well, a lot of the young
Case Vecchie
usually go off to the trading posts of the Republic. They say Venice lives on the patience of her women. A lot of the men are at sea or away sometimes for years. Even those who are married."
"I am supposed to make a marriage. Mama sent me with my brothers to Europe for that purpose."
It was said so blandly that Kat still had no idea whether she was in favor of the idea or not. "Er. Any suitors?"
Svanhild shrugged. "None that are noble enough for Mama, ja. Mama wants a nobleman for me."
"Do you like any of them?
"Nu." A pause. "Are there desserts?"
Manfred and his fellow-confrere Erik Hakkonsen made as much noise invading Francesca's
boudoir
(or what passed for a
boudoir,
here in the frozen and barbaric Northlands) as a small army.
Then again, between the two of them, they
were
a small army. The Danish escort who had been cooling their heels here every day, awaiting their return, looked quite alarmed at their appearance, and Francesca didn't think that was entirely because of how battered they were.
She was pleased to see them, though. Charles Fredrik would be even more pleased.
The one thing that this room had was privacy, even if it was cold enough that she could see her breath except when she was right on top of the fire. And a lot of furs. Most of which were piled on top and around her in a kind of luxurious nest that Francesca was loath to leave—which was why she hadn't leapt to her feet to greet the Emperor's secondary heir as she probably should have.
Still, Manfred was not the kind to stand on ceremony. Neither was Erik.
Instead, Francesca looked up tolerantly at the two men, who were very much worse for wear than they had been when she last saw them. Then wrinkled her fine-boned nose. "You stink. And that's a thick lip and pair of black eyes you have there, Erik. How did you get those?"
They were unshaven and filthy, and she shuddered to think of how many fleas Manfred alone was providing a haven for. She was not exaggerating when she told them that they stank. In fact, they reeked: of sweat, of rancid grease, and something musky and animal. Clearly, they had come straight here the moment they arrived within the walls of the fortress-
cum-
palace complex.
Whatever had detained them had been physically hazardous, it seemed. She could well believe it. The Norwegian town of Telemark was some considerable distance inland from the sea. The countryside was steep, cold, snowy—which was to say, so far as Francesca was concerned, barbarous in all respects. She'd been born and raised in the Aquitaine and spent most of her adult life on the sunny coasts of the Mediterranean.
Erik looked balefully at her. "I'd rather not talk about it."
Manfred guffawed. "I'll tell you . . . for a consideration, darling."
"No, you won't," said Erik immediately.
Somehow, Francesca doubted she'd be getting that story. "Well, I've brought a fair number of sleighs here at your royal uncle's command." She gestured at the well-armed but nervous looking Danes. "The Emperor wants you back in Mainz immediately. Is your business here done?"
Manfred grimaced. "It is, although we had to agree to slightly modified terms. Give us a few moments to bid a farewell to Queen Borgny and her—ah—consort, and we can get the hell out of Norway. It's a nice country. For bears."
"They're welcome to it," said Erik, feeling his nose gingerly.
Francesca nodded. "I saw some of the Norsemen dragging a bear carcass, earlier. A big brute."
Both knights laughed, and she wondered why. Did it have anything to do with Erik's black eyes? Or something else?
"You can say that again," said Manfred. "Where do you think we'll find the queen and that Turk of hers, Erik?"
Erik gestured at the hall behind them. "Back in her rooms in the palace by now, I should think," he said.
Francesca stuck an enquiring nose out of her sables. "I thought this kingdom was ruled by a King Vortenbras?" She didn't just
think
that. It had been—but apparently
had
was the operative term. Getting to the bottom of this was imperative enough to tempt her out of her furs.
Erik laughed. "Not any more. You might say that's what we've been involved in, although most of the time it just felt like we were trying to stay alive. Come on, Manfred. We'll not introduce Francesca to the queen. There are enough clever women in this world without getting two of them together. And the knights will be as glad to go as we are. Time they got back to Sweden, anyway."
Francesca snuggled her toes down against the still-warm brick at her feet. "From that I conclude, the knights feel even one clever woman is too many." But she had no real desire herself to emerge from her warm cocoon to meet this other clever woman. The Norse hall might be warm, but going there would mean moving out of this nest.
Still.
Before we leave, anyway. Nothing official. But if she's clever, she'll already know about me.
Just what did go on up there, anyway?
She couldn't help but notice that neither Manfred nor the icy Erik showed any signs of romantic attachment to this woman. That was a bit of a relief, since that would be a complication they didn't need. She wondered, briefly, just what a Turk was doing here, with a Norse queen.
But there'd be time for the story, somewhere warmer. Say . . . Italy. Or even . . . as she'd been thinking lately, Alexandria. She'd had several very interesting discussions with a Danish scholar about that city. And that fit in very nicely with the Emperor's plans.
After all, she was, first and foremost, the Emperor's servant, and she never, ever, forgot it. She couldn't afford to. And neither, if he was wise, could Manfred.
"Jerusalem!" Manfred nearly fell off the bed in shock. It was, especially for these parts, a very luxurious bed. It was certainly one he was very glad to be in, after all he'd been through, especially since it contained Francesca. "You're not serious, dear!"
"Do go on with your massage, Manfred," said Francesca languorously, turning slightly, and giving him a view of her magnificent breasts. He felt his blood heating up a little more; just as well, considering how cold he'd been over the past several weeks. He'd been wondering if he would
ever
feel warm again.
"I will say that the one good thing about all that drilling and training that Erik insists on is that it gives you very strong hands. You're the only man I have ever met with strong enough hands to give me a really relaxing massage." She twinkled at him. "And you do want me relaxed, don't you, dear? It gives me such a lot of energy."