sat alone over dinner in the stillness of the house, Michael Benedetto missing his murdered brother’s bright chatter more than ever. Two tapers cast their cold glow over the meal. The silence became unbearable, Lydia’s smug indulgence insufferable as she served him.
“So say it already, vixen!” Michael growled. “They didn’t want me along because of my temper, and I’ve trodden on the graven image of your lofty ambition.” The words were spat more than spoken.
Lydia blinked, but her composure was otherwise unshaken.
“A broken nose and blackened eyes ill befit a statesman.”
“Really? I can think of a few statesmen whose noses warrant rearrangement.”
“Stop being a child. You’re making a shambles of your career—”
“I’m the same child you wanted to keep in Count Faluso’s employ in...Mi-lahn-o,” he drawled sarcastically.
“You needn’t have stopped there. With a bit of string-pulling by your mother, the de’Medicis might have—”
“The de’Medicis—the corrupt de’Medicis—fie on the de’Medicis!”
“Hush! You’ve chosen your position. You’d prefer to administer to peasants. But that’s no reason to slander the de’Medicis.”
“And then where after Florence, my love?” Michael sneered. “Back to your homeland? To Krakow in triumphant return?”
“Your Polish isn’t up to it.”
“How very like my courtly mother you are. So thoroughly seduced by the appearances of state and the fripperies of court life.”
Lydia spoke softly. “You still don’t understand me, Michael. I’m not your mother, I’m your wife. I believe that God has designated leaders and followers. You possess the talent and the education for leadership, but your cardinal humor is choler, and you make no effort to resist it. To fail to live up to your potential is a great sin.”
Their meal half-eaten but appetite gone, Michael fell to brooding. Lydia approached him with a wet cloth and touched his shoulder gently.
“Lie back and let me lay this on your battered face.”
He shrugged off her hand. “Leave me alone.”
She left the room with a soft rustle, the faintest wisp of her perfume trailing behind her. A moment later a servant came and cleared the table, careful not to intrude on her employer’s sullen introspection. And then Michael was alone with the hypnotic flicker of the candle flames.
She was right. He was failing miserably in his charge. Even his rightful place in the castle delegation had been usurped by a stranger—and an infidel, yet! And from an angry cell in the dungeons of his mind came the shrill warning that this bold mercenary was going to be real trouble if he went unchecked. In more ways than one....
For he had seen how the oriental had looked at his wife.
Michael rose and donned a capote and toque. Lydia stopped him just as he was slipping out through the narrow vaulted foyer.
“Where are you going at this hour?” she asked, eyes flashing with a trace of suspicion or fear.
“Out,” he replied without looking back. “To think.”
She watched him go through the window grating, then wrapped a shawl about her and stepped out into a crisp breeze that tumbled down from the mountain fastness.
CHAPTER FOUR
Two concerns held Flavio captive. There was, of course, the apprehension over the momentous meeting with the warrior-king that was now but seconds away. And then there was the anxiety over Gonji: his temper; his flair for being at the center of contention; and now, most threateningly, the sorcerer’s apparent recognition of him.
Could Mord have already divined, by means of some hideous magick, that it was the samurai who had attacked his familiar, the wyvern, with bow and arrows?
Gonji was trouble, and bringing him along—indeed, hiring him as bodyguard!—had been a grave mistake.
But then King Klann was speaking.
“Welcome, all of you—my people, my soldiers, free companions who have entered my service, ambassadors from the city of Vedun—welcome, to you all! And now rise.” Klann swept his arms upward. “Rise and resume your merrymaking!”
A great cheer swept the hall, and flagons were raised in toast to the king’s munificence.
Klann and his retinue marched through the aisles toward the head table on the dais, the king jesting with soldiers and civilians on either hand. It was clear that here was a ruler who cared little for pomp and protocol.
Flavio watched him closely, assessing the province’s new Lord Protector as he knew Milorad would be doing. Klann little resembled his swarthy Akryllonian nationals. And, the Elder realized with a disappointment that mildly surprised him, Klann hardly lived up to the aura of mysticism in which he had been enshrouded. He was a big, bluff red-bearded man, rather rotund and quick to laugh, with narrow, close-set eyes that darted and twinkled in a manner which suggested caution or cynicism, a broad melon grin, and high cheekbones which were perhaps his most regal feature. He spoke several languages and drank from the cups of commoners as he swept past.
He avoided looking at the party from Vedun until he had been seated at the opulent table facing them. He sat in the ornate, high-backed chair that had so recently been reserved for Baron Rorka, and his mixed entourage of courtesans, advisers, and military officers joined him. Flavio recognized only Captain Sianno, commander of Vedun’s Llorm garrison, and Captain Kel’Tekeli, head of the free companies. The chair at Klann’s right was empty, doubtless reserved for his queen or a favorite courtesan. Mord had reappeared and was now seated a few places to the left of Klann, eyeing the delegates somberly. There was neither cup nor place setting before him.
Flavio looked to Gonji, but the samurai sat in dignified silence, expectantly regarding the king. Praised be for that. Milorad sat calmly, shot Flavio a wink of encouragement when their eyes met. Good old Mil.... Garth seemed troubled, preoccupied. As well he might be, under the shadow of his curious invitation.
Genya directed a stream of servants in attending the royal table under the gaze of an evil-faced chief steward.
Then Klann was nodding and smiling to Flavio, and the Elder prayed for guidance. Lord God, send me Your Spirit so that I may know the right words....
“Let the feast be served!” Klann called to the chief steward, and immediately there flowed from the sweltering kitchens a procession of foodstuffs held on high in huge serving platters and wheeled into the hall on silver carts. A roar of approval and applause broke from the roistering crowd.
Deer were broken; geese were rered; trout, culponed—all meats and fish and fowl were goodly carved. Beverages sloshed under the botiler’s charge. The orgiastic feasting began, strolling minstrels and the gallery musicians serving up festive music for the aid of digestion.
“And now,” Klann said in very cultured Italian, indicating the Elder, “you, my friend, can only be the Flavio we’ve heard of, Council Elder in Vedun. By all accounts a wise and reasonable man—no-no, sit! Eat as we speak. Let formality be damned this night. Drink! Eat! Introduce your companions to us.”
Klann took a deep draught from his goblet. Flavio drew a breath to relax and sat back down on the bench.
“I am Flavio, sire, even as you say, but I fear your intelligence with respect to me flatters me too much.” He bowed deeply. “Here is my close friend and adviser, Milorad Vargo. And our city’s chief smith, Garth Gundersen, here with us by your royal edict. And—” He stuttered just a bit when he came to Gonji, whose face betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. “—Gonji Sabatake, a soldier from the Far East, my...bodyguard.” The word hitched in his throat, and he dearly wished he could have recalled it. This bodyguard business was absurd.