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."
Manfred went back to his task, but his mind was not distracted from her comment. "What's this about my going to Jerusalem for Charles Fredrik?"
Francesca ran a hand down his hairy, naked thigh. Nerves he'd thought frozen numb for the duration became most delightfully alive again. "Forget that I said it, darling. It just slipped out."
Manfred raised his eyes to heaven. But like a terrier onto a rat, he stuck to his questions. Rather admirably, he thought, considering the distractions. "Why Jerusalem, Francesca? I mean, it has got to be an improvement on Norway at this time of year, but—well, I thought I'd be involved in setting the Knots to rights. I'm only a confrere for another year and there's still a lot to do."
"I think you've started the ball rolling," she said playfully . . . nearly distracting the terrier. Not quite, but nearly. "Never make the mistake of thinking others cannot do the job, if not quite as you would, possibly just as well."
He grinned. "They don't have my hands, darling, or Erik to make theirs as strong. Now tell: There's more to this isn't there? Politics?"
Francesca gave him a look of deepest innocence, from under half-lowered lashes, spoiled only by a throaty chuckle. "How could you suspect that! The Emperor is an old man. He feels his age. He would like, for the sake of his soul, to undertake a pilgrimage to Jerusalem himself. But the Emperor's health . . ."
"Besides his dislike of leaving Mainz."
"Tch. Don't interrupt while I am betraying confidences, Manfred dear." She tapped his lips with one long finger. "His health and the running of an empire do not allow him to take the six months or a year necessary to go to Jerusalem. But as age creeps up on him he would like to prepare his soul for the inevitable. As would any man above a certain age."
Manfred snorted. "The Ilkhan do keep a substantial presence in Jerusalem," he stated, and was rewarded by her sly little grin, which told him he had struck dead in the black.
Well. Politics, then. Not his favorite task, but he wouldn't be the one engaged in it. He wasn't nearly crafty enough to deal with the Mongols. The Swedes and Danes were about at his level; if he hadn't had Francesca, the Italians would have had him raw, on toast. Even with her help, they nearly had, anyway.
"Who is going to accompany me? Trolliger? Or Brunswick?"
Francesca rolled over, exposing a front draped only in the sheerest bits of lace and silk, certainly not designed to conceal. "Eberhard of Brunswick. But I do believe your uncle does want to make his peace with God, and that he is feeling his age. And let's not talk boring business right now . . . unless you want to, of course?" She cocked her head slightly, lowering her long lashes, and ran an elegant finger down his torso. Reviving still more nerves.
"Argh!"
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."
Manfred went back to his task, but his mind was not distracted from her comment. "What's this about my going to Jerusalem for Charles Fredrik?"
Francesca ran a hand down his hairy, naked thigh. Nerves he'd thought frozen numb for the duration became most delightfully alive again. "Forget that I said it, darling. It just slipped out."
Manfred raised his eyes to heaven. But like a terrier onto a rat, he stuck to his questions. Rather admirably, he thought, considering the distractions. "Why Jerusalem, Francesca? I mean, it has got to be an improvement on Norway at this time of year, but—well, I thought I'd be involved in setting the Knots to rights. I'm only a confrere for another year and there's still a lot to do."
"I think you've started the ball rolling," she said playfully . . . nearly distracting the terrier. Not quite, but nearly. "Never make the mistake of thinking others cannot do the job, if not quite as you would, possibly just as well."
He grinned. "They don't have my hands, darling, or Erik to make theirs as strong. Now tell: There's more to this isn't there? Politics?"
Francesca gave him a look of deepest innocence, from under half-lowered lashes, spoiled only by a throaty chuckle. "How could you suspect that! The Emperor is an old man. He feels his age. He would like, for the sake of his soul, to undertake a pilgrimage to Jerusalem himself. But the Emperor's health . . ."
"Besides his dislike of leaving Mainz."
"Tch. Don't interrupt while I am betraying confidences, Manfred dear." She tapped his lips with one long finger. "His health and the running of an empire do not allow him to take the six months or a year necessary to go to Jerusalem. But as age creeps up on him he would like to prepare his soul for the inevitable. As would any man above a certain age."
Manfred snorted. "The Ilkhan do keep a substantial presence in Jerusalem," he stated, and was rewarded by her sly little grin, which told him he had struck dead in the black.
Well. Politics, then. Not his favorite task, but he wouldn't be the one engaged in it. He wasn't nearly crafty enough to deal with the Mongols. The Swedes and Danes were about at his level; if he hadn't had Francesca, the Italians would have had him raw, on toast. Even with her help, they nearly had, anyway.
"Who is going to accompany me? Trolliger? Or Brunswick?"
Francesca rolled over, exposing a front draped only in the sheerest bits of lace and silk, certainly not designed to conceal. "Eberhard of Brunswick. But I do believe your uncle does want to make his peace with God, and that he is feeling his age. And let's not talk boring business right now . . . unless you want to, of course?" She cocked her head slightly, lowering her long lashes, and ran an elegant finger down his torso. Reviving still more nerves.
"Argh!"
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