At first, Erik was surprised that the crowd was so quiet. Almost completely silent, in fact. But before long he understood. Venice's canalers and working classes were still not sure about the nature and purpose of Dorma's flotilla. True, it looked as if . . .
But the Venetian authorities had a long history of looking the other way, when it came to the transgressions of the Dandelos. So who could be sure that this would not just turn out to be another empty gesture?
"They're wondering about us," murmured Manfred. "Look at 'em whispering back and forth, all through that mob. On the one hand, the Knights are supposed to be nothing but tools for the Emperor--which means the Montagnards, to them. On the other hand . . ."
He examined his fellow Knights, standing in the barge, and grinned. "We are a rather fearsome lot to be hauling around just for show."
Erik wasn't sure whether to smile or frown. Once again, Francesca's influence on Manfred was showing. Not so many weeks ago, Manfred wouldn't have been able to analyze a foreign crowd so surely and readily. For that matter--not so many weeks ago--the thought of doing so would never even have crossed his mind. Wine, women, and song, it had been--and very lightly on the "song." Since he'd met that one particular woman, however . . .
He doesn't even drink that much anymore. Will wonders never cease?
But he had no time to pursue the thought further. The grim and imposing edifice of Casa Dandelo loomed ahead of them. Even at a distance, it was obvious the Dandelos had forted up. There was not a person to be seen anywhere in the immediate vicinity.
Except one.
"What in the name of God is that boy doing?" demanded Von Gherens. "Crazy kid!"
Erik stared at the small figure perched on one of the timbers holding up the roof of Casa Dandelo. "Perched" like a bat, not a bird. The kid was hanging upside down.
"I guess he wanted the best possible view," said Manfred. He loosened his great sword in its scabbard. "So let's not disappoint him."
Chapter 61 ==========
Benito's eyes were riveted on the bombard nestled in the hold of the barge, with three of the knights squatting next to it. From Benito's vantage point, high atop Casa Dandelo, he could see the bombard clearly. But he knew that from the angle of Dandelo observers below, the bombard would still be invisible.
That, as much as anything, finally convinced Benito that Dorma's expedition was serious. Like most canalers and lower-class Venetians, his first reaction on hearing the news that Lord Dorma was going to "inspect" Casa Dandelo was jeering. Oh, sure. Dorma'll trot through the place and come out announcing that all is well.
But the bombard . . . hidden from sight . . .
And--the fact that there were Knights in the expedition. If Benito had lost his childhood enthusiasm for his mother's Montagnard cause, he still retained a certain romantic image of the Knights. The champions of Christendom; defenders of the right; bold and brave and true. If the image was tarnished--and had been tarnished even more by the general behavior of the Knights in Venice over the past year--it was still there, lurking in the corners of his mind.
Besides, not all of the Knights were simply lackeys for the Servants. Was there a canaler in Venice who hadn't heard the story, by now, of how some of the Knights--one in particular--had defied their abbot when he ordered a girl and some children hauled out of a church and put to the inquisition? Benito had heard that story several times over the past months, in several different places and from several different pairs of lips.
The stories varied in detail, of course, as city rumors will. Except on one point: all of them agreed that the knight who had first defied the abbot was a Nordic wolfman of some sort. A young blond maniac, who had been ready to carve his fellow knights into bloody pieces over an issue of law and principle.
The barge was closer now. If they hadn't been wearing helmets, Benito could have seen individual faces. Eagerly, he scrutinized what little he could see of the Knights past their helmets and nose guards. Which was not much, unfortunately.
Then Benito noticed that one of the knights--one of the three standing in the bow of the barge--was a very big man. And he remembered that, according to some of the stories he had heard, the blond one had been aided by a supposed giant.
I wonder if . . .
At that moment, one of the knights standing next to the very big one unclasped his helmet and removed it. Then, quickly wiped his forehead and brushed back his long hair; in the way that a warrior will just before battle, to make sure that his hair will not slide forward in the helmet and obscure his view.
His very long and very blond hair . . .
The knight glanced up at Benito as he did so. Then, after shaking his head in bemusement--crazy kid!--replaced the helmet. The whole thing had not taken more than a moment, but long enough for Benito to see the knight's face clearly.
A face that seemed a thing made entirely of angles and sharp planes, for all its obvious youth.