He looked at Kat. She reached out and squeezed his hand, and he realized just how right Petro had been. He still did need someone to hold his hand. "Introduce me," he said to Maria.
She stood up onto the marble step. "Arsenalotti!"
There were a few cheers. A number of smiles. A good many waves. Everyone here knew Maria Garavelli. Honest as the day was long, even if she had a temper on her that you could boil a kettle on. "What are you doing up there, Maria?"
"This is Marco Valdosta. He needs to talk to you. He's Case Vecchie, but he has doctored some of your kids. He's a good man and he's got a message for you from the Council of Ten."
Marco got up onto the step. "Thank you, Maria."
There were a few people clapping. He heard his name repeated. He cleared his throat and looked at Kat. She smiled.
"Who has always defended the Doge, the piazza? On whom has the last defense of Venice always rested?" His voice cut through the silence.
No one answered. Then someone in the back of the crowd said "Not Petro Dorma's damned 'militia,' Valdosta!"
"Right," said Marco. "Not the militia. The Arsenalotti. That is the way it has always been. And that is the way it must stay."
The crowd cheered.
Marco knew in his bones that he was doing the right thing. He had them. He held up a parchment. "Dorma made a mistake. He's man enough to admit that. I, Marco Valdosta, have his writ here. The Council calls the Arsenalotti to the Defense of the Republic." A strange power infused his voice. "In the name of the Winged Lion of Saint Mark, you are called to Arms! Will you answer?"
The assent itself was a roar. And to Marco's shock, he realized that they were chanting "VAL--DOS-TA! VAL--DOS-TA!"
He stilled them with a gesture. "This is my brother, Benito. He's the one who is good at organizing and plans. He'll tell you what the Council wants."
Benito, wide-eyed, was pushed to his feet to face the cheering crowd. "I'll get even with you for this, Marco," he said quietly.
"Face it, Benito," said Marco. "You tell people what to do far better than I do."
And Benito went on to prove him dead right.
Chapter 87 ==========
Erik stared at the desecrated Lady chapel. Grim. Silent. Pellmann had not run away after all, as his remains testified. But it was the bells that were the most offensive. Made from infant skulls, with a small thighbone for a clapper. The cross was broken. The walls were scrawled with strange and unpleasant symbols . . . scrawled in what could only be blood and excrement. Rusty stains marred the once white altar cloth. Pieces of clothing . . . A cotte. A knitted cap. A richly embroidered nightshirt . . . lay on the floor.
But of the Woden-casket, which had been placed there, there was no sign.
"I think I am going to throw up," said Manfred quietly. "Under our noses. Right under our very noses! Well, Sachs? What do you have to say to this?"
The abbot, defiant, furious, and threatening divine retribution until a bare minute ago, sank to his knees. "My God. My God! Forgive me."
"He may. But I won't," said Manfred, grimly. "Where is it and where is she, Sachs?"
The former abbot looked into Manfred's implacable eyes. Looked around at the desecrated chapel. "Sister Ursula, the casket, and an escort of knights left this late afternoon. There was a chance that the witches could . . ." He faltered. "That's what she said. She said they would try to liberate it. That it would be safer with our friends on the mainland. My God, my God, I have been weak, misled by the carnal desires of the flesh! My God, forgive me."
Erik hit him. "Enough time for self-pity and remorse later, you stinking swine. Where have they gone?"
Sachs whimpered. "I don't know. She said something about forts to Aldanto."
"The Polestine forts," said Francesca.
Erik turned to Manfred. "She's going to turn the Woden loose on the forts, presumably to clear the way for a fleet from Milan, which will be coming down the Po River."
Sachs nodded wretchedly. "Sforza is coming. But we didn't know . . . I thought--she said it was Christ's work. . . ."
Manfred pointed at the chapel. "Well, now you see whose work it really was. What is this about Trieste?"
"A thousand two hundred of our knights, the Chapters from Greifswald, Landsberg, and Schniedemuhl, are ready to embark to restore order and seize the Arsenal. They wait for our message."
"So," said Manfred, sardonically. "You stripped the northeastern frontier for this adventure. The Grand Duke of Lithuania must be very pleased with you. What do you think, Erik? Shall we turn them loose to make a demonstration on the border against Emeric of Hungary? That'll keep him out of the mess, anyway, and them away from here."
"Yes." Erik nodded. "And we will need local guides. If we ride hard, we may get to the Woden-casket in time."
Manfred nodded. "Francesca and Count Von Stemitz--with an escort of Knights--can ride for the Brenner pass to reassure Uncle Charles Fredrik that I am still alive. Now we'd better go and look for Petro Dorma."
A knight ran in. "There is a huge party of Venetians disembarking outside. Looks like some mercenaries too. And cannon. Knight-Proctor Von Dusbad and Etten are readying defense." He stared at the horror in the chapel . . . "What is this!"
"Sister God-damned Ursula, is what it is. Hell's teeth! Let's see if we can stop this. You--" Manfred pointed to one of the knights. "You see to it that the Servants are marched in here to see this abomination." He pointed to the kneeling Sachs. "And take him and lock him away."
"Open up in the name of the Holy Church and the Republic of Venice!" demanded someone outside.
"Let us out the wicket door. You can prepare a charge in case there is a problem." Ducking, Manfred, Erik and several of the senior knights came out to face the Venetians.
Erik felt his heart lift to see Petro Dorma out there in the torchlight. Petro may have felt similar relief, but he didn't let that show on his face or stop the mercenaries lining up the small cannon. All he said was "Where is Abbot Sachs?"
"I sent him off to be locked up," said Manfred. "We don't want trouble, Dorma. In fact I need to talk to you . . ."
"Ciao, Petro," said Francesca, sweeping forward with her hands outstretched, as if greeting an old family friend.
Dorma's mouth fell open. His face seemed to flush a bit.
Francesca smiled at him. "You look like a catfish with your mouth open, Petro. Close it, dear. You really do need to talk to them. They've just foiled a plot against you--and the Holy Roman Empire. This large young man is the Emperor's nephew, as it happens. Who would have thought it? And, I believe, also his Emissary Plenipotentiary."
Having obeyed Francesca's first injunction to close his mouth, Petro Dorma then did an even better catfish imitation.
"You'd better come inside," said Erik. "We have found out who has been committing those murders."
"Do you have her prisoner?" asked a slight man with an aquiline nose and a solid single dark line of eyebrow. "I am Eneko Lopez, a Legate of the Grand Metropolitan of Rome. We demand to speak to 'Sister' Ursula."