The Exiled Blade (The Assassini) - By Jon Courtenay Grimwood Page 0,89

independence from Venice and her statement that as a zum Friedland princess and landowner in Schiavoni she reserved the right to think for herself. For a moment, with Marco refusing to back down and Giulietta refusing to relinquish power as Regent, it looked as if the war might not happen.

But first, of course, Frederick had to give Giulietta her present.

Four of his men carried wooden crates into her study on the third floor of Ca’ Ducale, watched – because everything in the long, narrow room was watched – by sour-faced Millioni dukes staring down from the walls.

“Put the crates on the floor and leave,” Frederick told his men, who arranged the boxes in a line rather than stacking them. Each box had Giulietta’s arms branded into the lid, she realised with a shock. Bowing to her, then to their master, the soldiers trooped silently outside. It took about a second before they started talking among themselves and Frederick grinned ruefully.

“Krieghund?” Giulietta asked.

“Every one of them,” he answered. He’d brought his entire pack to Venice. He’d told her of Wolf Valley, of their runs in the Alpine meadows of the high slopes. She wondered his friends could bear to be caged in a city this crowded.

“You’re going with Marco?”

Frederick raised his eyebrows and she blushed. Of course he was. The treaty Alonzo had signed with Byzantium was as close to a declaration of war as either empire had dared in fifty years. He said, “I’ve written to my father, telling him you know he sent me. I’ve also told him it’s my choice to accompany Marco on this campaign and no fault lies with Venice if I die.”

Lady Giulietta doubted his father would pay much attention. Having lost his elder son off Cyprus in a battle between the Venetian and Mamluk fleets, a letter from Frederick wouldn’t be enough to calm his anger if his remaining son died. All the same, she nodded as if she thought that might work.

“And you?” Frederick asked. “Are you going?”

“What do you think?” Lady Giulietta couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. “I’m a woman. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

He glanced at the low neck of her fur-edged dress.

“That’s rude,” she said crossly. When Frederick grinned she knew he was teasing. Her overgown was Alexa’s and twenty years old, cut low at the front when styles had been a little bolder. The undergown was thin white wool.

“So,” Frederick said. “Are you . . .? Going, I mean?”

“I’ve told you . . .”

His smile was knowing.

“What?” demanded Giulietta, feeling her stomach lurch and wondering who had betrayed her. She’d been so careful. How could he possibly know? She was on the edge of pleading for his silence when he told her he knew her. She was planning to board one of the ships and reveal herself to Marco after they’d left Venice.

“Do that,” Frederick said, “and he’ll only put you ashore at Ragusa.”

“I’m a zum Friedland princess.”

“Also Regent. Which is why you need to approach this head-on.” He dropped to a crouch beside a crate and wrestled free its lid, which stuck because it was fitted rather than because it was nailed on. Straw spilled across the floor, filling her study with the faint smell of summer. Digging his hands under the straw packing, Frederick pulled out a white breastplate, scattering more straw around him. “I had to guess the chest size . . .” He held it out to her.

Lady Giulietta took it gingerly.

In Italy the description white armour meant armour without decoration. This was truly white. As perfect as if freshly painted but hard to the touch. A slight ridge bisected the breastplate and the steel curved gently rather than sharply towards the sides. He’d guessed the size of her breasts and guessed generously. That made her smile. Since, even after Leo, she doubted they’d trouble an armourer’s skill. She could probably have fitted into a boy’s armour if she tried.

“Champlevé,” Frederick said.

He meant the white enamel. Champlevé was new, expensive and required talent to do well. Turning the breastplate over, Giulietta realised she’d never seen armour designed for a woman before. Although, of course, there were ballads about wives donning their dead husbands’ armour to defend the family castle or take revenge on his enemies. Frederick was now wrestling with another box.

“Here’s the next bit.” He held it up proudly.

The overlapping white scales of a metal skirt shaped to cover her hips and rise at the front to let her to ride astride