atly
told Prince Edward that they will supply neither money nor men for an
adventure in Italy. The pope must find another robber baron to steal my
crown." And then he asked her about herself, and they talked about her
and about him.

She had thought all westerners were savages, but Manfred amazed her with
his cultivation. He knew more than many Byzantines, for whom
Constantinople--which they always called "the Polis," the City, as if it
were the only one--was the whole world. In the short time she and
Manfred strolled together that day, he spoke to her in Greek, Latin, and
Italian, and she later found out that he knew French, German, and Arabic
as well.

He sang a song to her in a tongue she did not recognize, and he told her
it was Provencal, the language of the troubadours.

He undid the clasp of her mantle and let it fall to the gravel. He
kissed her in the bright sunlight, and she forgot Michael Paleologos.
She belonged altogether to Manfred von Hohenstaufen.

* * * * *

Now, with a chill, she remembered that she did indeed _belong_ to
Manfred. She was not his mate but his servant.

His fingertips stroked her nipple lightly, but she ignored the tingle of
pleasure. She waited for him to say what he had to say.

He said, "Remember the fair-haired Muslim who came to the court today?"

"The man from Egypt? You had him killed?"

"I changed my mind," Manfred said.

She felt relief. She was surprised at herself. She had wanted the man to
live. She remembered her astonishment when, with a gesture like a
performing magician's, Manfred threw open the doors of his audience hall
and the entire court saw the blond man with his dagger at Celino's
throat.

She had been surprised when Manfred told her that this man, dressed in a
drab tunic and hose like a less-than-prosperous Italian merchant, was
the awaited Saracen from the Sultan of Egypt.

The sight of him as he passed through the audience hall had left her
momentarily breathless. He looked like one of those blond men of western
Europe the people of Constantinople called Franks and had learned to
hate at sight. His hair was not as light as Manfred's; it was darker,
more the color of brass than of gold. Manfred's lips were full and red,
but this man's mouth was a down-curving line, the mouth of a man who had
endured cruelty without complaint and could himself be cruel. She
wondered what he had seen and done.

As he had passed her,