William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

in everything from good food and good music to the humor and grace of her conversation, the envy he saw in other men’s eyes when they looked at him.
    He was aware of the large, oddly perverse figure of Klaus in the background. Perhaps the risk of it, the necessity for some semblance of discretion, added a certain sharpness to the pleasure. Now and again there was a prickle of danger. Klaus wasa powerful man. There was something in his face, especially caught in repose, which suggested he would be an ugly enemy.
    But Monk had never been a coward.
    “You seem to have taken to Venice with a will,” Florent said out of the shadows where the torchlight cast only a faint glow.
    Monk had not seen him, he had been lost in his own thoughts and in the sights and sounds of night on the canal.
    “Yes,” he said with a start. He found himself smiling. “There cannot be another city like it in the world.”
    Florent did not answer.
    Monk was suddenly aware of a sense of grief. He looked across at Florent’s dark face and saw in it not only the easy sensuality that made it so attractive to women, the dramatic widow’s peak and the fine eyes, but the loneliness of a man who played the dilettante but whose mind was unfashionably aware of the rape of his culture and the slow dying of the aching splendor of his city, as decay and despair eroded its fabric and its heart. He might have followed Friedrich’s court for whatever reason, but he was more Italian than German, and under his facile manner there lay a depth which Monk, in his prejudice, had chosen not to see.
    He wondered now if Florent were, in his own way, fighting for the independence again of Venice, and what part Friedrich’s life or death might play in that. In the last few days he had heard whispers, jokes from the ignorant, of Italian unification also, a drawing together of all the different city-states, the brilliant, individual republics and dukedoms of the Renaissance, under one crown. Perhaps that also was true? How insular one could be, wrapped in the safety of Britain and its empire—an island world, forgetful of changing borders, the shifting tides of nations in turmoil, revolution and foreign occupation. Britain had been secure for nearly eight hundred years. An arrogance had developed unlike any other, and with it a lack of imagination.
    He was there as Zorah’s guest. It was long past time he didall he could to serve her interests—or, at the very least, the interests of her country. Perhaps that was why she had made this absurd, self-sacrificing accusation—to expose the murder of a prince and awaken her countrymen to some sense of loyalty before it was too late.
    “I could fall in love with Venice very easily,” he said aloud. “But it is a hedonistic love, not a generous one. I have nothing to give it.”
    Florent turned to look at him, his dark brows raised in surprise, his lips in the torchlight twitched with humor.
    “So does almost everyone else,” he said softly. “You don’t think all those people are here, the dreamers and the would-be princes of Europe, except to live out their own personal charades, do you?”
    “Did you know Friedrich well?” It was not an answer, but Florent could not have expected one.
    “Yes. Why?” he asked.
    Out on the water, someone was singing. The sound of it echoed against the high walls and back again.
    “Would he have gone back if Rolf, or someone else, had asked him?” Monk said. “His mother, perhaps?”
    “Not if it meant leaving Gisela.” Florent leaned over the stone parapet and stared into the darkness. “And it would have. I don’t know why, but the Queen would never have allowed Gisela back. Her hatred was boundless.”
    “I thought she would have done anything for the crown.”
    “So did I. She’s a remarkable woman.”
    “What about the King? Wouldn’t he allow Gisela back if it was the only way to persuade Friedrich?”
    “Override Ulrike?” There was laughter in Florent’s voice, and the tone of it was answer in itself. “He’s dying. She is the strength now. Perhaps she always was.”
    “What about Waldo, the Crown Prince?” Monk pressed. “He can’t want Friedrich home!”
    “No, but if you are thinking he had him killed, I doubt it. Idon’t think he ever wanted to be king. He stepped into his brother’s place only reluctantly, because there was no one else. And that was not affected. I know him.”
    “But he will not lead the battle to keep