He sang a song to her in a tongue she did not recognize, and he told her it was Provençal, 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.