The Norse captain looked at the dogsleds, and the bombards . . . and the woman who was beckoning to him. He decided that reason might be the better part of valor—his troops had largely deserted him, running to watch the fight at the temple.
"Good evening." She smiled dazzlingly at him from her nest of furs. "We've come about this missing arm-ring . . ." she said in passable Norse.
"Oh. It's been found, milady," said the Norseman, relieved.
"Excellent!" Francesca buried her second spare copy deeper into the furs. She gave the Norseman the benefit of her best smile. "Then, if you could be so kind as to direct us to some place where we can get warm, and inform Prince Manfred of Brittany that Francesca is here. Emperor Charles Fredrik has been worried about him."
The smile nearly robbed the warrior of speech, which, in Francesca's opinion, was as it should be. "Uh. Certainly, milady. He's . . . he's at the temple right now. I'll go directly . . ."
She put a gloved hand on his arm. "No. It will wait . . . at least until I am somewhere warmer."
If the thing had been found and Manfred was—apparently—intact, there seemed little point in further intervention. Certainly not tonight, in the cold.
"What's that noise?" she asked, as the air was suddenly filled with a sort of clashing drumming.
"It's a celebration, milady."