The Seven Magical Jewels of Ireland

by Robert Adams

  "It was the sainted Khalil I, your holiness will recall, who personally hammered out that very wise and far-seeing policy: that the Papacy would alternate between the Moorish-Spanish faction and the Italian-Northern European faction, each faction also to have equal numbers of cardinals and bishops. Khalil di Granada knew human nature, your holiness, he knew the power of not only the Church, but of Rome, the State. Rome's power is great, but power is based upon wealth and influence on other states, as well as upon internal cohesion and the willingness of all within to work for and toward the state's good without."

  "Because of what was illegally done in electing your holiness, a millennium and a half of painfully garnered wealth and power is being at best risked and at worst frittered away on causes of a most questionable nature. Because of your managed election, your holiness, the College of Cardinals has today lost every scintilla of proper cohesion; it is rather splintered into a dozen or more fractious factions all spending their every waking hour in plots, counterplots, amassing private armies and planning assassinations of personal and political enemies, rather than working—as they should—together for Rome."

  "Rome, the city, may well be eternal, as is claimed, your holiness; but the power of the Church and the State of Rome is definitely not, nor should we delude ourselves with claims to the contrary. Recall what happened three centuries ago to the Papacy of Alexandria; that could easily happen to Rome, like it or not. I'll not besmirch the dead, but the treatment of the Kingdom of England and Wales and of King Arthur III Tudor and his family by your holiness's predecessor and your holiness himself was most imprudent and unwise, to put the matter in the most charitable of terms. At best, Crusades are very risky business, as should have been learned from the sad example of Galerian IV, the last Pontiff of Alexandria."

  The Pope snorted derisively, "Oh, surely this silly business abrew in York doesn't frighten a man like you, Brother? Rome has weathered more and worse, over the centuries—Arianism, Manichaeism, Maximianism, Rogatism, Circoncillianism, Donatism, Catharism, Monophysitism, Baldarism, and at least a score more—this Yorkism, too, will burn itself out, die, eventually be stamped out."

  Sicola shook his balding head. "I think not, your holiness, not in this particular case. Roman agents report that far more than just England and Wales are herein involved. All save a few of the Scottish bishops favor York over Rome, and over half of the Irish bishops do. Moreover, there is firm support from many of the Burgundian bishops, both lay and ecclesiastical authorities of the Empire and its allies, as well as interested observers from a number of other as yet uncommitted states. Even Prince Sidonio of Portugal has commented before his court that a Papacy located somewhere to the west and north of Rome would surely breathe new life into a patently moribund church-state."

  Abdul shook his head slowly. "So much does he then hate the other Spanish kingdoms and principalities. He could have no other reason for making so false a statement in public, you know, my brother."

  "Of course his inherited hatreds have something to do with it, your holiness," Sicola agreed. "And there also is the fact that the Princes of Portugal have always been on better terms with the English than have most of the other kings and princes and caliphs on that peninsula. But your holiness must also recognize that regionalism, nationalism, these are but parts of a whole, small parts, really. The bigger, more important parts of that dangerous whole are widespread distaste for the way in which Rome attempted to make a virtual satrapy of England and Wales, coupled with a recognition of the fact that Rome is become, in the wake of the utter rout of the Crusaders in England and our proven inability to even resupply our folk besieged in London, far weaker, poorer, and less influential than at any time in the last five centuries."

  "We can expect more defections, your holiness, unless we can quickly regroup and present to the world a strong, united front, something that we cannot do, cannot show, cannot achieve or give any aspect of achieving so long as we leaders remain riven and thus keep our Roman State riven."

  "We suppose that our brother has a plan of some sort to achieve these ends?" was Abdul's response, delivered with raised eyebrows.

  Sicola nodded. "One formulated not solely by me, your holiness, but by a sizable body of the College now in Rome and participated in by letter by certain cardinals who are elsewhere."

  "And just what are the salient points of this plan, Brother Prospero? For instance, what are its provisions for us?"

  "It is felt in consensus, your holiness, that the first order of affairs must be a lifting of the excommunication of Arthur and of the interdiction of England and Wales, these to be coupled with immediate reestablishment of normal relations betwixt Rome and the Kingdom of England."

  "Impossible of accomplishment, Brother," snapped Abdul. "In order to do that it were necessary to wash our hands, withdraw all our support and protection of the rightful king and his mother, the regent, leave them and their few remaining faithful supporters to the mercy of a ruthless usurper. No, we'll not see such done!"

  Sicola sighed. "Yes, your holiness' unflagging hatred for King Arthur of England and Wales is known far and wide, and that is one of the reasons that it is felt that overtures of friendship, of a reconciliatory nature, would be more believable were they to emanate from a Papacy other than that of Abdul. But more on that subject anon."

  "As regards the abandonment of the so-called regent and the boy who may or may not be the actual son of Richard IV Tudor, they should never have been supported in the first place, not to the ridiculous extremes that they were. It is a precedent that has earned Rome no friends and a plentitude of enemies."

  "But," protested Abdul vociferously, "she is the niece of—"

  "Your holiness's pardon if I interrupt. That your holiness' predecessor chose to have the daughter he always called a niece wed to him who then was Crown Prince of England and Wales was not a new or a novel idea. Many of his predecessors had arranged good, sometimes royal, marriages for their offspring and relatives. But when King Richard IV died, Rome should have accepted the choice of his brother to succeed him, not tried to force a foreign-born widow and an heir that many believe to be a non-Tudor bastard on the kingdom. Some pity can be felt for the transgressions of the predecessor of your holiness, of course, because he was after all the father of the widow and grandfather of the possible bastard in question."

  "But your holiness himself has no such extenuating circumstances to excuse his intemperate actions. Your holiness had been most well reded—as many attempted at that time, myself included—to rescind the excommunication of King Arthur, send congratulations and Papal blessings, invite him to Rome and arrange to have him meet with a fatal accident somewhere along the way. But no, your holiness felt compelled to compound matters by first placing England and Wales under interdict, then by preaching a Crusade against them."

  "And that Crusade of your holiness' concoction . . . I think that never before in all history has a military operation been so ill coordinated and generally mismanaged. Granted, the English and Welsh were fighting on their own land and for it and the king they had chosen, but the combined strengths of the crusading forces should have been overpowering, had there been any sort of timing and coordination of the attack, the invasions of England. But no, the forces were allowed to invade when and where and as they saw fit in no less than five integuments, which Arthur and his army easily defeated. Now, so many gallons of Crusaders' blood have been absorbed by English fields that few bishops from Riga to Garama but are loath to continue to preach this Crusade, and it is become exceeding difficult for Rome to hire mercenaries without signing agreements beforehand that service contracted will not include any possibility of fighting on English soil."

  "Nor can your holiness apparently learn from his mistakes. I herein refer to the Irish business. Could your holiness not realize that such harsh measures over so petty a matter could do nothing, would do nothing save drive the high king and most of the petty kings into, directly into, the English camp?
"

  "What was done to Cardinal Mustapha, a prelate whose very person is holy, a prince of the Church, a . . ." Abdul was become so angry that he fairly spluttered.

  "An old and personal friend of your holiness," added Sicola. "Yes, I know. But think, your holiness, is the sacrifice of all of Irland not too high a price to pay for a bit of salve for the bruised pride of his eminence?"

  "There will be no sacrifice of Irland, doubting brother," Abdul declared hotly. "The Crusaders of God will—"

  "—most likely never make an appearance, this time around, your holiness. The ill-fated English Crusade has virtually exterminated all the glory-seekers, the religious fanatics, the suicidal types from those lands over which Rome holds sway; the barrel scrapings who'll crawl from behind the wainscoting now will not be worth having—lunatics, thieves, brigands, and their unsavory ilk."

  "If so," snapped Abdul, "we shall have His Holiness of the East have the Irland Crusade preached to his people."

  "It would not be wise, your holiness, to attempt any such thing. For one reason, his holiness in Constantinople pronounced a pest on both houses, as it were, early on in the English debacle, feeling he said then that both your holiness and his predecessor had been and were using the Church in what was a purely personal affair. More recently, his holiness of the East has had all that he can do, this according to his letters and messengers, to prevent a declaration of war against Rome by Sultan Omar."

  Abdul's puzzlement appeared sincere. "But, Brother, why would Sultan Omar wish to declare war against us?"

  "A little matter," replied Sicola dryly, "of a Turkish galleon sent on a diplomatic mission to Naples, crippled and driven into a Roman port by a tempest, then impressed entire into the last fleet sent to try to supply the besieged City of London. It was one of those fine four-masted galleons of Omar's, mounting a king's ransom in bronze guns and captained by one of his pashas. That all would be enough, but it seems that a brace of the sultan's favorite nephews were aboard, too."

  Abdul shrugged. "This all is made right easily enough, Brother. When the fleet returns from England, we—"

  "No, your holiness, nothing about this is going to be easy. That fleet is not coming back . . . ever, none save the one fast sloop that did make it back to bear the sad tale. The fleet was brought to battle by the English fleet, and those that were not sunk in the Thames River were all captured. One of the leading galleons blew up, and the captain of the surviving sloop thinks that that galleon was the Turkish ship."

  "But why, Brother?" queried Abdul fretfully. "Why would any Roman officer take it upon himself to cause us such trouble through impressing a Turkish ship?"

  "Reputedly, your holiness, it was a brainstorm of Ammiraglio Pietro himself. It seems that the fleet was awaiting the arrival of a leased French galleon, which ship was very late. The now deceased ammiraglio was loath to sail with less than four of the heavy-armed four-master galleons—for all the good they eventually did him. Then came word of this Turkish ship in harbor with relatively minor damage. It was a piratical scheme, but I suppose that he assumed that any infamy was acceptable was it but done in the name or the cause of the Holy See. We'll never know, really, just what he thought or planned, for he died at sea of a seizure of some sort, a day's sailing out of Oporto."

  "May the bastard rot in the deepest pit of hell!" snarled Abdul feelingly. "How we wish . . ."

  "Were wishes horses, your holiness, all the world would be neck-deep in horse dung," Sicola attested. "What is done is done. What now must be done is to attempt to extricate Church and Roman State, alike, from the sorry pass into which they have been cast by all the mistakes and excesses of your holiness, his predecessor, and their various agents."

  "Your holiness has two choices only. He may very quietly retire to a comfortable, very secluded hermitage, whereupon Rome will announce his death and the College will be gathered to elect a new pontiff."

  "And if we choose to not do any such foolish thing, Sicola?" snapped Abdul. "What then? What can you and the other malcontents do?"

  "Regretfully see to it that your holiness expires in all truth . . . and with some rapidity. Your quiet retirement was my own choice, your holiness; the second, more violent option was supported by a larger number in the beginning and still is favored by most. This is why I feel it is so important that your holiness allow me to change his mind, to persuade him to steal away and spend his waning years in the comfort of, perhaps, a small monastery near to Tunis."

  The westering sun lay no more than two fingers above the hilly horizon when Sir Sebastian Foster, Duke of Norfolk and Lord Commander of the Royal Horse, rode at the head of his column of dusty, dog-dirty, dead-tired horsemen along the winding way through the cannon emplacements still remaining from the invasion of King Alexander's Scots Army. Next, they passed through the gate in the stone walls that enclosed what had long ago been the outer bailey of an earlier fortified dwelling place, walked their stumbling mounts up the graveled carriage drive to come at last to and draw rein before the gracious mansion called Whyffler Hall.

  CHAPTER THE SEVENTH

  "Sir Geoff," her grace, Krystal Foster, Duchess of Norfolk, replied in answer to her new-come husband's question as to the whereabouts of his steward and castellan for this his barony, "is away these last five days with his lances and those of Laird Michael Scott on a hunt for a band of brigands who robbed, blinded, and viciously mutilated a wandering chapman lately, and have otherwise been afflicting both sides of the border. I thought you'd approve, so I gave him permission to go so long as he left half the lances here."

  "Damn right I approve, honey," Bass said. "It's a sign of these new times, you know, English borderers and Scots borderers working together for the common good. Less than five years back, each would have blamed the other for the atrocities of those brigands, and eventually, reivings or raidings would have been the result, followed by vengeful burnings and ambushes and battles and then the whole damned bloody border might well have gotten involved. And of course, Sir Geoff had no way of knowing I'd be riding up here . . . hell, I didn't know it myself, hardly, before I was on my way."

  She squeezed her husband's hand. "I must say, I'm flattered, Bass. I know that's not an easy ride, even in slow stages, and from the looks of you, your men and your mounts, you came damned fast. Or was it little Joe you rode up to see? I doubt he'll know who you are—he hasn't seen you in a year, and that's a long time to a child as young as he is."

  Bass squirmed in his chair. "Krystal, honey, you know how much I miss you and the baby, the only son I've ever had, but my duty keeps me down south, mostly, and you're up here. Much as I wish I could say differently, it was duty brought me up here, this time—a royal warrant at Hal's request. Somebody or something has been screwing around with that devilish machine down under the old tower keep, and Hal has ordered me to break down the wall sealing the doorway, ax through the cable connecting it to his former world, and end the menace forever."

  "You seem to be able to find time, Bass," said Krystal coolly, "to sail off playing pirate whenever the mood strikes you. I'm told that it's a far shorter and easier journey by sea up to one of the Northumberland ports, then only a week or less by horse to arrive here . . . if you really wanted to come."

  Bass sighed. "Honey, there's still a war going on, you know, and I'm still a soldier of the king. Every ship I prize goes either directly or indirectly into King Arthur's service, every cargo benefits not only me but the kingdom, which has been starved of foreign imports for years now. I don't enjoy the bloodshed and the killing at sea any better than I did ashore. I just do what I have to do to keep faith with King Arthur and with England. I'd thought . . . that is, I'd hoped you understood, but . . ."

  She took his hand back in hers, looked at him levelly, and said, "I do understand, Bass. I hate myself when I start to slide into bitchiness, but . . . but I just get so goddamned lonely up here . . . or down at Rutland, for that matter. There's nothing but the boy and your letters for compa
ny. And the gallowglasses you use for post riders all speak such a garbled, guttural dialect that I can't talk to them without Sir Geoff or someone to translate for me."

  "Can't you talk to your household staff, honey? Your ladies? What about those two maids you used to get on so well with, aren't they still here? Trina and Meg, wasn't it?"

  Krystal grimaced. "There were three of them—Trina, Bella, and Meg—but only one still is here and she's become as big a yes-man as any of my ladies, since you became a goddamned duke. I think I'd have become insane if dear Wolf hadn't come up here to hunt a couple of times. It was he who told me of how well you're doing as a pirate, you know. Your letters never say one damned thing about all your ships and ill-gotten gains. Just how rich are you now, Bass?"

  He shrugged. "I'm sure I don't know, Krys. Sir Ali and Nugai might be able to tell you, though. They both seem to delight in keeping track of things like that."

  "I'm sure I don't know, Krys." She postured, mocking his tone and mannerisms. "Bass Foster, you're becoming as arrogant as any of the born nobility, dammit! Do you ever try to recall just who and what you really are anymore?"

  "Krys, my lady wife," he said soberly, "what I and you really are, who we are, is the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk, Markgraf und Markgräfin von Velegrad, Earl and Countess of Rutland, and Baron and Baroness of Strathtyne; there is and will never be any going back, honey. We'll live out the rest of our lives in this world, and we'd best learn to live and behave as we are expected to, as our peers do, as our subordinates expect us to; I've accepted these truths and I'm striving to adapt. You must too."

  "Oh, I know, I know, Bass," she answered dispiritedly. "All you've said is true, I know that, but that doesn't make me like it, any of it, any better. Being what I know I'm going to have to be for the rest of my life around most people doesn't come easily to me, and I get frustrated and angry when I see you adapting faster than me."