“Absolutely,” said Colonna heartily. “In fact, I personally thank God you’ve come. What is it you want, exactly?”
* * *
It was spectacularly ill-advised to go to Orsini’s home in broad daylight. Fieschi knew that. But he also knew that Robert of Somercotes had let himself into the new priest’s room and blocked the door behind him. He knew from listening at the crack of the door that they were talking, or at least that Somercotes was; the sick priest sounded perhaps delirious again, or at least deeply distracted. Fieschi knew exactly what he wanted to do, but he knew better than to undertake it without first consulting Orsini. Waiting until darkness might be safer—but Somercotes moved fast. There was no way to ensure the Englishman would not have rallied the priest, and by extension the entire swing vote of the College of Cardinals, before sunset. Damn Rinaldo for letting Somercotes steal him, he said to himself for the thirtieth time in an hour. A vital opportunity had been thrown away because de Segni wanted to be the first to get his morning meal. Fool. Selfish, lazy, shortsighted fool. Like all the rest of them.
He decided to risk being recognized. After he stalked away from de Segni’s room, he pulled off his cardinal’s robe and hurled it into his own chamber as he walked past; underneath, he wore a simple priest’s robe, so perhaps he could disappear into the midday market crowds, anonymous. He grabbed the torch outside his room, which demarked the limits of habitation along this particular tunnel.
He walked on into the darkness, to the second empty room along the corridor, which had a broken beam blocking most of the door. With practiced efficiency, he twisted his body and the torch around the beam and slipped into the small chamber. It was empty, but on the far side was a dark gash in the wall. He crossed and moved into this narrow opening; turning sideways for ease of movement, the torch held in his forward hand, he navigated the tight, zigzagging tunnel some thirty paces as it sloped gently upward. Then it opened onto a broader tunnel, which, if Fieschi took to the left, would lead eventually to his convenient freedom.
But above his torch’s hissing, he heard a sound. He stopped moving. He stepped out into the tunnel but saw nothing. He could not tell from which direction the sound had come. Another sound—a voice. Voices. He glanced in the direction of the tunnel egress. If there was anyone between him and the exit, he should be able to see them, at least the faintest trace of them, in the outer reaches of his torchlight. There was nobody there.
So he turned to the right and began a slow trek. Now another voice, and unexpected—a girl’s voice. A girl’s voice.
Could it be the young woman from the marketplace? The one who’d fled on horseback with the wild young man?
He wanted to rush toward the voices but constrained himself. One slow step at a time. The voices continued.
Laughter. He stopped short again, briefly; he knew that laughter. Capocci and Colonna. They leaned toward Castiglione, Somercotes’s choice. Fieschi fought off a sudden, enormous wave of dread. Was Somercotes carrying out a full-sprung conspiracy right under his nose, without Fieschi realizing? Was that toady of the Unholy Roman Emperor truly that efficient?
He saw the light now, coming from around the corner to the right; he hesitated, wondering if he should douse his own torch and try to approach in stealth. That would not work; they’d smell the smoke. And he would be at the mercy of whatever they decided to do with their own torchlight.
Cursing the entire enterprise—especially de Segni, who could have prevented it coming to this—he took a broad stride forward, putting himself in the middle of the tunnel that branched off to the right.
“Good afternoon,” he said loudly. “What an interesting situation we find ourselves in.”
Capocci and Colonna, he recognized, of course. He had not seen the girl or the youth before, but they fit the description from the market very neatly.
All four of them froze and stared at him. He smiled smugly and took a few slow, almost cocky steps toward them. “There is something unsavory about subterranean assignations,” he said, lazing over the words. He directed his words toward the bone-thin girl, memorizing her face with his keen stare. “I hope, young lady, that they are paying you well for these abominations?”
“Not as well as you would, since unlike you, we don’t live in Orsini’s pocket,” Capocci growled.
Suddenly, the two large cardinals, without warning or conference, but in nearly perfect unison, lurched over the debris; Colonna dropped his torch, which was snuffed at once in the damp earth. Each man grabbed one of the newcomers: Colonna almost effortlessly tossed the woman onto his back; Capocci huffed a little from the effort, but he had the young man up and over his broad shoulders in a trice. And then the two of them, again as if it had been rehearsed, turned and fled into the absolute darkness of the tunnels.
Astonished, Fieschi ran after them, with a shout that was as fruitless as it was ignored. Colonna’s laughter bounced off the walls but then evaporated into the darkness.
* * *
The moment the youth appeared in the doorway, Somercotes saw a softening come over the stranger’s face, expressing a humanity that he did not know the man had in him. Rodrigo’s eyes opened wide, and his jaw went slack, but he managed to scramble to his feet without assistance. The wild-haired young man stood just inside the doorway, unsure of the situation, and regarded the ailing priest with caninelike devotion.
“Ferenc?” Rodrigo whispered and then automatically switched to a tongue the newcomer seemed to know. He staggered across the stone floor, and the young man leaped to catch him, grabbing him under the arms, both to hold him up and to embrace him. Somercotes had no difficulty imagining some great moment of bonding in their past—a battle, perhaps? He studied the interaction closely.
The youth—Ferenc, Somercotes assumed that was his name—said something to Rodrigo, his tone and body language suggesting that he was rebuking the priest for standing.
Capocci and Colonna, who had brought these strangers to Rodrigo’s chamber, exchanged astonished looks. “What bastard tongue is that?” demanded Capocci.
“It is Magyar, from Mohi,” said the other, a young girl, doubtless a ragged child of Rome. She stared at the two men with a strangely motherly expression. “Ferenc helped Father Rodrigo get to Rome—”
“To deliver a message to the Pope,” Somercotes concluded. He glanced briefly at his fellow cardinals, but they were both agreeably preoccupied with listening to the torrent of words that now came out as the boy—Ferenc, he reminded himself, noting she had said his name as well—solicitously helped the priest return to a sitting position.
“An ugly language,” Capocci observed pleasantly.
“Too many ka’s and shka’s,” Colonna said in agreement.
“What are they saying to each other?” Somercotes asked the girl.
She shook her head. “I don’t know Magyar,” she said.
“Then how do you know the boy’s story?”
“He told me,” she said and lifted her hand, wriggling her fingers without thinking. To their puzzled reaction, she lowered the hand, then pressed her lips closed.
Other than the rapidly muttered conversation between Rodrigo and the boy, there was a pause. Somercotes looked hard at the girl, who pretended not to notice. “Does the young man speak Italian?” he asked. “Latin?”
She glanced away and shook her head.
“Tell me, how do you communicate with him?” Somercotes pressed.
She clearly wished she could take back what she had said, and if Capocci hadn’t been casually blocking the door—though Somercotes knew the wily cardinal was anything but nonchalant—she might have fled the room.
Ferenc answered Somercotes’s question before she could stop him. He finished his conversation with Rodrigo, turned eagerly to the girl, and took her arm. Before she could slap his hand away, he began to squeeze and touch her wrist.
“An unusual way to communicate,” Somercotes said, bemused. She shrank back under his close scrutiny. He took a st
ep and quickly reached to the side of her head. Ferenc’s eyes widened as the cardinal gently took hold of a long lock of the girl’s hair, which had been interwoven with thread into an irregular series of knots. “I’ve seen this before,” he said. He glanced at Ferenc, then back to the girl, and let go of her hair, his fingers curling like snakes and then thrusting out in ones, twos, threes. He looked pointedly at Ferenc—and smiled. “I did not realize males spoke such a language.”
“He doesn’t know it well,” the girl said brusquely, still not meeting his look, “and I don’t know how he learned it.”
Somercotes took a deep breath and let it out slowly. By keeping these two intruders here in secret, he could quite possibly ferret out more information about this Father Rodrigo, something more definite than the muddling ravings the priest supplied in plenty. But Somercotes felt certain he knew what the girl was and might learn soon enough who had sent her—and with that knowledge, he could think of far better uses for her.
Before he could speak, Ferenc let out a cry of delight and reached for a small bag hanging from his belt. He began to jabber away again in his native tongue, and Rodrigo—who had again slumped into a glassy-eyed stare—suddenly sat up straighter, blinked, and looked alert. As Somercotes watched, the boy reached into his satchel and pulled out a small metal object—a ring. A signet ring. An ecclesiastic signet ring—which meant the delirious priest really was a cardinal.
Ferenc handed it to Rodrigo, who took it between thumb and forefinger, staring at it as if he could not understand its significance.
The three cardinals exchanged looks; even Capocci understood now that this was serious.
“May I see that?” Somercotes asked Rodrigo, holding out his hand.
Rodrigo, confused, held it up toward Somercotes without relinquishing his hold of it.
“That is not a cardinal’s ring,” Somercotes announced, examining it. He made this pronouncement in a pleasant, casual voice, as if complimenting Rodrigo, but the words were meant for Colonna and Capocci, who nodded sagely as if they already knew this wisdom. “It is an Archbishop’s ring,” he added. “There is some story here, no doubt fascinating. Perhaps”—and here he straightened and peered at the girl again—“perhaps you can help us by filling in the details by signing to your friend there in Rankalba.”
The girl was plainly shaken by the fact he knew the esoteric name, and her instinct to flee was plain on her face, but to her credit, she mastered her fear and nodded. “He has already told me everything he knows,” she replied. “He does not know very much.”
“Tell me what he does know,” Somercotes persisted, smiling at her in a way he thought might inflict a small chill. “Something significant, worthy of an Archbishop’s ring.”
The girl swallowed hard. “Only that the priest has a message to deliver.”
“Of course, there is nobody to deliver it to,” Rodrigo said, speaking in Italian for the first time since the foursome had pounded on the door for entrance. “I am a word lost in the empty air. I am a seed thrown on stones.”
“Ah,” Somercotes said appreciatively. “A messenger stuck forever with his message and no one to receive it.”
Somercotes turned his attention back to the pale, narrow-shouldered girl. “Speaking of messengers...” he said and lifted his eyebrows. The girl looked away, then back, with a faint but noticeable spark of defiance. In reward for this show of character, he gave her a reassuring smile. “If you are what I think you are,” he said in a low, confident tone, “then I have an assignment for you. A true message to deliver. A message that will definitely be heard.”
She lowered her gaze. Somercotes waited patiently for her to answer.
“Give me the message,” she said finally, looking him squarely in the eye.
Capocci and Colonna watched them both with mild curiosity. Ferenc’s attention was on Rodrigo, who was slipping once again into a fog of confusion. “The word who spins in the air, the dove who is a buzzard who is a dove...” Rodrigo muttered. “The flies that buzz God’s song, mosquitoes humming along...”
“The recipient of this message,” Somercotes said delicately, crossing himself, “is His Majesty King Frederick, the Holy Roman Emperor. If you cannot gain an audience, you may deliver it to any commander in his army, which is camped just outside the walls of Rome.”
The girl kept her face calm. “And what is the message?” she asked.
“The message is quite literally this,” Somercotes said, with a sweeping gesture all around them. “This place. The fact of this imprisonment by Senator Orsini, the location of the Septizodium. Whatever route you took to break in here, show someone, and bring them back here with you.”
“As is...my duty,” she said, pressing both hands over her heart and bowing her head slightly. “I go at once.”
Somercotes held up a hand to stop her. “Do you know who I am?” he asked. When she shook her head, he smiled at her. “It will be difficult to inform the message’s recipient as to who sent it if you do not know my name, don’t you think?”
She blushed, though the expression in her eyes said she was more angry than embarrassed.
“I am Robert of Somercotes,” he said, “a cardinal of the Church.” He placed a hand on the top of her head. “And I offer you all my blessings for your journey. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” He felt her flinch as he said the Latin words, but she held still until he finished.
“I...I am Ocyrhoe,” she said, and though she seemed to want to add something, she clamped her mouth shut and shook her head slightly.
“Well met, Ocyrhoe. We are bound together now by our message, yes?” The fact she had not offered the ritual exchange did not concern him overmuch. She knew what he asked of her; he didn’t care that she seemed too young to fully understand. The message itself was what mattered. “Go and deliver it.” He gestured toward Ferenc. “Take the young man with you. You seem to work together well.” And it will be less complicated for us to explain his presence here.
* * *
Outside the door, Fieschi suppressed a sigh of satisfaction. He straightened, glanced around the corridor to make sure nobody saw him, and walked swiftly back down the corridor toward the tunnel that would lead him to free air and Orsini.
There was so much for he and the Bear to talk about.
22
An Afternoon at First Field
THE CROWD SWARMED across the wooden planks of the scaffolds like a ferocious colony of termites, a writhing mass of humanity that twitched and leaped and shouted in response to the two combatants. First Field had three fighting grounds, and as only the center one was in use, the audience had repositioned the scaffolds to more tightly embrace it. In between the scaffolds, crates and wooden beams and chunks of rock made for makeshift platforms from which still more of the commoners could watch. There were patches of color in the otherwise uniform sea of dirty brown, tiny clusters of men in finer robes, surrounded by their mailled guard.
A standard stood next to the ring; Kim caught glimpses of it through the throng. Every time the crowd parted slightly, affording him a brief view of a corner, his desire to see it fully only increased.
His Mongol guards hung back, milling about on the periphery of the excitement. They were outnumbered, and the crush of people was too great, too uncontrolled, and they were hesitant to force a gap through which Kim could reach the fighting ground. Unwilling to wait for them to decide how best to approach the crowd, Kim walked to the back edge of the scaffolding and leaped, reaching for a bracing bar. He pulled himself up, feeling the muscles stretch and pop in his shoulders, and he hung there, a few feet off the ground, face pressed up close to the back of a Westerner. He pulled up a leg, got it hooked on the long plank, and pulled himself over the bracing bar, barreling into the top row of spectators.
They were not amused, and several turned angrily on him as he shoved his way into their midst. Below them, his Mongol guards shouted up at him to come down, and the Western men, hearing thes
e strident voices, suddenly lost interest in pushing Kim off the scaffolding.
Kim ignored the men around him. He was too busy examining the fighter in the ring.
Down below, a tall, powerfully built man in a quilted coat—apparently the Frank—stood near an equally sized, heavier-set man who was lying on his back. The Frank held a wooden sword, and though he was breathing heavily, he did not appear to be overly tired. His brow was damp with sweat, matting his blond hair to his head, and he had a broad smile on his bearded face. As the man on the ground rolled away, the Frank planted the tip of his weapon in the ground and raised one hand in a salute to the crowd.
They reacted in kind, yelling and screaming their adoration of his martial prowess. The Frank turned slightly and bowed to the flag standing in the triskelion beside the ring. Kim could not help but smile. It was the symbol of the Rose Knights, just as Zug had drawn for him in the dirt.
The Rose Knight’s opponent crawled from the ring to a thunder of booing and catcalls. Another man stepped forward, ducking under the ropes. This one was shorter, though no less strong than the previous combatant, judging by the thickness of his arms and legs. He was also a Westerner, darker in skin and hair than the Rose Knight, but his beard was trimmed in a similar style, and his clothing was equally unadorned. In one hand, he carried a thick shield, and in the other hand, a wooden cudgel. He spun his weapon a few times, and the crowd fell silent, leaning forward with intense fascination to listen to the sound the heavy club made as it whirled through the air.
The Frank nodded, acknowledging the man’s right to enter the ring. Holding his blade in a low, close guard, he eased into a ready stance. Kim watched intently, his mind already starting to catalog the Frank’s fighting style, comparing it to his own. Looking for ways it could be beaten. The Frank’s sword was shorter than the staff Kim preferred, but the way the Frank held his weapon suggested such proficiency that to think the Rose Knight would be disadvantaged in matters of reach would be foolish. There was patience in his stance as well, a placid calm not shared by his opponent.
The Mongoliad: Book Two Page 26
