The King's Road

by Cecelia Holland

  “They’ll beat you twice as hard.”

  “And anyhow,” Federigo said, pulling out the cloak, “he won’t dare make a fuss, or the Legate would find out. Just tell him.”

  Franciscus snatched at him, and Federigo dashed for the door. “Tell him I’ll be back in the morning.” He slapped the door shut and ran for the far side of his wing of the palace. A page coming up from the kitchens dodged out of his way, startled. When he’d reached the little room just above the park, Federigo paused and looked out the window, looking for people around who might see him. There was no one. He rolled up the cloak and threw it out the window to the ground, swung himself out onto the ledge, and jumped down to the top of the wide, low wall below. From there, it was only a hop to the soft earth beneath the trees.

  Looking up at the palace, he suddenly wished he’d stayed tamely to take the beating. Durante and Yusuf could have spent the night alone in the park — they did it often enough, when he couldn’t get out. The pale stone of the palace gleamed in the moonlight, and a single star pricked the deep blue sky of the night. He gulped. It looked like a prison wall, locking him out in the world, away from home. He bent and picked up his cloak and jogged quietly off into the trees.

  Just beyond the grove of trees, at the far end of the meadow where the tame deer grazed, stood a tiny pleasure house; and he headed for that. Beneath his feet the pine needles were slippery, and he had to keep his strides short. The wind moaned and sighed in the branches, a constant drone of noise. He stopped at the edge of the meadow and looked down toward the pleasure house. All the grass turned silver in the moonlight, and the wind made trails in it like an invisible animal running across the meadow. He was about to start across the open space toward the pleasure house when a hiss just behind him made him jump.

  “Federigo,” Durante whispered, and crawled out from under a bush. “Come here — there’s someone in the pleasure house.”

  “Who?” Federigo sank down on his heels. Immediately Durante and Yusuf were beside him, their heads close together so they could whisper. Yusuf had on a Saracen head-cloth, but otherwise he was dressed like the other two, a shirt and loose trousers.

  “I don’t know who it is,” Durante said. “We heard them talking when we came past. But they haven’t got a lamp lit.”

  “Aha.” Federigo peered toward the pleasure house. Obviously whoever was there didn’t want anyone else to know about it. Just as obviously, that meant someone should.

  “Let’s go down and find out.”

  Durante laughed. “I knew you would. Yusuf was scared.”

  “I wasn’t scared — just smart.” Yusuf belted Durante across the side with his arm.

  “Well, keep quiet, don’t let them see us.”

  Federigo on hands and knees raced out into the meadow. Halfway across to the next grove of trees, he flopped down on his belly, listening to the flurry in the grass behind him as Durante and Yusuf followed. When they landed next to him, he bounced up again and charged over the grass into the deep shadows under the cypress trees that crowded up to the rear wall of the pleasure house. With Yusuf and Durante pushing each other and muffling giggles, they darted from tree to tree, working down toward the little wooden shelter. An owl hooted in the meadow, and Federigo’s hair stood on end. Staring out into the open, he saw a ghost of soft wings flapping into the shadows.

  The door to the pleasure house opened, and a man’s head stuck out. Inside, a voice said, “It’s only an owl, you fool. Shut that door before someone sees you.”

  With a click, the door shut. Federigo crawled around a tree into the bushes against the wall of the house and crept along until he was directly beneath a window. Silent now, Yusuf and Durante glided after him, and they sat down cross-legged under the window, side by side.

  Durante poked Federigo in the ribs with his elbow, jabbed his thumb toward the house, and cocked his eyebrows. Federigo shook his head. He recognized neither of the voices, which bewildered him — he knew everyone in Al-Aziz. Turning carefully around, he got to his knees and started to rise so he could look in through the window.

  “It must be done before the Legate goes,” the deeper of the two voices said. “Diepold will be able to cover it up otherwise.”

  Federigo froze.

  “I wouldn’t do it if I had a choice,” the other voice whined. “You know I would not.”

  “Why? What’s the difference about this killing, when you’ve killed so many?”

  Beside Federigo, Durante jerked in alarm. Federigo’s mouth had gone dry, and he was sweating, although the night was cool. I should not be hearing this, he thought.

  “He is the last Hohenstaufen,” the deeper voice went on. “He should never have been born — his mother was much too old to bear a firstborn child. Granted, it’s a painful thing, to kill a child, but in the end, it will all come out for the better when he’s dead.”

  Without his willing it, Federigo pushed himself away from the wall and raced back into the trees as fast as he could run. They were talking of killing him. The sudden darkness under the trees panicked him completely, and he crashed into tree trunks and stumbled over roots, fell and tore his skin on brambles, lurched up and ran on, his breath sobbing in his throat. He heard someone thundering after him, and his heart stopped. An instant later he ran into the wall.

  “Little Red, it’s me, it’s Durante.” Durante grabbed him by the shirt. “It’s us, don’t run.”

  “They want to kill me,” Federigo said. Panting, he slackened his weight against the wall. The vines and bushes twined themselves around him, and branches scraped against the wall around his head. “They want me dead.”

  “We’ll protect you,” Yusuf said.

  Durante hissed. “They heard us — they’ll be looking for us. Let’s go.” He bent over, his hands on his knees. “Up over the wall.”

  Federigo’s hands were shaking, and his knees wobbled. He glanced back toward the meadow. Now he knew why he hadn’t recognized the voices — they had belonged to men either of the Legate’s party or of Walter of Brienne’s. Scrambling up onto Durante’s back, he crouched and braced his hands against the wall. Yusuf, the lightest of them, climbed up on their backs and swung himself up onto the wall’s wide top. Reaching down, he caught Federigo by the wrists and helped him squirm up beside him.

  Durante backed off a little, looking up at the wall. Federigo stared back toward the meadow. In the trees, he could see something moving — a tame deer, perhaps, or an owl, but it could have been a man, too. He bent down, and when Durante ran straight to the wall and by momentum scurried halfway up it, he caught his wrists and hauled him up beside him.

  “You’re stronger than you look,” Durante said, panting. “Come on, let’s go someplace where we can think.”

  “The harbor,” Federigo said. “Race.”

  They jumped off the wall into the street and ran down the slope toward the harbor, past the dark houses and shuttered shops that in the daytime looked so friendly. The dogs inside the gardens began to bark as they ran by, and the sound of their feet echoed in the narrow street. Federigo started to panic again. He couldn’t keep himself from straining to go faster, to get away, and by the time they had reached the Street of the Doves he was nearly a block ahead of Durante and Yusuf. They were saving their strength. When he finally had to slow, with a stitch piercing his side and his breath burning in his lungs, they jogged up barely panting.

  “Wait — wait just a minute.” Federigo sank down against a building. “Let me — catch my breath.”

  They plopped down, one on either side of him. Yusuf said, “You can hide in Palermo until the Legate’s gone.”

  Federigo shook his head. They might find him in Palermo — too many people knew him by sight. The air over his head was scented heavily with jasmine; there was a garden beyond this wall. He thought, I could go to Diepold and tell him what I heard... But he might not believe me, and even if he did, he might not be able to protect me. The idea of letting someone else take
charge of his safety made his throat close up with fear.

  A black dog trotted out of the alley across from them, sniffed at them, and turned down toward the harbor. Federigo got to his feet. “Let’s go — I don’t feel safe up here.”

  Durante said quietly, “There’s no place in Palermo that’s safe.”

  “Where should I go?”

  Striding along beside him, the bigger boy shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Yusuf said, “Stay in Palermo — we can find places for you to hide.”

  “No”

  “You’re just frightened. Palermo isn’t bad.”

  “It’s not you they’re trying to kill.” Federigo glared at him. They cut through a square with a fountain in the middle, stopped to drink, and went on down an alleyway full of garbage and fighting cats. Furry bodies fled at their approach. Federigo caught a whiff of the smell of the harbor, and with it he caught an idea.

  “How did Moshe get on board the ship that night?”

  “With the sailors.” Durante glanced over at him and grinned. “Do you want to try to stow away?”

  Federigo tossed his hair back over his shoulders. “As long as I have to leave Palermo, I may as well make it an adventure.”

  “Take us with you,” Yusuf said. “We’ll help you.”

  Durante laughed and did a little dance. “Oh, yes — we could all be pirates—”

  “Well, we have to find a ship that isn’t going too far away,” Federigo said hastily. They turned a corner and were on the wide street that ran along the quays. All up and down it, lamps burned in the taverns, and the wash and roar of sound poured along the cobblestones — sailors fighting, singing, gambling and telling stories and drinking. Off on the bay, the ships bobbed in rows, their painted prows aimed to the east. Federigo yelped happily. This was one of his favorite places. In twos and threes, alone and in crowds, pirates and common seamen strolled along beside the water, laughing in explosions of sound, and throwing bottles against the buildings so that they broke.

  “Let’s go into the Black Rose,” Yusuf said. “That’s where Hadji-Mustafa’s crew is staying.”

  Durante whistled in approval. They climbed up over an iron railing onto the steps leading to the Black Rose.

  Federigo said, “Who is Hadji-Mustafa?” The name was familiar, but he couldn’t remember. In the doorway of the tavern, he paused, amazed.

  The Black Rose was packed with Saracen sailors. They’d heated up the room until it steamed, many of them were dancing, and others were banging away on tall painted drums, swaying back and forth. A huge bowl, as wide as Federigo was tall, stood in the midst of a mob of sailors who were dipping their cups into it; and the room stank of raw red wine. Yusuf and Durante dragged him into a corner, and they sat on the sawdust, staring open-mouthed at the men playing like children under the glaring light of the oil lamps.

  Three sailors were dicing on the floor near them; one peered at them, muttered something, and slapped his hands together. The dice rolled across the uneven boards and bounced against a little sawdust wall. One of the three roared so loud Federigo clapped his hands over his ears, and silver coins flashed in the light. Oil and sweat shimmered on the sailors’ broad, muscled shoulders.

  There was a tremendous splash, and suddenly everybody was laughing. Federigo craned his neck to see around the bodies in his way. Someone had fallen into the bowl of wine. Dripping and sleek, he stood up, howling, and plunged off across the room.

  “Moslems aren’t supposed to drink wine,” Federigo said to Yusuf. “Are they?”

  Yusuf shrugged. “They say that Allah doesn’t see what happens in Palermo. There’s so much wrong with it that He gave up watching a long time ago. Look! There’s Hadji-Mustafa.”

  Through the smoky, stinking room came a tall, slender man with bright gold hair. At first Federigo couldn’t believe that he was Hadji-Mustafa — but the way the sailors bowed to him and watched him told him that he must be. The blond man swung toward him, and he saw the neat red silk patch sewn over the man’s right eye; and suddenly he remembered who this was: the greatest pirate in the Mediterranean. His heart leaped. Hadji-Mustafa had been born Christian, somewhere in the North; he’d been captured and made a galley slave, converted to Islam, stolen a galley from his masters, and collected a crew in every pirate’s den in the world. Nobody knew how he’d lost his eye, everybody knew his ship and everybody was afraid of him. Federigo stood up to see him better.

  Hadji-Mustafa saw him at once and frowned. Murmuring, Durante reached up to pull Federigo down out of his sight. But the blond man only stared sharply at Federigo a moment and turned away, shrugging.

  “Do you need cabin boys, Malik?” a sailor bawled, in Arabic. “There are three just begging to turn pirate.” He laughed and shoved Yusuf roughly. “Aren’t you? All three of you, dying to go out and fight great glorious battles on the sea.”

  “Yes,” Yusuf shouted, and all the sailors laughed and rolled around, holding their sides. The men with the drums beat out a heavy tattoo.

  “Not this time,” the sailor said. “Maybe when we come back from Cairo, yes.”

  Federigo bit his lips. He’d been hoping the pirates would be sailing on to another port in Sicily, that they’d take him along. He didn’t want to leave Sicily; he might never be able to get back. Sitting down again, he watched three sailors dance like great half-naked bears, their big feet thumping on the floor.

  Durante pushed him. “Listen — over there.”

  Federigo looked. Hadji-Mustafa was counting out coins into a leather sack, while a big Moor bent over him talking; the pirate nodded every once in a while. Federigo could hear just a little of what they said — something about a fleet moving down from Genoa, heavily-laden and well-guarded. “But if a storm comes up, who knows? One of the merchants might be separated from the war ships.” His eyes on the spill of gold running from his fingers into the sack, the pirate nodded and said nothing.

  Yusuf whispered, “I wish we had some money.”

  Durante snorted and stretched his arms over his head. “What would you buy? They’d only steal it from you. I’m hungry.”

  Federigo shut his eyes. He imagined the Genoese ships rowing over the sea, and a storm boiling up, and one losing its way; the dawn would come and find that one ship alone, except for a pirate racing out of the distance, men in the shrouds waving their swords and lances. He gulped, longing to be on that ship. He thought, I could be a pirate, forget about Sicily and be a pirate. But he had been born to be King of Sicily. He sighed.

  Durante was on his feet. Strutting a little, swinging his arms, he walked casually across the room, past the dancing sailors and the men bent over their throbbing drums, and stopped at the door into the kitchen. Yusuf whispered, “He’s mad. They’ll only kick us out.”

  “Maybe.” Federigo got up. “Come on.” He started after Durante, dodging around sailors who lifted cups full of wine and laughed and swatted each other with their great hams of hands. Halfway through the kitchen door, Durante was cajoling someone out of sight.

  Abruptly a hand caught Federigo by the arm and swung him around. He twisted hard to get away, but the strong fingers tightened and held him — and Hadji-Mustafa bent to stare at him. “Who are you?”

  Federigo swiped his hair out of his face. “One-eyed, like you, Master.” He touched his black eye.

  The big Moor behind the pirate laughed, but Hadji-Mustafa frowned.

  “I think you’re the King — this crowned child they’re all so fond of. Don’t you know they’re looking for you all through the city?”

  “What?” His heart sank, and he pulled at his arm in Hadji-Mustafa’s grasp. Now they’d take him back to the palace.

  “They’re hunting you up and down Palermo.” Hadji-Mustafa cocked his head to one side. “Maybe I ought to hold you to ransom, hah? Go on, go home, boy.”

  “I can’t.” Federigo searched for a way to ask; he could find none, but suddenly it burst out of him. “Take me to Cefalu.”r />
  “What?”

  The Moor said, “He talks like a king, at least.”

  “Take me to Cefalu,” Federigo said. “Or anywhere else on the coast of Sicily.”

  The sailors were packed around him, staring; one of them muttered, “He’s a little mad, maybe.” Yusuf was caught in their midst, and he whined.

  “They’re trying to kill me,” Federigo said. “I have to hide for a while.”

  Hadji-Mustafa smiled faintly. “Hide in Palermo. Why should I get mixed up in the government of Sicily?”

  Federigo grabbed him by the robes. “Because I’m an orphan, and God says you should take care of orphans.”

  “I don’t believe in your God anymore.” Hadji-Mustafa started to stand up. “Go on home, boy. If you had a bad dream—”

  “It wasn’t a bad dream.” Federigo hung on him, holding him down. “Take me to Cefalu.” His blood was full of wild urgency, of an impatient wanting. “It doesn’t matter which God you believe in, they all say that you must care for orphans.”

  “Oh, a sea lawyer.” The blond man carefully disengaged Federigo’s fingers from his clothes. “I wasn’t planning to go to Cefalu.”

  “Anywhere, then. Anywhere still in Sicily.”

  “Naples, perhaps?”

  The sailors roared with laughter, and Hadji-Mustafa grinned a little wider. He had a pleasant smile, but the stare of his one eye was fierce and direct, he never seemed to blink. In the lamplight his fair hair shone like silk.

  “I’m afraid there are few ports where I can safely go in Sicily, little one,” he said. “Find yourself another ship.”

  Federigo said, “You are a King, like me — what other ship is worth my sailing on?”

  Now they were all howling, whooping with laughter and interest.

  Hadji-Mustafa looked quickly all around. In the middle of the mob, Durante was yelling, and the sailors made a little way for him so he could reach Federigo’s side.

  “Take me, too,” Durante said. “I won’t miss this one.”