The King's Road

by Cecelia Holland

  “Just a little way, now,” he said, and slid back into the ditch. Maria started to protest and stopped, shrugged, and followed him. Now she carried the baby, which, to Federigo’s relief, was asleep. He waded on through ankle-deep water toward the city; in the west, the clouds had broken up, and through a patch of sky the flat red rays of the setting sun poured like a blessing.

  *

  “There’s my house,” Maria said. She clutched the baby. “It’s all dark.”

  “They’re asleep.”

  “They’re dead. The bandits killed them.” She walked slowly across the street toward the gate in the little fence around the house, and Federigo and Yusuf withdrew into the doorway of the building behind them. Yusuf whispered, “Shall I go home now?”

  “Wait a minute. We ought to go tell Durante’s father what happened to him.”

  “I will. They live just down the street from me. If you wander around, someone will recognize you. You should go home.”

  “I — look.”

  Maria had gone through the gate and walked slowly up to the house and knocked on the door. Now it opened, and a spill of golden light poured over the girl and the baby, and someone just inside the door shouted with pleasure. Maria rushed forward into the arms of a young man. Other people crowded around her, laughing and embracing her. The baby, naturally, let out a howl. The door swung shut, blocking off the light and the happiness, but now light showed in the windows of the house.

  “She’s such a silly goose,” Yusuf said.

  “Well, she was far from home, and she thought they were all dead, all her family, and we did make her do a lot of odd things.” Federigo scuffed his feet against the stone threshold of the doorway. “Are you going home?”

  “Yes. I’m going to get beaten to a pulp for running off, too.”

  “No,” Federigo said. “They’ll be too glad to have you back.”

  Yusuf said, “Do you want to come home with me and go to the palace tomorrow?” He was already edging away down the street, all the eagerness in him straining him toward home.

  “I’ll go back now.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, and we’ll go tell Durante’s father.” Yusuf whirled and ran off. The slap of his feet faded into the dark.

  Federigo sighed. Everybody was glad to have Maria back. Everybody would be glad to have Yusuf back. But he had to go up to the palace, where every corner was full of whispers and conspiracies, and nobody really cared about him except Franciscus; to the rest of them, he was just a thing, a bundle of flesh and bone and blood with a tag on it that said “King.” He thought of Hadji-Mustafa and the bandits on the beach, the wanderers in the gully, Lothair on the road — he’d rather be anywhere but home. His head down, walking slowly, he drifted down the street and around the corner.

  Palermo was all quiet, all dark. He crossed the square of the Roman Fountain and scooped up a palmful of water to drink. A dog barked at him from the garden of a house he passed, and pigeons cooed from under the eaves and in the bell tower of the Cathedral when he walked by. The wind whispered in the palm trees.

  The palace gate was closed. He climbed over it and dropped down into the park. One of the deer saw him and stopped, its flag-shaped ears twitching back and forth. He walked up to the courtyard and let himself in through one of the little gates in the low wall.

  The courtyard was empty, too. Inside the stables, a horse kicked its stall with a crack like thunder; up in the keep above his head, a light moved at a window. It all looked so lonely, so lost. The King was dead, that was why. Or so they thought. He wondered if Diepold were still Regent. He had to be, if Lothair was scouring the roads; Lothair would fall when Diepold fell. He went to the huge main door and pushed it a little way open.

  The oak door, bound in iron, swung noiselessly on its hinges, and he squeezed through into the great hall. Up at the far end, lit by torches that were never allowed to go out, stood the enormous throne with its stone canopy carved with the images of hawks and lions. Above it, painted on carved wood, hung the arms of Hohenstaufen, the Norman Kings of Sicily, and the Empire. That was his throne, and those were his arms. Suddenly he felt very small, very dirty, and hungrier than he’d ever been in his life. He went to a side door into another room and opened it.

  This room was full of people. Diepold was there, talking to a priest; and Tommaso of Celano, the Count of Molise, who never came to court events — even he was there, surrounded by retainers, gorgeous in silk and jewels that spat light over his clothes. Secretaries scribbled at their desks, and court officers stood leaning against the wall. They all looked exhausted. Federigo walked over to Diepold.

  “Have you been looking for me?”

  Diepold turned, looked down, and stared. His mouth fell open, and his normally red face turned dead white. Federigo glanced around; all the others were watching him, their eyes bulging out of their heads. Nobody made a sound.

  “Where—” Diepold began, hoarsely, and stopped. He looked over toward the Count of Molise. His voice rang with relief. “You wanted the King? Here is the King. Do you see him?” His hand fell to Federigo’s shoulder.

  “I’m hungry,” Federigo said.

  “Where have you been?”

  The Count of Molise came over and bowed. “Your Grace. Everyone has been much worried about you. Where have you been?”

  Federigo said, “I’m hungry. I’m not saying anything until I get something to eat.”

  Diepold grabbed him by the shoulders. “Where were you? Do you know what you’ve caused? Do you know—”

  Furious, Federigo shouted, “I’m hungry! Feed me!”

  Diepold jerked, amazed. The Count called, “The King is hungry. Bring meat and wine and bread for him.” Looking down at Federigo, smiling, he said, “You’re very dirty as well, your Grace.”

  “If I want to be dirty, I’ll be dirty, my lord.” Federigo swung around. “Someone bring me a chair.”

  All of them rushed up with chairs. Diepold shook his head. “A tantrum.” He sat down on his heels, and Federigo climbed into a tall chair; a page held out a plate of peach tarts. Diepold said, “If it please your Grace, where have you been?”

  Federigo stuffed tarts into his mouth. Around them, he said, “I went to Cefalu.” A cup of wine appeared, and he gulped it; and instantly his head started to spin.

  “It might not be wise to allow the King to get drunk,” the Count said. “How did you get to Cefalu, your Grace?”

  “On a ship. And I walked back.” Federigo remembered to eat slowly. “I went because I heard that someone was going to try to kill me.”

  Diepold frowned; his head turned toward the Count. “Did you indeed? And who, when he was found to be gone, was so quick to say he’d been murdered?”

  The Count smiled, and smiled, and said nothing. Federigo looked up at him, startled. He’d thought the murderers were of Walter of Brienne’s party, but now... He took a piece of lamb from a platter and ate it. Diepold stood up, facing the Count.

  “You were so sure he was dead, my lord. You were so sure we would have to find another King. And who better fit than the greatest lord in Sicily?”

  “Are you accusing me of anything, German? He says he heard. How did he hear? He’s lying, he’s making up stories.”

  Federigo said, “I overheard men talking in the pleasure house. I don’t know who it was. Diepold, leave him alone. There is no proof.”

  The Count looked down at him. “Thank you, your Grace, for championing me.”

  Inside his chest, Federigo’s heart felt encased in ice. It was the Count, he was sure of it. There was nothing to do about it, of course. He ate and drank a little more wine, watching the Count smile at Diepold. The mob of men around him were all murmuring behind their hands; and their slippery eyes searched over him and Diepold and the Count, greedy for something they might use in their own advancement. Which to support, which to betray. Federigo pushed aside a plate of cookies; he was angry.

  “I wasn’t lying,” he said, and s
lid off the chair. “I’m going to bed now. In the morning I’ll tell you whatever else you want to know.”

  Diepold said, “I’ll escort you, your Grace.” He glared around the room. “You are all dismissed. What we were talking of is of no importance now, anyway.” He started toward the far door, and Federigo followed him.

  In silence, they walked through empty rooms, darkened for the night, to the stairway. Halfway up the stairs, Diepold said, “Why didn’t you come to me? Why did you run off?”

  “I didn’t know if you could protect me,” Federigo said. The thought of his own bed, of a mattress and covers, made him weary to the bone. They climbed another flight of steps.

  “I knew you weren’t dead,” Diepold said. “I had every man in my army out looking for you.”

  “I saw them.” Federigo looked up the winding stairs. “How did you know I wasn’t dead?”

  “I know you,” Diepold said. “I remember what happened that time I kidnapped you from Markwald of Anweiler, how you screamed and fought. If anyone had tried to kill you, you would have raised an uproar fit to waken the dead.” He looked down at Federigo, grinning. “And I heard nothing but silence, the night you ran away.”

  Federigo laughed. Suddenly there were feet running on the stair, and with a swirl of robes Franciscus sailed down the steps toward them.

  “Federigo! I heard you had come back—”

  Federigo threw his arms around Franciscus and hugged him. The familiar smell of ink and soap filled his nostrils. “Franciscus, Franciscus, I had an adventure. Did you miss me?”

  “I was so frightened for you—” Franciscus hugged him so hard his ribs cracked. “Federigo, you almost broke my heart.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sweet Heaven, you’re filthy. You need a bath, have you eaten? You must be exhausted.” Franciscus set him down, looking him over, and suddenly hugged him again. Federigo began to cry with pleasure.

  Diepold was going back down the stairs. “Make him look like a king again, Franciscus, I need him tomorrow to sign charters.” On the landing, he paused and looked up. “I missed you too, Federigo.” He made a face, as if admitting it hurt him, and went off down the stairs.

  Franciscus hustled Federigo up toward their chambers. “How did you get so dirty? Where did you go?”

  “I went sailing, and I met — oh, so many strange people. And a witch.” Federigo went into his room, peeling off his clothes, which were stiff with dirt and sweat.

  “Did you learn anything?” Franciscus shut the door.

  “Yes.” Federigo looked around. Everything was the same, so familiar and so welcome that he laughed. “I learned how to splice lines on a ship, and how to...” It occurred to him that he’d learned something else. He sat down on his bed. “I learned a lot of things.”

  “Anything important?”

  “Yes. I think so, but I’m not sure what it is. That I can do what I want, but first I have to do a lot of other things.” He frowned. “I’m not sure what I mean.”

  “That you have to earn your freedom?” Franciscus held his shirt out at arms’ length. “Well, go to bed. In the morning, you really have to have a bath. And we have many lessons to catch up with.”

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