by Robert Shea
XVIII
A swollen yellow moon appeared over the treetops, and Simon was gratefulfor its light. Now they would have less trouble following the road.
Friar Mathieu said, "It is not an easy thing for so young a man to matchwits with two powerful churchmen skilled in dialectic. I congratulateyou on doing it at all."
Simon felt a hollow in his stomach. He saw himself going back to France,sneered at not only for his family's disgrace but for his ownincompetence.
"Our mission _must_ succeed," he said, clenching his fist. His voicerose above the creak of the wagon wheels, surprising even himself withhis vehemence.
"God has His own ideas about what ought to succeed or fail," said FriarMathieu. "Do not try to take the whole burden on yourself."
"I must," said Simon, feeling tears burn his eyes.
The voice in the semidarkness beside him was soft, kindly. "Why _must_?"
"Because of who I am," Simon said in a low voice.
"What do you mean, Simon?"
_Can I tell him_, Simon wondered. Ever since, seven years ago, hismother and Roland had told him the secret of his birth, questions of whohe really was, questions of right and wrong, had assailed him, and therehad been no one to ask. He loved his mother and he admired Roland, butthey were too close to it all. But to tell anyone else would bringcalamity down on all three of them.
There had been times during the years Simon had lived with King Louisthat the king had seemed ready to listen. But Simon had also known thatKing Louis believed in doing right no matter whom it hurt.
Friar Mathieu, though, seemed to have more of a sense that life was nota matter of simple rights and wrongs. He could see the Tartars for theferocious creatures they were, and yet feel kindly toward them. Hiswisdom and worldly experience could help Simon sort things out.
Then, too, there was a way to bind Friar Mathieu never to speak of thisto anyone.
But when Simon tried to speak, his chest and throat were constricted byfear, and his voice came out in a croak. He felt as if he were under aspell to prevent him from uttering his family secrets.
"Father, may I confide in you under the seal of confession?"
The old Franciscan tugged on the reins of his donkey, so that they fellfarther behind the rest of the party. Simon slowed his palfrey to fallback beside Mathieu.
"Is it truly a matter for confession, or just a secret?"
Simon's hands were so cold he pressed them against his palfrey's neck towarm them. How could he tell everything to this priest he had known onlya few months? Perhaps he should just apologize and say no more.
But he thought a little longer and said, "It is a question of right andwrong. And if I am doing wrong, I am committing a terribly grave sin."
Friar Mathieu looked around him. "Very well, then, what you tell me isunder the seal of the sacrament of confession, and I may repeat it to noman, under penalty of eternal damnation. Make the sign of the cross andbegin."
Simon touched his fingertips to forehead, chest, and shoulders. For amoment he hesitated, his mouth dry and his heart hammering. He hadpromised his mother and Roland never to tell anyone about this.
_But I must! I cannot have it festering inside me for the rest of mylife._
What, though, if Friar Mathieu disappointed him? What if he had nothinguseful, or even comforting to say on learning Simon's secret? Well,there was a way to test him.
The secret was really twofold. One part of it was terrible enough, butalready known to the king and queen and many knights who had been on thelast crusade. Simon could tell Friar Mathieu the lesser secret safelyenough, then weigh his response and decide whether to tell him what wasknown to only three people in the world.
"I said I must make this mission succeed because of who I am. What haveyou heard about the last Count de Gobignon?"
By now the moon had risen high, and Simon could see the old Franciscan'sface quite clearly. Friar Mathieu frowned and stroked his long whitebeard.
"Very little, I am afraid. He was a very great landowner, one of thefive Peers of the Realm, as you are now, and he was zealous in puttingdown the Cathar heretics in Languedoc." He cast a pained look at Simon."I spent the years when your father was prominent wandering the roads asa beggar, then studying for the priesthood, and I am afraid I paid verylittle attention to what was happening in the world."
Friar Mathieu's reply brought a sad smile to Simon's lips.
"That you, like most people, know so little of Amalric de Gobignon I oweto the generosity of King Louis and those close to him. The man whosename I inherited was a murderer, an archtraitor, a Judas. But when KingLouis came back from that failed crusade in Egypt, he decreed that CountAmalric's deeds not be made known."
"I well remember my horror when I heard that the king was captured andhis army destroyed," said Friar Mathieu. "I fell on my knees in theroad, weeping, and prayed for him and the queen and the other captives.What joy when we learned they were ransomed and would be coming back tous."
"It was Count Amalric's treachery that caused the calamity." It seemedto Simon that Nicolette, his mother, and her husband, Roland, had toldhim the story hundreds of times. They wanted him to know it by heart.
"He believed that the Cathars had murdered his father, Count Stephen deGobignon, my grandfather," Simon went on. "King Louis advocated mercytoward heretics. Count Amalric had a brother, Hugues, a Dominicaninquisitor, who was killed before his very eyes by an assassin's arrowin Beziers while he was presiding over the burning of Cathars."
"Ah, those heresy-hunting Dominicans." Friar Mathieu shook his head.
"When Hugues was killed, Count Amalric blamed the king's leniency towardheretics. After that, it seems, a madness possessed the count. He cameto believe he could overthrow the king and take his throne."
"He must have been mad," said Friar Mathieu. "Never has a King of Francebeen so loved as this Louis."
"Count Amalric went on crusade with King Louis, taking my mother,Countess Nicolette, along with him, even as King Louis took QueenMarguerite. I was a very young child then. They left me in the keepingof my mother's sisters. The crusaders captured Damietta, at the mouth ofthe Nile, left the noncombatants there and marched southward towardCairo."
Simon hesitated, feeling himself choke up again. These were the crimesof the man everyone believed was his father. It was agony to give voiceto them.
But he plunged on. "At a city called Mansura, Count Amalric led part ofhis own army into a trap, and most were killed. He tricked the rest ofthe army, including the king, into surrendering to the Mamelukes. Healone escaped. He went to Damietta, supposedly to take charge of thedefense. He made a secret promise to the Sultan of Cairo to deliverDamietta, together with the ransom money, if the sultan would slay theking and all the other captive crusaders."
Friar Mathieu gasped. "Why in God's name would a French nobleman do suchdreadful things?"
"With the king and his brothers dead, he would be the most powerful manin France," said Simon. "He might have succeeded, but for two things.First, the Mameluke emirs, led by the same Baibars who now rules Egypt,rose in revolt and killed the sultan with whom Count Amalric wasbargaining. Baibars and the Mamelukes preferred to deal honorably withtheir prisoners."
"Ah, yes, Baibars," Friar Mathieu nodded. "The Tartars hate him and allof Outremer fears him."
"And then a knight-troubadour captured along with the king, one who hadan old grudge against the Count de Gobignon, offered to go to Damiettaand meet the count in single combat. After a fierce combat he slew CountAmalric. The king and the surviving crusaders were saved and theyransomed themselves. The troubadour's name was Roland de Vency."
"I never heard of him," said Friar Mathieu.
"No, just as you never heard of Count Amalric's treason. The king wantedthe whole episode buried in an unmarked grave along with the count."
There was silence between them for a moment. Simon listened to the cartwheels creak and looked up at the moon painting the Umbrian hillsidessilver. So
on they would round a bend and see the lights of Orvieto.
Simon, torn by anguish, wondered what Friar Mathieu thought of him. Didhe despise him, as so many great nobles did? He remembered that FriarMathieu had once been a knight himself. How could he not hate a man withAmalric de Gobignon's blood in him? His muscles knotted as he waited tohear what Friar Mathieu would say.
He looked at the old Franciscan and saw sadness in his watery eyes.
"But what happened does not lie buried, much as the king and you wouldwish it to."
Simon felt tears sting his eyes and a lump grow in his throat. Heremembered the sneers, the slights, the whispers he had endured. Suchheartbreaking moments were among his earliest memories.
He shook his head miserably. "No. What happened has never beenforgotten."
"You are ashamed of the name you bear." The kindness in Friar Mathieu'svoice evoked a warm feeling in Simon's breast.
_I was not mistaken in him._
"You are--how old--twenty?"
Simon nodded.
"At your age most men, especially those like you with vast estates andgreat responsibilities, are married or at least plighted."
Pain poured out with Simon's words. "I have been rebuffed twice. Thename of de Gobignon is irrevocably tainted."
Friar Mathieu rubbed the back of his donkey's neck thoughtfully."Evidently the king does not think so, or he would not have honored youwith so important a task."
"He did everything possible to help me. When my mother and mygrandmother fought over who should have the rearing of me, the kingsettled it by making himself my guardian and taking me to live in thepalace. Then his brother, Count Charles d'Anjou, took me for a time ashis equerry."
"Why did your mother and grandmother fight over you?"
The hollow of dread in Simon's middle grew huge. Now they were coming tothe deepest secret of all.
"My mother married the troubadour, Roland de Vency. My grandmother,Count Amalric's mother, could never accept as a father to me the man whoslew her son."
He felt dizzy with pain, remembering his grandmother's screams of rage,his mother's weeping, Roland facing the sword points of a dozenmen-at-arms, long, mysterious journeys, hours of doing nothing in emptyrooms while, somewhere nearby, people argued over his fate. God, it hadbeen horrible!
Friar Mathieu reached out from the back of his donkey and laid acomforting hand on Simon's arm. "Ah, I understand you better now.Carrying this family shame, fought over in childhood, no real parents tolive with. And the burden of all that wealth and power."
Simon laughed bitterly. "Burden! Few men would think wealth and power aburden."
Friar Mathieu chuckled. "No, of course not. But you know better, do younot? You have already realized that you must work constantly to userightly what you have, or it will destroy you as it destroyed yourfather."
_Yes, but ..._
Simon thought of the endless fields and forests of the Gobignon domainin the north, what pleasure it was to ride through them on the hunt. Howthe unquestioning respect of vassals and serfs eased his doubts ofhimself. He thought of the complaisant village and peasant girls whohappily helped him forget that no woman of noble blood would marry him.He reminded himself that only three or four men in all the world were ina position to tell him what to do. No, if only the name he bore werefree of the accursed stain of treachery, he would be perfectly happy tobe the Count de Gobignon.
Friar Mathieu broke in on his thoughts. "You feel you must do somethinggrand and noble to make up for your father's wickedness. Listen: A mancan live only his own life. The name de Gobignon, what is it? A puff ofair. A scribble on a sheet of parchment. You are not your name. You arenot Simon de Gobignon."
Simon's blood turned to ice. _Does he know?_
But then he realized Friar Mathieu was speaking only figuratively.
"But men of great families scorn me because I bear the name deGobignon," he said. "I will have to live out my life in disgrace."
"God respects you," said Friar Mathieu quietly and intensely. "Weighedagainst that, the opinion of men is nothing."
_That is true_, Simon thought, and great chains that had weighed himdown as long as he could remember suddenly fell away. He felt himselfgasping for breath.
Friar Mathieu continued. "The beauty of my vows is that with their helpI have come to know who I truly am. I have given up my name, mypossessions, the love of women, my worldly position. You need not giveup all those things. But if you can part with them in your mind, you cancome to know yourself as God knows you. You can see that you are notwhat people think of you."
Tears of joy burned Simon's eyelids. _Thank you, God, for allowing me tomeet this man._
"Yes," Simon whispered. "Yes, I understand."
"But," said Friar Mathieu, a note of light reproof in his voice, "I knowyou have not told me everything."
Caught by surprise, Simon was thankful that the lantern up ahead startedswinging from right to left, a ball of light against the stars.
De Pirenne's voice came back faintly to Simon. "Orvieto!"
From the cart in front of Simon, the one carrying the Tartars, came thesound of loud snoring. An Armenian chuckled and said something in ahumorous tone, and the others laughed. Simon pretended to be intenselyinterested in what the Armenians were saying and in the view up ahead.
"Simon," said Friar Mathieu.
_If he has relieved me of one burden, can he not take away the other,the greater?_
"Patience, Father. We are coming to the spot where the road bends aroundthe mountain, and we will be able to see Orvieto. Everyone will begathering to rest a bit. Let us wait until we are spread out on the roadagain."
Friar Mathieu shrugged. "As you wish."
Across the valley the silhouette of Orvieto loomed like an enchantedcastle against the moonlit sky. The yellow squares of candlelit windowsglowed among the dark turrets and terraces. The tall, narrow windows ofthe cathedral church of San Giovenale were multicolored ribbons oflight. Simon found himself wondering where Sophia, the cardinal's niece,was right now, and what she was doing.
When they were stopped by the shrine of San Sebastian, Simon took thelantern and peered down at the Tartars. The stench of wine and vomithung heavily over their bed of straw, and both of them were snoringloudly. Aside from being in a stupor, they seemed well enough. Thestringy black beard of the younger one, Philip, was clotted with bits ofhalf-digested food. Friar Mathieu produced a comb from his robe andcleaned the beard. Simon rode to the head of the party.
"What are you and the old monk gabbling about back there?" asked Alain.
"He is hearing my confession," said Simon lightly.
Alain laughed. "If you have done anything you need to confess, you'vebeen clever about hiding it from me."
When they were back on the road, Simon and Friar Mathieu took up theirposition at the end of the line.
"How did you know there was more, Father?"
"You asked me to keep what you have told me secret under the seal of theconfessional," said Friar Mathieu. "But you have told me nothing that isa sin on your part."
Guilt pierced Simon's heart like a sword, twisting in the wound as hethought how he was betraying his true father and his mother.
_I have sworn to Nicolette and Roland never to tell this to anyone._
He took a deep breath.
_But I may never again have a chance to talk about it with a wise personI can trust._
Another deep breath.
And then: "The truth of it is, Amalric de Gobignon was not my father."
Friar Mathieu was silent for a moment. "The man who slew Count Amalric.The man your mother married soon after the count was dead." His voicewas soft and full of kindness.
"Yes," said Simon, almost choking. "And now you know my sin. The worldthinks I am the son of a traitor and murderer, which is bad enough. ButI am not even that man's son. I am an impostor, a bastard, and I have noright to the title of Count de Gobignon."
Simon flicked the reins, and hi
s palfrey started picking her way downthe road into the Vallia de Campesito. Mathieu clucked to his donkey andkept pace with him.
"Do you believe that you are committing a grave sin by being the Countde Gobignon?"
"My mother and Roland say no, but I do not think they are very goodChristians. They are full of pagan ideas. I am Count Amalric's only maleheir. And the blood of the house of Gobignon does flow in my veins. I amnot the son of Count Amalric de Gobignon, but I am the grandson of hisfather, Count Stephen de Gobignon."
Friar Mathieu clapped his hand to his forehead. "I am lost in the tangleof bloodlines. What in heaven's name do you mean?"
Simon's entire body burned with shame as he thought how accursed hisfamily would seem to anyone hearing this for the first time. The bastardson of a bastard son. The usurper of his half uncle's title. Tangled,indeed. Twisted was a better word for it.
In his agony he whispered the words. "Roland de Vency, my true father,is the bastard son of Count Stephen de Gobignon, sired by rape inLanguedoc. Roland and Count Amalric were half brothers."
"God's mercy!" exclaimed Friar Mathieu. "But then you do have some claimby blood to the title. To whom else could it go?"
"I suppose the fiefdom could go to my oldest sister, Isabelle, and herhusband. He is a landless knight, a vassal of the Count of Artois. Mythree sisters married far beneath their stations--because of what CountAmalric did."
Friar Mathieu sighed. "Would any great evil come of it, do you think, ifyou were to give up your estate?"
"My mother and father--my true father, Roland de Vency--would be exposedas adulterers. We would all be charged as criminals, for defrauding thekingdom and the rightful heirs, whoever they might be." He saw hismother kneeling with her head on a chopping block, and a chill of horrorwent through him.
"Simon, this is no easy question you have set before me this night. Thelives of thousands of people, even the future of the kingdom, could bedetermined by who holds the Gobignon domains. I think it is not soimportant that the Count de Gobignon be the _rightful_ person as that hebe the _right_ person. Do you take my meaning?"
"I think so," said Simon. What Friar Mathieu was saying gave him a faintfeeling of hope.
"I know you well enough to know that the people of Gobignon are blessedto have you as their seigneur. When a bad man inherits a title, we sayit must be God's will, and those who owe him obedience are bound toaccept him. Might we not say that when a man like you is invested with atitle, regardless of how he came by it, that is God's will, too? In anycase, Simon, we cannot settle this question tonight. There is too muchat stake, and we must proceed thoughtfully."
"But what if--if something happens to me while I am in sin?" Simonpictured himself lying in a street in Orvieto, blood streaming from hischest as Sophia watched, weeping, from a distant window. And then he sawgrinning Saracen-faced demons in hell jabbing him with spears andscimitars.
"I can give you absolution conditional on your desire to do whatever isright," said Friar Mathieu. "Promise God that you will make all haste todetermine His will in this matter and that when you know what He wants,you will faithfully do it, whether it be to give up the title or to keepthe title and the secret. I need hardly remind you that God sees intoyour heart and knows whether you truly mean to set things right. Say anAct of Contrition."
The weight of shame seemed as crushing as ever, and Simon did not thinkFriar Mathieu's speaking Latin words while he himself spoke the formulaof repentance would take the burden away. But he began the Act ofContrition.
His voice as he uttered the prayer was barely audible over the clickingof the horses' hooves on the stony road, the rumbling of the two cartsand the rustling of the pines on the hillside. He repeated what FriarMathieu had said to him about being ready to follow God's will. Then theold Franciscan made the Sign of the Cross in the air.
The road narrowed now so that there was not enough room for horses sideby side. Simon fell behind Friar Mathieu.
_Roland and Nicolette need never know I told anyone._
The only way they would find out would be if he felt called upon toreveal the secret to the world.
He felt as if his whole body were plunged into icy water. He realizedthat by his promise to Friar Mathieu--to God--he was embarked on acourse that could end in ruin or worse for his mother and father as wellas himself. Their pretense that Simon was Amalric's child was a crime.He saw them all brought as prisoners before King Louis.
How could he bear to face the king, whom he admired more than any otherman in France, even more than his own true father?
What punishment would the king mete out to them? Would they spend therest of their lives locked away in lightless dungeons? Would they haveto die for their crime?
Surely God would not ask that of him.
And then, Simon might decide, with God's help, that he had the bestright of anyone to the count's coronet. If he kept it, and kept thesecret of his parentage, it would be through his own choice. No mortalwould thrust that choice upon him.
He began to feel better. He started humming a tune, an old crusader songRoland had taught him, called "The Old Man of the Mountain."
Until now other hands had shaped his life. From this moment on he wouldhold his destiny in his own hands.
* * * * *
"May I disturb you for a moment, Your Signory, before you retire?" TheContessa di Monaldeschi's chief steward was a severe-looking man withlong white hair streaked with black.
Simon had just set foot to the steps leading to the third story of theMonaldeschi palace, where his bedchamber waited. He most definitely didnot want to be disturbed this evening. But the steward had shown gravityand discretion arranging for the drunken Tartars to be bundled off tobed, and Simon felt that whatever he might say would be worth listeningto.
"Late this afternoon a vagabondo came to our door. He claims to be aformer retainer of yours. He begs an audience with you--most humbly, hesays to tell you. He waits in the kitchen. We can keep him tilltomorrow. Or we can put him out in the street. Or you can see him.Whatever Your Signory desires."
A former retainer? A sour suspicion began to grow in Simon's mind.
"Did he at least tell you his name?"
"Yes, Your Signory. Sordello."
Simon felt hot blood pounding at his temples in immediate anger.
_Has that dog had the temerity to follow me all the way to Orvieto?_
"Send him away," he said brusquely. "And do not be gentle about it."
The steward's stern face remained expressionless. "Very good, YourSignory." He bowed himself away. A good servant, thought Simon. Heshowed neither approval nor disapproval. Simon started up the stairs.
_What the devil could Sordello have to talk to me about?_
_Do not call upon the devil. He may hear you and come._
Halfway up the stairs Simon felt the itch of curiosity growing strongerand stronger. Perhaps Sordello had been to see Count Charles and hadsome word from him. The feeling was like a scab Simon knew he should notpick but could not let alone.
He turned. The steward was almost invisible in the shadows at the end ofthe long hallway.
"Wait. I will go to him."
* * * * *
In the kitchen on the bottom floor of the Palazzo Monaldeschi, under achimney in the center of the room, a cauldron big enough to hold a mansimmered over a low fire. From it came a strong smell of lamb, chicken,onion, celery, peppers, garlic, cloves, and other ingredients Simoncould not identify. Beyond the cauldron a trapdoor covered the stairs toa locked cellar pantry where, Simon knew, the Monaldeschi hoardedpossessions as costly as jewels--their collection of spices importedfrom the East.
Simon had just a glimpse of the ruddy face with its broken nose beforethe crossbowman-troubadour fell to his knees and thumped his forehead onthe brick floor.
_Perhaps I could pop Sordello into that cooking pot and be done with himfor good and all._
"Thank you, Your
Signory, for being willing to see me," came the muffledvoice from the floor. "You are far kinder than I deserve."
"Yes, I am," said Simon brusquely. "Get up. Why have you come to me?"
Sordello rocked back on his heels and sprang to his feet in a single,surprising motion. Simon told himself to be wary. It was all very wellto be gruff with Sordello, but he must keep in mind that the man was afighter, a murderer. And one with a vile and overquick temper, as he hadproved in Venice.
"I have no one else to go to." Sordello spread his empty hands. He hadgrown a short, ragged black beard, Simon noticed. He wore no hat orcloak, and his tunic and hose were stained and tattered. His tunic hungloose, unbelted. No weapons. That made Simon feel a bit easier. The toeof one boot was worn through, and the other was bound with a bit of ragto hold the sole to the upper.
"I thought you would see the Count d'Anjou." And Simon had half expectedUncle Charles would send Sordello back with a message insisting Simontake the fellow back into his service.
Sordello laughed and nodded. "Easy to say 'see the Count d'Anjou,' YourSignory. Not so easy to do when you are a masterless man with an emptypurse. The count likes to move about, and quickly at that. But I caughtup with him at Lyons. He already knew the whole story."
"I wrote to him," said Simon.
"Well, your letter must have been most eloquent, Your Signory, becausethe count refused to take me back into his service. He called me a fooland a few other things and told me I deserved exactly what I got. Toldme if I wasn't out of the city in an hour he would have me flogged."
"I assumed that the count reposed great confidence in you, and I felt Imust convince him that I had done the right thing in dismissing you."He sounded in his own ears as if he were apologizing. He remindedhimself firmly that the scoundrel had no right to an apology.
"You convinced him, all right." Sordello's manner was becoming lesshumble by the moment.
_He is either going to attack me or--worse--ask for his position back. Imust not be soft with him._
"Once a man as well known as the Count d'Anjou has expelled you from hisservice, you can't find a position anywhere in France or Italy," saidSordello. "Not if your only skills are fighting and singing. I sold myhorse in Milan. I walked from there on. I ran out of money in Pisa. Istarved and slept in ditches to get here."
"And stole here and there, too, I'll wager," said Simon, determined tobe hard with Sordello. "Well, here you are, and why have you come?" Heknew the answer perfectly well, and was determined, no matter how thetroubadour tried to play on his sympathies, to send him on his way. Evenif he had wanted to take Sordello back into his service--and he mostdefinitely did not--the Armenians and the Tartars would never permit hispresence among them. At any rate, regardless of what Sordello claimed,he would not starve. He could sing for his supper in inns. And Italy'sstreet-warring families and factions could always use a dagger as quickas Sordello's.
"I could throw my lot in with the Ghibellini, Your Signory, but theirprospects are poor," said Sordello, as if aware of Simon's thoughts."The day is coming when all of Italy will be in the power of the Countd'Anjou. I want to get back into his good graces, and the only way I cando that is through you, Your Signory. If you take me back, he will takeme back."
_David of Trebizond's servant, Giancarlo! Just today, was I not wishingI could put someone in the enemy camp?_
Simon stood staring into Sordello's eyes, deliberately making him waitfor an answer. The troubadour's eyelids wrinkled down to slits, but heheld Simon's gaze.
"I was going to tell you I had nothing for you." Simon saw Sordello'sface brighten at the hint that Simon would offer him something. "Butthere is a way you can serve me."
Sordello began to smile.
"It does involve throwing your lot in with the Ghibellini," Simon said,"but you will be serving me and, through me, Count Charles. Does thatinterest you?"
Sordello dropped to his knees, seized Simon's hand, and kissed it withrough lips. "To spy upon them? Your Signory, I was made for such work.Thank you, thank you for letting me serve you. Command me, Your Signory,I beg."
