by Robert Shea
XLVI
Friar Mathieu sat in a cushion-lined armchair in the cloistered gardenof the Hospital of Santa Clara, the white wisps of his beard rufflinglike feathers in the morning breeze. The dappled shade of a pear treeprotected him from the June sun.
A young Franciscan, his tonsured head a gleaming pink spot surrounded bya wreath of close-cropped black hair, stood at a tall desk beside FriarMathieu, writing on a piece of parchment.
"All things lead to good if one looks at them aright," Friar Mathieusaid with a chuckle. "That murderer in black gave me the time I neededto do something needful--get the story of my journey among the Tartarswritten before it is lost in my failing memory. A good thing I did notland on my head."
Despite the pain he felt at Friar Mathieu's injuries, Simon had to smileat the old Franciscan's little joke. And indeed, he might look small andfragile huddled in his chair, but he was showing energy and zest forlife. He was pulling through.
"And behold," Friar Mathieu went on, lifting his bandaged right arm, "Imyself am exempted from writing. Friar Giuseppe must do the work while Isit here and explore my memory. And when I grow tired of even thatlittle bit of work, Friar Giuseppe reads to me from the newly arrivedmanuscript on mathematics, called _De Computo Naturali_, by our giftedbrother Friar Bacon of Oxford. I could almost be grateful to thatAssassin."
Simon stood awkwardly, looking unhappily down at him, till Friar Mathieumotioned him to sit on the ground beside him. To make room for himself,Simon moved a pair of crutches out of the way. It was worrisome that sosoon--only a few weeks after the fall that had almost killed him--FriarMathieu had started hobbling about on crutches and had begun dictating,sitting painfully upright, to Friar Giuseppe. Even though one leg wascertainly broken and there were probably a dozen other cracks in hisarms and ribs, Friar Mathieu insisted that he was more likely to die ifhe remained in bed than if he was up and moving about.
"You are looking well today, Father." He had to admit it, even thoughthe old priest was not taking proper care of himself.
"I am lucky this happened to me in the spring," said Friar Mathieu. "Thesun and air help me mend. But I fear you will not see my completerecovery, since you will have to leave Orvieto shortly."
"Leave? Why, Father? Has something gone wrong?" His first thought, asalways, was for the safety of the Tartars. Ever since that terriblenight in April, he dreaded leaving them out of his sight.
Instead of answering, Friar Mathieu asked Friar Giuseppe for privacy.The young priest bowed deeply and touched the old man's hand reverentlybefore gathering up his writing materials and turning to go.
"You have not heard, then? A courier brought the news to the pope'spalace last night. All through the north, the Ghibellini are on themove. Siena, it seems, has been quietly raising an army to send againstOrvieto. And the Ghibellino party has taken power in Pisa and Lucca. Itappears the Ghibellini have decided to seize all of Italy before theFrench come in and take it."
_But we are French_, thought Simon, _and we have no ambitions in Italy_.
_Uncle Charles does._
In this quiet garden it was hard to believe that an army could bepreparing to march against Orvieto. Or even that the attack on thePalazzo Monaldeschi had happened in the same city. Simon watched a friarin his brown robe serenely weeding. The rows of plants were already talland thick--peas, haricots, lettuce, cabbage, carrots. At Gobignon thistime of year the seedlings would not be half as high.
"Will the Sienese besiege Orvieto?" he asked.
_Another battle? And another attempt on the Tartars?_
"Pope Urban will not wait to see what they do," said Friar Mathieu. "Hefeels threatened from both north and south, and intends to move awayfrom here as soon as possible. There is a rumor that Manfred of Sicilyhimself may invade the Papal States this summer."
Simon sprang to his feet and threw his arms wide in astonishment. "Andwhat about the Tartars?"
"They will certainly go where His Holiness goes."
"God's blood!" Simon struck his forehead with his hand. "Forgive me,Father. But if the pope has not enough troops to keep him safe inOrvieto, surely he is in even more danger on the road. And if theTartars are with him, we could lose everything."
Friar Mathieu shook his head, absently rubbing his bound right arm withhis left hand. "We can gain everything. His Holiness needs helpdesperately. Now he can be persuaded to give King Louis permission tojoin with the Tartars." The old Franciscan's eyes fixed on Simon's. "Youmust go to the pope."
Simon felt the palms of his hands grow cold. "The pope will not listento me, Father."
Friar Mathieu chuckled. "Is he more likely to listen to that fool--Godforgive me--de Verceuil?"
"Yes," said Simon after a moment's thought. "De Verceuil is a cardinal.And is it not his task to treat with the pope? Mine is to guard theambassadors."
"Are you not close to King Louis, Simon? Almost a foster son?"
Simon hesitated. "That is putting it a bit strongly. But he knows mewell."
Friar Mathieu gestured with his left hand. "Then you are the person tocarry His Holiness's appeal for help to King Louis."
The suggestion dismayed Simon. It meant he would have to leave theTartars for months. And just when they would be much more vulnerable toattack, following the pope from one city to another.
"No, Father," he said. "I cannot leave the Tartars."
Friar Mathieu shook his head patiently. "Do you not see, Simon? If thepope does decide to approve an alliance with the Tartars, John andPhilip's work is done."
Standing on the gravel walk of the Franciscan cloister garden, Simonfelt as if the earth were shaking under him. He could not picturehimself speaking to the pope as one statesman to another. Persuade thepope suddenly to take a stand, when he had vacillated for nearly a year?And yet, he told himself, he was the Count de Gobignon, and the lands heheld were larger than some kingdoms.
But that only reminded him that he held the title through a lie.
* * * * *
The courtyard before the papal palace was crowded with covered wagonsand open carts, horses and donkeys, men carrying crates and bales. Hereand there, mailed papal archers in gold and white surcoats strode,crossbows on their shoulders, alert for pilfering. Simon asked a seriesof servants for the pope's majordomo and was directed to that official,clad in a glittering embroidered tunic, who stood at the center of thepapal library overseeing the packing of books and scrolls. Simonsummoned up all his confidence and presented himself to the man.
"The Count de Gobignon of France?" the horse-faced majordomo repeated."I will try to find His Holiness for you, Your Signory."
They found Pope Urban in a tiny chamber on the second floor of thepalace, writing furiously at a desk that faced a window opposite thedoor. He was wearing a white cassock with a white linen hood drawn upover his head. On his desk Simon saw a jar of ink, a sheaf of quills,and a stack of parchment sheets. A wrought-iron stand held a blackearthenware pitcher over a candle flame.
"Holy Father--" the majordomo began, addressing the pope's back. Simonwatched with fascination the rapid movements of Pope Urban's right armas his quill raced over the parchment, leaping after each line to theink jar and back again.
"Maledizione!" the pope exclaimed. "Not now, Ludovico. God's pity, letme get at least one letter done without you interrupting me. TheArchangel Michael run you through if you speak another word to me."
Simon was momentarily shocked, but then recalled that the pope was ashoemaker's son. Once a bourgeois, always a bourgeois, he thought, evenif one becomes God's vicar on earth. But, by God's robe, the man couldwrite fast. In a moment he had filled a sheet of parchment with theshort, unadorned black strokes of a chancery hand. Simon estimated itwould take him the better part of a morning to write that much. Ofcourse Pope Urban, being a churchman all his life, had a good deal morepractice at writing.
Urban folded the parchment and poured melted red wax from the blackpitcher to seal it. He took the lar
ge gold ring from his finger andstamped it into the wax. Without looking around, he handed the letter tohis majordomo.
"To Duke Alberto Baglione at Perugia by our best horses," said PopeUrban. "Have Pietro Pettorini carry it; he is our fastest man."
"Holiness," said the majordomo diffidently, taking the letter, "theCount de Gobignon wishes to see you."
"Ah!" Urban half turned in his chair to look at Simon. Simon saw thatthe pope's wrinkled face was a deep pink, and his eyes glittered. Loosestrands of gray hair escaping from under his hood quivered as his headshook with a slight, constant tremor. Simon had heard that men sometimesrallied in the final stages of an illness, before the slide intodarkness. That, perhaps, accounted for the pope's color and energy.Simon's heart ached for the old man. This was the spiritual father ofthe world, and his troubles, troubles Simon had in part brought to him,were aiding whatever disease was destroying him.
"Simon de Gobignon!" Urban cried, raising bony hands in benediction. "Ifyou had not come to me, I should have sent for you." His pale blue eyesshifted from side to side, and Simon felt even more pain for him.
_This man should not think of traveling. It will kill him._
Urban half stood, and his majordomo rushed past Simon to turn his chairso that the pope could face his visitor. He was sitting in a simplestraight-back chair without arms.
Simon stepped into the room and dropped to one knee. The pope extendedhis trembling right hand, and Simon kissed his gold Fisherman's Ring. Onits circular face was an engraving of a bearded man whom Simon guessedmust be Saint Peter, casting a net from the stern of a boat.
Seen close at hand and without the tall tiara and the crozier and theheavy robes of office, Urban was very short. Simon wondered whether hehad always been a little man or whether age and the strains of hisoffice had shrunk him.
"Stand up, Monseigneur le Comte, s'il vous plait," said the pope,changing to French. "I am sorry there is no chair, but this is where Ido all my real work, and it is best not to encourage visitors to sit.Ludovico, leave us and shut the door behind you. And do not hang aboutin the corridor eavesdropping."
Simon rose, and found himself looking down at the skullcap on top of thepope's head. Feeling awkward, he took a few steps backward until hisback was against the door of the tiny chamber.
Urban said, "I have long wanted to hear from your own lips what happenedat the Palazzo Monaldeschi."
Simon gave the pope a detailed account of the battle. He ended with hisfight with the man in black. Urban's eyes widened, and the trembling ofhis head grew more pronounced. When Simon told how the enemy hadescaped, throwing Friar Mathieu from the cellar stairs, the pope wincedin pain.
"So," Urban mused, "this murderer--doubtless sent by Manfred vonHohenstaufen--still lurks somewhere in Orvieto."
"We have tried to track him down," said Simon. "But the Filippeschi denyany knowledge of him, and the podesta, it seems, has not the power tomake them answer our questions." He allowed the contempt he felt ford'Ucello to creep into his voice.
"Open the door and see if that sneaking Ludovico is listening outside,"Pope Urban said. His lips twitched under his flowing gray beard in whatwas probably a smile.
Simon went to the door, and saw no one in the corridor but a helmetedman-at-arms standing about ten paces away. Servants with a huge bedframe struggled past. He closed the door and turned again to the pope.
"Yes," said Urban. "What was I saying? Ah, yes--Simon, I expect to be inmy grave before the year is out."
"God forbid, Your Holiness!"
"God do me that kindness, you mean." Urban raised a deprecating hand. "Iam worn out. I am ready to go home. But I have a last task to do beforeI die. I must insure the destruction of the odious Manfred. I must notlet him kill me before my work is done, and I must not fall into thehands of the Ghibellini. So, though it will shorten my life even more, Imust leave Orvieto. Now that the Ghibellini have stirred up theFilippeschi to make civil war, I am no longer safe on this mountaintop.Perugia is more secure. It has a big army, and it is surrounded by astrong ring of other Guelfo cities and castles. After I am gone, thecardinals will be safe there while they elect a new pope."
Simon realized that he was indeed looking at a dying man. From here toPerugia was a journey of at least two weeks, through difficult,mountainous country. Urban might get there safely, but he would not livethere long. The election of a new pope would take months; it had beenknown to take years. And Urban's successor might be even more reluctantto join forces with the Tartars than Urban had been. What if it wereCardinal Ugolini--he was as eligible as anyone--or someone under hisinfluence? The little they had accomplished so far might be whollyundone.
Time. Time was the most terrible enemy of all. The more time passed, theless likely that the alliance would be formed, the joint attack on theSaracens launched. Simon saw time as a black river in flood, sweepingaway everything he had worked and fought for.
_I must prevail upon him to give his permission--now. But how can I swaya man three times my age--the pope himself?_
The only way to keep from giving in to despair was to plunge in, as ifthis were a tournament, or a fight to the death. Simon plunged in.
"Your Holiness, before you leave Orvieto, I beg you to recognize that wemust join with the Tartars to crush the infidel."
Urban sighed. "You think just as your King Louis does." He held up anadmonitory finger. "Europe first, Simon. The Church must be strong inEurope before our princes go adventuring in Outremer."
"But it was the popes who preached the Crusades in the first place,"Simon answered, baffled.
Urban's eyes grew wide and he leaned forward. "And I will preach yetanother crusade, Simon. Against Manfred the Antichrist. That is why Iwould have sent for you if you had not come here. You must make thejourney to King Louis and tell him that this crusade that I will preachis the most important war of his lifetime. He must come to my aid. Iwill make his brother Charles king of southern Italy and Sicily. I willwrite the letter to King Louis, and you will carry it to him."
_Now I must make my effort._
"He will heed your appeal if you give him what he wants, Your Holiness.Write that letter. But in it give your permission for King Louis to allyhimself with the Tartars and begin preparations for a new crusade."
Urban looked slyly up at Simon. "Surely you suspect that it was I whopersuaded Fra Tomasso d'Aquino to change his colors where the Tartarsare concerned. I saw to it that the possibility of an alliance was keptalive, so that I might have something Louis and I could haggle over.Louis is the most stubborn man in the world. If I simply give himwhatever he wants, there is no guarantee that he will give me what Iwant."
Simon took a deep breath. What he was about to say might offend the popedeeply.
"Your Holiness, you have said it yourself. There is no more time forhaggling. You must make your best offer and hope it is enough."
The pope shut his eyes and slumped in his chair. Simon's heart wentcold, thinking for a moment that the old man had suffered a seizure.
But then Urban said very softly, "Help me to turn my chair around."
Now Simon's heart beat faster as he moved the pope's chair so that itfaced his desk. Urban took a gleaming blank sheet of parchment from thepile on his desk, dipped a quill, shook it, and began to write.
Simon stood by the wall, his heart pounding with exhilaration. Could itactually be that his words had moved the pope himself? It seemedimpossible, as if he had stood in the path of a mighty river anddiverted its course.
"The Tartars," the old man said with a sigh sometime later, when he hadcovered two sheets of parchment. "I hope I am not making a terriblemistake. I still think Fra Tomasso was right in what he first said aboutthem." He dropped wax at the bottom of the letter, stamped it with hisring, and blew on the wax to cool it. Then he folded the parchment andsealed it again.
"Ride to King Louis as quickly as possible." Urban turned, again halfrising from his chair, and handed Simon the letter.
"Shall I carry the king's answer to Perugia, Holy Father?"
Urban shrugged. "Oh, yes, I shall surely be in Perugia by the time youcome back. But God will take me before the first of Charles d'Anjou'sknights sets foot in Italy." He raised a pale hand to silence Simon'spolite protest, and there was actually a twinkle in his eye. "Whatevermy successor thinks, he will have a hard time undoing the decisions Ihave made today. By the time the next pope is elected, he will have aFrench army to help him destroy the Hohenstaufen. Whether he wants to ornot."
"What of the Tartar ambassadors, Your Holiness?" Simon asked, thinkingthat it would be best to hasten those negotiations, too, lest the nextpope disapprove of them. "Should I take them with me to the king?"
"No," said Urban firmly. "Then you would have to take a troop with youto guard them. You may have to travel far to find King Louis. He issetting out on a royal progress through his kingdom. I had a report ofhim just two days ago. That is one great benefit of this office--" Hisgray beard twitched again, and Simon knew that he was smiling. "Newscomes to us from everywhere." Then his eyelids lowered. "That is alsowhat makes being the Holy Father so wearisome."
Yes, of course, King Louis made a journey of inspection through someportion of his realm nearly every summer. It might be months, Simonthought with a sinking heart, before he could find the king, deliver thepope's letter, and get back to the papal court. So much could happen.
_But the most important thing of all has already happened. We have won.We have the alliance!_
Triumph rang like cathedral bells in his ears. He was bringing victoryto the king and to Count Charles. And his success would restore honor tothe house of Gobignon.
Simon knelt once again, kissing the Fisherman's Ring and thinking thatthe hand that wore it would soon be cold.
But as he hurried down a corridor in the Palazzo Papale, alreadyplanning his route to France, the bells of triumph stopped ringing andin the silence a face appeared before his mind's eye. Amber eyes, oliveskin, and wine-colored lips.
_Sophia! By all the angels and saints, I may never see her again!_
For a moment he felt torn. Duty and honor demanded that he leave Orvietoat once. But what of love? Sophia's image smiled, and he decided. Hewould need at least a day to prepare for his journey anyway. Before heleft Orvieto he must see Sophia and make sure that the meeting would notbe their last.
