The Saracen: Land of the Infidel Part 111

Sordello jerked away from Simon and brushed his tunic. "I am a man, Your Signory. Do not treat me like a slave." The coa.r.s.e face was pale with outraged pride.

_He forgets his place so easily. But there is no one else to guard Sophia for me._

"I want you to be thinking about her safety, and that alone," he said in a calmer voice.

Sordello bowed. "I understand, Your Signory." But resentment still burned in his narrowed eyes.

In the midst of his fear, like a single candle glowing in a pitch-black cathedral, Simon felt a tingle of antic.i.p.ation. There was something in him, deeply buried but powerful, that keenly looked forward to taking command in battle.

"If you learn any more, try to get word to me," he told Sordello.

He turned and hurried through the nave of the cathedral to the front doors, still holding in check the urge to run.

"For them to attack is pazzia," said the contessa. "We have twice the men-at-arms they do. Yet I pray G.o.d this rumor is true. By tomorrow morning Marco di Filippeschi will be hanging from our battlements." The cords in her neck stood out, her nose was thrust forward like a falcon's beak, and her eyes glittered.

Simon said, "With respect, Contessa, they must have more men than you do. I was told they might have five hundred. And siege machines."

They were seated in the small council room of the Monaldeschi palace--Simon, the contessa, de Verceuil, Sire Henri de Puys, and Friar Mathieu--around a circular table of warm brown wood.

"But surely we have better men," said Henri de Puys in French. "What sort of fighters could these Philippe-whatever-they-are muster?

Routiers, highwaymen?"

Friar Mathieu turned to de Verceuil. "Might I suggest that Your Eminence use your influence with Pope Urban. Perhaps his holiness can stop this battle."

"Yes," said de Verceuil. "I will try to speak to him. But he is sick, and pays little attention to anything."

_Probably de Verceuil is annoyed because he did not think first of going to the pope._

"I should think it would endanger his health even more if a war broke out in Orvieto," said Friar Mathieu.

"I will _see_ him," said de Verceuil. "But I will also arm myself and my men to help defend this place."

Simon expected de Verceuil to next propose himself as commander of the defense, but, to his delight, the cardinal had nothing more to say. Then the suspicion crossed his mind that de Verceuil did not want to have to take the blame in case of defeat.

"Grazie, Your Eminence," said the contessa.

Simon said, "I must go to Signore d'Ucello. Surely the podesta will not let civil war break out in the city he governs."

The contessa laughed, a knowing cackle. "Go to him if you like, but you waste your time. He cannot--will not--stop the Filippeschi. He has Filippeschi relatives, you know. But he could not stop me, either, if I chose to attack them."

Friar Mathieu said, "Perhaps we should take the amba.s.sadors to the papal palace. That would get them out of harm's way until this is over."

Simon's body went rigid. The Tartars were his responsibility. He would never give them up to the pope's men-at-arms.

"No!" he said. "The duty of guarding them is mine, and I will surrender it to no one."

De Puys struck the table with his open palm. "Bravely spoken, Monseigneur."

Friar Mathieu sighed.

De Verceuil pointed a finger at Simon. "Count, you have no right to risk the amba.s.sadors' lives just for your own glory."

Simon looked around the table. He was the youngest person here, and they were treating him like a child. He remembered the Doge Zeno's threat to have him thrown into the water of Venice's San Marco Ca.n.a.l. He remembered the many times de Verceuil had been overbearing with him. To think _that_ man would accuse anyone else of being too concerned with his own glory.

He was about to shout defiance when he thought of royal councils he had attended as a page to King Louis. Those close to the king often disagreed with him, but they usually ended up doing what he wanted.

Louis was perhaps the strongest man, in his gentle way, Simon had ever met, but he had never heard him raise his voice.

Instead of defying de Verceuil and the others, he tried to speak with dignity, even humility, as King Louis himself might.

"His Majesty's brother, Count Charles, entrusted this task to me. Shall I give it up at the first threat? Shall I turn over the amba.s.sadors'

protection to men unknown to me, some of whom may be moved by the same hatred of us French that moves the Filippeschi? I have a duty not to let the amba.s.sadors go beyond the walls I guard."

When he finished there was silence.

Friar Mathieu said, "Count Simon makes an excellent point. John and Philip may well be safer guarded by our men, even under attack."

Now that they had agreed, Simon's heart sank. If the Tartars were killed in the coming battle because he had insisted on keeping them in the palace, he would bear the guilt. Instead of restoring his name, he would end by plunging it deeper into the mire.

De Puys looked from Simon to the cardinal and said, "Perhaps our knights and crossbowmen could go with the Tartars to the Pope's palace."

"No!" cried the contessa. "Now, when I am attacked because I opened my home to the Tartars and the French, will you all abandon me? All the men of my family are dead but the boy Vittorio." She turned to Simon and seized his wrist with her clawlike hand. "You must stay and defend me.

You must be my cavaliere."

Simon pressed her hand in both of his and saw tears running down her withered cheeks.

"I would not think of leaving you, Contessa."

"But, Contessa," said Friar Mathieu, "if the Tartars were to leave your palace, the Filippeschi might not attack you."

"No, no." The contessa shook her head. "If they think they are strong enough to attack me, they will. They have long sought to kill me and Vittorio. Canaglia! May G.o.d send that little b.a.s.t.a.r.d Marco and all the Filippeschi straight to h.e.l.l!"

Friar Mathieu winced and made the sign of the cross.

Inwardly Simon winced, too, as he always did at the word b.a.s.t.a.r.d. But, b.a.s.t.a.r.d or not, he was about to command a palace under siege. He felt his chest swelling at the thought.

The candlelit audience chamber of the podesta was hung with somber maroon drapes drawn against the night air. On the wall behind d'Ucello, a tapestry depicted Jesus and Barabbas being offered to the crowd in Jerusalem while Pilate washed his hands. Simon had never seen such a large scene with such finely embroidered figures, and he admired it aloud.

"I keep it here as a reminder that a judge who heeds the popular clamor may make a grave error," said the small man behind the large table. "How may I serve you, Count?"

As Simon told the podesta what he knew of the planned Filippeschi a.s.sault on the contessa's palace, d'Ucello leaned back in a tall chair that seemed too big for him, his eyes distant, the corners of his mouth turned down under his thin mustache.

When Simon finished, d'Ucello asked, "Are Cardinal Ugolini or any of his guests involved in this?"

_The very question I asked Sordello. Interesting that the podesta shares my suspicions._