The Saracen: Land of the Infidel Part 61

First de Verceuil joked, then he threatened, then he offered hospitality, then he threatened again. He seemed to have no sense of how to deal with men.

_Even if we were on the same side, I would hate him. What a trial he must be for his allies._

But Daoud was eager to get away without creating any deeper enmity between himself and the cardinal. "I thank you again for your offer of hospitality, Your Eminence. Even if I cannot come to live at the Monaldeschi palace, I do hope to meet the contessa. She has graciously invited Cardinal Ugolini to her reception for the Tartar amba.s.sadors, and I shall accompany him."

"Do not think you are free to do as you please in Orvieto," said de Verceuil angrily. "You are being closely watched." He turned abruptly and strode off. Daoud bowed politely to his scarlet back. Casting ugly looks at Daoud, the cardinal's men followed.

Daoud told himself that it would be wise to be frightened. But what he felt was more a profound disdain for Paulus de Verceuil.

_As a man of religion or of power, how can this squawking bird in red plumage compare with Sheikh Saadi and the Imam Fayum of the Has.h.i.+s.h.i.+yya?_

The rain was coming down harder. It hissed in the still-burning heap of wood and bones.

A movement near the cathedral steps caught Daoud's eye. He turned and saw Simon de Gobignon looking at him. Why was he alone? Had he, like Daoud, not wanted any of his comrades to see this horror?

How infuriating it must be for that proud young Frank to have to work closely with a man like Cardinal de Verceuil. The cardinal was so arrogant, so overbearing, so crude as to turn people _against_ any cause he might support, no matter how worthy.

As the rain fell on him, Daoud hardly noticed it. He saw a new plan s.h.i.+mmering like a mirage on the horizon of his mind.

XXI

"Bonsoir, Messire. I have not seen you since the day the heretic was burned. I trust the spectacle did not disturb you?"

Simon had deliberately addressed David of Trebizond in French, to find out whether the trader spoke that language in addition to Greek and Italian. He might be from the other side of the earth, but there was something very French-looking about him.

They stood facing each other a little apart from the crowd gathered in the sala maggiore, the great hall of the Palazzo Monaldeschi. The large room was lit by hundreds of candles. Four musicians in a distant corner sawed away energetically at vielles of different sizes held between their knees, while two others blew on hautboys. Tables were piled high with meat and pastry along the sides of the hall. Servants circulated, refilling goblets from pitchers of wine. Neither Simon nor David was holding a goblet.

The big blond man, who had not been looking at Simon, turned and stared at him. Simon detected a pallor under his tan. David did not react to the sound of French like a man who had heard an unfamiliar language. He looked more as if he had heard the voice of a ghost.

David bowed. "Pardonnez-moi, Monseigneur. I had not expected to be addressed in French."

Simon was surprised to hear in David's northern French the harsh accents of the English Channel coast.

"Where did you learn my tongue, Messire?" Simon asked.

David shrugged. "Since the Crusades began, many of your countrymen have pa.s.sed through Trebizond."

Many Crusaders had been Normans, Simon thought. It made sense. But it was odd that this man David, who claimed to be a Greek, not only spoke like a Norman, but looked like nothing so much as a big, blond Norman knight. Simon had seen just such faces--square, with long, straight noses and cold gray-blue eyes--everywhere in Normandy and in England when he had accompanied King Louis on a state visit to the realm of his va.s.sal, King Henry of England.

But David did not dress like a Norman, Simon noted. His apparel was gaudy in the extreme. He wore a white cap with a blood-red feather, a short cloth-of-gold cape, particolored hose--light green and peach--and forest-green boots.

Simon, who, in emulation of King Louis preferred somber colors, had chosen for tonight a brown velvet singlet and maroon hose. The brightest thing about him was the jeweled handle of his prized scimitar.

"I hope that you were not upset by the b.l.o.o.d.y execution of that heretic last week," Simon said once again.

"Oh, no." David smiled. "But I saw you there, and you seemed to be."

_G.o.d's wounds, how true that is!_ was Simon's first thought. He had held himself rigid throughout the heretic's horrible death, afraid that he would throw up.

But how disturbing to discover that this Greek merchant, apparently an enemy, had seen right through Simon's effort to appear imperturbable. Of all the people in Orvieto, this man was the last Simon would want to reveal himself to. He cursed himself for giving David such a perfect opening.

_How could I be such a fool? And I thought I was so clever, addressing him in French._

Simon had been antic.i.p.ating his next encounter with David with a mixture of eagerness, fear, and anger, almost as if it were to be a battle. Now he wished he had stayed away from the man.

"I felt sorry for the poor devil, as I believe a Christian should,"

Simon said. "Did you not?"

There was a baleful look in David's eyes, as if he hated Simon for his answer.

But the man from Trebizond only shrugged and said, "I have seen much blood and pain in my life."

A broad figure in a white robe billowed up to Simon and David. Simon remembered him from the pope's council--Fra Toma.s.so d'Aquino, the distinguished Dominican. The friar's belt of rosary beads rattled as he walked. It would take a week, Simon thought, to recite all the Our Fathers and Hail Marys that encircled Fra Toma.s.so.

"Count, I trust you will forgive my interrupting you. I have already had the pleasure of meeting Messer David of Trebizond, but I have wanted to speak to you ever since you arrived in Orvieto. As a seminarian I studied for a year in Paris under your uncle, Hugues de Gobignon. A friar of great renown. His murder was such a tragedy."

Simon felt uneasy at reminiscence about the uncle who was not really his uncle. As he chatted with Fra Toma.s.so, his eyes roved through the large room. He noticed the crowd gathered around the Tartars, John and Philip, who were seated in large, comfortable-looking chairs placed near a crowned swan at the center of a serving table. He saw a servant pour wine into a silver cup John held out to him. More of that wonderful wine of Montefiascone?

Beside the Tartars stood a woman named Ana from the land of the Bulgars, territory now ruled by the Tartars. Anything, thought Simon bitterly, to keep Friar Mathieu from achieving too much importance. De Verceuil had found her and had taken her along as interpreter when the Tartars had their first private audience with the pope.

Another group stood around the seated Pope Urban, many of them in the red and purple of cardinals, archbishops, and bishops. There was de Verceuil, of course, as near to the pope as he could get. The cardinal's vanity, as usual, had made him choose layman's garb, a tunic of gold-braided silk and a cape of aquamarine satin trimmed with red-dyed squirrel fur. And between two prelates' shoulders Simon could just make out the top of Cardinal Ugolini's fuzzy gray head.

If Ugolini was here, had his niece Sophia come tonight as well? Yes, there she was, halfway across the hall, talking to the Contessa di Monaldeschi. The pale violet of Sophia's gown made her skin look darker.

The poets always sang of _fair_ ladies, but Simon found her dark complexion wondrously attractive. She had let her embroidered silk shawl fall away from her bare shoulders, and he marveled at their sweet delicacy. Under her gauze veil the pearls in her headdress twinkled like stars against hair that was black as night.

"Excuse me, Fra Toma.s.so, Messer David. I have promised to deliver a most urgent message to the contessa."

Fra Toma.s.so, in the middle of an anecdote about Friar Hugues's subtlety as an inquisitor, gave Simon leave to go. As David bowed, his eyes met Simon's, and his look was at once both knowing and bitter. He, too, was a guest in Ugolini's house, thought Simon. Was he, too, attracted to Sophia? Who would not be?

As Simon moved toward Sophia, the contessa's majordomo strode to the center of the sala maggiore and called in a deep voice, "Signori e madonne, tables, game boards, and cards are set for your amus.e.m.e.nt in the inner galleria."

Then Simon was bowing before the contessa, acutely aware of Sophia standing beside her. He kissed the old lady's s.h.i.+ny knuckles, hoping he would have an opportunity to kiss Sophia's hand as well.

"My dear boy, did you hear the announcement? Do you enjoy cards or backgammon? I understand your pious king forbids such amus.e.m.e.nts at his court. And yet our Holy Father himself loves to play alii." She saw Simon staring at Sophia and smiled.

"You see, my dear?" the contessa said to Sophia. "Does this splendid young Frenchman look as if he is interested in cards or dice? Or in you?

Enough of your modesty."

Sophia lowered her eyelids and blushed. How beautiful her olive complexion was, tinted with rose!

"The contessa is merciless," she said in a low voice.

"Merciless!" the contessa cackled. "My dear, if I were the envious sort, then indeed would I show you no mercy. By San Giorgio, I would have you poisoned. But I made up my mind many, many years ago, when I saw my looks beginning to fade, that I had to choose between hating the beauty of other women or enjoying it. I was already spending all my hatred on the odious Filippeschi. So I decided that when I saw beautiful women I would rejoice at their presence in the world and delight myself by remembering my own youth and imagining the pleasures they must be experiencing."

She put her hand on Simon's arm. "What do you think, Count Simon? Would you like me to present this young lady to you?"