Cold and steady, the rain drummed on Simon's wide-brimmed leather hat.
His wool cloak had been soaking up water all day, and lay heavy as an
iron plate on his body. It was not yet sunset, he knew, but the rain so
darkened the streets of Perugia that he despaired of finding his
destination.
He rode along the wide main street hunched over against the chill rain,
Sordello and Thierry on either side, their two spare horses and their
baggage mule trailing behind. People hurried past without looking up.
"There it is!" Sordello shouted through the rain.
Simon's first thought on seeing the Baglioni palace was, _If only we had
been in a place like that when the Filippeschi attacked_.
Rain and darkness made it hard for him to see it in detail, but lighted
torches and candles glowing inside the windows limned its general shape.
The square central tower loomed high above the surrounding city, its
stone face ruddy in the glow from the upper windows of four cylindrical
corner turrets. The palace was surrounded by a high outer wall, and
Simon supposed there was an expanse of bare ground between the wall and
the main building. To him, the palace looked more like a great French
country château than a noble Italian family's town house.
Streamers of purple cloth, betokening mourning, were draped from one
turret of the gatehouse to the other, the rain-soaked ends flapping
across the arch of the gateway.
The tall wooden gate, sheltered from the rain by a pointed arch, was
adorned with painted carvings of the lion, symbol of the Guelfi, and the
griffin, symbol of the city of Perugia. Simon and Sordello pounded on
the gate, and men-at-arms admitted them. Simon unstrapped a flat leather
case from his saddle and then left Thierry to unload and stable the
animals. He and Sordello hurried through the rain to the front door of
the palace.
Simon identified himself to the steward, who conducted him, with much
solicitude about the bad weather, to the sala maggiore of the palace.
In the great hall, Simon was glad to see a fire of logs burning on a
stone hearth under a chimney opening. He headed for it, throwing his
sopping cloak and leather hat to the stone floor. Let the servants pick
them up. Riding all day in the rain had made him irritable.
"Simon!" Friar Mathieu was shuffling toward him, leaning heavily on a
walking stick. The old Franciscan's painfully slow movements alarmed
him. Simon put his arms about him, but gently.
"Are you feeling worse, Father?"
"The weather is reminding my bones that they were cracked not long ago.
I have a fire on the hearth in my room upstairs. Come up with me and you
can get out of those wet clothes."
Simon sent Sordello to the kitchen and, still carrying the leather case,
followed Friar Mathieu up a long flight of stone steps.
Wrapped in a blanket, seated on a bench before the fire in Friar
Mathieu's chamber with a cup of hot spiced wine in his hand, he began to
feel more comfortable, and he told the old priest about his journey back
to Italy from Avignon.
"King Louis dismissed me on the twentieth of September. I paid fifty
livres for a fast galley to Livorno. Then we rode our horses almost to
death through the hills to get here. It took us less than two weeks.
Very good time, but not good enough."
Simon paused. He remembered the old pope so vividly, writing letters
furiously and dispatching them hither and yon, feeling surrounded by
enemies on all sides and knowing he was going to die. He had so wanted
to bring the Holy Father good news. Now Pope Urban was no more, and
Simon was deeply disappointed.
_But surely he is happier out of all this turmoil. He is with God and at
peace now._
"And what news do you bring?" said Friar Mathieu.
Simon leaned toward him enthusiastically. "The pope's last wish has been
granted! King Louis has agreed to let his brother Charles make war on
King Manfred."
Instead of looking delighted as Simon had expected, Friar Mathieu
surprised him by sighing and staring into the fire.
"Are you not pleased?" Simon prodded him.
"Pleased about a war?" Friar Mathieu's eyes were sad under his
snow-white brows.
Simon felt as if his chair had been pulled out from under him and he had
been dumped on the floor. His whole being had been focused on bringing
good news to Perugia.
"But Father Mathieu, this means that the alliance of Tartars and
Christians is approved. By Pope Urban, anyway."
Now that Pope Urban was dead, did that mean anything? He hesitated,
confused.
Friar Mathieu sighed again. "I want the Tartars to embrace Christianity.
I want the holy places liberated. But this warfare in Italy seems to me
a false turning in the road. However--neither you nor I can stop the
march of events. What is it you are carrying?"
Simon unbuckled the fastenings of the leather case and took out a
package wrapped in silk. "Two letters written by King Louis. One was for
Pope Urban. The other is for de Verceuil if Pope Urban should die."
"You will have trouble delivering either one."
"The one for Pope Urban I will keep as the king ordered me, until a new
pope is elected. But the other one--why? Where is de Verceuil?"
"Locked away with the other cardinals in the Cathedral of Perugia,
trying to make himself pope."
The thought of Paulus de Verceuil as supreme head of the Church made
Simon's lip curl. "Pope? Not him!"
"He has the support of about half the French cardinals," Friar Mathieu
said, shaking his white beard. "The cardinals are supposed to be in
absolute seclusion, with no messages going in or out, but the servants
who bring them their meals report things in both directions. The other
cardinals lean to Gerard de Tracey, cardinal-bishop of Soissons. A
former inquisitor." Friar Mathieu made a sour face.
"What of the Italians?"
"Amazingly, despite the rumors about his heresy and sorcery, Ugolini has
four Italian cardinals voting for him. The servants say he has promised
large sums of money to those four. The other three Italian votes are
going to Piacenza. That must include Ugolini's vote, since the rules
forbid a cardinal to vote for himself. Voting for old Piacenza is just a
gesture, of course. He probably has less than a year of life left to
him. But until one or two Italians can be persuaded to vote for a French
candidate, no Frenchman can get the necessary two thirds."
"Are there not fourteen French cardinals to seven Italians?" Simon
asked.
"Yes, but right now there are only twenty cardinals in conclave
altogether. One of the French cardinals is in England on a diplomatic
mission, sent by Pope Urban before his death. So, even united, the
thirteen French would be one short of two thirds. And they are far from
united. It could take years to elect a new pope."
Years! Simon was horrified. What a disaster! Without a pope, the
question of the alliance would languish. The Tartar ambassadors might
yet be assassinated, or just die. Hulagu Khan might die. Even King
Louis, God forbid, might die, and the next king would probably not be
interested in crusading.
Simon, for his part, had pinned his hopes for the restoration of his
family honor on the success of the Tartar alliance. A new pope must be
elected, and soon.
He carefully took the two scrolls out of their silk wrappings. Both were
tied with red ribbons and sealed with blobs of red wax which King Louis
had stamped with his personal seal, a shield bearing fleurs-de-lis.
Simon held up the one addressed "His Eminence, Cardinal Paulus de
Verceuil."
"We must try to get this letter to de Verceuil at once. It names King
Louis's choice for the next pope. It could end the deadlock."
Father Mathieu stroked his white beard thoughtfully. "Exactly the sort
of letter the rule against messages was instituted to keep out. A king
attempting to influence a papal election." The old Franciscan took the
scroll in one hand and tapped it against the palm of the other. "But I
think for the good of the Church and for the success of our own mission
we had better get this letter to de Verceuil at once. King Louis's
choice cannot be worse than de Verceuil, de Tracey, or Ugolini."
"Yes!" said Simon eagerly. "But how do we get the letter to him?"
The old Franciscan pushed himself to his feet. It hurt Simon to see how
slow and painful his movements were. Damn that devil in black who had
tried to kill the Tartars!
The Tartars! He had thought they were well guarded enough, and that it
was safe to leave them while he carried Urban's letter and the king's
reply. But if the question of the alliance were to drag on, the foes of
the alliance would try again to strike at them. Fear clutched at his
heart.
"Are the Tartars here in this palace?" he called after Friar Mathieu,
who was hobbling out of the room holding King Louis's scroll.
"Oh, yes. The Baglioni family have given them a whole quarter of the
palace. They are well enough, though they hate being trapped indoors by
the weather and by the need to keep them under guard. John Chagan has
with him a young Jewish girl named Rachel, whom he kidnapped from a
brothel in Orvieto. The girl was an orphan, and she has been terribly
abused. She is virtually their prisoner."
Simon's mouth twisted. "And we want to ally ourselves with such men.
How can such things go on in the same city with the Sacred College?"
Friar Mathieu shook his head grimly. "Nothing I have said has made any
difference. De Verceuil insists that the Tartars must have whatever they
want, even though it will damn their souls. They are Christians, after
all. If John dies with this girl on his conscience, he will go straight
to hell."