"It has been four years since I mounted a horse and drew my bow in
battle," said John Chagan with a grin. "A man grows old if he does not
fight."
Rachel paused in her work of setting up their tent for the night to
stare at him, wondering if he knew how unready for fighting he looked.
The pouches under his eyes were as prominent as his cheekbones, and the
cheekbones themselves were criss-crossed with tiny red lines.
It had been nearly a month since he had taken his pleasure with her in
bed. She was glad enough of that, but she felt sorry for him, even
knowing that his death in battle would free her. The way his hands
trembled, he would be lucky to get an arrow nocked, much less shoot it
at an enemy.
The tent flap was pushed aside, and a Venetian crossbowman backed in
holding one end of Rachel's traveling chest. Another man followed at the
other end.
"What have you got in here--marble blocks?" the first archer grumbled as
he set the box down on the carpeted tent floor beside the bed.
"My helmet and sword and coat of mail," said Rachel with a smile. "I
would not want to miss the battle."
Fear whispered to her that the armed men who traveled with the Tartars
must be aware that she had valuables in that chest. If any of them ever
got an opportunity, they would not hesitate to steal it from her. And
stab her to death to get at it, if they had to. She hated carrying the
heavy box everywhere. But even if she could have found a safe place for
it in Rome, she had no way of knowing whether she could ever get back
there to claim it. The chest held her prisoner as much as John did.
She had thought that while she and John traveled with Charles d'Anjou's
army, she might be able to slip away. Perhaps if there was a battle, she
might escape in the confusion. But she could not do it alone, not if she
wanted to take the chest.
"You can take my place if you are so eager," the second Venetian
laughed. "I've seen battles enough."
"Where are we?" she asked.
"Icerna. Still in papal territory."
"Where are we going?" She heard a movement as she asked the question,
and looked over at John. He was pouring himself a goblet of red wine
while eyeing Rachel and the Venetians distrustfully. He had learned no
Italian, and perhaps he thought she was flirting with the two archers.
"We are coming to a town called Benevento. Right on the Hohenstaufen
border. Supposed to be a papal city, but you never know. Border cities
usually give their support to whoever is closer to them with the bigger
army. The rumor is that whether the town is Guelfo or Ghibellino, King
Charles will let the troops have their way with Benevento. And high
time. How is a man to live on the miserable wages our would-be king
doles out to us?"
"Enough of your damned complaining!" a deep voice boomed. The flap of
the tent flew open, letting in a blast of chill air, and Cardinal de
Verceuil strode in. Terror raced through Rachel. She quickly dropped a
quilted blanket over the chest containing her treasure.
De Verceuil threw back the fur-trimmed hood of his heavy woolen cloak
and, though his words had been for the Venetian archers, glared at
Rachel accusingly. She felt herself trembling. He was dressed in bright
red, but like a soldier, not like a man of the Church. He wore a heavy
leather vest over his scarlet tunic, and calf-high black leather boots.
_God help me, what is he going to do to me?_
Sordello, the capitano of the Tartars' guards, followed the cardinal
into the tent. His lopsided grin was as frightening as the cardinal's
angry stare. His eyes narrowed, and Rachel felt her face burn as he
looked her up and down.
"Out!" Sordello snapped at the two Venetian crossbowmen. After they were
gone, the tent flap opened still another time, and Friar Mathieu hobbled
in, leaning on his walking stick.
"We do not need you," de Verceuil growled in his French-accented
Italian.
"John needs me," said Friar Mathieu. "To translate for him. And I think
Rachel needs me too."
"Stupid savage should have learned Italian by now," said Sordello.
_Ah, you are very brave, capitano, insulting him in a language he does
not understand_, thought Rachel contemptuously.
De Verceuil glowered at Friar Mathieu.
"You cannot protect her."
"Protect me from what?" Rachel's voice sounded in her own ears like a
scream, and her heart was pounding against the walls of her chest.
"John can protect her," said Friar Mathieu, "if he understands what is
happening."
He looked full into Rachel's face, and there was a warning in his old
blue eyes. She was almost frantic with fear now. She had not been so
frightened since the day John and the rest of them had invaded Tilia's
house and carried her off.
What was Friar Mathieu trying to warn her about?
"What do you know of Sophia Orfali, Ugolini's so-called niece?" de
Verceuil demanded in his French-accented Italian.
_Friar Mathieu has betrayed me!_
Rachel looked over at the old Franciscan and saw him close his eyes very
slowly and deliberately and open them again. _Keep your mouth closed_,
he seemed to be trying to say to her. She had to trust him. She could
not believe he would say anything to turn de Verceuil against her.
"I--I know nothing," she said. "Who is this you are asking about?"
"What happens here?" John asked Friar Mathieu in the Tartar language.
"Why are the high priest and this foot archer in my tent? I did not
invite them. Tell them I send them away."
Friar Mathieu started to answer in the Tartar tongue. Rachel strained to
hear him, but Sordello's ugly laughter overrode the friar's voice.
"I escorted Sophia Orfali to Tilia Caballo's brothel more than once,"
Sordello said. "And I know she was going to visit _you_ because I
overheard her telling that to that devil David of Trebizond."
So it was Sordello, not Friar Mathieu, who had been talking to de
Verceuil. She should have known.
Rachel heard Friar Mathieu now. "I am talking to _you_, not to John," he
said in the Tartar's tongue, and she understood that Friar Mathieu meant
her. Neither de Verceuil nor Sordello understood the language of the
Tartars, or knew that she knew it. As long as Friar Mathieu did not
address Rachel by name and kept his eyes on John, who looked confused,
it would appear that he was talking to the Tartar and not to Rachel.
De Verceuil strode over to the wine bottle standing on the low table by
John's bed. Without asking permission, he picked it up and drank deeply
from it.
"The Tartars travel with the best wine in this whole army," he declared.
"Better than the cheap swill King Charles carries with him." Sophia
glanced at John and saw that he was glowering at de Verceuil.
Friar Mathieu said in the Tartar tongue, "Sordello went to the cardinal
with the story that you must be some sort of agent for Manfred and
therefore it is dangerous for John to keep you with him."
Why would Sordello do that now, Rachel wondered. He could have accused
her anytime in the past year. She could not question Friar Mathieu,
though, without giving it away that he was talking to her. Did Sordello
have some plan to get the chest away from her and desert?
"They know hardly anything about you," Friar Mathieu said. "Do not be
afraid. Admit nothing. Deny everything. I think Sordello knows more
about Ugolini's household, and about Tilia Caballo's brothel, than is
safe for him to admit. Say nothing, and I believe they will frustrate
themselves."
John smiled and nodded at Friar Mathieu. "I see what you are doing," he
said in Tartar.
De Verceuil was looming over her. "Speak up! What was your connection
with Ugolini's niece? _Was_ she Ugolini's niece?" Even though she was
standing up, he looked down on her from an enormous height. His deep
voice and great size terrified her.