"Against God, perhaps, but not against profit. And the common heading on
your Venetian merchant's account book is 'For God and Profit.' Young
Seigneur de Gobignon, you do not know how happy I am to talk to a
Frenchman again after so many years."
"How long have you been among the Tartars, Friar Mathieu?"
The old Franciscan sighed. "Long enough to learn the Eastern peoples'
way of counting the years in twelve-year cycles. They give each year the
name of a certain animal."
"A strange system."
"A sensible system. It is easier to remember beasts than numbers. Let me
see, this year, Anno Domini 1263, they call the Year of the Sheep, and
when I first entered the camp of Hulagu Khan the Tartars told me it was
the Year of the Dragon. From Dragon to Sheep there are"--he counted on
his fingers while muttering the names of beasts under his breath--"seven
animals. So, seven years since our good King Louis sent me to bear his
messages to the Tartars."
"Then you went in 1256?"
"Anno Domini 1256. That is right."
Simon wanted very much to know more about life among the Tartars. But he
and the old friar could have long talks on the road to Orvieto. For now
there were more pressing questions.
Just as he was about to speak, the friar pointed to the gateway between
the basilica and the doge's palace. "There go the Armenians."
Simon saw six of the swarthy men crossing the piazza in a line.
Short-statured though they were, there was a swagger in the way they
walked. They had doffed their leather armor and wore tunics of white
silk with billowing red trousers over short black boots. Their tunics
were cinched at the waist with black leather belts, and in each belt was
thrust a curving saber in a jeweled scabbard. Their bows were slung
across their backs, along with black leather quivers.
"Four of them stayed behind to guard the Tartars," Friar Mathieu said.
Simon had been wondering just how his knights and archers would share
with the Armenian guards the responsibility of protecting the Tartars.
"Why did the ambassadors bring Armenians, and not their own Tartar
warriors?" he asked Friar Mathieu.
"Because the Armenians are Christians and are more like Europeans than
themselves. The Armenians are allies, not subjects of the Tartars. These
ten who travel with us are great men among the Armenian people. One of
them, Hethum, is in line to be King of Armenia some day. One feels
safer, traveling with such men."
Simon watched the half-dozen Armenians disappear down a narrow side
street leading off the piazza. He felt a twinge of worry, seeing that
they were heading toward the street in which his own men were quartered.
He wanted to follow after the men from the East, but he did not want to
interrupt his conversation with Friar Mathieu. Feeling pulled in two
directions, he held himself to the friar's slow, thoughtful pace as they
approached the cathedral.
"Even some Tartars are Christians, I have heard," Simon said.
"There are many religions among the Tartars." They had reached the front
of San Marco, and Friar Mathieu, still holding Simon's arm, wheeled them
around and started them walking back toward the doge's palace. "Hulagu
Khan's wife, the Khatun, is a Christian, although he is a pagan. But
what all Tartars really worship is strength. In their own language they
call themselves 'Mongols,' which means strong." Simon looked at the
friar and saw a faraway, awe-struck look in those old eyes. "One wonders
why God created them. To punish us for our sins? Or to rule the world
and to bring order to all mankind?"
"Rule the world?" said Simon. He thought about the two slit-eyed men in
silk robes he had seen disembarking from the galley a few hours before.
He remembered the look the older Tartar had given him, so unfeeling, as
if looking down upon him from a vast distance.
"They think it is their destiny to rule the world," said Friar Mathieu.
"And it is not a foolish dream. They have already conquered much of it.
You might sneer at me as your skeptical knight did, Monseigneur, if I
told you how vast the Tartar empire is. Take France, England, and the
Holy Roman Empire together, and they would be swallowed up in the lands
ruled by the Tartars."
"Please call me Simon, Father, if you will. It embarrasses me to be
addressed as monseigneur by one such as you."
Friar Mathieu patted Simon's hand. "Very well, Simon. That is kindly
spoken. It will be good for us to be friends, because we have a very
difficult and doubtful mission."
"Why doubtful?"
"We cannot be sure we are doing the right thing. These two men, John and
Philip, command great armies in the Tartar empire. Watch them, Simon.
Notice how they observe fortifications and weapons. The same monks who
made Christians of them also taught them how to write. Many times at
day's end in Syria and on Cyprus I have seen them talking together,
making notes, drawing maps. Whether they form this alliance or not, they
will have much useful knowledge to bring back to their khan."
_Then might it not be better for all of us if I fail to protect the
Tartars, and some enemy of Christendom succeeds in killing them?_
Simon felt an aching tightness in his forehead. He desperately wanted
the alliance to succeed, and thereby show the nobility of France that
neither he nor his family any longer deserved their scorn. If the
alliance failed, he failed, and the house of Gobignon would sink deeper
into dishonor.
Let others worry, he decided, about whether it was right or wrong to
protect the Tartars.
"Monseigneur!"
There was urgency in the voice that hailed Simon from across the square,
and a feeling of dread came over him. He turned to see his equerry,
Thierry d'Hauteville, his wavy black hair uncovered, running across the
piazza.
"They are fighting, Monseigneur!" Thierry panted. "Our Venetian archers
and those men from Tartary. You'd best come at once."
"Jesus, save us!" Simon heard Friar Mathieu whisper beside him.
Staring into Thierry's anxious eyes, Simon felt himself getting angry.
Six knights he had brought with him. Any knight worthy of his spurs
should be able to stop any pack of commoners from fighting. And if they
could not, he thought with a sudden shift from anger to anxiety, what
more could he do?
There was no time to think. "Father, will you come, please?" he said to
Mathieu, and without waiting for a reply struck Thierry on the shoulder
and began to run with him.
"I follow, as quickly as I can, my son," he heard from behind him.
"Could you not stop them?" he demanded of Thierry as they headed down a
narrow cobblestoned street at a dead run.
Dread made his legs heavy. De Puys, a veteran of the last crusade, de
Pirenne, a strong and well-trained knight--_they_ had sent for _him_.
For Simon de Gobignon, twenty years of age, who had never in his life
been in a battle.
Breath of God, what did they expect of him?
"There was nothing we could do without killing the Tartars' bodyguard,"
said Thierry. "You will see how it is when you get there."
The inn was a stone building with houses on either side. The lower half
of the divided door was shut, but the upper half was open, and Simon
heard shouts from within. Thierry, ahead of him, yanked the door open
for him.
It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the large room.
Shadowy figures jostled him as he pushed his way through. A little light
came from the grilled windows and from a single huge yellow candle
burning in a candlestick on a table. The room reeked of sweaty bodies
and old wine.
"Make way for Monseigneur le Comte!" Thierry called uselessly as the
Venetian mercenaries jabbered angrily in Italian.
Simon pushed his way into the corner of the room lit by the candle and
found himself facing a scowling, dark-skinned man pointing a gleaming
sword at him. Five of the Armenians, sabers out, had formed a protective
ring.
Within the ring, the sixth Armenian had a man bent forward over a table.
The man's arms flailed feebly and his eyes bulged. Even in the poor
light Simon could see that his face, turned on its side toward him, was
purple. The Armenian was holding his bow behind the man's neck and was
turning it slowly. Now Simon saw the string cutting into the neck.
It hurt Simon to look at what was happening. He felt his own breath cut
off, his heart pounding as if he were laboring for air. He wanted to
turn away and knew he could not. He must somehow stop this before that
Venetian died.
"Blood of God!" he whispered. He recognized the darkened, distorted
face.
Sordello.
All around Simon the Venetians were edging closer to the Armenians,
their daggers gleaming in the candlelight. But none of the foot soldiers
wanted to be the first to brave those sabers.
That meant, Simon thought, heart pounding, that he would have to face
them.
_Where the devil are my knights?_
Looking to the right and left Simon saw Alain, Henri de Puys, and the
four others, swords out but--like himself--unarmored, standing
irresolutely between the Venetians and the Armenians. Against one wall
he saw a huddle of women, their bare bosoms gleaming in the dim light.
Standing protectively in front of the women was a man Simon recognized
as the innkeeper. For the price Simon was paying, why could not this man
keep order in his own house?
"Aha, now we have the stinking figlii di cagne!" a man behind Simon
cried. Simon turned and saw a crossbow leveled at shoulder height. He
had ordered that the Venetians' weapons be kept under lock and key.
Evidently someone had broken them out. Once the rest of the Venetians
armed themselves with their bows, the Armenians would be slaughtered.
Simon's body grew hot with anger. He would like to kill the fool who
helped the Venetians to their arms.
But the Armenians had their bows, too, and one by one they started to
unsling them. Simon heard the ominous squeaking as the Venetians wound
back their crossbow strings. The Armenians would never be able to get
their arrows nocked and their bows drawn before the crossbow bolts began
to fly.
Simon's actions followed instantly on his thoughts. "Cessi!" he shouted,
hoping the Venetians would understand him.
Now all eyes were turned toward him. The muscles of his belly tightened
as he cast about in his mind for the right thing to do.
The hands of the Venetians hesitated on their crossbows as they
recognized their master.
"De Pirenne, de Puys, the rest of you. Make our men put down their
crossbows."
But just as Simon spoke, the Armenian strangling Sordello gave another
turn to his bow, and the old bravo gagged and gasped.
Simon realized that if he drew his scimitar, the room would be a charnel
house in moments. He approached the Armenian nearest him, spreading his
hands to show their emptiness. He prayed that the man, whose bow and
arrow was aimed at his chest, would not see how those outstretched hands
were trembling.
In his strongest voice he said, "Hold your arrow!" hoping the man would
understand his tone. As he spoke, he firmly grasped the arrow near its
head and pushed it aside. His heart thudded, and he could almost feel
that steel tip stabbing into his chest. And how bare was his back to the
crossbow quarrels!
The Armenian took a step to the side and let Simon pass. Simon let out a
deep breath of relief. As he stepped forward, the soles of his boots
slid a little. The floor, he realized, must be slippery with spilled
wine.
Now he was facing the man who was murdering Sordello. A vagrant thought
struck Simon: _I do not like Sordello. I would not mind if the Armenian
killed him. Why risk my life for him?_
_Because a good seigneur is loyal to his men_, the answer came at once.
He spoke commandingly but softly. "Stop. This is my man and you must not
kill him. Let him go." He put his hand firmly on the forearm of the
Armenian, who was a good deal shorter than he was. The man's dark brows
drew together in a puzzled frown. He was studying Simon's face. Simon
could feel a faint tremor in the muscles under his hand.
Any man would be frightened at a moment like this, no matter how brave,
how hardened, Simon thought. But he saw that the Armenian's face was
unlined, his eyes clear. His black mustache was small and fine.
_He must be about my age. Maybe even younger._
Simon felt a warmth toward the young Armenian, and hoped he could win
him over. But how could such a pleasant-looking fellow bring himself to
strangle a man with a bowstring? Perhaps Sordello had done something
truly evil.
"Come now," Simon said, giving the young man's arm a gentle shake. "Do
let him go." He essayed a smile, hoping it would look friendly.
The Armenian let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes. Then he released
his grip on the bow. He slapped it with one hand to make it twirl. Simon
heard a faint choking sound from Sordello, and then the Italian slid to
the stone floor.
A woman, her henna-dyed hair gleaming red-gold in the candlelight,
rushed to the young Armenian and held his arm, talking soothingly in
Italian. He stiffened at first, then smiled at her.
"Thank you," said Simon to the Armenian, shaky with relief.
He smiled and patted the dark man's free arm, feeling foolish about his
simple words of gratitude. If only Friar Mathieu would get here so that
he could talk to these men from the East.
A cool feeling of relief bathed Simon. So far all had gone amazingly
well. But, he reminded himself, this was not over yet. He must continue
to think quickly.
"De Puys, clear the Venetians out of here. Assemble them outside. Then
march them away from this street altogether. And collect their crossbows
and get them locked up again. You should never have let them get at
those weapons. De Pirenne, you stay here and tell me what happened."
"Well, this is how it was, Monseigneur," said Alain, looking abashed.
"Our men were drinking quietly, and this redheaded woman was sitting
with Sordello. Then these men from Tartary came in. They made no
trouble, just sat down in their own corner. But the woman, she took a
fancy to that man you saw trying to kill Sordello. She served him wine
and sat down with him. Sordello went over and tried to get her back.
There were words. They didn't understand each other, but the meaning was
clear. Sordello went for the other with a knife. And then the other man
_kicked_ it out of his hand--rather a surprise, that was--to Sordello,
too, I think. And the next thing I know he was strangling Sordello and
his companions would not let anyone stop it. Sordello had the key to the
storeroom where the crossbows were kept. After the Armenian seized him,
he threw it to one of the Venetians."
A typical muddle, Simon thought, like most of the cases brought to him
for justice since he had become Seigneur of Gobignon. He felt disgusted
with all these fools. No saying who was at fault. Most likely the damned
woman. Thank the Virgin he did not have to fix blame, just put a stop to
the fighting.
Sordello, who had been lying curled up on the floor, suddenly lashed out
with a booted foot.
The woman screamed. As Simon stared, the young Armenian fell heavily to
the wine-wet floor. Sordello sprang upon him, and a dagger flashed. He
was striking at the Armenian's chest.
Simon had no time to feel the panic that flooded through him. He grabbed
for Sordello's arm, too late to stop the dagger but pulling it back so
that it drove upward through the muscles of the chest instead of
plunging deep. The Armenian bellowed in pain. With all his strength,
Simon yanked Sordello off the Armenian and threw him backward. De
Pirenne caught him and held him.
Shouting in their own language and brandishing their swords, the other
Armenians rushed at Sordello.
A familiar voice cried out a sentence in a strange tongue. Friar Mathieu
rushed into the circle of candlelight, his white beard flying, his arms
upraised. At his sudden appearance the Armenians, who were ready to make
mincemeat of Sordello--and perhaps de Pirenne with him--hesitated.
_Oh, thank God!_ The weight of struggling to control this dreadful
situation was no longer Simon's alone to bear.
Friar Mathieu spoke several sentences to the Armenians. Simon could not
tell from his tone whether he was scolding them or trying to placate
them. There were in the room five angry men who looked to be formidable
fighters, armed with swords and bows and arrows. And, Simon realized, he
had just sent away all but one of his knights and all of his
crossbowmen.
Simon cursed himself for letting Sordello wound the young man.
_Alain said Sordello dropped a dagger. Why did I not think to look for
it?_
He felt himself growing hot and cold as he realized this incident might
wreck everything--for Christendom, for Louis, and for the honor of the
House of Gobignon.
Now Friar Mathieu fell to his knees beside the young Armenian, whose
white tunic was splashed deep scarlet with blood. He spoke comforting
words to him and then turned an agonized face to Simon.
"This is Prince Hethum," said the friar. "The Tartars will be furious
when they learn what has happened. This may destroy any chance of an
alliance. At the very least, they will demand satisfaction."
_I am to protect these emissaries, and one of my own men has stabbed a
prince of Armenia._
Despair was an ache in Simon's chest.
"What sort of satisfaction?"
"I fear they will require that man's life," said Friar Mathieu sadly.
"By God's beard, I have done no wrong!" Sordello rasped. His voice was a
croak.
"Be silent!" Simon snapped, his rage against himself turning to fury at
Sordello. "You are a fool, but being a fool will not save you."
"Your Signory!" Sordello cried. "How could I let him take the woman from
me? My honor--"
"_Your_ honor!" Simon raged. "What is your wandering blackguard's honor
compared to the honor of France? The woman chose him over you. Look at
her."
Sordello glared at Simon, but was silent. The red-haired woman crouched
over the fallen Prince Hethum, crooning softly in Italian.
_And yet, Uncle Charles would not want me to sacrifice Sordello. And the
Armenian did try to kill him. My knights and men-at-arms will lose all
respect for me if I let the Tartars have their way with Sordello._
_But if he goes unpunished, if the Armenian prince goes unrevenged,
there will be no alliance at all._
And it would be his fault. The little honor that was left to the House
of Gobignon would be lost.
A wave of anger at himself swept over him. Had he dedicated himself to
the alliance only so that he might free himself from the agony of his
guilty secret and his house from dishonor? He thought of King Louis and
how pure was his desire to win back for Christendom the places where
Christ had lived. How impure were Simon's own motives!
As long as he put his own needs first, he would continue to deserve the
burdens of guilt and shame.