Simon guided the black palfrey carefully down the road into the wooded
valley west of Orvieto. The path, like the streets of the city, was
carved from rock and slippery.
When he needed to think, Simon liked to get out of doors, beyond any
walls, and to feel a good horse moving under him. It was now a week
since the day of the papal council, and its inconclusive outcome
troubled him sorely. The pope had repeatedly postponed his audience with
the Tartar ambassadors, pleading a sudden excess of phlegm. The Tartars
were growing restless, pacing the courtyard of the Palazzo Monaldeschi,
muttering to each other angrily and refusing to speak to anyone else.
The longer the negotiations were delayed, the greater the chance they
would fail. The Tartars might even die. Friar Mathieu had said that the
Tartars, coming from a land so distant and so different, were especially
vulnerable to the diseases of Europe.
Charging de Pirenne and de Puys to keep careful watch over the two
emissaries, Simon had ridden out into the hills to think what he might
do to help his cause along.
_But it is not my place to try to speed things up. My task is to guard
the ambassadors, nothing more. If I do only that, I have done my duty._
But, as he rode out into the valley under the deep shade of huge old
olive trees, he heard in his mind King Louis's voice.
_And you, too, Simon, must do whatever you can, seize any opportunity,
to further the cause of the alliance._
* * * * *
King Louis lay prostrate on the floor of the Sainte Chapelle, his face
buried in his hands. Simon, impatient to speak to Louis about his
mission to Italy, knelt on the stone a few paces away from the king's
long, black-draped form. The two of them were the entire congregation
this morning, far outnumbered by the twelve canons and fourteen
chaplains chanting the royal mass.
Unable to keep his mind on the mass, Simon kept gazing up at the stained
glass windows. Since the age of eight, when he had become part of the
king's household, he had spent hundreds of mornings here in the chapel
attached to the royal palace, but the building still amazed him. The
walls seemed to be all glass, filled with light, glowing with colors
bright as precious stones. What held the chapel up? Pierre de Montreuil,
the king's master builder, had patiently explained the principles of the
new architecture to Simon, but though Simon understood the logic of it,
the Sainte Chapelle, most beautiful of the twenty-three churches of the
Île de la Cité, still looked miraculous to him.
The mass ended and the celebrants proceeded down the nave of the chapel
two by two, dividing when they came to King Louis as the Seine divides
to flow around the Cité, each canon and chaplain bowing as he passed the
prone figure.
When they were all gone, King Louis slowly began to push himself to his
feet. Simon hurried to help him, gripping his right arm with both hands.
The king's arm was thin, but Simon felt muscles like hard ropes moving
under his hands. Though almost fifty, the king still, Simon knew,
practiced with his huge two-handed sword in his garden. Age had not
weakened him, though a mysterious lifelong ailment sometimes forced him
to take to his bed.
Louis looked pained. "This is not one of my good days for walking. Let
me lean on you."
Simon was grateful for the chance to help King Louis. The vest of coarse
horsehair that Louis wore next to his body to torment his flesh--as
penance for what faults, Simon could not imagine--creaked as he
straightened up. He put his arm over Simon's shoulder, and Simon passed
an arm around his narrow waist. He looked down at Simon with round, sad
eyes. His nose was large, but blade-thin, his cheeks sunken in.
"Let us visit the Crown of Thorns," he said, pointing to the front of
the chapel, the apse.
Louis was leaning all his weight on Simon as they walked slowly up to
the wooden gallery behind the altar where the Crown of Thorns reposed.
Even so, the king felt light. How could a man be at once so strong and
so fragile, Simon wondered.
There was barely room on the circular wooden stairway for them to climb
side by side. As they stood before the sandalwood chest containing the
reliquary, Louis took his arm from Simon's shoulders. He took two keys
from the purse at his plain black belt and used one to open the doors of
the chest. Inner doors of gold set with jewels blazed in the light from
the stained glass windows.
Louis opened the second set of doors with the other key and, with
Simon's help, knelt. Simon saw within the chest, lined with white satin,
a gold reliquary that contained the Crown of Thorns. It was shaped like
a king's crown and set with pearls and rubies and stood on a gold stem
and base, like a chalice. Simon was icy-cold with awe, almost terror, at
the sight of it. To think that what lay within this gold case had been
worn by Jesus Christ Himself, twelve centuries ago, at the supreme
moment of His life--His death.
Still kneeling, Louis slowly drew the reliquary out of the chest,
holding it with both hands. His eyes glowed with fervor, as bright as
the pearls. Simon prayed he would not open the reliquary. The sight of
the actual thorns that pierced Jesus' head would surely be too much to
bear.
Louis kissed the lid of the case and held it out to Simon.
"Kiss this relic of Christ's passion, Simon, and beg His blessing on
your mission."
Trembling, Simon touched his lips to the cool gold surface. Not one
Christian in a hundred thousand had been this close to the Crown of
Thorns. He felt ashamed, privileged far beyond what he deserved.
As they walked together out of the chapel, Louis limping and leaning on
Simon again, said, "Baldwin, the French emperor of Constantinople, sold
us two crowns after Michael Paleologos drove him out. I bought the Crown
of Thorns, and my brother Charles bought the title of emperor of
Constantinople. Which of us, I wonder, made the better bargain?"
Simon thought, did Count Charles actually hope to conquer
Constantinople? And, if so, what did these dealings with the Tartars
have to do with it?
"Is it your wish, Sire, as your brother, Count Charles, has told me,
that I should guard the ambassadors from Tartary when they arrive in
Italy?" he asked.
Louis stopped walking. They were almost to the doorway of the chapel. He
turned his round eyes on Simon.
"Oh, yes, it is very much my wish." His thin fingers squeezed Simon's
shoulder. "For more than twenty years, ever since I took the crusading
vow, I have wanted one thing above all else, to win Jerusalem back for
Christendom. I led an army into Egypt, and it was God's will that the
Mamelukes defeated me."
_God's will and Amalric de Gobignon's treachery_, thought Simon.
"Now, with the help of the Tartars, we could wrest the Holy Land from
the Saracens' hands," Louis said.
"But if you wish to ally yourself with the Tartars, Sire, should I not
bring the ambassadors directly to you instead of to the pope?"
"No, I cannot make a treaty with the Tartars without Pope Urban's
permission. Only the Holy Father can proclaim a crusade. If he refuses
to do that, I cannot recruit an army to join with the Tartars to rescue
the Holy Land. Even if he does declare a crusade, raising an army will
be terribly hard. Many of those who went with me last time and endured
our terrible defeat and survived with God's help have told me they will
not go again--or send their sons. I must have His Holiness's full
support."
King Louis turned toward him fully now and put both hands on his
shoulders. "You must help me, Simon. I am asking Cardinal Paulus de
Verceuil to represent the cause of the alliance at the court of the
pope. And Friar Mathieu d'Alcon will be there to testify that the
Tartars may yet be won to Christianity. And you, too, Simon, must do
whatever you can, seize any opportunity, to further the cause of the
alliance."
Simon looked into the king's eyes. Their blue was slightly faded, and
age and care had etched red streaks in the whites. Simon's whole frame
was shaken by an overwhelming love for the man.
"Sire, I will do anything--everything."
Louis nodded. "I know how you have suffered all your life because of the
ill deeds of--one I shall not name. I have tried to shield you from
being unjustly punished. But even a king cannot control the hearts of
men. In the end only you can win back for the house of Gobignon its
place among the great names of France. This alliance with the Tartars,
and what follows from it, the liberation of Jerusalem, can help you
restore your honor."
Could a man have more than one father, Simon wondered. Surely King Louis
had done more than anyone else to make him the man he was today.
"I will work for the alliance, Sire," he said. "Not for my family honor
alone, but for you."
For King Louis he would guard the Tartars with his life. For King Louis
he would do anything.
* * * * *
His horse slowed down to climb as the road rose along a steep slope
opposite Orvieto, green with vineyards. Friar Mathieu had made a better
witness than David of Trebizond, Simon thought. But the Italian
cardinals remained vociferous in their opposition to the alliance. The
pope might be French, but he had to live with the Italians.
Cardinal Ugolini was the key to it. He, it seemed, was the leader of the
Italian party in the College of Cardinals. He was the cardinal
camerlengo, after all.
Someone must try to reach Ugolini. It could not be de Verceuil, either,
with his arrogance and bad manners. Even if the man were to try to talk
to Ugolini, which was unlikely, he would doubtless make an even greater
enemy of him.
Friar Mathieu should do it. He could speak to Ugolini as one churchman
to another. But then Simon shook his head. So many of these princes of
the Church looked down on the mendicant friars.
_Seize any opportunity._
Simon rode up the hillside, debating with himself. Just before the road
passed between two rounded, green-covered peaks, it widened so that
carters could pass each other. Simon swung his leg over the saddle and
stepped down from his horse to enjoy the view. Against the hillside,
under a peaked roof, a statue of Saint Sebastian writhed, his body
pierced by arrows. The agony depicted on the saint's face made the
countryside look all the more serene.
_Oh, patron saint of archers, let no more harm come to innocent people
from my crossbowmen._
Simon turned to look at Orvieto. It was like a city from some tale of
faeries, a fantastic island on its huge rock. What was it the Italians
called that gray-yellow stone? Tufa. Most of the churches and palaces
and houses of Orvieto were also built of tufa. Beautiful.
The clatter of hooves interrupted his thoughts. He looked up to see four
horsemen approaching from the north, followed by two heavily laden
baggage mules.
Simon's mood changed at once from contemplation to tense alertness. His
hands moved to check the position of his sword and dagger, making sure
he could draw them quickly. You had to be careful of strangers in a
strange country. As the men rode closer he saw that they also had short
swords and daggers hanging at their sides. Closer still, and he saw
long swords slung over their backs, and crossbows hanging from their
saddles.
Annoyed with himself for feeling afraid, he yet followed the dictate of
prudence and mounted his own horse. He kept his hand near, but not on,
the jeweled hilt of his scimitar as the men rode closer. Highwaymen
would be willing to kill him just for that precious sword.
The man in the lead wore a soft velvet cap that draped down one side of
his head. Under it, Simon saw, was curly black hair shot through with
white. The stranger's grizzled mustache was so thick as to hide his
mouth. But, courteously enough, he touched his hand to his cap where his
visor would be if he were wearing a helmet.
"Buon giorno, Signore," he said in a deep but neutral voice.
Simon returned his salutation and the muttered greetings of the others,
thinking he really should ask who they were, where bound, and on what
business. In France, especially in his own domains, he would not have
hesitated. But then, in France he rarely traveled alone. These men
seemed not bent on troubling him, and it seemed wiser not to trouble
them.
The other three men in the party looked younger than the leader, and
there was insolence, almost a challenge in their dark eyes as they
looked him over and rode on. It took an effort of will on Simon's part
not to move his hand closer to his sword. But he sat stock-still until
they were past and on their way down into the valley.
What business would bravos like that have in Orvieto? Perhaps they had
come to join the Monaldeschi or the Filippeschi in their feuding.
Simon felt beleaguered at the thought of more bravos coming into town.
Orvieto was already full of armed men serving the local families, as
well as others in the retinues of the churchmen who had come here with
the pope. Uneasiness made his spine tingle. Anything that added to
disorder in Orvieto made it a more dangerous place for the Tartar
ambassadors.
_We must get this question of the alliance settled quickly._
Someone should speak to Cardinal Ugolini and find out if anything would
persuade him to withdraw his objections. Simon wondered why de Verceuil
had not already attempted it.
_I could meet with Ugolini. He knows who I am. They all do, since the
pope greeted me publicly. All I have to do is send Thierry around with a
note asking for an audience._
At once he began trying to persuade himself to forget the idea. How
could he talk a cardinal into changing his mind about such a great
matter? Ridiculous! What could he possibly do or say? And what if this
cardinal were one who knew of the shame of the house of Gobignon?
_Seize any opportunity._
* * * * *
Cardinal Ugolini shrugged with his bushy gray eyebrows as well as with
his shoulders. "The question had been thoroughly discussed, Count. Now
it is up to His Holiness. I am delighted to meet you, but what have you
and I to say to each other?"
The solar, the large-windowed room on the third floor of the cardinal's
palace, was bright with light that streamed in through white glass. The
floor was covered with a thick red and black rug, the walls decorated
with frescoes of angels and saints lavishly bedecked with gold leaf.
Simon's eye kept returning to a voluptuous Eve, no part of her nude body
hidden by the leaves or branches artists usually deployed for modesty's
sake. She was handing a golden fruit--it might have been an orange or a
lemon rather than an apple--to a muscular and also fully displayed Adam.
Simon found them disturbingly sensual though they dealt with a religious
subject, and he was surprised that a cardinal should have such pictures
on his walls.
Ugolini's small, elaborately carved oak table, set beside a window, was
polished and quite bare. There were no books or parchments anywhere in
the large room. Simon suspected that the cardinal used this room to
receive visitors but did little work in it. A five-pointed star was
carved in the back of the cardinal's chair above his head. Simon sat in
a small, armless chair made somewhat comfortable by the cushion on its
seat.
"I have come in the hope of presenting to you our French point of view
on this proposed alliance," said Simon. That sounded impressive enough.
"And do you speak for France, young man?"
"Not officially, Your Eminence," said Simon, flustered. "I mean only
that I _am_ French, and that both King Louis and his brother Count
Charles d'Anjou have deigned to share their views with me."
Ugolini leaned forward. His expression was earnest enough, but there was
a twinkle in his eye that gave Simon the uneasy feeling that the
cardinal was laughing at him.
"I am eager to hear what you have learned from the king and his
brother."
"Quite simply," Simon said, "they look on the advent of the Tartars as a
golden opportunity--one might say a God-given opportunity--to do away
with the threat of the Saracens once and for all."
Ugolini nodded thoughtfully. "So it is not just a question of rescuing
the holy places."
_Am I giving away something I should not?_ Simon asked himself, suddenly
panic-stricken. It was Count Charles, he now recalled, who had said that
the alliance might make possible the complete destruction of Islam.
_I am in this over my head._
But he had to go on.
"The Saracens believe they are called upon to spread their religion by
the sword. They will continue to make war on us unless we conquer them."
Ugolini lifted a finger like a master admonishing a poorly prepared
student. "The prophet Muhammad calls upon his followers to _defend_
their faith with the sword, but he explicitly states that conversions
made at sword's point are worthless and commands that Christians and
Jews who remain devoted to their own worship be left in peace." He sat
back and gazed as happily at Simon as at some well-fed mouse who had the
whole granary to himself.
"I cannot dispute you, Your Eminence. Truly, I am quite ignorant of the
Mohammedan faith." Why study false religions?--that had been the
attitude of his teachers.