"But Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Nazareth--those precious places we hear about
in the Gospel," Simon argued. "We cannot leave them in the hands of
Christ's enemies."
The cardinal shook his head. "Christ's enemies! Indeed, you know little
of them, Count. The Muslim holy book, the Koran, reveres Jesus and His
mother, Mary. Our sacred places are sacred to them also. Emperor
Frederic von Hohenstaufen had the right idea. He made a treaty with the
Saracens. If the crusaders in Syria had not broken it, pilgrims would be
happily walking in the footsteps of Our Lord to this day."
_Von Hohenstaufen._ Simon remembered the hatred in the voices of de
Verceuil and le Gros when they spoke of the house of Hohenstaufen.
"The crusades were a mistake from the very beginning," Ugolini went on.
Having heard harrowing tales from men who had been there of King Louis's
disastrous defeat fourteen years before in Egypt, Simon found it hard to
challenge Ugolini's assertion.
But history could not be undone, and with the help of the Tartars, might
this not be the one great crusade that would make any more crusades
unnecessary?
"We still hold Acre and Tripoli and Antioch and Cyprus," Simon said.
"The Templars and the Hospitallers have their castles along the coast.
Think of all the men who have died just to get and keep that much. And
if we do not beat the Saracens now, they will surely choose their moment
and take those last footholds of ours."
Ugolini stood up and walked slowly, red satin robe whispering, to a
small door behind his table. The door was slightly ajar, and Ugolini
looked into the next room. Was there someone in there, Simon wondered,
listening to this conversation?
_I am getting in deeper and deeper. What if my words could somehow be
used against me, or against the alliance? I should never have come
here._
Whatever he saw beyond the door seemed to satisfy Ugolini. He turned,
smiling.
"Count, I am going to suggest something to you that I am sure will shock
you at first: Perhaps we should leave the Holy Land in peace."
Simon felt troubled, but, having heard much the same thing from his
parents--and, indeed, from some of the knights at the royal palace when
King Louis was out of hearing--he was not shocked. But for himself he
had never been able to reconcile such views with his sense of his
obligations as a Christian.
Even so, he began to see why de Verceuil had spoken of Ugolini as if he
were a heretic. How could a man with such opinions get to be a cardinal?
"To leave the Holy Land in the hands of the infidels, Your Eminence?
Would it not betray Our Lord Himself?"
Ugolini, unperturbed, continued to smile as he walked toward Simon. "The
whole world belongs to God. If Our Savior wished the places where He was
born, died, buried, and rose again to be occupied by Christian knights
from Europe, He would have permitted it to happen. As it is, I truly
believe that if we sent every able-bodied man in Christendom to fight in
Outremer, we could not take Jerusalem back and we could not prevent the
crusader strongholds from falling to the Muslims. The infidels, as you
call them, are defending their own lands, and a people fighting for
their homeland is always stronger than an invader. Another crusade, even
with Tartar help, would be a tragic waste."
Ugolini stood before the seated Simon, and such was the difference in
their heights that their eyes were almost on a level. Simon wanted to
stand, but somehow he dared not move. He was beginning to feel
desperate. He had walked into a trap that he had not anticipated. He had
feared that he would not persuade the cardinal. He had not imagined that
the cardinal might persuade him.
"But you would abandon the Christians who are there now to be overrun
and slaughtered by the Turks?" Simon asked.
He reproached himself. It almost sounded as if he were conceding that
there should be no more crusades.
The cardinal shook his head. "I would do everything in my power to bring
them home."
He sighed and turned away. "You are a most impressive young man, Count
Simon. I am glad we have had this chance to hear each other out."
Simon felt deeply shaken, as if he had been galloping in a tournament
and had been ignominiously unhorsed. He had been foolish to think he
could sway a man of Ugolini's eminence and intelligence.
Courtesy demanded, he supposed, that he take his leave. He could only
hope that some of what he said would sink in and influence the
cardinal's thinking in the future.
Ugolini, standing before him, thrust his small hand suddenly under
Simon's nose, causing Simon to sit back, startled, in his chair. Then
Simon realized the cardinal was offering him his ring to kiss. He slid
out of the chair and dropped to one knee. He touched his lips to the
round, blue sapphire which betokened Ugolini's rank as a cardinal.
While he still knelt, the door behind Ugolini swung open. Feeling
awkward, Simon started to scramble to his feet.
As he did so, he saw the woman. Her features were delicate, her lips
full, her eyes dark and challenging. She wore a yellow gown tied under
her bosom by an orange ribbon. Simon stared at her, open-mouthed, until
he realized he was in a half-crouching position that must look
perfectly ridiculous. He shut his mouth. He slowly straightened.
"Buon giorno, my dear Sophia!" said Cardinal Ugolini. "Let me introduce
our distinguished visitor."
He first presented Simon to the young woman and then presented her to
him. "My niece, Sophia Orfali, daughter of my sister who lives at
Siracusa, in Sicily."
It registered somewhere in Simon's mind that Sicily was part of the
Hohenstaufen kingdom, and it occurred to him to wonder whether Sophia
was of gentle birth. It struck him with much greater impact that she was
an extraordinarily beautiful woman. Swallowing hard, he bowed over her
hand. His fingertips pressing into her palm felt as if they were
burning. His lips touched the back of her hand lightly; his eyes filled
with smooth, cream-colored skin and the pale blue tint of delicate
veins. As he stepped back he noticed that she gave off a faint scent of
oranges.
She stood looking at him with a small, self-possessed smile, waiting for
him to speak. All sorts of absurd phrases and sentences flooded into his
mind--outrageous compliments, declarations of love. The upper part of
her gown was pulled tight, and he had to make an effort to keep his eyes
from her breasts. His face burned and his throat felt parched.
"Buon giorno, Signora," he choked out. "It is a great honor to meet
you."
Her fine arched eyebrows lifted slightly and she answered him in French.
"Why do you not speak your native language, Monseigneur?"
Simon's cheeks burned hotter. "I assumed you would prefer Italian,
Madame."
She smiled, and Simon felt there was a shade of scorn in the smile. "I
would prefer French, Monseigneur, to Italian as _you_ speak it."
"Forgive me, Madame," Simon whispered.
"There is nothing to forgive," she said airily. Simon thought surely the
cardinal would reprove his niece for her unkindness, but he stood there
beaming like a master showing off a remarkably gifted scholar.
_Ah, lady!_ thought Simon, _I pray you be merciful to me_.
Ringing a small bell that stood on his desk, much like the one Friar
Tomasso d'Aquino had used to keep order at the pope's court, Ugolini
summoned one of the priests on his household staff, and Simon, his head
still spinning from his unexpected encounter with Sophia, found himself
being escorted out of the cardinal's mansion.
As Simon and the priest were walking through the gallery that led to the
main entrance, the outer door swung open and a large gray boarhound
trotted in. It was deep-chested, with long ears, a pointed, aristocratic
muzzle, and intelligent brown eyes. The dog jumped at Simon, resting his
forepaws on Simon's chest and looking up at him as if studying his face.
Simon, who had played and hunted with hounds all his life, took an
immediate liking to the dog. He scratched the back of the animal's head.
"Down, Scipio," said a deep voice, and Simon saw the hound's master--the
same swarthy man with grizzled, curly hair and thick mustache he had met
on the road from the north three days before. The one leading the little
company of bravos.
Again that tense, besieged feeling came over Simon, the same as when he
met this man on the road. There was too much going on in Orvieto, almost
all of it surprising and much of it seemingly dangerous. If he wanted to
be sure the Tartars were safe, he would have to give up sleeping.
The dog dropped to all fours and stood beside his master.
The other did not acknowledge having seen Simon before. "Forgive us,
Signore. I fear Scipio has gotten dust on your tunic."
"There is nothing to forgive," said Simon. He brushed off his
plum-colored tunic. "Do you serve Cardinal Ugolini?" This time he would
not let the man pass without questioning him.
"I am Giancarlo, Signore, a servant of Messer David of Trebizond." He
bowed deeply.
Feeling angry because he was sure he was being lied to, Simon wanted to
ask about the men with Giancarlo on the road, but decided it was better
not to appear too suspicious.
_Let them think I am a naive young nobleman, easily gulled. Not so far
from the truth, anyway._
"Are you also from Trebizond, Messer Giancarlo?"
The dark brown eyes were watchful. "I am a Neapolitan, Signore. Messer
David hired me when he arrived in Italy."
_So it is David of Trebizond who is bringing bravos into the city. What
for?_
* * * * *
Out on the street, Simon looked at the spot where the crossbowmen had
spilled two men's blood. He felt a weary anger. Two lives cut off
because of that fool de Verceuil and his vanity.
Where the men had been shot there now stood rows of bowls and pots, from
small to large. They were painted white, with pretty floral designs in
red, blue, and green. A woman sat on the ground beside the display,
painting a freshly baked jug. She looked up at Simon, then scrambled to
her feet and stood, bowing deeply.
"Fine vases and plates, Your Signory? The earthenware of Orvieto is the
most beautiful in the world."
Simon smiled. "No doubt, but not today, thank you." He must remember to
bring some samples back to Gobignon, though, he thought. It was
fine-looking ware, and it might give the potters of Gobignon-la-Ville
some good ideas.
He turned and stared back at the mansion, a great cream-colored cube of
the same tufa as the rock on which Orvieto stood.
From that rooftop, David of Trebizond had watched the heckling, the
throwing of garbage and dung, the sudden killings.
Simon almost expected to see David appear on the roof now, but it
remained empty. The cardinal's mansion remained flat and featureless,
revealing nothing.
Simon sighed longingly. _Oh, for another glimpse of the cardinal's
niece._
But there was no sign of her, and he could not stand here any longer.
Sighing again, he walked away.