Friar Mathieu was silent for a moment. "The man who slew Count Amalric.
The man your mother married soon after the count was dead." His voice
was soft and full of kindness.
"Yes," said Simon, almost choking. "And now you know my sin. The world
thinks I am the son of a traitor and murderer, which is bad enough. But
I am not even that man's son. I am an impostor, a bastard, and I have no
right to the title of Count de Gobignon."
Simon flicked the reins, and his palfrey started picking her way down
the road into the Vallia de Campesito. Mathieu clucked to his donkey and
kept pace with him.
"Do you believe that you are committing a grave sin by being the Count
de Gobignon?"
"My mother and Roland say no, but I do not think they are very good
Christians. They are full of pagan ideas. I am Count Amalric's only male
heir. And the blood of the house of Gobignon does flow in my veins. I am
not the son of Count Amalric de Gobignon, but I am the grandson of his
father, Count Stephen de Gobignon."
Friar Mathieu clapped his hand to his forehead. "I am lost in the tangle
of bloodlines. What in heaven's name do you mean?"
Simon's entire body burned with shame as he thought how accursed his
family would seem to anyone hearing this for the first time. The bastard
son of a bastard son. The usurper of his half uncle's title. Tangled,
indeed. Twisted was a better word for it.
In his agony he whispered the words. "Roland de Vency, my true father,
is the bastard son of Count Stephen de Gobignon, sired by rape in
Languedoc. Roland and Count Amalric were half brothers."
"God's mercy!" exclaimed Friar Mathieu. "But then you do have some claim
by blood to the title. To whom else could it go?"
"I suppose the fiefdom could go to my oldest sister, Isabelle, and her
husband. He is a landless knight, a vassal of the Count of Artois. My
three sisters married far beneath their stations--because of what Count
Amalric did."
Friar Mathieu sighed. "Would any great evil come of it, do you think, if
you were to give up your estate?"
"My mother and father--my true father, Roland de Vency--would be exposed
as adulterers. We would all be charged as criminals, for defrauding the
kingdom and the rightful heirs, whoever they might be." He saw his
mother kneeling with her head on a chopping block, and a chill of horror
went through him.
"Simon, this is no easy question you have set before me this night. The
lives of thousands of people, even the future of the kingdom, could be
determined by who holds the Gobignon domains. I think it is not so
important that the Count de Gobignon be the _rightful_ person as that he
be the _right_ person. Do you take my meaning?"
"I think so," said Simon. What Friar Mathieu was saying gave him a faint
feeling of hope.
"I know you well enough to know that the people of Gobignon are blessed
to have you as their seigneur. When a bad man inherits a title, we say
it must be God's will, and those who owe him obedience are bound to
accept him. Might we not say that when a man like you is invested with a
title, regardless of how he came by it, that is God's will, too? In any
case, Simon, we cannot settle this question tonight. There is too much
at stake, and we must proceed thoughtfully."
"But what if--if something happens to me while I am in sin?" Simon
pictured himself lying in a street in Orvieto, blood streaming from his
chest as Sophia watched, weeping, from a distant window. And then he saw
grinning Saracen-faced demons in hell jabbing him with spears and
scimitars.
"I can give you absolution conditional on your desire to do whatever is
right," said Friar Mathieu. "Promise God that you will make all haste to
determine His will in this matter and that when you know what He wants,
you will faithfully do it, whether it be to give up the title or to keep
the title and the secret. I need hardly remind you that God sees into
your heart and knows whether you truly mean to set things right. Say an
Act of Contrition."
The weight of shame seemed as crushing as ever, and Simon did not think
Friar Mathieu's speaking Latin words while he himself spoke the formula
of repentance would take the burden away. But he began the Act of
Contrition.
His voice as he uttered the prayer was barely audible over the clicking
of the horses' hooves on the stony road, the rumbling of the two carts
and the rustling of the pines on the hillside. He repeated what Friar
Mathieu had said to him about being ready to follow God's will. Then the
old Franciscan made the Sign of the Cross in the air.
The road narrowed now so that there was not enough room for horses side
by side. Simon fell behind Friar Mathieu.
_Roland and Nicolette need never know I told anyone._
The only way they would find out would be if he felt called upon to
reveal the secret to the world.
He felt as if his whole body were plunged into icy water. He realized
that by his promise to Friar Mathieu--to God--he was embarked on a
course that could end in ruin or worse for his mother and father as well
as himself. Their pretense that Simon was Amalric's child was a crime.
He saw them all brought as prisoners before King Louis.
How could he bear to face the king, whom he admired more than any other
man in France, even more than his own true father?
What punishment would the king mete out to them? Would they spend the
rest of their lives locked away in lightless dungeons? Would they have
to die for their crime?
Surely God would not ask that of him.
And then, Simon might decide, with God's help, that he had the best
right of anyone to the count's coronet. If he kept it, and kept the
secret of his parentage, it would be through his own choice. No mortal
would thrust that choice upon him.
He began to feel better. He started humming a tune, an old crusader song
Roland had taught him, called "The Old Man of the Mountain."
Until now other hands had shaped his life. From this moment on he would
hold his destiny in his own hands.
* * * * *
"May I disturb you for a moment, Your Signory, before you retire?" The
Contessa di Monaldeschi's chief steward was a severe-looking man with
long white hair streaked with black.
Simon had just set foot to the steps leading to the third story of the
Monaldeschi palace, where his bedchamber waited. He most definitely did
not want to be disturbed this evening. But the steward had shown gravity
and discretion arranging for the drunken Tartars to be bundled off to
bed, and Simon felt that whatever he might say would be worth listening
to.
"Late this afternoon a vagabondo came to our door. He claims to be a
former retainer of yours. He begs an audience with you--most humbly, he
says to tell you. He waits in the kitchen. We can keep him till
tomorrow. Or we can put him out in the street. Or you can see him.
Whatever Your Signory desires."
A former retainer? A sour suspicion began to grow in Simon's mind.
"Did he at least tell you his name?"
"Yes, Your Signory. Sordello."
Simon felt hot blood pounding at his temples in immediate anger.
_Has that dog had the temerity to follow me all the way to Orvieto?_
"Send him away," he said brusquely. "And do not be gentle about it."
The steward's stern face remained expressionless. "Very good, Your
Signory." He bowed himself away. A good servant, thought Simon. He
showed neither approval nor disapproval. Simon started up the stairs.
_What the devil could Sordello have to talk to me about?_
_Do not call upon the devil. He may hear you and come._
Halfway up the stairs Simon felt the itch of curiosity growing stronger
and stronger. Perhaps Sordello had been to see Count Charles and had
some word from him. The feeling was like a scab Simon knew he should not
pick but could not let alone.
He turned. The steward was almost invisible in the shadows at the end of
the long hallway.
"Wait. I will go to him."
* * * * *
In the kitchen on the bottom floor of the Palazzo Monaldeschi, under a
chimney in the center of the room, a cauldron big enough to hold a man
simmered over a low fire. From it came a strong smell of lamb, chicken,
onion, celery, peppers, garlic, cloves, and other ingredients Simon
could not identify. Beyond the cauldron a trapdoor covered the stairs to
a locked cellar pantry where, Simon knew, the Monaldeschi hoarded
possessions as costly as jewels--their collection of spices imported
from the East.
Simon had just a glimpse of the ruddy face with its broken nose before
the crossbowman-troubadour fell to his knees and thumped his forehead on
the brick floor.
_Perhaps I could pop Sordello into that cooking pot and be done with him
for good and all._
"Thank you, Your Signory, for being willing to see me," came the muffled
voice from the floor. "You are far kinder than I deserve."
"Yes, I am," said Simon brusquely. "Get up. Why have you come to me?"
Sordello rocked back on his heels and sprang to his feet in a single,
surprising motion. Simon told himself to be wary. It was all very well
to be gruff with Sordello, but he must keep in mind that the man was a
fighter, a murderer. And one with a vile and overquick temper, as he had
proved in Venice.
"I have no one else to go to." Sordello spread his empty hands. He had
grown a short, ragged black beard, Simon noticed. He wore no hat or
cloak, and his tunic and hose were stained and tattered. His tunic hung
loose, unbelted. No weapons. That made Simon feel a bit easier. The toe
of one boot was worn through, and the other was bound with a bit of rag
to hold the sole to the upper.
"I thought you would see the Count d'Anjou." And Simon had half expected
Uncle Charles would send Sordello back with a message insisting Simon
take the fellow back into his service.
Sordello laughed and nodded. "Easy to say 'see the Count d'Anjou,' Your
Signory. Not so easy to do when you are a masterless man with an empty
purse. The count likes to move about, and quickly at that. But I caught
up with him at Lyons. He already knew the whole story."
"I wrote to him," said Simon.
"Well, your letter must have been most eloquent, Your Signory, because
the count refused to take me back into his service. He called me a fool
and a few other things and told me I deserved exactly what I got. Told
me if I wasn't out of the city in an hour he would have me flogged."
"I assumed that the count reposed great confidence in you, and I felt I
must convince him that I had done the right thing in dismissing you."
He sounded in his own ears as if he were apologizing. He reminded
himself firmly that the scoundrel had no right to an apology.
"You convinced him, all right." Sordello's manner was becoming less
humble by the moment.
_He is either going to attack me or--worse--ask for his position back. I
must not be soft with him._
"Once a man as well known as the Count d'Anjou has expelled you from his
service, you can't find a position anywhere in France or Italy," said
Sordello. "Not if your only skills are fighting and singing. I sold my
horse in Milan. I walked from there on. I ran out of money in Pisa. I
starved and slept in ditches to get here."
"And stole here and there, too, I'll wager," said Simon, determined to
be hard with Sordello. "Well, here you are, and why have you come?" He
knew the answer perfectly well, and was determined, no matter how the
troubadour tried to play on his sympathies, to send him on his way. Even
if he had wanted to take Sordello back into his service--and he most
definitely did not--the Armenians and the Tartars would never permit his
presence among them. At any rate, regardless of what Sordello claimed,
he would not starve. He could sing for his supper in inns. And Italy's
street-warring families and factions could always use a dagger as quick
as Sordello's.
"I could throw my lot in with the Ghibellini, Your Signory, but their
prospects are poor," said Sordello, as if aware of Simon's thoughts.
"The day is coming when all of Italy will be in the power of the Count
d'Anjou. I want to get back into his good graces, and the only way I can
do that is through you, Your Signory. If you take me back, he will take
me back."
_David of Trebizond's servant, Giancarlo! Just today, was I not wishing
I could put someone in the enemy camp?_
Simon stood staring into Sordello's eyes, deliberately making him wait
for an answer. The troubadour's eyelids wrinkled down to slits, but he
held Simon's gaze.
"I was going to tell you I had nothing for you." Simon saw Sordello's
face brighten at the hint that Simon would offer him something. "But
there is a way you can serve me."
Sordello began to smile.
"It does involve throwing your lot in with the Ghibellini," Simon said,
"but you will be serving me and, through me, Count Charles. Does that
interest you?"
Sordello dropped to his knees, seized Simon's hand, and kissed it with
rough lips. "To spy upon them? Your Signory, I was made for such work.
Thank you, thank you for letting me serve you. Command me, Your Signory,
I beg."