The stained glass in the cathedral's deeply recessed rear windows broke
the sunlight of the April morning into blue, yellow, and red beams.
Walking slowly through the nave, Simon wondered why Sordello had
insisted this time on meeting him in person in the cathedral rather than
sending his news through Ana. The departure from their routine gave
Simon an uneasy feeling that some disaster was about to befall him.
The miraculous altar cloth with the dark spots in its center was mounted
in a gilded frame above the altar. On each side of it a tall white
candle burned. At the foot of the altar two priests in black cassocks
and white surplices knelt on benches, their heads resting on their
folded arms so that it was impossible to tell whether they were sleeping
or praying. In the four months since the cloth had been brought to
Orvieto, it had never been left unattended. The pope had decreed that
priests in hourly shifts would watch day and night before the blood of
the Savior.
Simon suspected reverence was not the only motive for this vigil. He
knew several tales of famous relics being stolen, not only from pious
zeal, but because relics attracted pilgrims and their money. And the
people of Bolsena might still be jealous.
Hearing footsteps behind him, Simon approached the altar, genuflected,
and walked into the shadows on the left side of the cathedral. He paused
by a fluted pillar that rose like a tree trunk. Approaching him was a
beggar in a tattered gray cloak that hung to his ankles. A deep hood hid
his face. The man gripped Simon's arm. The face of Sordello looked out
of the shadows under the hood. Simon pulled his arm free.
"I have something important to tell Your Signory, but it is not about
Cardinal Ugolini and his circle." Sordello spoke in a hoarse whisper.
"The Filippeschi are going to make a surprise attack on the Palazzo
Monaldeschi."
The news hit Simon like a kick in the belly.
The Tartars--and he and his men--would be caught in the middle. He
thought back to Alain's murder. Even since then he had felt that Orvieto
could be a death trap for him and all his men.
Simon leaned forward to peer into Sordello's pinkish eyes. "When will
the attack come?"
"Tonight, after vespers."
_Tonight!_ Now Simon's blood froze. _No time! No time!_ a voice shrieked
inside him. He wanted to run back to the palace shouting warnings all
the way. It took all his strength to keep him standing with Sordello, to
force his mind, galloping like a runaway horse, to slow down and frame
questions.
"How did you find out?"
"Tavern talk. Some of Giancarlo's hired bravos were drinking with
Filippeschi men."
Sweat that felt like a cold rain broke out all over Simon's body. The
Tartars--he must get them out of the Monaldeschi palace. But the
contessa had been his hostess for many months. He himself had no quarrel
with the Filippeschi, but he had an obligation to defend the contessa.
"How long have you known this?"
"I just learned it last night, but they must have been preparing for
months."
"Why _now_?"
Sordello's eyes met his. "The Filippeschi think the Monaldeschi are
betraying Italy to you French."
If the Filippeschi were attacking now because he was at the Palazzo
Monaldeschi, then indeed he had a quarrel with them, whether or not he
wanted one. And it was his fault, in a sense, that the contessa was in
danger.
"Betraying Italy to the French? What does that mean?"
Sordello ticked off points on his fingers. "The pope is French. He asks
the contessa to take the Tartars into her house. Then you and Cardinal
de Verceuil come with the Tartars. And now everyone has heard that the
pope wants Charles d'Anjou to come in and take Sicily and southern Italy
from King Manfred. The Filippeschi want to turn the tide now, they say,
before the French own all of Italy."
The face of Uncle Charles flashed vividly before Simon's mind, the big
nose, the staring eyes. When they had talked of this mission over a year
ago at the Louvre, he had said nothing of Sicily, had spoken only of the
liberation of Jerusalem and the destruction of Islam. Was Sicily what he
really wanted--or perhaps even all of Italy?
What should he do? It struck Simon with frightening force that there was
no one but he to take the responsibility. He was in command. He must
make the plans and the decisions. His heart thudded frantically, and he
prayed that Sordello could not see the consternation that filled him.
"What forces do they have, what weapons?"
Sordello shook his head. "As to that, Your Signory, I know very little.
I have been at Cardinal Ugolini's mansion, not among the Filippeschi. I
would guess they must have at least five hundred men and siege weapons.
They would be mad to start this thing with less."
"Five hundred men and siege weapons!"
Simon pictured the Monaldeschi palace with its great tower crumbling
under a bombardment of boulders. He saw men swarming over it like ants.
He saw the defenders lying dead in the ruins--de Puys, Thierry, the
Armenians, the Venetians--himself. He saw the Tartars with their throats
cut.
Again he felt the urge to run back to the palace to prepare at once.
Again he suppressed the urge so he could ask more questions.
"Where did they get such forces?"
Sordello shrugged. "They are a big family. They have relatives in the
outlying towns."
Simon bent down to look deep into Sordello's bloodshot eyes. "Are you
sure Ugolini and David of Trebizond and the rest are not involved? If we
French and the Tartars are the provocation, Ugolini must be behind
this."
Sordello tapped his cheek just under his right eye. "Your Signory, I
watch them as closely as those priests watch the miraculous altar cloth.
Ugolini has been in despair all winter, since Fra Tomasso changed sides.
He buries himself in his cabinet with his magical instruments. David
has lost interest in the Tartars and thinks only about trade. He talks
to Giancarlo of making up a caravan to go back to Trebizond. The two of
them left for Perugia on business yesterday."
"What about Giancarlo's bravos?"
"Altogether, Giancarlo has hired only a dozen such men, including
myself. We guard David's goods and escort his caravans." Sordello waved
a hand in dismissal.
"And what of the cardinal's niece?" said Simon, trying not to sound
especially interested.
Sordello shrugged. "That lovely lady stays apart. She goes to church,
she reads, she paints."
Worried though he was about the impending Filippeschi attack, Simon's
heart felt lightened by joy. Sophia was innocent. His love for her was
vindicated. After this was over he would come to her and broach
marriage.
"You must watch Madonna Sophia for me," Simon said. "Stay close to her.
Do not let her go out tonight."
"Stay close to her." Sordello grinned. "That will not be hard, Your
Signory."
Simon seized the front of Sordello's tunic. "Never speak that way of
her."
Sordello jerked away from Simon and brushed his tunic. "I am a man, Your
Signory. Do not treat me like a slave." The coarse face was pale with
outraged pride.
_He forgets his place so easily. But there is no one else to guard
Sophia for me._
"I want you to be thinking about her safety, and that alone," he said in
a calmer voice.
Sordello bowed. "I understand, Your Signory." But resentment still
burned in his narrowed eyes.
In the midst of his fear, like a single candle glowing in a pitch-black
cathedral, Simon felt a tingle of anticipation. There was something in
him, deeply buried but powerful, that keenly looked forward to taking
command in battle.
"If you learn any more, try to get word to me," he told Sordello.
He turned and hurried through the nave of the cathedral to the front
doors, still holding in check the urge to run.
* * * * *
"For them to attack is pazzia," said the contessa. "We have twice the
men-at-arms they do. Yet I pray God this rumor is true. By tomorrow
morning Marco di Filippeschi will be hanging from our battlements." The
cords in her neck stood out, her nose was thrust forward like a falcon's
beak, and her eyes glittered.
Simon said, "With respect, Contessa, they must have more men than you
do. I was told they might have five hundred. And siege machines."
They were seated in the small council room of the Monaldeschi
palace--Simon, the contessa, de Verceuil, Sire Henri de Puys, and Friar
Mathieu--around a circular table of warm brown wood.
"But surely we have better men," said Henri de Puys in French. "What
sort of fighters could these Philippe-whatever-they-are muster?
Routiers, highwaymen?"
Friar Mathieu turned to de Verceuil. "Might I suggest that Your Eminence
use your influence with Pope Urban. Perhaps his holiness can stop this
battle."
"Yes," said de Verceuil. "I will try to speak to him. But he is sick,
and pays little attention to anything."
_Probably de Verceuil is annoyed because he did not think first of going
to the pope._
"I should think it would endanger his health even more if a war broke
out in Orvieto," said Friar Mathieu.
"I will _see_ him," said de Verceuil. "But I will also arm myself and my
men to help defend this place."
Simon expected de Verceuil to next propose himself as commander of the
defense, but, to his delight, the cardinal had nothing more to say. Then
the suspicion crossed his mind that de Verceuil did not want to have to
take the blame in case of defeat.
"Grazie, Your Eminence," said the contessa.
Simon said, "I must go to Signore d'Ucello. Surely the podesta will not
let civil war break out in the city he governs."
The contessa laughed, a knowing cackle. "Go to him if you like, but you
waste your time. He cannot--will not--stop the Filippeschi. He has
Filippeschi relatives, you know. But he could not stop me, either, if I
chose to attack them."
Friar Mathieu said, "Perhaps we should take the ambassadors to the papal
palace. That would get them out of harm's way until this is over."
Simon's body went rigid. The Tartars were his responsibility. He would
never give them up to the pope's men-at-arms.
"No!" he said. "The duty of guarding them is mine, and I will surrender
it to no one."
De Puys struck the table with his open palm. "Bravely spoken,
Monseigneur."
Friar Mathieu sighed.
De Verceuil pointed a finger at Simon. "Count, you have no right to risk
the ambassadors' lives just for your own glory."
Simon looked around the table. He was the youngest person here, and they
were treating him like a child. He remembered the Doge Zeno's threat to
have him thrown into the water of Venice's San Marco Canal. He
remembered the many times de Verceuil had been overbearing with him. To
think _that_ man would accuse anyone else of being too concerned with
his own glory.
He was about to shout defiance when he thought of royal councils he had
attended as a page to King Louis. Those close to the king often
disagreed with him, but they usually ended up doing what he wanted.
Louis was perhaps the strongest man, in his gentle way, Simon had ever
met, but he had never heard him raise his voice.
Instead of defying de Verceuil and the others, he tried to speak with
dignity, even humility, as King Louis himself might.
"His Majesty's brother, Count Charles, entrusted this task to me. Shall
I give it up at the first threat? Shall I turn over the ambassadors'
protection to men unknown to me, some of whom may be moved by the same
hatred of us French that moves the Filippeschi? I have a duty not to let
the ambassadors go beyond the walls I guard."
When he finished there was silence.
Friar Mathieu said, "Count Simon makes an excellent point. John and
Philip may well be safer guarded by our men, even under attack."
Now that they had agreed, Simon's heart sank. If the Tartars were killed
in the coming battle because he had insisted on keeping them in the
palace, he would bear the guilt. Instead of restoring his name, he would
end by plunging it deeper into the mire.
De Puys looked from Simon to the cardinal and said, "Perhaps our knights
and crossbowmen could go with the Tartars to the Pope's palace."
"No!" cried the contessa. "Now, when I am attacked because I opened my
home to the Tartars and the French, will you all abandon me? All the men
of my family are dead but the boy Vittorio." She turned to Simon and
seized his wrist with her clawlike hand. "You must stay and defend me.
You must be my cavaliere."
Simon pressed her hand in both of his and saw tears running down her
withered cheeks.
"I would not think of leaving you, Contessa."
"But, Contessa," said Friar Mathieu, "if the Tartars were to leave your
palace, the Filippeschi might not attack you."
"No, no." The contessa shook her head. "If they think they are strong
enough to attack me, they will. They have long sought to kill me and
Vittorio. Canaglia! May God send that little bastard Marco and all the
Filippeschi straight to hell!"
Friar Mathieu winced and made the sign of the cross.
Inwardly Simon winced, too, as he always did at the word bastard. But,
bastard or not, he was about to command a palace under siege. He felt
his chest swelling at the thought.
* * * * *
The candlelit audience chamber of the podesta was hung with somber
maroon drapes drawn against the night air. On the wall behind d'Ucello,
a tapestry depicted Jesus and Barabbas being offered to the crowd in
Jerusalem while Pilate washed his hands. Simon had never seen such a
large scene with such finely embroidered figures, and he admired it
aloud.
"I keep it here as a reminder that a judge who heeds the popular clamor
may make a grave error," said the small man behind the large table. "How
may I serve you, Count?"
As Simon told the podesta what he knew of the planned Filippeschi
assault on the contessa's palace, d'Ucello leaned back in a tall chair
that seemed too big for him, his eyes distant, the corners of his mouth
turned down under his thin mustache.
When Simon finished, d'Ucello asked, "Are Cardinal Ugolini or any of his
guests involved in this?"
_The very question I asked Sordello. Interesting that the podesta shares
my suspicions._
"The person who warned me said they were not."