With de Puys gone, only Simon and the cardinal were left in the tower.
They had nothing to say to each other. The cardinal had donned his
miter-shaped helmet at the first sign of the Filippeschi, and Simon
could not see his face. Simon longed for Teodoro to come back.
It was Simon's equerry, Thierry, who pushed open the trapdoor. "Capitano
Teodoro is hit."
"Blood of God!" Simon pushed past de Puys to hurry down the tower's
inner staircase.
Teodoro lay near the entrance to the tower, surrounded by a crowd of
men-at-arms. His breathing came in hoarse gasps, alternating with grunts
of pain. It was too dark for Simon to see him well. He knelt beside
Teodoro, and a vile smell of excrement choked him. Someone beside Simon
was sobbing. Teodoro had been much liked among the Venetians.
Carefully Simon felt down the capitano's body. The hard leather cuirass
he wore was cracked down the center. Just below his chest Simon's hand
met the huge rock. It was wet, probably with Teodoro's blood.
"It caught him right in the middle," said an archer standing over Simon.
"Broke him in two. Crushed his belly and his spine. Only the part of him
above the stone is alive."
A gurgling sound rose in Teodoro's throat. He was vomiting, and warm
liquid gushed over Simon's hand. His own stomach writhed, and bile
burned his throat. He stood up suddenly, and instantly regretted it,
because he had wanted to comfort Teodoro in his dying. But the gasping
had stopped.
Teodoro had probably never known he was there.
Simon's hands and knees were trembling.
_So this is what it is like to be killed in battle._
He wiped his hand on his surcoat. Careful to make his voice firm, he
ordered the archers back to their positions. The weight of his mail
almost unbearable, he stumbled back to the doorway to the tower.
He felt his arm gripped and heard Friar Mathieu's voice. "Simon, I heard
you lost your capitano of archers."
"This is much worse than I ever thought it would be, Father," he
whispered, almost as if confessing.
The hand on his arm squeezed through his mail. "Trust yourself, Simon.
You will do what you must do."
By the light of a fire arrow burning itself out in the overhead screen,
Simon saw the contessa, her purple gown tied up to her knees so she
could move more quickly. She called Friar Mathieu to see to a wounded
man, then greeted Simon.
_She thinks I am a hero. If only she knew the horror I feel._
Who was Teodoro's second-in-command? Yes, Peppino. Peppino was the one
who had fought with the Armenians at Alain's funeral, but a new capitano
must be appointed immediately. There was no time to balance
considerations.
He managed to find Peppino and appointed him to lead the Venetians. Then
on shaking legs he pushed himself back up to the roof of the tower.
"They are bombarding the rear gatehouse with mangonels," de Puys said.
Simon heard rocks thudding against the drawbridge at the rear of the
palace, the entrance for horses and wagons. By moonlight he was able to
make out, across the street from the rear of the palace, four mangonels,
stone guns shaped like giant crossbows.
"Where did the Filippeschi get so many men and machines?" Simon wondered
aloud.
"One would suppose you could answer that," said de Verceuil, his voice
muffled by his helmet. "Are you not our military expert?"
Simon was still too gripped by horror to be angry. But a part of his
mind somehow kept trying to think about what the Filippeschi intended.
He became lost in thought as he gnawed at the problem, and all but
forgot the battle raging around him. Numerous as they seemed, the
Filippeschi had just a chance, no more than that, of overwhelming the
Monaldeschi palace, especially having lost the advantage of surprise.
Was their hatred of the Monaldeschi so deep that such an uncertain
chance was reason enough for them to make this effort?
_If I could but capture Marco di Filippeschi and force him to tell me
why he is doing this ..._
What if this attack were a diversion, a cover for the real blow, to be
struck by stealth?
Simon's body went cold.
"I must see to the Tartar ambassadors," he said. He turned toward the
trapdoor in the tower roof.
"Monseigneur--look--the Filippeschi are attacking again," de Puys
protested. Simon turned back, looked over the edge, and saw the tortoise
shapes moving forward again over the piazza while stones from mangonels
slammed into the second-story gatehouse.
_No_, he thought. _Even if they break down the door, they could never
get up the stairs. This attack is a feint._
"I believe the ambassadors are in danger," he said.
"By God's robe!" de Verceuil boomed from under his helmet. "You are
quitting the battle?"
"The battle is where the ambassadors are," Simon said. "The whole
purpose of this attack is to get at them."
"The whole purpose of your saying that is to get out of danger," de
Verceuil retorted.
Simon quivered with rage. De Verceuil's eyes glittered coldly at him in
the moonlight through holes cut in the blood-red helmet. Simon wished he
could draw his sword and swing it at the damned cardinal's head. But he
felt as if he were suddenly wrapped in chains. With de Verceuil accusing
him of cowardice, how could he leave the tower?
De Puys put a steadying hand on his arm. "Monseigneur, no one can get at
the ambassadors. Not as long as we hold fast here."
In the florid face with its drooping mustaches Simon saw pity, but also
a trace of contempt. The old warrior, too, thought his young seigneur
wanted to run away. If Simon left the tower now, he would have to bear
his vassal's scorn. Nor was it likely that de Puys would keep silent
about this. The tale would spread throughout the Gobignon domain.
_But I know I am not a coward._
Searching his heart, he knew that though he was afraid of the flying
crossbow bolts and stones, he could direct the battle from the tower all
night if need be. Even after Teodoro's death, and the blood still sticky
on the mailed glove that hung from his right wrist, he felt strong
enough to go on fighting.
If he went to the ambassadors and no one struck at them, he would have
been mistaken, but his leaving here would not affect the outcome of the
battle. What was happening out here was a simple matter of force against
force. If he remained here and the Tartars were attacked and murdered,
all would be lost.
_If I do not do what I believe I should because I am afraid of what
these men think, then truly I am a coward._
He tried to make the other two understand. "The safety of the
ambassadors is my first obligation. Enemies could be in the palace now."
De Verceuil brought his steel-masked face close to Simon's. "It is known
that there is tainted blood in your family."
Simon's face went as hot as if a torch had suddenly been thrust at him.
It was a moment before he could speak.
"If you were not a man of the Church, I would kill you for saying that."
His voice trembled.
"Really? I doubt you would dare." De Verceuil turned away.
"Monseigneur!" de Puys cried, his face redder than ever. "Do not make me
ashamed to wear the purple and gold."
That hurt even more than what de Verceuil had said. It hurt so much
Simon wanted to weep with anger and frustration.
Instead, he bent forward and lifted the trapdoor and hurried down the
steps. He heard de Verceuil say something to de Puys, but he could not
hear what it was. Fortunately.
He stopped on the roof to look for Friar Mathieu. Groups of crossbowmen
were running from one side to the other. Friar Mathieu was making the
sign of the cross over a fallen man.
"I think the Tartars may be in danger, Friar Mathieu," Simon said. "I
want you to come with me so that I can talk to them."
To Simon's relief the old Franciscan did not object. "Let us take two of
the Armenians with us," he said. "If there is danger, you should not go
alone."
Now that he was away from de Verceuil and de Puys, Simon could reflect
that he might, indeed, be mistaken. But he had to act, even though he
doubted himself.
Simon, Friar Mathieu, and two Armenian warriors named Stefan and Grigor
hurried down the tower's inner staircase to the ground floor. Single
candles, burning low, lit the corridor at long intervals. Here were
storerooms and cubbyholes where servants worked and lived. The
relentless pounding of rocks reverberated in the stone walls, punctuated
by occasional screams penetrating through the arrow slits.
Monaldeschi men-at-arms standing at the embrasures with crossbows kept
their backs turned to Simon as he hurried past. An odor of damp stone
pervaded the still air. Simon noted that as he had ordered, buckets of
water had been placed along the corridor to douse fires.
The kitchen was on the north side of the building. It was dark as a
cave. The cooking fire in the great fireplace, big enough for a man to
walk into it, had been put out. They passed empty cauldrons, piles of
full sacks, rows of barrels, all barely visible in the light of a
half-consumed taper in a candlestick on a table. A large water cask
surrounded by buckets and pots stood in the center of the kitchen.
Attackers could be hiding here. But Simon knew he did not have enough
men to search. He must get to the Tartars and stay with them.
The pantry where the contessa kept her costly stock of spices imported
from the East was below ground. Stefan lifted a heavy trapdoor, and one
by one they climbed down a narrow flight of wooden steps without a
banister. Grigor, bringing up the rear, held a candle to light their
way.
A door of rough oaken planks bound together with iron straps stood
before him. He felt his stomach knot as he walked up to it. What if he
were too late?
Simon had ordered that the square black iron lock set in the door be
left unlocked in the case the Tartars should have to escape. He pulled
on the handle. The door was bolted from the inside, of course, with a
bolt he had only that afternoon ordered the Monaldeschi carpenter to
install. From the other side a voice asked a half-audible question.
"It is Count Simon," he said. "Let us in." Friar Mathieu added a few
words in the Tartar tongue.
The bolt slid back and the door opened inward. Simon stepped forward to
see how his charges had fared.
The storeroom was dimly lit by a small oil lantern. The two Armenians
within had risen from chairs. They had their bows in their hands,
arrows nocked. They stood in front of the Tartars. John, the
white-haired Tartar, and Philip, the black-haired one, sat on cushions
on the floor, leaning back against the shelves of spice jars that
covered three walls of the room. Their bows were on the table and their
curving swords, in scabbards, lay in their laps.
Simon was pleased to see that they looked alert. It must be maddening to
sit down here in semidarkness and do nothing while a battle raged above.
He reminded himself that if no one attacked the Tartars while the
Filippeschi besieged the palace, his reputation would be ruined. He felt
a momentary pang of anguish, and found himself actually hoping that the
enemy would come here. Quickly he stifled the feeling.
_Do not call on the devil. He may hear you and come._