The Saracen: Land of the Infidel Part 74

Glad to be on safer ground, Simon nodded vigorously. "We agree on that, to be sure."

"But we cannot simply go to de Verceuil, as you proposed, and denounce him for having left the room with Giancarlo. Not when he can at once point out that you also left the room--with Sophia."

Simon turned his back on Friar Mathieu and stared out, almost unseeing, toward the window. It had neither gla.s.s nor shutters nor parchment, only a gauze curtain to discourage insects, iron bars to keep out larger intruders. He felt furious with himself.

The mention of Giancarlo reminded him that he had heard nothing from Sordello. By now the old mercenary should have insinuated himself into the band Giancarlo was gathering. Perhaps through Sordello Simon could prove Sophia's innocence.

He noticed now that some light was coming through the curtain, and he thought he heard birds singing. He had been up all night.

"Then you think it pointless for us to confront de Verceuil? I suppose you do not think I should write to Count Charles, either."

"I think it very unlikely that Count Charles would give the cardinal's responsibilities in this to someone else. I think it very likely that Cardinal de Verceuil has his intriguers around the count who would learn of your message and might set themselves to do you harm. No, I do not think we can rid ourselves of the cardinal. But I agree that we should meet with him."

Simon was bewildered. "To do what?"

Friar Mathieu shrugged. "No man is beyond redemption. He must realize that because of his blundering tonight--our blundering--the mission is perilously close to failing. Perhaps we can convince him that in the future we must work together. Otherwise there will be no glory for him to steal from us."

The old friar had been sleeping only in a robe of gray frieze. He pulled a sleeveless brown mantle over his head and tied a white cord around his waist, and he was dressed for the day. Simon envied him the simplicity of his apparel. It took him a good deal longer to dress himself in the morning, and he knew n.o.blemen who spent hours in their wardrobes, with servants to help them, before they felt ready to face the world.

"We will go now, then?" he asked.

"Well, you are up. If the cardinal is as upset about this disaster as you are, he may well have spent a sleepless night, too. Let us go and see."

They walked side by side down dim corridors cluttered with battered old chairs and tables, past walls covered with tattered hangings, dented s.h.i.+elds, and rusty coats of mail. The Monaldeschi family, it seemed, never threw away anything. The rooms set aside for the cardinal and his entourage were on the third floor of the palazzo, where the windows were larger and set with white gla.s.s. A man wrapped in a blanket lay on a sack of straw outside the door to the cardinal's rooms. The top of his head, shaved in a tonsure, gleamed dully in the light of the one fat candle that illuminated the corridor. A cleric in minor orders, no doubt. Simon shook him.

"No, Your Signory," the cleric said, yawning and stretching as he stood up to bow properly to the count. "The cardinal is not sleeping, but neither is he here. After the contessa's reception he and the Tartars and their guards all went out. His Eminence did not choose to tell me where they were bound."

Simon felt the wind knocked out of him, as if he had been running full tilt and tripped. He looked at Friar Mathieu, who wore a pained, even sad expression.

After everything else that had gone wrong, how could de Verceuil take the Tartars into the streets late at night? They might run afoul of bravos or some of the wild young men of Orvieto's feuding families. Why would de Verceuil take such a risk?

Then Simon understood the reason for Friar Mathieu's look of sadness.

Men would leave the Palazzo Monaldeschi at this hour for only one reason--loose women.

Simon had heard that in the darkest hours a corrupt, secret world glowed brightly in Orvieto, hidden behind discreet walls. Rumor told of high-ranking churchmen who ventured behind those walls; indeed, it was said that the secret world existed because of the patronage of such men.

Of course de Verceuil would be a patron of that sinful night world. And of course he would draw the Tartars into it. Barbarians that they were, they no doubt expected the attentions of harlots as their due.

_That I am surprised only proves, I suppose, what a b.u.mpkin I am_, thought Simon, annoyed at himself and disgusted with de Verceuil.

He must pray, he thought with a chill, that the Tartars' guards were well armed and alert.

XXV

Swords drawn, Daoud and Lorenzo stood back-to-back in the shadowy courtyard. Lorenzo faced the six men who had emerged from the end of the alley and were now fanning out to surround them. Daoud confronted the four who had jumped down into the campiello.

A shutter opened on the overhanging second floor of a house, and Daoud glanced up to see a face. The shutter slammed with a finality that declared the householder wanted nothing to do with what was going on below.

It was too dark to see the faces of the men before him. They wore dark capes, and two of them carried long daggers in one hand and swords in the other. One shadowy figure stepped forward now, and Daoud wondered if they were going to challenge him.

"Messere, let us speak quickly. You are David of Trebizond, are you not?"

The man had asked the question in an urgent but respectful tone.

Feeling a bit more hopeful, Daoud answered, "Yes, I am David."

"Who the devil are _you_?" called a voice from behind Daoud.

The man addressed his answer to Daoud. "I am Andrea Sordello of Rimini, Messer David. These three men are my comrades. It would honor us if you would accept our service."

"Accept his service," Lorenzo said at once from behind Daoud. "We have nothing to lose."

Daoud made himself decide at once. "If you are willing to help me, I am grateful."

"Be off with you, Messer Sordello," called one of the original pursuers.

"This is no quarrel of yours."

"And what is _your_ quarrel with these men?" Sordello replied.

"That is no affair of yours, Messere!" It was the voice of a very young man, intense, pa.s.sionate.

Daoud turned to face the young voice. At once Sordello moved to take a position at his side.

Daoud realized that he could see better; the first hint of dawn. And not only was there more light, but his head was clearer as well. The heat of his body, aroused to fight, was burning away the intoxicating spirits in his blood.

The men opposite were spread far apart. The one who spoke for them was slender and wore a cap that fell over one ear. A silver badge glittered on the cap.

Sordello spoke again. "Since you will not say, Messere, I will tell _you_ what your affair is. You are of the famiglia Filippeschi. You saw these gentlemen leaving the Palazzo Monaldeschi and decided that any guest of the Monaldeschi must be an enemy of yours. And so you decided to hunt down and kill these good gentlemen, who have done you no harm and are not even citizens of Orvieto, for the offense of having enjoyed the hospitality of your rivals."

Filippeschi. Daoud had been wanting to make contact with them ever since his arrival in Orvieto. Now he had met them, and--accursed luck--they wanted to kill him.

"Lorenzo, they are Filippeschi," he muttered. "Talk to them."

"There is no talking to _them_, Messer David," said Sordello. "They are out for your blood."

"Be still," said Daoud. The man had offered his services. Let him confine himself to serving, then.

Lorenzo stepped out in front of Daoud, his sword still out before him, but angled toward the ground.

"Messeres, at least you should know who it is that you have set out to kill. I am Giancarlo of Naples, and this is my master, David. He is a merchant from Trebizond, which is very far away. Much too far for him to have any connection with the quarrels of Orvieto."

One of the Filippeschi bravos, a short man standing to the left of the slender leader, said, "You spin a tale to try to fool us. Anyone can see your master is a Frenchman. Too many d.a.m.ned French in Italy. The Monaldeschi are toadies of the French. Death to the Monaldeschi, and death to the French!"

What a bitter fate it would be, Daoud thought, if his Frankish looks, which caused him to be sent here, earned him his death in a stupid street fight.