Gansukh struggled to free himself. Munokhoi’s legs were constricting his range of motion—one of his arms was pinned at his side—and he was going to have trouble defending himself from Munokhoi’s blade. Gansukh lashed out blindly with his knife, feeling the blade cut fabric and flesh. Munokhoi grunted, and his legs loosened. As Gansukh scrambled out of Munokhoi’s grip, he kept slashing with his blade. Munokhoi began kicking, and Gansukh retreated before one of the other man’s boots connected with his face. There was blood on his knife and on his hand.
Munokhoi rolled away too, using the motion to propel himself into a crouch and from there to an upright position. He favored his left leg, and there was a bright wash of blood running down the side of his pants. Munokhoi’s gaze was charged with feral rage, his mouth contorted into a savage grimace. He stood ready to fight, oblivious to the wounds he had received.
Gansukh had seen this blindness to injury before. Men who refused to lie down and die, no matter how many arrows stuck out of their bodies or how many times they had been stabbed or cut. He had even heard of a man who continued to fight with a severed arm until his heart had pumped nearly all of the blood out of his body.
He wasn’t surprised that Munokhoi would be filled with this invincible bloodlust. In fact, he was prepared to call upon it himself. After everything, Munokhoi was not going to walk out of the forest. Gansukh was going to be the survivor of this fight. “You are nothing,” he hissed. “I will leave your corpse for the scavengers.”
Munokhoi’s response was a snarl of raw hatred and a lightning-fast lunge. Gansukh darted to the side, staying away from Munokhoi’s knife and keeping to the other man’s wounded side, but Munokhoi grabbed his left arm and tried to pull him close. He slashed at Munokhoi’s neck with his knife, and Munokhoi tumbled forward, shoving his shoulder. He stepped back, stumbling slightly, and Munokhoi slipped behind him, making ready to slit his throat like a sheep.
Gansukh contorted his body, trapping Munokhoi’s arm with his own. They were locked together now, each straining to overpower the other. Whoever lost control first would lose his life. Their faces reddened with anger and effort as they twisted in a macabre dance, trying to break each other’s hold. Trying to drive their knives deep into flesh. They were evenly matched, unable to gain the advantage while keeping the other’s knife at bay. Munokhoi slipped his arm over Gansukh’s wrist, attempting an arm lock, and Gansukh wriggled free and nearly managed to throw Munokhoi in return.
Munokhoi recovered and stabbed at Gansukh’s side, but there wasn’t enough speed or force to his blow, and Gansukh was able to stop the blow by grabbing Munokhoi’s wrist and pushing his hand away. Growling with frustration, Munokhoi hurled himself forward, thrusting with his chest. He snapped at Gansukh’s cheek with his teeth. Gansukh pulled his head back, and Munokhoi lurched farther up his chest, still straining to bite. He latched onto Gansukh’s ear, grinding his jaws together. He shook his head back and forth, like a dog worrying a piece of raw meat.
Gansukh felt blood flowing down his neck. He wanted to jerk his head away, but he knew if he did it would only increase Munokhoi’s blood rage. But letting Munokhoi gnaw on his flesh wasn’t helping either. He twisted his body, trying to slip his shoulder against Munokhoi’s chest, and he felt Munokhoi’s grip loosen on his right wrist.
The hand holding the knife.
Gansukh jerked his hand up, wrenching his wrist free of Munokhoi’s grasp, and he drove his blade swift and deep into Munokhoi’s neck.
Munokhoi shivered and jerked his head back. His jaw had locked, and he tore a piece of Gansukh’s earlobe free. Gansukh retaliated by yanking his blade forward and then pulling it back, tearing a deep slash across Munokhoi’s throat. Munokhoi started to choke, and when he spat the piece of Gansukh’s ear out, blood spattered from his mouth.
Gansukh tried to shove him away, but Munokhoi, eyes bright with spite, clung to him like a leech as he staggered and fell. Munokhoi coughed up a gout of blood when Gansukh landed on top of him, and he weakly tried to fend off Gansukh’s blade. Gansukh stabbed Munokhoi again and again—in the chest, in the neck. Blood flowed freely from the copious wounds, and Munokhoi’s motions became more and more feeble. His skin paled, his mouth went slack, and finally his eyes lost their mad gleam. Only when he no longer showed any reaction to being stabbed did Gansukh finally stop. Leaving his knife imbedded in Munokhoi’s chest, Gansukh slid off the dead body and crawled a short distance away. Bent over, he threw up again and again until the bloodlust was purged from his being.
At last the bloody work was done.
Late in the afternoon, the hunting party rested by a stream that gurgled happily along a rock-strewn course. The horses drank their fill and quietly nosed around, cropping the tender grasses that grew along the bank. Ögedei had been only too happy to get out of his saddle, and he moved a little stiffly as he walked back and forth along the river’s track.
Namkhai took the opportunity of this rest to check on his men, and he walked among them, making small talk and inquiring of what they had seen (or hadn’t, in the case of bear sign). Of all the host, only the old rider—Alchiq—didn’t dismount. He stayed in his saddle, quietly chewing on a piece of salted meat.
“Where’s Gansukh?” Namkhai asked.
Alchiq nodded past Namkhai’s shoulder, his expression unchanging, his mouth moving slowly around the jerky.
Namkhai turned and spotted Gansukh emerging from the forest. Ögedei’s young pony raised a hand in greeting when he saw Namkhai looking at him, and he angled his horse toward the two men. “Hai, Namkhai,” he said.
“Hai, Gansukh,” Namkhai said. “You fell behind.” He looked around and spotted the short shaman and his equally tiny pony. “Even the old wizard got here before you.”
“I saw a squirrel,” Gansukh offered as an explanation.
Namkhai stared at the young rider, considering what he saw. Gansukh sat stiffly in his saddle, and his clothing was rumpled and ill fitting. The left side of his face was turned away, a posture that seemed forced and awkward—as if he were hiding something from Namkhai’s view. Though he seemed both dazed and exhausted, his face was at ease, with a tiny satisfied smile. There was a blotch on his neck, a dark stain that hadn’t been completely wiped away.
“It was a very big squirrel,” he said in response to Namkhai’s quizzical eyebrow.
Namkhai nodded thoughtfully as he let his gaze roam over Gansukh’s mount. It was a darker color than he remembered, and both the saddle and the cloak bound to the cantle were much finer and less travel-stained than he would expect of a horse rider like Gansukh. “I do not like squirrels,” he said finally.
Alchiq chuckled, and then spat a chewed bit of meat on the ground. “Who does?” he said innocently. “Nasty rodents. That one will not be missed.”
Namkhai laughed. “No,” he said. “Not in the slightest.” He bowed his head to Gansukh once more. “That is a beautiful horse,” he said. “I suspect such an animal would cost... fifty cows or so. A suitable payment for outstanding debts, don’t you think?”
Gansukh patted the horse’s neck. “Suitable enough,” he said. “I am satisfied.”
“As am I,” Namkhai said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Et Factum Est Ita
And thus it was done.
When the votes were tallied, the Cardinals were in agreement. Castiglione would be their new Pope, and the very result Fieschi had been fighting against the last few days had, ironically, become the solution to his troubles. Castiglione would not be Pope long enough to unduly influence the Church.
It was not an optimal solution, but it was one that would allow him time to lay a more solid foundation for the next election. When they could dispense with the nonsense of worrying about whether the Holy Roman Emperor could influence the election in any way.
There was still the minor annoyance of what to do about Father Rodrigo should he resurface, but, as Capocci had pointed out, in several days it would no longer matter
. All of the Cardinals looked eager to put the grievous error of their first vote behind them. Da Capua, in fact, had such a permanent crease in his forehead that Fieschi suspected that he would, within the year, retire to a monastery and live out his days, staring at the walls and plucking his lyre.
De Segni and Capocci took responsibility for informing the few priests, bishops, and lay servants necessary to ensure cooperation in the Papal mummery, as Capocci called it.
Fieschi went outside, squinting in the midday glare, and began to cross the broad central meadow of the Vatican compound toward the Castel Sant’Angelo. The board was decent there, compared to the miserly rations served from the makeshift kitchens outside Saint Peter’s.
He was nearly to the castle when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned quickly, to see a young messenger approaching at a run. “Cardinal Fieschi!” the young man cried as he arrived. “I was told you are Cardinal Fieschi?”
“I am,” he said, with a frown of caution.
“I have a message for you from His Majesty, Emperor Frederick,” the young man said, bowing while gasping for breath. “I am to wait for your response before returning.”
He handed Fieschi a small piece of parchment that had been folded into thirds and sealed with the imperial eagle. Intrigued, Fieschi broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, and read.
The note was short and to the point, written in Frederick’s own scrawl. Do come for a visit soon, dear Sinibaldo. There is a delicate matter that I wish to discuss.
The missing priest, he thought, interpreting Frederick’s message. He didn’t get very far. He should have suspected that a madman wandering around the countryside would have been found by the Emperor’s men. He glanced up at the dome of the basilica. Did it matter that the Emperor had the missing priest? he wondered, and then he smiled as an idea occurred to him. If the priest was mad, and he could convince the Emperor that this madness was part of a larger conspiracy, then perhaps he could redirect Frederick’s attention elsewhere.
The heavy wooden door was thrown open so forcefully it bounced from its hinges and almost ricocheted back at Cardinal Fieschi.
“I know where he is,” he gloated.
“Who?” Léna asked as if she didn’t know who the Cardinal was talking about.
“Your young friend will be with him,” Fieschi said, ignoring Léna’s question. He pointed at Ocyrhoe. “You will be coming with me,” he said.
“I will?” Ocyrhoe squeaked.
“Why are you taking the child?” Léna protested stridently. In her head, Ocyrhoe heard an echo of Léna’s earlier words. You see? What you need will be offered. Though she could not see how being remanded to the angry Cardinal was going to help her escape from Rome.
“Frederick has sent me a message, asking for a meeting. He has the mad priest and I suspect he wants to ransom him back to me. I am not so foolish as to go alone,” Fieschi sneered. “Nor am I going to be caught in a political trap. The girl will help me convince Father Rodrigo that Frederick is not his friend.”
“And if she doesn’t?” Léna asked.
Fieschi gave Léna a feral grin. “I will still have you, here, under my guard. If Frederick wishes to negotiate the return of the priest, I will have something he will want to negotiate for.”
“And the girl wouldn’t be more useful to you here as your hostage?” Léna asked.
“In the last few days,” Fieschi snapped, “this child has caused me more headaches than Robert of Somercotes—”
“Dead so unexpectedly,” Léna sighed sadly.
Fieschi paled slightly, at a loss for words all of a sudden. “We depart at once,” he growled, with an impatient gesture. “They are saddling a pony for you.”
Ocyrhoe gasped. “I don’t know how to ride.”
“All you have to do is sit,” Léna said reassuringly. And then to Fieschi, “What if the Holy Roman Emperor’s intent is not as malicious as you make it out to be?”
“Do not insult me,” Fieschi snapped. “I have known Frederick a long time. I know how he thinks. He won’t pass up an opportunity to force concessions from the Church. What do you think his blockade of Rome was for? I don’t trust him.”
“He will be saddened to hear that,” Léna pointed out. “He considers you one of the most rational men in Rome.”
Fieschi slashed his hand through the air, silencing her. “Be that as it may, you will stay here,” he said.
“Well, I’m happy to stay,” Léna observed, and for a second, Ocyrhoe thought Fieschi was going to change his mind, but when Léna smiled innocently at the Cardinal, he stormed out of the room.
“Off you go,” Léna said, shooing Ocyrhoe toward the door.
“Wait,” Ocyrhoe argued. “I don’t understand any of this. I thought you said you weren’t tied to Frederick. How can he be trying to get you back if you don’t belong to him?”
Léna put a finger to her lips. “The Cardinal seems to have overlooked that point,” she said with a wink. “Let’s not tell him, shall we?”
It was a dry, dusty day, even as the shadows began to stretch eastward. Ocyrhoe liked the rocking motion once she had gotten used to it, and to her surprise, her mount sped up, slowed, and shifted at the precise moment she was wondering how to make it move in those ways. As if the pony was itself a Binder, or at least communicated as Binders do. Animals do not have a spoken language, she thought. They must have other ways in which to communicate.
From the height of the pony, the Holy Roman Emperor’s camp looked very different to Ocyrhoe’s eyes; she could see the boundaries much better now than before, when it was all just a big jumbled maze and she was breathless with anticipation at fulfilling her first Binder assignment.
From Robert of Somercotes.
She wondered again at what had passed between Léna and the Cardinal when Cardinal Somercotes’s name had been brought up. The Cardinal had died in the fire, and it was her understanding that it had been a tragic accident, but there had been a mocking note in Léna’s voice. She marveled at how the older Binder had given such a simple declaration such weight. And Fieschi’s reaction! What was he hiding?
If they weren’t about to arrive in the Emperor’s camp, Ocyrhoe would be more concerned about being in Cardinal Fieschi’s presence. She had seen his face when he had lunged at her early this morning. He was just as dangerous as the Bear, maybe more so.
Where the camp met the road, guards stopped the group, asking the riders to dismount and for the Cardinal to descend from his carriage. Helmuth had returned with them, so they were admitted immediately into the campsite. The mundane details of daily life teemed around them in the tent city—chickens crooning in cages, women scrubbing laundry in tubs, bakers shaping loaves beside portable ovens, metalworkers and leatherworkers intent upon their crafts. The size of the camp itself did not impress Ocyrhoe—it was smaller than even one neighborhood of Rome. But the fact of its mobility, of its inhabitants and creators having traveled hundreds of miles together to erect this temporary town, it was a marvel she could not quite get her mind around. Cities were permanent things, yet...
She recognized the Emperor’s pavilion. Strange to think it had been but one overnight since she had left here; how much had happened in so short a time! A week ago she had known nothing of Father Rodrigo, Ferenc, Cardinals, or emperors.
All the sides and tent flaps were rolled up to the eaves of the tent, so they could see the Emperor, and he could see them, a good twenty paces before they arrived. Frederick was sitting in the camp’s one oak chair, low-slung camp stools scattered before it, as if he were expecting a party. A guard stood at the entrance and others were stationed around the perimeters; a page boy stood behind Frederick’s chair. Otherwise he was alone. When they were half a dozen strides distant, Frederick opened his arms wide as if in greeting. He smiled.
“Damn him,” Fieschi muttered. But his voice, for once, lacked rancor.
“Welcome to my home away from home,” Frederick called out. “Won’t you jo
in me for a cup of wine?”
They entered into the shade of the pavilion. Helmuth, in the lead, saluted, said, “Sire!” then bowed briskly and stepped away to the right. Ocyrhoe wanly imitated his bow.
“Hello, my young friend,” Frederick said to her, amusement in his eyes. Ocyrhoe managed to squeak out, “Sire” and scurried to the left, away from Helmuth.
She watched Fieschi and Frederick as they looked each other in the eye without speaking. Neither wore the challenging or angry expressions she had expected—their faces were both neutral, almost pleasant. Neither one would break the stare.
“I outrank you, Sinibaldo,” Frederick said eventually. “I expect you to at least bow your head.”
“I will prostrate myself with gratitude,” Fieschi promised, “as soon as you return him to me.”
Frederick gave him a small, mocking smile. “Who? The priest?” He put a finger to his lips. “No, I am mistaken. The Pope. Yes, is that who you are speaking of?”
Fieschi closed his eyes a moment, took a careful breath, and said through gritted teeth, “He is not—”
“Oh, and what was it that he had with him?” He waved away Ocyrhoe’s brightening expression with a wave of his hand. “No, not the boy. The other thing. The cup. Yes, that’s what it was. The Cup of Christ.”
“What?” Fieschi exploded.
“The Holy Grail,” Frederick said patiently. “You got my note, clearly, and your rapid arrival confirms my suspicion.” He glanced at Ocyrhoe for a brief second, and she was surprised by both the merriment and caution in his eyes. “I am glad I kept my language circumspect—”
“What suspicion?” Fieschi asked, his face even darker with rage than before.
“You wouldn’t come trotting out of the safety of Rome for a mere priest, especially one as addled as that poor man is. Even if he was your newly elected Pope. No, dear Sinibaldo, I think you’ve come for something much more important.”