The Saracen: Land of the Infidel, Robert Shea [book recommendations for young adults txt] 📗

glass 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[293] 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 noblemen 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 shields, 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 glass. 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[294] 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 bumpkin 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.[295]

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, passionate.

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[296] 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 damned 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.

"There are six of you," said Lorenzo. "But now that these four men have joined us, there are six of us. Bad odds for you, because no matter how much you harm us, you will certainly come out of this quarrel worse off than you went into it." Lowering his sword even more, he stepped closer to the young man with the silver badge on his cap. "Signore. Which of these men are you willing to lose, to pay for the privilege of hurting us?" With his free hand he pointed from man to man in the circle of six. "That man? That one? That one? Yourself?"

"We will start with you!" the short man shouted.

He lunged at Lorenzo, his sword thrusting straight for Lorenzo's chest.

Lorenzo's sword was up in an instant, parrying the short man's attack. At the same moment, out of the corner of his eye Daoud saw Sordello's arm flash up, then down.

The short man gave a cry and stumbled. He staggered a few steps, then collapsed in a heap at the feet of one of the other Filippeschi bravos.

Lorenzo stepped back so that he and Sordello flanked Daoud. Sordello's three men moved up beside them, one to the left, two to the right.

"You may see to the man who is hurt," said Lorenzo. "Unless you want to continue."

"If he is only hurt, I should retire to a monastery." Sordello laughed. Indeed, Daoud saw that the man on the ground was not moving.

I do not like this Sordello, Daoud thought. He comes out of nowhere wanting to work for me. He kills in haste and boasts about it.

The young man with the silver badge on his cap knelt by the[297] fallen bravo and felt under his cape. "Morte," he said harshly, and stood again.

"Well, Messeres," said Lorenzo, "we are now six to five. We did not choose to quarrel. We still do not wish to fight. In fact, we ourselves are at odds with the Monaldeschi."

"How might that be?" said the young man.

"Are we done fighting? I wish to make a proposal to you."

The Filippeschi spokesman glanced at his fellows. "What say you?"

"Alfredo was my cousin," said a tall bravo in a rust-colored cape. "But I cannot avenge him alone."

"Alfredo was impetuous," said the young man. "He acted before I gave an order."

"You are no leader, Marco, if you will not undertake the vendetta for one of your men."

The vendetta. These Italians are like the desert tribesmen. Kill one of them, and you have his family to deal with.

"I will show you what kind of a leader I am if you speak that way to me again," said Marco.

"Enough, enough," said one of the other bravos, and the man in the rust-colored cape shrugged.

It was now almost daylight, and Daoud studied the face of the young man called Marco. He could not be more than seventeen, Daoud thought, looking at his smooth cheeks and downy black mustache.

Marco! He had heard that the head of the Filippeschi family was a young Conte Marco di Filippeschi.

"What do you propose, Messere?" said Marco.

"Meet me in front of the Church of Sant' Agnes," Lorenzo said. "This evening at Compline. Come alone, as I will. There are things we can discuss, I think, to our mutual profit."

Marco bowed to Lorenzo. "I shall expect you, Messere." He gestured, and the man in the reddish cape and one other picked up the body of Alfredo.

"Momento, Messeres," said Sordello, moving to the body in three quick strides. He bent down, reached under the body, and with a jerk of his hand pulled free a long, thin throwing knife, which he wiped on his cape.

"I can ill afford to lose so well-balanced a knife as this."

Alfredo's cousin, holding the body by the shoulders, said, "I[298] know your name, Andrea Sordello, and your face. You will not need that knife much longer."

Sordello made a mock bow. "Be assured, Messere, this knife will not miss you, if we should meet again."

A moment later the Filippeschi and their burden had disappeared into the alley.

Daoud studied the dark irregular stain where the fallen man had bled on the rain-damp paving stones of the campiello. It was dawn, already past Fajr, the time for morning prayer.

God is great. In the name of God, the Beneficent, the Merciful. All praise be to God, Lord of the Worlds.

"I advise you not to have any dealings with the Filippeschi, Messeres," Sordello said suddenly. "They'll betray