The Mongoliad: Book Three

“Where are they?” Haakon asked.

“Who?”

“The Shield-Brethren. They’re in danger, aren’t they?”

Cnan shook her head. “They’re always in danger,” she replied.

“They’re trying to kill the Khagan.” Haakon didn’t phrase it as a question.

Krasniy guffawed at Haakon’s pronouncement, but his laughter subsided when he glanced at Cnan’s face.

“Yes,” she said.

“I want to help them,” Haakon insisted. “If Alchiq is with the Khagan, then it may be a trap.” He turned to Lian and spoke in the Mongol tongue. “How many warriors with the Khagan?”

She shrugged. “Four, maybe five arban.”

“Fifty men,” Haakon said to Cnan. “How many Shield-Brethren?”

She shrugged, not wanting to tell Haakon the true number. “A dozen or more,” she lied.

“Who leads them? Is it Feronantus?”

Cnan felt herself growing impatient. “This isn’t important. We have to flee.”

“It is important,” Haakon insisted. “Because we’re going to help them.”

“You are out of your mind,” Cnan snapped. “We are deep within the Mongol Empire. We have very little in the way of supplies. We are-you are-clearly a stranger in this land. We only have one horse. We can’t afford to go riding into… into-” She struggled to find the right words.

“Battle?” Haakon supplied. He smiled at her and glanced at Krasniy. “Where else would we go?”

Cnan let loose a tiny cry of frustration. Completely stubborn, she thought. Just like Feronantus.

“They are my friends,” Haakon said. “They are my family.”

She glared at him. Was that not the same reason she had defied Feronantus to stay behind and rescue Haakon? Had she not-over the long journey from the West-come to think of the Shield-Brethren as family? She couldn’t find fault in Haakon using the same reasoning in his argument.

“Fine,” she snapped. She pointed at Lian. “What about her?”

Krasniy laid a large hand on the Chinese woman’s shoulder. “She can be with me,” he said, a broad grin on his face.

Lian tossed her hair back from her shoulder and smiled up at the giant man. Cnan was unsure whether Lian had been able to follow their argument, but she could tell from the anger in the woman’s eyes that Lian understood the meaning of Krasniy’s hand on her shoulder.

“Come on,” she said with a hint of resignation. She turned and started to weave her way through the woods.

This whole rescue was turning out to be much different from what she had planned.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

An Imperial Breakfast

Frederick squinted at the pair who had interrupted his breakfast. “You seem to have traded down,” he said to wide-eyed Ferenc. “We gave you a Cardinal and you have brought us back a mere priest. And where is the rest of your posse?”

“Your Majesty, he doesn’t understand you,” the priest said in a grandfatherly voice.

Frederick sighed. “I know. You were not present for the farce yesterday, a tedium exacerbated by the fact that even as I was being excommunicated-again-the Cardinals were electing a new Pope. I have heard there was white smoke sighted. Are you here to inform me of the identity of the new Pope?”

“I am, Your Majesty,” the priest said.

Frederick waited for the priest to continue. “And that man is…”

“I am he,” the priest said. “The new Pope.”

Frederick started to smirk, but upon noticing the unblinking sternness of the priest’s expression, he delicately raised a hand to hide his amusement. “Of course you are,” he said. “Obviously.” He spread his hands in a welcoming gesture. “Splendid. Well, here you are, already coming to give me grief,” he said, a mocking tone creeping into his voice.

The priest gave him a puzzled look. “You do me a disservice, Your Majesty, in thinking my intentions are malign.”

“Ah, a benign papal visit then. And so early in your reign. To what do we owe this honor?” Frederick asked. He signaled a servant waiting by the tent flap, and made a gesture demanding wine. He leaned back in his carved wooden chair. “I do wish you spoke Italian or German,” he said in Ferenc’s direction. “It would be nice to get a second opinion as to whether I should believe this story or not.”

“Ferenc is a good boy,” the priest said as if protecting him. “He would not tell you anything unless I gave him permission. So you may as well just talk to me directly.”

“Very well then,” Frederick replied. “This comedy continues. I have no other choice but to play my role in this, do I?” When the priest did not answer, Frederick continued. “Have you selected a name for yourself, or is there a Christian name your mother gave you that still suffices?”

“Rodrigo,” the priest said with a tiny bow of his head. “Rodrigo Bendrito.”

“Well met, Rodrigo Bendrito. Or would you prefer Your Holiness?”

The priest demurred responding, offering a much more pious and humble nod of his head instead.

“I shall split the difference then,” Frederick offered. “Tell me, Father, what brings you here.”

“We are paying our respects.”

Frederick laughed. “You don’t know my history with the Church, do you? It is amusing, admittedly, to have the Pope here, in my tent, offering respect when he is so newly anointed, but you must understand that I am more than a little reticent to believe such a statement.” He waved a hand at Ferenc. “Your companion can tell you. He was witness to my most recent excommunication.”

Father Rodrigo’s face lost some of its serenity. “The Church has lost its way,” he said quietly. “I do not cling to what it was. I have seen…” He shook himself as if he was shrugging off a heavy blanket. “I do not believe in your prior transgressions,” he said.

Frederick blinked. “Are you un-excommunicating me?” he asked. He glanced at Ferenc, who seemed both oblivious to their conversation and pleased that they were talking. “You’re no help,” Frederick noted.

He sat forward in his chair, returning his attention to Father Rodrigo. “This is a most curious turn of events,” he said. “And suddenly, I find myself being drawn into your delirium. If you are indeed Pope, what a marvelous thing it would be to discover a friend in Rome. So, yes, tell me. Is there any reason other than a mutual exchange of respect that brings you into my camp?”

The priest reached for his satchel as if to reassure himself of its contents. “I have been called to service by God. I must raise an army against the infidels. I seek to call a crusade.”

“In person?” Frederick asked incredulously. “Usually one sends bishops and priests out to do that sort of ugly legwork.”

“I believe my appearance is the only way to move people to action: show them I am doing, myself, what I think they should be doing. I moved a great many people in Rome yesterday, and I intend to move others as I travel.”

“I see, I see,” Frederick said, nodding. He crossed his arms, then slumped back farther in the chair and crossed his legs. He stared intensely at Father Rodrigo, his mind a welter of thoughts. Was this man as barmy as he seemed, or was he truly the new Pope? There was an intensity to the priest’s gaze and he spoke his words with an