The Mongoliad: Book Three

of two other Cardinals: Colonna, the tall missionary who had survived more than one imprisonment; and Capocci, the builder whose shrewd mind was equally at home planning cathedrals as it was putting down insurrections. “Your Eminences,” she said, bowing, as they caught sight of her. “Such a pleasant afternoon for a stroll.”

“Indeed,” Castiglione said, eyeing her with a modicum of caution. “You are the woman who accompanied Cardinal Monferrato from Frederick’s camp, are you not?”

“I am, Your Eminence. I am Lena, a-”

“Binder?” Capocci said.

She inclined her head. “More often I am simply an ambassador.”

“For whom?” Capocci pressed her.

“Does it matter?” she said sweetly.

Colonna chuckled at her verve, while her words only seemed to cause Castiglione more distress.

“Do you have a message for me?” the Cardinal asked.

“No,” Lena said after a moment’s hesitation. “I bear no message for you today.” She cocked her head to one side, studying the three men for a moment. “Do you have one you wish me to carry?”

“Why would I?” Castiglione asked.

Lena shrugged. “I have recently seen Cardinal Fieschi. He was in quite a hurry to visit the Holy Roman Emperor.” She noted their reaction, reading the entire power structure of the Church in their faces. Castiglione’s reaction was the one she found the most interesting. The sort of outrage brought about by a lack of control, she thought. When someone you think is under your command makes their own decisions, forgetting to inform you. Which lead to an interesting question: why did Castiglione think Fieschi reported to him?

“Have you seen the Pope?” she asked innocently, and her question was rewarded with a nervous glance between Colonna and Capocci and further distress from Castiglione.

Now I see the heart of it, she thought, suppressing a smile. It all comes together now.

There was still much to do, and many pieces to still move about, but she felt her heart start to thrill at the idea of seeing a gambit come to fruition.

“I see,” she said in the wake of their awkward silence. She dropped to one knee. “My apologies, Your Holiness.”

“Get up,” Castiglione said gruffly. “Stop this public abasement.”

But you didn’t deny it, Lena thought as she stood.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “I thought I had heard that the priest-Father Rodrigo-had been elected, but I must have been mistaken.”

“You were,” Capocci said quickly.

“It is a clever ruse,” she added, “letting everyone think this simple man is Pope-long enough to distract the Holy Roman Emperor-and then announcing yourself as the true Pontiff. If Frederick seizes the priest and attempts to ransom him, it is a simple matter to embarrass the Holy Roman Emperor for inventing a Pope and then trying to ransom him back to the Church. He will lose a great deal of face with the leaders of other nations. Why bother excommunicating him-which we both know has had little effect on his efforts to dominate Christendom-when it is easier to publically shame him?”

“Why indeed?” Capocci noted.

“Well, Your Eminences, Your Holiness,” she bowed to each of them, “I do not wish to trouble you. You appear to have much to discuss. I am simply on my way to see Senator Orsini. There is a little matter he and I need to clear up. A small matter of unjust imprisonment.”

She almost laughed at how readily Castiglione took the bait.

“Unjust imprisonment?” he echoed. A fire sparked in his eye and he stood up a bit straighter. When he spoke to her again, there was a righteous indignation in his words. “Yes, in fact, I do wish you to carry a message for me.”

Lena smiled. “Give me the message,” she said, invoking the sacred trust of the Binders.

“I, Goffredo da Castiglione, send a message to-no, let us do this correctly.” He glanced at the other two Cardinals who gave small nods of encouragement. “I”-he cast about for the proper words-“Pope Celestine IV of the Holy Roman Church, send a message to Matteo Rosso Orsini, Senator of Rome…”

Lena listened the new Pope’s first proclamation, repeating his words back to him at the appropriate intervals. Yes, she thought, this will suffice nicely.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Arrow’s Flight

Gansukh and Alchiq were spotted before they were able to get high enough on the hill to have a clear shot at the pair of archers behind the boulders. But they were high enough-and close enough-that the two Westerners had to deal with them before they could go back to killing Mongols in the valley. In that sense, they had done all they could to save the Khagan, but as the tall Westerner turned his fearsome bow on them, Gansukh realized his own life was now in mortal danger.

The long arrows of the Westerner were not deterred by brush or tree trunks less than a hand’s breadth in width. One of the broadhead arrows punched completely through the twisted roots he had been lying behind, the tip scratching his shoulder, and he stared at the razor-sharp arrowhead for a moment. So much power, he thought with a shudder. He scrambled over the roots, diving for the security of a jumble of rock. His shoulders remained clenched during his frantic dash, and even after he was nestled securely behind the rocks, he couldn’t relax. Would the rocks be protection enough?

The other archer, a gaunt man with black hair and bristling whiskers, had a bow like his and Alchiq’s. Deadly enough, and Gansukh couldn’t ignore him entirely, but the real target was the tall man.

Gansukh laid another arrow across his bow as he slowly peered around the edge of his shelter. Alchiq’s bow sang behind him, and he risked a glance as Alchiq’s arrow flew toward its target. He could see the edge of a man’s cloak, fluttering behind the rocks. He stood, held his breath for a second-waiting-and then released his arrow. He snatched another arrow for his quiver, laid it across the notch, pulled the string and released. The fluttering cloth was still there, and his second arrow pinned it to the ground.

He ducked down, duck-walked to his left as far as he could without exposing himself, readied another arrow, and rose to his feet again. He exhaled, staring at the wild eyes of the black-haired man for a second as he looked up from tugging at his pinned cloak, and then Gansukh released his arrow.

Even as the arrow flew from his bow, he knew it was going to miss. The man was leaning to his left, straining against his pinned cloak. Gansukh reached for another arrow, got it nocked, and was starting to pull the string back when the tall man stood up. Gansukh released early-much too early-and his arrow flipped out of his bow like a feather flying off a duck’s back. The man convulsed his body, a strange motion that made sense to Gansukh as soon as he saw what it accomplished, and then Gansukh was throwing himself to the ground to avoid the tall man’s long arrow.

Hands and chest pressed against the ground, breath stirring up dust, Gansukh stared up at the arrow quivering in the rock upslope of him. The head wasn’t buried deep in the stone, but enough that the arrow stood out straight. It quivered, as if were an angry wasp trying to sting the rock to death.

“Again,” Alchiq hissed at him from a spot above and to his left.

“You first,” Gansukh whispered back, still transfixed by the rock-piercing arrow.

The horses were scattering, and by his count, R?dwulf had killed six. Istvan had killed the horse of the one they thought was the Khagan, and he had almost put an arrow into that man’s purple