The Mongoliad: Book Three

emotional armor.

But it wasn’t her reticence that worried him, nor whether she believed that Percival had been granted spiritual guidance. It was the possibility of such guidance that continued to confound him. If Eptor’s madness had been the Virgin’s Grace, or Francis’s insistence that God had left a mark on his flesh was true, then Percival’s vision could be true. As could Istvan’s.

Ragnarok, he thought. Yggdrasil.

He thought of Damietta, and the zeal with which Pelagius, the legate, had seized upon the idea of having Eptor’s madness interpreted as prophecy. What were the Crusades but zealous men striving to realize some vision they thought they had been given? Pelagius had invented a myth to convince the army to march on Cairo; the Crusaders had been slaughtered because of his lie.

Feronantus had been listening to Istvan, and Raphael wondered again what the old knight had heard in the other’s mad mutterings. Feronantus had been at Tyrshammar a long time. What stories had he heard from the children of the Varangians?

And had he come to believe those stories?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Cantate Domino Canticum Novum

The custom, as old as the Church herself, was that the names would be announced by the most senior Cardinal. He would draw the names from the chalice, one by one, and read each aloud to the assembled host of Cardinals. He would then hand the slip to his assistant, the second-oldest Cardinal, who would repeat the name. Finally, using a needle, the slip would be strung on a red thread that had been prepared by younger priests and left in the room the night before.

Bundled together on the red threads, the first three had been inscribed with Bonaventura. This came as no surprise, although based on his unexpected standoff with Senator Orsini the day before, the collective assumption was that Castiglione would be getting most of the remaining votes.

When Cardinal Torres read the name on the fourth strip-Father Rodrigo Bendrito- Fieschi noted the reaction of several of the Cardinals. Gloating quietly, they glanced around at the others as if to say, “Ha! Take that!” There was, briefly, an air of repressed amusement in the room.

But when the fifth strip also contained Father Rodrigo’s name, the Cardinals looked startled, glancing almost guiltily at each other. Fieschi raised his hand casually to cover the smile he couldn’t quite suppress. Their expressions were only going to grow more pronounced over the next few minutes.

Fieschi had been watching the faces of the others during the election process and had kept a dutiful count. He already knew that every remaining slip of paper in that chalice had Bendrito’s name on it. The crazy wayward stranger, the common priest lost in his own world of madness, was about to be elected as the next Bishop of Rome. Fieschi settled back in gilded anticipation.

The sixth strip: Bendrito. The scores were now even. Alarm was exchanged between certain parties; astonishment from others. Colonna and Capocci, the eternal clowns, traded looks that bordered on perverse delight. They do not understand what they have done. It is all childishly unreal to them, Fieschi thought with contempt. All that matters is their petty satisfaction in watching Bonaventura lose.

“Father Rodrigo Bendrito,” Cardinal Torres read aloud. His aged face showed no expression as he handed the seventh strip to Cardinal Colonna, who repeated the name and added it to the others. Every Cardinal in the room sat up in his seat, or shifted about, some with consternation, others relief. Since there were ten Cardinals voting, Bonaventura needed seven votes to win; Father Rodrigo, by having claimed four votes, now made that impossible.

“That’s that, then,” Annibaldi ventured. “Another deadlock. Send up the black smoke.” He started to stand.

“No,” Fieschi said sharply. “We cannot say there is a deadlock until all the votes have been read.”

Every head in the room turned to look at him, all equally surprised at such a statement from Bonaventura’s most vocal supporter.

“We must do this honorably,” Fieschi said with dripping condescension. “All the votes must be counted, even though we know there will be no success in it.”

“It will be a deadlock,” said Torres in a tone of concession, clearly disliking ever having to agree with Fieschi. “Arithmetic gives us that.”

“Count the votes,” Fieschi said. “We must have a record, amongst ourselves, of where we stand.”

The eighth strip of paper: Father Rodrigo Bendrito. Again the return to darting glances.

“We should annul the votes,” said de Segni. “If we stop now-”

“And what is your precedent for breaking with this long-standing ritual?” Fieschi asked. “This is our tradition. We must remain firm of purpose and trust that God’s will be done.”

The ninth strip of paper: Father Rodrigo Bendrito.

“This is a terrible jest,” Bonaventura said nervously. “Six of you are making a mockery of this process!”

Cardinal Torres reached in for the last slip of paper, looked at it, and with a dumbfounded expression, turned to Cardinal Colonna for aid.

“Not six,” Colonna said, taking the slip from Torres. “Seven. This name is also Father Rodrigo Bendrito.” To Fieschi, Colonna seemed perversely delighted. “Fathers, we have our new Pontiff.”

Immediate chaos overtook the chamber. Nine Cardinals leaped from their seats, a rainbow of different hues of amazement, from outrage (Bonaventura) to awe (da Capua) to delight (Capocci)…

“You did this!” Bonaventura shouted over the hubbub, crossing threateningly toward Fieschi, who alone remained sitting.

“Did I?” Fieschi said archly. “I have only one vote. There are seven votes for the priest.”

“If you had not changed your vote!” Bonaventura nearly screamed.

“If any of us had not,” Fieschi agreed.

“A common priest is not worthy to be Pope!” dei Conti snorted derisively.

“Ah, now,” Fieschi warned with calm condescension. “The first Pope was a fisherman.”

In response to the panicked commotion within, a guard outside the chapel had cautiously unbolted the door and opened it wide enough to look in with one eye. Seeing the commotion, he ventured to open it a little more.

“Your Eminences?” he said, completely unheard beneath the squawking and arguing.

But Fieschi saw the guard enter and, rising at last, strode comfortably past his upset fellows. He smiled paternally at the young man. “You may burn the wet straw,” he said. “We want white smoke-a new Bishop of Rome has been chosen.”

The guard’s face relaxed into a smile. “At last,” he said. “Praise God.”

He closed the door behind him without bolting it. Fieschi turned back to face the hubbub of his nine fellow Cardinals. Several voices were already demanding that they throw out the vote and try again.

“Brothers,” Fieschi said calmly, raising his voice. He looked more feline than hawkish now. “Brothers, please calm yourselves. It is too late to throw out the votes. The world has been informed we have a new Pope. We must prepare to announce him.”

Nine pairs of eyes stared dumbfounded at him.

“What right had you to tell anyone?” demanded Rinaldo Conti de Segni.

“Was there not a two-thirds majority cast?” Fieschi responded. “Is that not a deciding vote? We have been secreted away for far too long-this announcement frees us! Why are you not overjoyed at being liberated from our