The Mongoliad: Book Three

“That is what I thought too,” Colonna said.

Fieschi was unmoved by their banter. “A word,” he said, “or two. With the Pope.”

“By all means,” Colonna said with a welcoming wave, as if he had not just made Fieschi repeat himself. “Have at him. We’ve left some food, and we can send in wine if you are going to have more than two words with him.”

“I can have someone else bring wine,” Fieschi said, refusing to be ruffled by Colonna, “should that be necessary.”

“Very well,” Colonna said with a nod. “Come, Rainiero,” he said to Capocci. “Let us leave this dreary place and take a stroll in the evening air.”

“Yes,” Capocci agreed. “We should take advantage of our newly restored liberty.”

The two Cardinals took their leave and Fieschi did not stay in the hall to watch them depart. They had wasted enough of his time already. He ran a hand down the front of his robe, using the motion to calm his annoyance, and then he opened the door and stepped into the room.

The priest was sitting quietly at a small table, nibbling at several plates of food the two Cardinals had left behind. He looked up as Fieschi entered the room. His gaze was unfocused, and he stared at Fieschi for a long moment as he did not recognize the Cardinal.

No, Fieschi realized, he looks at me as if he does not wish to recognize me.

“Good evening,” Fieschi said, his voice caring and sympathetic. “It has been a rather exciting day. You must be quite overwhelmed by all that is happening around you.

Father Rodrigo shrugged. “I was overwhelmed by some guards when I was speaking to my people,” he said. “Other than that, I find most things here are manageable. And I find it quite agreeable to be Pope.”

Fieschi paused, caught off guard by the priest’s candor. “Are you aware that some of my fellow Cardinals are opposed to your becoming Pope?” he asked cautiously.

“I do feel compassion for their concern, but their strife is of their own making, is it not?” Father Rodrigo said evenly. “They elected me, did they not?”

“They are trying very hard to un-elect you,” Fieschi said. “It would behoove you to have a champion in this matter.”

“Why?” Father Rodrigo asked, showing little concern. “Do I not already have a champion?”

“Oh, dear God, please don’t listen to Colonna or Capocci,” Fieschi said. “Surely you have seen for yourself what mischief they can get up to.”

“I have also seen for myself what mischief you get up to, Cardinal,” Father Rodrigo said, his voice finally taking on a bit of bite. “Anyway, I was not referring to them. I was referring to our Lord. Does He not extend His grace to me upon my election?”

Fieschi gaped. “You are still quite mad, aren’t you?”

Father Rodrigo thought for a moment before answering, “If I say no, you’ll say that is proof of my delusions, and what does that gain you? But if I say yes-acknowledging my own madness-does that not imply that you knowingly elected a madman to be your supreme Pontiff? I fear neither answer is very useful to you, my son.”

Fieschi swallowed several times, trying to clear a sudden obstruction in his throat. Where had this rhetorical skill come from? Previously, the man had appeared to be little more than an addled parish priest. “I have come to you this evening to offer my assistance,” he said, forcing aside his rage. “I had the honor of being a valued servant and confidant of your predecessor, Gregory IX. I humbly offer my services likewise to you.”

“Thank you,” Father Rodrigo said. “If I am ever in need of a jurist or an orator, I will keep you in mind. Otherwise, I cannot imagine you and I will have much to discuss.” He returned his attention to the plates.

Fieschi bristled. How dare he be so dismissive? “This is-”

Father Rodrigo raised a single finger, and Fieschi was struck dumb by the subtle command of the motion as well as an utter disregard for the differences between their respective stations. “Until the College of Cardinals reconvenes to unelect me, I believe the correct way to address me is ‘Your Holiness.’”

Fieschi felt the blood drain from his face. “Your-, Your-” he spluttered, unable to use the honorific.

“Yes?” Father Rodrigo said after a pause. “Would you like to take confession, my son? I don’t know if, as Pope, I am supposed to hear confession. Perhaps you could ask one of your fellow Cardinals. Do you suppose Cardinal Somercotes is busy?”

Fieschi stiffened, his previous awkwardness vanishing. “What are you up to?” he snapped. This is all a joke arranged by those two fools, he thought. “Whose tool are you?” he sneered.

“The Lord’s,” Father Rodrigo replied calmly. “Whose tool, my son, are you?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The Horse and the Cart

Dietrich had to run. If he paused to consider his flight from the abandoned Shield-Brethren chapter house, Tegusgal’s Mongol archers would end his life. Was that not justification enough for his actions? To flee meant to live. His brothers-in-arms had not fled at Schaulen, and they had died. Was that not the ultimate lesson the Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae should have taken from that morning at the river crossing? Outnumbered, overwhelmed, and caught in the open: the enemy had surprised them. Retreating so as to find better ground, to face the Samogitian rabble another day, was an expedient solution. A practical one.

But his predecessor, Volquin, had stood his ground. Lithuanian light cavalry, much more nimble in the swampy lowlands around the river, had shattered the main body of the order’s cavalry, and as the Livonian Heermeister had tried to rally his men into an effective wedge against the approaching infantry, he had been struck by an errant spear. Before he could regain his footing in the muck, the pagan foot soldiers clashed with his men. Volquin was struck again and again, beaten by sword and club until his armor split. Until the river turned red with his blood and the blood of his faithful.

Dietrich von Gruningen was not Volquin. Nor did he aspire to be. He simply wanted to live.

His horse wanted to dally as it approached the verge of the forest, and Dietrich beat his heels against its barrel, drumming his desire mercilessly into the reluctant animal beneath him. An arrow whistled past his right ear, burying itself into the knobby trunk of an oak instead of the back of his head. He mentally cursed his hubris for not wearing a helm, and his shoulders tightened instinctively as if they could collapse in on themselves and make his body a smaller target. He ducked lower across his horse’s neck as the first branches of the forest whipped by, and he heard the desultory thunk thunk of arrows striking the trees around him.

He missed the first curve of the path, his horse plunging into the undergrowth. He cursed as the unruly branches of the oak trees clawed at him. Holding the reins tight in one hand, he struggled with the clasp of his cloak before a branch snagged it. Such an ignoble death: to be pulled off his horse by a tree branch. His horse, grunting and snorting, blundered through a tangle of ferns and spindly shrubs-leaves and branches alike slashing and whipping at the animal’s flanks.

A heavy bough loomed, and Dietrich threw himself flat against his horse’s back. His cloak went tight against his throat, and he clenched his neck muscles. Digging his fingers between the tight fabric and his neck, he felt it tear and the pressure against his neck vanished. Gasping, he sat up and looked back. His abandoned cloak hung from the thick branch, a ghostly shadow of the man he once was.

His horse stumbled across the path, and he jerked its head to keep it from blundering into the undergrowth again. His horse was bigger than the Mongol steeds, and while keeping to the forest made him a harder target, he couldn’t move as fast.

Was he only delaying the inevitable? Once he broke free of the woods, there was nothing but open land