It landed as Castro y Papas had intended: squarely on the surprised up-timer’s chin. As Frank fell backward and his wife emitted a shriek, the Spaniard saw Stone’s eyes get wobbly. Perfect; he was dazed, but not unconscious. This way, he’d feel less pain, but still be awake, which meant that Dolor and his dogs couldn’t force Castro y Papas to inflict a second, more complete beating at some later date.
But no, Dolor and his men were not dogs; judging from the barking laughs from behind, they were hyenas. Castro y Papas turned, saw Dolor’s little Cretan adjutant, Dakis, leaning against the doorjamb, settled in to enjoy the spectacle. With him and the others watching, there would be no way to end this quickly, so Castro y Papas would have to be very careful.
As he turned back to his loathsome task, he discovered Giovanna Stone staring at him, her eyes as murderous as any he had ever seen in almost fifteen years of soldiering. And he did not blame her in the least. He held her eyes one second longer as he reached down for her swooning husband with his left hand-and carefully shook the signet ring on his right hand so that it rotated on his finger, the immense imprinting head swiveling safely back inside his readying fist.
Her eyes darted to that fist, noting the change. Then she looked at him again, her mouth closed and her chin elevated. She understood, seemed all but ready to nod at him-and not to give the leering animals near the door the pleasure of her further screams.
Castro y Papas closed his eyes, threw his next punch obliquely into Frank’s belly, and began calculating the minimum number of face or bone blows that would be required to make look the beating look convincing to his savagely eager audience.
The country house that was the only large building of the sprawling farming establishment called Molini was emerging from beneath the soot and dust of long neglect. The Cavrianis’ report to Sharon indicated that the last residents had been the elderly remnants of a cantankerous clan that had not repopulated itself very vigorously, and drove off those few offspring that might have one day inherited the remote, self-styled “commune.” Some said the last of Molini’s antediluvian inhabitants had abandoned it voluntarily; others said they were carted away in their senescent (if combative) infirmity. However, this much was clear: it had stood empty for the preceding nine months, and had fallen into disrepair over the preceding decade.
With the nearest neighbors almost four miles away, no one had any business coming to visit Molini. But if anyone had, they would have noticed dramatic changes. The gardens were being tended once again, walkways were repaired and swept, and what had appeared to be an angular compost heap against the back wall had been replaced with a new pile of kitchen firewood.
After finishing the first full meal cooked in that refurbished kitchen-wild boar stuffed with turnips, wild carrots, and chives-Sharon and Ruy sought the comfort of the smaller, more intimate hearth of the master suite’s sitting room. It was not their private retreat, however, despite the fact that their bedroom was contiguous with it. Although the house was quite large, it was still small for their entire contingent: all the rooms fit for sleeping were accommodating at least six people. The only exceptions were the rooms reserved for the Ruy and Sharon, Vitelleschi and Antonio Barberini, and Wadding and Larry Mazzare, the last eliciting no small number of muttered comments about strange bedfellows, indeed. Only the pope had a private room. Or did in theory, anyway: of the two Wild Geese-Patrick Fleming and Anthony McEgan-one always kept watch over Urban at all times.
So Sharon and Ruy were not surprised when the entirety of the clerical contingent filed into the sitting room adjoining their quarters. But Sharon quickly understood that this was not to be simply another session of the post-prandial companionship that was rapidly becoming a tradition in this space: Urban and Wadding compelled the two Wild Geese to remain outside the room. Then Urban moved over to take the chair closest to the fire; even with summer coming on, the nighttime temperatures of the Italian PreAlps were still bracing. The others found seats and looked at Vitelleschi expectantly.
Ruy glanced at Sharon and then, together, they faced the newcomers. “Your Eminences,” Ruy began, “do you require the private use of this chamber for-?”
Urban shook his head. “No, my son, you and your charming bride are welcome to remain here as long as you wish. Although our discourse might bore you.”
From the mischievous twinkle in the pope’s eye, Sharon seriously doubted that would be the case.
As he often did, Vitelleschi began addressing his fellow clerics without preamble. “As per His Holiness’ instructions, I shall preside over the debates between Cardinals Mazzare and Wadding. Cardinal Barberini shall serve as recording secretary. And I reiterate his Holiness’ strict instructions that the discussants are not to address arguments to him during our sessions, nor are they to present him with appeals outside of them. He is an observer only.
“The first item to be addressed is whether it can reasonably be asserted that Grantville is an infernal construct. If it is deemed possible, then logically, our discussions will end there.”
Ruy poked Sharon’s arm gently. “You do not seem demonic to me, my heart. At least, not when we are in public…”
Sharon poked Ruy far more energetically in the ribs. “Stop it, Ruy. You’ll get us in trouble.” They both turned and saw Vitelleschi glowering at them with a face as pinched and disapproving as a stereotypical spinster schoolmarm.
“However,” he resumed archly, “if it is decided that Grantville’s appearance cannot be reasonably ascribed to satanic machinations, then we must consider how up-time papal opinions, councils, and decrees bear upon our own Church. In particular, we must establish the theological and canonical provenance of the up-time papal council most frequently referred to as Vatican II.”
“Damn,” breathed Sharon, “this sure beats tuning in to the late, late show.”
“Eh?” whispered Ruy.
“Shhh. I’ll explain later.”
“If you are suggesting that we have box seats for the greatest religious drama of the age, I quite agree.”
Vitelleschi had not paused. “Finally, we will use the collective outcome of these discussions to inform our final, crucial consideration: whether or not His Holiness should seek shelter and aid from the United States of Europe. In short, we must discover whether that act of mundane prudence is also an act that follows the Will of God.
“We have few documents at our disposal from which to draw citations, so we cannot observe the procedures and protocols of a court of canon law. However, that may prove a blessing in disguise; we have need of swift decisions. Picking at the fine construances of words-half of which come to us through translations of dubious accuracy-would be no ally to our need for alacrity.
“Instead, Cardinals Mazzare and Wadding will write-as briefs-their best recollections of the relevant facts or citations upon which they will base their remarks in each session. But there will be no prepared statements. This must be a living discussion among men, not a paper duel between lawyers.”
Wadding leaned forward toward Urban. “And when we have finished all our discussions, and you, Your Holiness, have concluded your deliberations, shall the right or wrong of these matters be asserted ex cathedra?”
“I certainly hope to do so,” answered Urban.
“Your Holiness,” pressed Wadding, “whatever we might say, your final statements remain the sine qua non that give this entire discursive process meaning. Mother Church has only one pope, one voice, that speaks God’s Will to us. And we must hear that Will clearly.”
Ruy leaned and murmured toward his wife, “The Irish priest is a most relentless advocate of traditionalism, I suspect.”
“Sure sounds like it,” Sharon muttered.