I understood. Pardon, gentles. Now that it has all happened, it seems obvious — that Bishop Robert was our enemy. But at the time I scarcely knew him, and I had no notion that a bishop, a virtual prince of the church, would attempt to undermine a crusade.
‘My lord, I can only promise you that if the weather is fair, we will quit your gates tomorrow on our way to Venice, the city of Saint Mark.’
The mad tyrant of Verona shrugged. ‘I suppose,’ he said. ‘Cavalli, have all their papers prepared.’ He turned to me. ‘There, my English bravo. Is that enough for you?’
I bowed.
‘And how exactly shall I punish you for the lese majeste of attacking my person?’ he asked suddenly.
My hand went to the empty space over my hip where my arming sword should have been.
He shrugged again and turned away. ‘We will see,’ he said.
We made it back to the convent by riding quickly on the main streets with our helmets on and our visors closed. I dismounted in the yard, gave my horse to one of Nerio’s pages, and ran, fully armed, for Father Pierre and Fra Peter. I found them at prayer.
I had never interrupted a priest at prayer but I cleared my throat a few times, and eventually Fra Peter and two of his knights turned to look at me, and he saw it in my posture and my face and came to the back of the chapel, scattering nuns and lay sisters as he came.
‘I have the papers, but della Scala means us harm, I’d swear to it. He claims a bishop, Robert of Geneva …’ I paused.
Fra Peter let slip a nasty word.
Father Pierre’s head came up.
Well, we’re all merely mortals.
‘If it were up to me, I’d take the legate and ride right now,’ I said. ‘Somehow the populace has been convinced that we are Guelfs and the guilds are arming under their banners.’
Ser Niccolo Accaioulo took a deep breath. ‘Of course, we are Guelfs. Famous ones, too.’ He shrugged elaborately. ‘Whether this is planned or happenstance, our presence is making it worse.’
I shook my head. ‘Begging your pardon, messire, but Nerio’s presence gave della Scala a little pause. It might have been what saved us. We rode into a trap.’
Father Pierre, clad only in his Carmelite robes, strode down the nave of the chapel to join us.
‘You men of blood,’ he said. He was angry. ‘What have you done?’
I was more than a little crushed, I can tell you, to have my spiritual father assume I was to blame.
Fra Peter raised his hand. ‘Your Excellency, this is apparently brought on by your brother in Christ, Robert of Geneva.’
The legate narrowed his eyes.
‘They will use the Accaioulo as an excuse to attack us,’ Fra Peter said.
‘They would provoke war with the Pope, with Venice, and with Florence,’ Ser Niccolo said. He pulled at his beard. ‘Someone has told them otherwise, eh, messires?’
While we stood, the abbess and two senior nuns rose from their knees and went to the great oak doors of the chapel. There, a pair of novices whispered to them; the abbess looked stricken, and put a hand to the cross at her neck.
She approached the legate with her eyes cast down. ‘Excellence, there is a rabble at the gates,’ she said.
Fra Peter turned to me. ‘You and your men are armed. You must hold them until the knights of the Order are ready …’
Father Pierre looked at us — and smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I will not allow a single Veronese to be killed. Much less you gentlemen, who love me. God will protect me, messires.’ He turned to me. ‘Do not follow me, unless you are unarmed.’
Fra Peter gave me a look. It is surprising how much information a man or a woman can convey in a single flick of the eyes. I knelt before the legate, and he put a hand on my head and blessed me.
‘Come!’ he said. ‘But leave your swords. Because I will neither live by one nor die by one.’ He walked out of the chapel and I followed him into the yard. It was already dark, and we could hear the crowd at the convent gates.
‘Mount,’ I said. ‘For the love of God, gentles, mount and draw your swords, but take no action unless the crowd strikes the legate.’
Nerio pressed his horse in beside mine. ‘You know what you are doing?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I lied.
Nerio saluted me with his sword.
Ahead of us, Fra Peter and Fra John of the Scottish priory — John Cameron, that was — opened the gates.
A cluster of nuns appeared around the legate with torches.
The legate wore neither cope nor chasuble, nor any garment of gold. But in the orange torchlight, he seemed to glow. The mob — the crowd, I should say, because they were citizens and craftsmen, not the poor — the crowd gave back a step.
‘Brothers and sisters in Christ!’ Father Pierre said. He said it gently, firmly, and his voice carried.
He took a small wooden cross from one of the sisters. They stood their ground with the resolution of English archers or Swiss spearmen — women can be stauncher than men. Behind them stood a dozen knights of the Order, all in their scarlet, but none armed beyond daggers.
‘He’s the Emperor’s man!’ shouted an educated voice safe in the heart of the crowd. A voice whose Italian was tinged with French.
‘Brothers and sisters!’ Father Pierre called again. ‘Do you know that the Holy Father has preached a great crusade? Do you know that the princes of the West are even now gathering at Venice under the banner of the King of Cyprus to strike a great blow for Christ, and retake Jerusalem if it can be accomplished?’ He smiled his gentle smile. ‘I would serve the Emperor, if he would come to me and tell me that he would lead a thousand of his best knights to Jerusalem. In the eyes of Christ, there are no Guelfs and no Ghibbelines! There is only the flock of Christ — and the wolves that seek to divide us so that they can consume us. Brothers and sisters, shall we all pray for the state of Christendom?’
‘He is a liar and a hypocrite!’ the voice said, conversationally. ‘The Pope will sell this city for gold — to barbarians!’
I knew that voice. I’d listened to it for too long — after Brignais.
It was d’Herblay. In Italy. Safe, deep in a crowd, and I was standing, head bowed, unarmed.
But Father Pierre ignored the voice as if it didn’t exist. He knelt. He was within a spear’s length of a man with a heavy axe; there were armed apprentices even closer than that. The nuns drew back a little, so that all could see him. Then they knelt, ten women of faith.
The knights knelt. If you have never knelt in steel leg harnesses, let me tell you that it is God’s own penance for the Orders of Chivalry.
After a pause of a breath most of the people in the crowd knelt, too, but my horse sensed my tension and began to fret, tossing his head and moving his back feet.
Father Pierre raised his hands and began the paternoster.
All the people in the street began to say it with him.
It isn’t listed as one of his miracles. But I was there. He glowed. And not a man or woman died.
The crowd broke up quickly. I waited by the gate, eager to follow my quarry, but Father Pierre was on to me as soon as he rose to his feet and walked back in to the walls. He saw me and smiled.
‘Your whole body speaks of violence,’ he said. ‘Jesus came to speak of peace. Walk inside.’
‘But-’ I began.
He didn’t frown. He looked pained.
I took a deep breath, took my hand from my dagger hilt, and turned away from the gate.
In truth, had I killed d’Herblay in Verona that night, my Emile would have been a widow, and I might have been a much happier man. Yet, as Fra Peter said to me, the habit of obedience is essential to honour. Once you put your trust in a man, you must be prepared to obey. And perhaps, in my scarlet surcoat, I would merely have walked out into the streets and been killed.
We left Verona very early. I didn’t sleep much, and neither did Fra Peter or Ser Niccolo, but in the end we had everyone saddled and ready in the courtyard as the darkness began its retreat from morning’s light. We opened the gates on an empty street, and we rode into the next square, formed our column, and moved to the river as quickly as we could manage.