“And if she doesn’t?” Lena asked.
Fieschi gave Lena a feral grin. “I will still have you, here, under my guard. If Frederick wishes to negotiate the return of the priest, I will have something he will want to negotiate for.”
“And the girl wouldn’t be more useful to you here as your hostage?” Lena asked.
“In the last few days,” Fieschi snapped, “this child has caused me more headaches than Robert of Somercotes-”
“Dead so unexpectedly,” Lena sighed sadly.
Fieschi paled slightly, at a loss for words all of a sudden. “We depart at once,” he growled, with an impatient gesture. “They are saddling a pony for you.”
Ocyrhoe gasped. “I don’t know how to ride.”
“All you have to do is sit,” Lena said reassuringly. And then to Fieschi, “What if the Holy Roman Emperor’s intent is not as malicious as you make it out to be?”
“Do not insult me,” Fieschi snapped. “I have known Frederick a long time. I know how he thinks. He won’t pass up an opportunity to force concessions from the Church. What do you think his blockade of Rome was for? I don’t trust him.”
“He will be saddened to hear that,” Lena pointed out. “He considers you one of the most rational men in Rome.”
Fieschi slashed his hand through the air, silencing her. “Be that as it may, you will stay here,” he said.
“Well, I’m happy to stay,” Lena observed, and for a second, Ocyrhoe thought Fieschi was going to change his mind, but when Lena smiled innocently at the Cardinal, he stormed out of the room.
“Off you go,” Lena said, shooing Ocyrhoe toward the door.
“Wait,” Ocyrhoe argued. “I don’t understand any of this. I thought you said you weren’t tied to Frederick. How can he be trying to get you back if you don’t belong to him?”
Lena put a finger to her lips. “The Cardinal seems to have overlooked that point,” she said with a wink. “Let’s not tell him, shall we?”
It was a dry, dusty day, even as the shadows began to stretch eastward. Ocyrhoe liked the rocking motion once she had gotten used to it, and to her surprise, her mount sped up, slowed, and shifted at the precise moment she was wondering how to make it move in those ways. As if the pony was itself a Binder, or at least communicated as Binders do. Animals do not have a spoken language, she thought. They must have other ways in which to communicate.
From the height of the pony, the Holy Roman Emperor’s camp looked very different to Ocyrhoe’s eyes; she could see the boundaries much better now than before, when it was all just a big jumbled maze and she was breathless with anticipation at fulfilling her first Binder assignment.
From Robert of Somercotes.
She wondered again at what had passed between Lena and the Cardinal when Cardinal Somercotes’s name had been brought up. The Cardinal had died in the fire, and it was her understanding that it had been a tragic accident, but there had been a mocking note in Lena’s voice. She marveled at how the older Binder had given such a simple declaration such weight. And Fieschi’s reaction! What was he hiding?
If they weren’t about to arrive in the Emperor’s camp, Ocyrhoe would be more concerned about being in Cardinal Fieschi’s presence. She had seen his face when he had lunged at her early this morning. He was just as dangerous as the Bear, maybe more so.
Where the camp met the road, guards stopped the group, asking the riders to dismount and for the Cardinal to descend from his carriage. Helmuth had returned with them, so they were admitted immediately into the campsite. The mundane details of daily life teemed around them in the tent city-chickens crooning in cages, women scrubbing laundry in tubs, bakers shaping loaves beside portable ovens, metalworkers and leatherworkers intent upon their crafts. The size of the camp itself did not impress Ocyrhoe-it was smaller than even one neighborhood of Rome. But the fact of its mobility, of its inhabitants and creators having traveled hundreds of miles together to erect this temporary town, it was a marvel she could not quite get her mind around. Cities were permanent things, yet…
She recognized the Emperor’s pavilion. Strange to think it had been but one overnight since she had left here; how much had happened in so short a time! A week ago she had known nothing of Father Rodrigo, Ferenc, Cardinals, or emperors.
All the sides and tent flaps were rolled up to the eaves of the tent, so they could see the Emperor, and he could see them, a good twenty paces before they arrived. Frederick was sitting in the camp’s one oak chair, low-slung camp stools scattered before it, as if he were expecting a party. A guard stood at the entrance and others were stationed around the perimeters; a page boy stood behind Frederick’s chair. Otherwise he was alone. When they were half a dozen strides distant, Frederick opened his arms wide as if in greeting. He smiled.
“Damn him,” Fieschi muttered. But his voice, for once, lacked rancor.
“Welcome to my home away from home,” Frederick called out. “Won’t you join me for a cup of wine?”
They entered into the shade of the pavilion. Helmuth, in the lead, saluted, said, “Sire!” then bowed briskly and stepped away to the right. Ocyrhoe wanly imitated his bow.
“Hello, my young friend,” Frederick said to her, amusement in his eyes. Ocyrhoe managed to squeak out, “Sire” and scurried to the left, away from Helmuth.
She watched Fieschi and Frederick as they looked each other in the eye without speaking. Neither wore the challenging or angry expressions she had expected-their faces were both neutral, almost pleasant. Neither one would break the stare.
“I outrank you, Sinibaldo,” Frederick said eventually. “I expect you to at least bow your head.”
“I will prostrate myself with gratitude,” Fieschi promised, “as soon as you return him to me.”
Frederick gave him a small, mocking smile. “Who? The priest?” He put a finger to his lips. “No, I am mistaken. The Pope. Yes, is that who you are speaking of?”
Fieschi closed his eyes a moment, took a careful breath, and said through gritted teeth, “He is not-”
“Oh, and what was it that he had with him?” He waved away Ocyrhoe’s brightening expression with a wave of his hand. “No, not the boy. The other thing. The cup. Yes, that’s what it was. The Cup of Christ.”
“What?” Fieschi exploded.
“The Holy Grail,” Frederick said patiently. “You got my note, clearly, and your rapid arrival confirms my suspicion.” He glanced at Ocyrhoe for a brief second, and she was surprised by both the merriment and caution in his eyes. “I am glad I kept my language circumspect-”
“What suspicion?” Fieschi asked, his face even darker with rage than before.
“You wouldn’t come trotting out of the safety of Rome for a mere priest, especially one as addled as that poor man is. Even if he was your newly elected Pope. No, dear Sinibaldo, I think you’ve come for something much more important.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Fieschi raged. “The Holy Grail doesn’t exist.”
Ocyrhoe heard a ragged breathlessness in the Cardinal’s voice as if he were struggling to hide a different emotion entirely. Panic.
“Oh, I beg to differ, my dear friend,” Frederick countered heartily. “A dozen or so members of my entourage, after setting eyes on the cup, wished to traipse after the priest on his idiotic crusade; my guards had to physically restrain them. I thank God I have some atheistic sentinels who were immune to the goddamned allure of the thing.”
Fieschi was still changing color, paling now. “What do you mean, follow after him? Where is he?”
Frederick shrugged. “No idea. I released him into the wild, a few hours back. I thought it was only sporting to give him a head start if Cardinal Fieschi was on his trail.”