“Goddamn your-” Fieschi started. The sentinels around the pavilion instantly stepped inside; soldiers passing by on the avenue beside them stopped and turned toward them, as if the entire camp was prepared to assault Fieschi should he shout again. He took a very large breath and let it out forcefully, holding his hands up in a ceding gesture.
Frederick regarded him calmly. “I have already been excommunicated this week-in a much more official manner-so I will look upon your outburst as nothing more than-”
“Where is the priest?” Fieschi demanded, his voice quiet but firm. “Why did you let him go?”
“Well, he was very intent on his mission,” Frederick said, in an approving tone. “And his mission did nothing to challenge my authority. His resolve was very admirable. I admire that in a religious authority, especially in one who thinks he is the Pope. Very useful. And appropriate. So I chose to assist him. He and his undomesticated little hunter friend. Gave them clean clothes, and a good meal, and plenty of supplies for the road ahead.” Then as an afterthought, “Oh yes, and a couple of horses. Some of my fastest, as they are both excellent riders.” He grinned at the expression on Fieschi’s face. “You are bursting with the impulse to call me a shithead. It’s all over your face, Sinibaldo. Unfortunately, there are witnesses who would be stricken to hear such language coming from the mouth of a Cardinal, especially after that previous outburst.”
“Frederick!” Fieschi snapped in a constricted voice. “What are you talking about? What have you done?”
“Did I not just fucking itemize it for you?” Frederick said with mock exasperation. “Would you like me to write it out for you? I can do it in crude pictures if that will make it easier for you to grasp.”
Ocyrhoe ducked her head and pursed her lips together as hard as she could bear. Hearing Fieschi spoken to this way was a reviving antidote to the events of the past days.
Fieschi huffed with frustration, turned away, and began to stalk around the tent like a caged animal. The sentinels followed him with their eyes, adjusting their positions to discourage him from leaving. Ocyrhoe watched his face change mood over and again, as a dozen different strategies and tactics were dismissed. Finally, he returned to his position in front of the Emperor.
“I am here as a representative of the Holy Roman Church to seek your assistance in the retrieval of Church property.”
“Go ahead,” Frederick said agreeably, gesturing toward the avenue outside. “I’m not stopping you. Though if you are referring to the Grail-and I find it curious how quickly you’ve gone from complete denial of its existence to calling it Church property-I should point out that I’m not entirely sure it is Church property. At least, not the physical manifestation of it. Oh, I’d be happy to have a long and interesting discussion with you about the metaphysics of the Cup of Christ, given what I’ve seen with my own eyes, but-”
“I am speaking of the man,” Fieschi ground out.
“The Pope is Church property?” Frederick asked.
“And all artifacts that he might carry,” Fieschi amended hastily.
“Oh yes, of course, my mistake,” Frederick snorted, waving his hand toward the door of his tent. “Be my guest, though I am out of fresh horses. Perhaps you could untether one of the nags from the carriage that carried your august personage here and ride it, though I suspect that would be a most uncomfortable ride.”
Fieschi again resorted to a groaning sigh to release his frustration. He paced about the tent, his mouth working around words that never came out, and then he stopped and whirled toward them again.
“You, Binder,” he said, directing his ire at Ocyrhoe. “You are the cause of all this. You have meddled beyond your reach. I will-”
“Has she?” Frederick interrupted.
Fieschi whirled on the Emperor. “Stay out of this,” he snapped, shaking a finger at Frederick.
“I’d like to, but if you’re going to blaming all of this nonsense on a small girl-who, I would like to remind you is not a true Binder, inasmuch as I understand any of their strange rituals and observances-I think that reflects poorly on your own judgment. Which, frankly, is already suspect. I would hate to see that reflected in, say, the next papal election.”
Fieschi slowly curled his finger back into his hand. “She helped the priest escape.”
“From a prison you put him in in the first place.” Frederick shook his head. “Sinibaldo, this is beneath you. It gives me great joy to watch you sputter and foam like an old toothless woman, but after awhile, the joy passes and watching you”-he raised his shoulders and sighed-“it fills me with an unremitting sadness.”
Fieschi curled his hand into a fist, and then realizing what he was doing, he lowered his hand. Regaining his composure, he attempted to affix a smile on his face. “This jest has been ill-timed, Frederick. I am under enormous pressure to facilitate the resolution of this sede vacante. Perhaps, you might rise above your own childish predilections once in a while.”
“I might,” Frederick offered.
Fieschi nodded curtly. “We are going to return to Rome. This meeting has been a farce. Given your blasphemous words concerning one of the Church’s greatest symbols and your carefree attitude concerning the disposition of Rome’s missing priest-”
“Pontiff,” Frederick corrected.
“Priest,” Fieschi snarled. “It is a tragedy that the Holy Roman Emperor, in a time of great religious strife, could not be bothered to respond appropriately to a call for assistance from a beleaguered and otherwise devoted Church.”
“Very nicely spoken,” Frederick said, clapping lightly when Fieschi finished. “I almost feel bad for indulging in my-what did you call them? — my childish predilections.” He winked at Ocyrhoe. “Almost.”
“Perhaps you will respond more appropriately the next time the Church seeks your assistance,” Fieschi said slowly, his face darkening again.
“Perhaps,” Frederick said. He waved his hand. “Thank you for stopping by, Cardinal Fieschi. You may go now. Oh, and when you say we, I assume that is limited to yourself and your immediate attendants, yes?”
Fieschi’s eyes darted toward Ocyrhoe.
“While I may not be leaping to your aid, Cardinal Fieschi, I cannot-in good conscience-let this girl return to Rome with you. Not after you tried to blame all of your current troubles on her. Letting you keep her would be akin to throwing her to the lions, don’t you think?”
Fieschi’s lip started to curl, and Ocyrhoe was worried that he might press his argument with the Emperor, but he came to a decision. “Keep her,” he snapped. “If she ever enters Rome again…” He left the threat unfinished, stalking out of the tent before any more could be said.
Ocyrhoe watched him go, both stunned and awed by what had just transpired. It had been delightful to watch the Emperor castigate the Cardinal, and in the end it had turned out as Lena had wished. She was safe, and out of Rome.
“Well,” the Emperor said in the silence that filled the tent in the wake of Fieschi’s departure. “That was an interesting conversation.” He looked at Ocyrhoe. “And here you are,” he noted.
Ocyrhoe had presence of mind to bow before the Emperor. “Here I am,” she said quietly, her mind still awhirl.
Frederick leaned forward, peering at Ocyrhoe. “Why did the Cardinal bring you along?” he asked. “Is it because he thought you might be useful to him?”
“They… they are my friends,” she said.
“And because they are your friends, Fieschi thought you might influence them, yes? Perhaps turn them against me?”
“I don’t know what the Cardinal was thinking,” Ocyrhoe admitted.
“I’m not sure he did either,” Frederick murmured. “It is true that I gave your friend and the priest horses,” he continued. “The Cardinal will send riders out to find them, and given the priest’s condition, I doubt they will be lost very long, and that concerns me because, unlike the Cardinal who prefers strut about and squawk denial like an outraged peacock, I am concerned that the priest is carrying something he shouldn’t. Something dangerous.”