A low, blocky form emerged from obscurity: a small, hunched man, a shovel slung back over his shoulder, wearing the ill-fitting livery of a low-ranking servant. His face was wrinkled, furtive, sad. He stepped through the doorway and paused with disinterest, lowering his jaw slightly when he saw them all gathered. “No entry allowed,” he said, sounding bored. “There are guards back there, they’ll just chase you out.” He took another step to move past them.
“Can you tell us what happened?” the Cardinal asked.
The old man shrugged. “Fire. Someone died.”
“Who died?” Ocyrhoe demanded.
Again the old man shrugged. “Cardinal.”
“Which one?” Monferrato demanded shrilly.
“Foreigner. English, I think.”
Ocyrhoe gasped before she could catch herself. Ferenc tapped her arm. She ignored him and turned to Lena. “The man who sent the message is dead.” She tried to push aside the strange upwelling of emotion-she’d only met Somercotes once, yet she found herself disoriented by the news. “How do I fulfill my obligation now?” she asked, almost childlike. “I was to bring the Emperor’s men to Cardinal Somercotes, but he… no longer lives.”
Lena gave her an understanding look. She reached for Ocyrhoe’s right hand, lifted it, gently pressed the hand into a fist, and rested the fist against Ocyrhoe’s breastbone. “You are like the fox, unbound here and unencumbered,” she prompted.
Ocyrhoe began to echo the phrase before Lena had even finished. Then she heaved a huge sigh, both saddened and relieved that her mission was over. She saw Ferenc watching the two Binders with a wary, envious look.
During their exchange, Helmuth had continued to question the worker, who met the soldier’s demands with a series of shrugs and other signs of stolid disregard-and only a few mumbled words. After releasing the old man with a disgusted kick at his backside, Helmuth informed the rest of the group, “The other Cardinals were escorted to the Vatican compound yesterday.”
“I knew that,” Ocyrhoe said matter-of-factly. Helmuth glared at her. Ocyrhoe had never encountered so many fragile men in her life. They must feel very insecure indeed if a girl talking back caused such unrest.
“Let us go there,” said the Cardinal.
Helmuth grimaced. “The way will be congested,” he said.
“It would have been much less congested earlier,” Ocyrhoe said, unable to still her tongue.
“Silence, brat,” Helmuth said.
Lena smiled, silencing both of them with a look. “A path will present itself,” she said calmly. “I am sure of it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The reflection in the horse trough was a hollow-eyed phantom. Ripples in the water added lines, distorting his mouth into a quivering frown that split his face in half. Dietrich slapped the water, disturbing the image even further, and turned away from the wrecked face staring up at him. He dried his face with a rag that was probably dirtier than he was. As much as he tried to push the matter out of his mind, he could not avoid the truth. It kept creeping up on him-staring back from the water in the horse trough, leering from behind the eyes of his men. Doubt. Fear. Panic.
He had lost his way, and he was leading the Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae to ruin. Had Heermeister Volquin suffered this same realization shortly before the battle at Schaulen? Dietrich recalled the fury in Kristaps’s eyes when the knight had revealed the ugly scars of his failed Shield-Brethren initiation. That same fervor had driven Volquin, and he had been blind to the trap at the river. The Heermeister’s obsession had nearly destroyed the order; the Teutonic Knights had taken pity on the survivors of Schaulen, welcoming the lost Livonians into their ranks. Many of the Sword Brothers wore the black cross rather than the red, and were content to leave the past buried along the muddy banks of the Schaulen River.
But some had strained under the Teutonic yoke. These men-veterans of the Northern campaigns, survivors of Schaulen-secretly spoke of taking the red cross again, of taking their own lands, of regaining their old glory. They chose him to lead them, and all they had needed was a sign that their purpose was just and right.
And they had been given that sign by the Pope himself. The Sword Brothers found an unexpected patron in Rome, and once Dietrich had sworn himself-and the order-to serve not just the Church, but the men who secretly ruled the Church, they could wear the red cross again.
But the memory of Schaulen proved difficult to shake.
Dietrich sat on the bench beside the trough and stared at the tumbledown wall of the barn that was the extent of their holdings in Hunern. Was this all that he, Dietrich von Gruningen, the fourth master of the order, had accomplished? Would history even remember him?
He shuddered, shaking himself free from the grip of this tenacious melancholy. Such weak-mindedness! This would not be the legacy of his command. He would right himself; he would find honor and glory for his men. The rest-the ones who still wore the black cross-would come back. He knew they would.
The Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae will survive, he vowed. Whatever storm threatened, he could not shrink from his duty: his order must survive. No matter the cost, no matter the danger, he must not shirk his responsibility.
Having dispersed the phantom of failure, Dietrich whistled for his squire and began the slow, deliberate ritual of donning his armor. As his squire ensured that maille was fitted properly over gambeson, that surcoat hung properly, and that sword rested at the proper angle on his hips, Dietrich von Gruningen, fourth master of the Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae considered his meager options.
He had been given one order by his master in Rome, and after securing the safety of his men, that was his only other responsibility. Destroy the Shield-Brethren.
His squire offered him his helmet, and Dietrich shook his head. He would not need it. Not where he was going. His dressing complete, Dietrich strode out into the main compound, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Burchard and Sigeberht were waiting for him. Constant companions, their devotion was absolute. With a hundred like them, we would be strong, he reflected as he looked at their stoic faces.
“Is my horse prepared?” he asked.
“As you asked, Heermeister,” Burchard murmured. “Where do we ride?”
“The Mongol compound,” Dietrich answered. “I must speak with Tegusgal.”
The tree had never had any leaves, as far as Hans could recall; to an outsider, the tree was a scraggly ash, grown from a wind-tossed achene that had sprouted in the unkempt wilderness of a neglected alley. It would never get enough sun. It would never get enough water. But it refused to die, and Hans and the other boys-the Rats of Hunern-adopted it as their own. It was their standard, and beneath its twisted arms, they felt safe. Protected. Sheltered from the cruelty of a world gone mad.
Axis mundi, Andreas had said of the tree when he had last visited the tiny shelter. It is the pillar of your world, he had explained. He had reached up and touched the highest branch of the stunted tree. Though it has some growing to do before it can hold up Heaven, don’t you think?
Andreas was dead. But the tree still lived. He still lived. Hans wrapped his arms around the tree and pressed his cheek against the rough bark. Only then would he let himself cry.
But he had no tears. He was as dry as the tree.
“Hans.”
He jerked upright at the sound of his name, and instead of fleeing he only hugged the tree more tightly. When his name was spoken a second time-the tone of voice filled with compassion and tenderness-he dared to look around for the speaker.