It was longer than the other one, he dimly realized, and the fletching was different.
Through the haze of smoke, he saw horsemen approaching. More arrows began to land around him, skipping off the planks of the bridge, burying themselves into the wood of the barrel next to him. Shorter arrows, fired from Mongol bows.
“No,” he coughed. This isn’t fair. This isn’t the way it was supposed to end.
He wasn’t going to die like Volquin. That wasn’t his destiny. He grabbed his stiff leg and hauled it with him as he staggered around the barrel. He was going to survive. He was going to escape.
An arrow punched him in the shoulder, spinning him around, and he tried to arrest his fall, but his right leg crumpled under him. A brilliant spike of pain shot through his hip and made him cry out. His head rebounded off the bridge and his vision darkened. No. I will not die today. God is protecting me.
Sprawled on the bridge, Dietrich found he could breathe more easily as there was less smoke. He could see more readily as well. The edge of the bridge wasn’t too far away. Could he crawl that far? He dragged himself through the talus scattered across the bridge, one agonizing inch at a time. Arrows continued to fall around him, and he dimly heard shouts and the clanging sound of steel on steel. The Mongols had been engaged by another host, and if his world had not been reduced to nothing more than this painful crawl, he might have wondered who had sprung this trap on the Mongol host.
It was only as he tipped over the edge of the bridge and fell into the river that he caught sight of the arrow in his leg again. The white fletching. Chicken feathers.
A Templar arrow.
And then the water closed over him, and he knew nothing else.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Monferrato’s sedan chair had gotten them into the compound, though Monferrato had been dismayed to learn that he missed the vote and apoplectic to realize that a simple priest had been elected. Ocyrhoe thought the Cardinal’s eyes were going to pop out of his head when he learned that the College of Cardinals had not immediately invalidated the election.
“How is this possible?” Monferrato had spluttered to the ostiarius who was leading them through the dark halls of the Castel Sant’Angelo.
“You had best speak to Cardinal Fieschi,” the tall ostiarius said, his pace quickening as if he could escape further interrogation.
“Where is he?” Monferrato demanded.
The ostiarius slowed, confusion showing on his face. “He is with the other Cardinals,” he said. “But I thought-”
“We do,” Lena said smoothly. She indicated Ocyrhoe and Ferenc. “However, these are longtime companions of the Pope. He will want to see them immediately. After which, you may escort Cardinal Monferrato to see Cardinal Fieschi.” Unlike the Cardinal, her voice was calm and soothing, and it had an immediate effect on the ostiarius, who nodded eagerly and started walking again.
Monferrato started spluttering again, his eyes bulging even more, and Lena forestalled any further discussion by putting a finger to her lip and shaking her head.
Ocyrhoe grabbed Ferenc’s hand and hurried after the ostiarius. She didn’t need to be part of their argument; she only wanted to see Father Rodrigo.
Their guide took them to a hall with multiple doors, and he chose a small one on the left-it seemed terribly unassuming to Ocyrhoe to be the door that led to the Pope. But she said nothing as the ostiarius opened the door and indicated they were to enter. Still holding Ferenc’s hand, she stepped through the door into the narrow chamber beyond.
Ocyrhoe was struck by the difference in Father Rodrigo, meeting him this time. First, of course, he was physically much healthier-which made him look younger. But more than that, he radiated beatitude-an emotional stability that she could not associate with the man she’d first met.
She enjoyed watching the affectionate blandishments Ferenc and Bendrito showered on each other. She could not follow the language they spoke, but she could read their faces and body language, and sense the emotional pitching and tossing that Ferenc was going through as he listened to Father Rodrigo speak.
Finally, after perhaps a quarter hour, Father Rodrigo turned to her and began to speak in the language of Rome. “Sister, Ferenc tells me you have been good to him and he is fond of you,” the new Pope began.
“That is mutual, Father. Your Holiness,” she corrected herself without hurry.
“He tells me that you are a native of the city and that you can help us to escape.”
“They are holding you captive here, then?”
“Ferenc tells me you saw me speaking in the marketplace. Did it look like I left there by my own free will?” He gestured around the room. “I have just been made Summus Pontifex Ecclesiae Universalis, yet, I reside in a small, windowless room with no pot to defecate in, eating cold food. Do you think I am here by my own choice?”
Ocyrhoe squirmed a bit under the intensity of Father Rodrigo’s gaze, hoping that he wasn’t suggesting what she feared he was. Based on Ferenc’s gleeful expression, though, she suspected that escape was exactly what Father Rodrigo had in mind.
By the time the new Pontiff had finished his private audience with the strange hunter-boy from the north, a temporary suspension of the endless canonical discussions among the Cardinals had been called; everyone agreed to turn in for the night, and to resume conversations, arguments, investitures, or whatever else the future might hold, starting the next morning.
Ocyrhoe and Lena were put together in a room on the first floor; at the new Pope’s insistence, Ferenc slept in his room. Helmuth and Cardinal Monferrato were also put together in another guest quarter, closer to the rest of the Cardinals.
Father Rodrigo’s room, not surprisingly, had a guard placed in front of it. That did not worry Ocyrhoe. In the dark hours of the morning, with a small kitchen knife and a kneading blade she had purloined from the castle kitchen, she let herself out of the room. Lena had not stirred as she had slipped out of bed and made her way to the door. Ocyrhoe did not feel that what she was about to do was at all contrary to her identity as a Binder, but still, she sensed Lena would discourage her from following her instincts.
Her plan was simple enough-the sort of misdirection that came naturally to her as a child of the streets. Like a mouse, she laid out a trail for the guard to follow. She planted a number of obvious clues-a piece of torn fabric, some bits of wax from a candle, a wedge of plaster, and powder from that plaster-down the hall, around another corner, and aimed directly at the door of Cardinal Fieschi’s room.
When she finished her false trail, she crept back to the corner near Father Rodrigo’s room. The guard was leaning against the wall, his lack of vigilance suggesting he had no idea who he was guarding. She tossed a pebble in his direction, making sure it bounced and rattled against the base of the wall. As soon as the guard roused himself, she scampered noisily away from the corner. There was a dark niche not far from the next corner, deep enough for her to hide in, and she pressed herself into the slot shortly before the guard stumbled around the corner.
She was counting on the guard’s boredom, that he would be more interested in following a trail of evidence that would result in the capture of a sneaky thief than the endless monotony of guard duty.
The guard paused as he came around the corner, looking around cautiously. Ocyrhoe held her breath, waiting for him to spot the piece of torn cloth. He did, and bowing over like a hound, he began to creep along the hall, his eyes clearly scanning for more clues. He passed by her hiding place without even looking in her direction. In another few heartbeats, he reached the corner and disappeared from view.