“Far from being an immigrant, Caroly was come of the old Tidewater aristocracy—known as the FFV or First Families of Virginia. Some of her people still were holders of inherited land and wealth, but her parents seemed to have blown most of their own—they only owned the names, a modest home, and an inordinate amount of arrogance and pride of ancestry. Carolyn’s father was a middling attorney connected with a prestigious Richmond law firm and most likely could have lived far more comfortably than he actually did. had he and his wife not felt obligated to maintain for themselves and their children a societal niche far above their existing means.
“Neither of them nor Carolyn’s siblings nor any of their relatives ever really liked me, but they all realized just why Carolyn was so intent on staking out a claim on me. I didn’t, not for a good while. Even at the wedding reception—it and the wedding itself paid for by Carolyn’s father, with money ‘borrowed’ from me—when I happened to overhear a brace of her aunts remarking that yes, it was nauseating to think of the poor little thing and a dirty foreigner, but that as I was well-to-do, it would be a good first marriage and the resultant alimony would allow her to live well long enough to find a man of her own class. I didn’t manage to put two and two together properly.”
When il Duce, Timoteo di Bolgia, strode into the presence of His Grace Giosue’ di Rezzi, Archbishop of Mun-ster, he already knew the news that he assumed he had been summoned to the archepiscopal palace to hear; one of his spies had sent word almost as soon as the swift ship had docked and the seals on the documents had been broken.
When he had knelt, kissed the archbishop’s ring, then arisen, the frail-looking clergyman said solemnly, “Your Grace di Bolgia, I have just received word from Cardinal D’Este. His Holiness Abdul II al-Zaman died three weeks agone. Due to certain administrative problems, no election has as yet been held or even scheduled, but it would seem that a committee chaired by His Grace Cardinal Prospero Sicola has the reins firmly in hand.
“The message goes on to say that I should board the vessel that brought the message and sail to Palermo, at once. But dare I leave Irland and Munster, Your Grace? Should I do so, will His Highness Tamhas of Munster still be alive when I return?”
Timoteo shrugged. “Your Grace, the life or the death of any man, regardless his rank or calling, is finally in the hands of God.”
The slight man’s eyes blazed. “Don’t dare to fence with me, you godless heathen adulterer! I posed an understandable question and I’ll have a straight answer of you, at least as straight and as truthful an answer as such a one as you could give.”
Timoteo nodded, his face looking grim. “All right, Your Grace, here it all is in a nutshell: I presently have no designs upon the life of Righ Tamhas; he has proved almost completely cooperative with his new council. As to just how long he will live, however, that is contingent upon how successful I and the other councillors are in restraining his perennial impulses to lead his FitzGerald Guards and his wild Rus-Goths in a suicidal daylight mounted charge against the fortifications of the Ard-Righ’s siege forces. As well planned, laid-out, and defended as are those fortifications, the Righ and his minion’s desire to attack them makes about as much sense as would the plans of a troop of bullfrogs to mount assault on a nest of vipers. In his redundant Irish way, the Righ continues to babble about the requirements of his honor, the need to drive the trespassing Meathians from the Sacred Soil of Munster, and some of his blatherings even make a sort of sense, in a silly, old-fashioned way. But as I pointed out to the royal ass on the last occasion he swore he would do it on the next morning, what matters satisfied honor or reclaimed land to a cold, well-hacked corpse?
“No, Your Grace, if you want a reasonably firm assurance that Righ Tamhas will be alive when you return from Palermo, should you choose to go, wring a vow out of the Righ that he will not, for any reason, leave the confines of the city walls.”
The speedy but virtually unarmed lugger conveying di Rezzi, his secretary, their servants, four bodyguards. Sir Ugo, and his two squires sailed directly to the island of Majorca. In the port of Palmas. the archepiscopal party and their baggage were all transshipped to a waiting Genoan galleass, Spaventoso, all bristling with cannon.
When he had formally welcomed di Rezzi aboard, the commander of the warship, one Sir Giorgio Predone, said bluntly, almost rudely, “Your Grace, this may not be either an easy or a pleasant voyage. The battling between Roman factions has spilled over, out of the city itself, you see. The triple-damned Moorish bastards have never needed much excuse to sail out and prey on honest shipping, and the mere unsupported rumor, without a single grain of truth to it, that old Abdul might have been poisoned has got them all—from Sidi Barani to Beni Saf—armed and at sea after gold and slaves and anything else they can lay hands on.
“If it happens to us, it may well happen suddenly, so when I tell Your Grace to repair to his cabin and bar the door, I pray he does just that immediately, for his life is in my keeping on board this ship.”
Turning from di Rezzi, Predone demanded, “D’Orsmi, is it. Sir Ugo? The Roman D’Orsinis? Then I take it you’re a Knight of the Church, eh?” There was a barely discernible tinge of disgust and condescension in the Genoan’s voice, for Papal knights quite often in the last hundred and fifty years had been nothing of the sort, their swords and gilded spurs mere baubles akin to their rings and bracelets and neck chains.
Nodding his answers silently. Sir Ugo feigned to not notice the slighting tone, but one of his squires, himself a noble-born Roman, was not so temperate in nature.
“My lord Predone,” he burst out unbidden, “you should know that my puissant lord. Sir Ugo D’Orsini, is on loan to His Grace from the staff of the famous condottiere il Dace. Sir Timoteo di Bolgia.”
“Is it so?” drawled Sir Giorgio. Smiling warmly, he said, “Your pardon, please, for my rudeness, Sir Ugo, but these be harder times than usual, and every nonfighter aboard makes for a bigger risk at sea. May I say that it is indeed an honor to have a man of your water aboard my ship. I have long admired, greatly respected, and avidly followed the career of the illustrious Duce di Bolgia. His exploits are bringing respect back to Italian arms and men-of-arms. When you are established in your place below, come back to the bridge here, pray. I would have you tour Spaventoso.”
Despite the dire warnings, however, the voyage was uneventful, though slow as compared to the lugger they had quitted at Palmas, until Sicily was already a dim smudge on the horizon. Then it was that three small, fast, maneuverable feluccas bore down upon them, the bow-chasers firing long before they had achieved even maximum range.
Awakened by the nearby pealing of bugles and thunder-roll of a drum directly overhead. Sir Ugo was hardly on his feet when a staccato pounding on his door commenced. Throwing open the portal to the small, cramped sleeping space, the knight confronted a ten- or twelve-year-old officer trainee, who bobbed a short, hurried bow and gasped out his message.
“M’Lord D’Orsini. if it pleases m’lord, Sir Giorgio urges that m’lord arm with haste, with haste, m’lord. Moorish pirates be coming up fast on the starboard, three of them, as fast as sail and oars can drive them.” The white-faced youngster gulped and added, “There will be a sea fight . . . and soon.”
Once buckled and laced into three-quarter armor, with his preferred battle rapier and a brace of wheellock pistols at his waist, a dagger in each of his boot tops, and his helmet under his left arm, the tall, slender but wiry nobleman paced down the narrow corridor and tapped at the door to the larger cabin which housed the archbishop and most of his party.
“Your Grace, the ship is about to be attacked by no less than three Moorish ships. If the Spaventoso be sunk or taken, your four guards will not do you much good, but up above, adding their weights and strength to the defending forces, who can say what prodigies they might wreak with me and my two squires?”
After flourishing a salute and resheathing his rapier. Sir Ugo said, “Sir Giorgio, I am come with two squires and four men-at-arms, these last courtesy of His Grace di Rezzi. Also Monsignor Tedeschi, His Grace’s secretary, will be up shortly, and he claims some degree of skill with a fowling piece.”