“My own affairs aside, for the nonce, you’re a younger son, aren’t you, Ugo?”
Sir Ugo nodded, with a wry half-smile. “Yes, Your Grace, one of several—my family is quite a large one— and with little to no chance of inheriting anything, barring some calamity. This is why my early acceptance by the Military Order of Rome was considered to be such a stroke of good fortune, and when I then was chosen, picked out of a number of young knights, to be a member of the staff and household of His Eminence D’Este, it was felt that my living was assured for life.”
Di Bolgia nodded his head briskly. “And so it might have been, still could be, for that matter. But Ugo, consider, please, victory or defeat are sides of the same coin and each has an equal chance of turning up. Should D’Este or Sicola or even Ermannus be elected, then, yes, your fortune is made, your preferment guaranteed … for so long as he lives and his faction remains paramount in Rome.
“However, Ugo, having now been openly and thoroughly identified with the household of D’Este and, through that association, with the Italian Faction, if he and they lose this unholy war and Moor or a Spaniard is elected, then your life would not be worth a pinch of chicken shit within Italy, anywhere in Italy.
“Therefore, I would sincerely advise you to cultivate the Ard-Righ. No, wait, Ugo, don’t say anything until I’m done. I’m not counseling that you turn your coat on D’Este— you wouldn’t do such even if I did so counsel you, you’re not that stripe of man, you’re loyal and very honorable. No, all that I am saying is to consider that your true fortune and personal interest just might not lie in Italy, but here, in these more northerly climes, and since you do not now and most likely never will hold Italian lands, then why should you return if you find your prospects better elsewhere? With but a little effort on your part. I think that you can feel secure in the support of a most powerful patron: this Brian is a driven man, and I think that, ere long, he will be truly Ard-Righ—King of all Ireland in all ways.
“Now, back to my own interests, Ugo. While Roberto studies the troops and the military side of the northern campaign, I want you to learn every bit that you can about the person and character of this Duce di Norfolk, as well as those of his principal lieutenants. While so doing, bear this thought of mine in mind: According to Brian, all of di Norfolk’s land force are cavalry—mostly, heavy-armed horse, with a few Kalmyks as light horse. Now, all of my own condotta are foot; only a troop or so worth of heavy-armed axemen and officers are usually mounted. I am of the opinion that despite his denials, the Ard-Righ will see his grand design come more quickly to fruition does he have two, rather than just the one, present army, and I cannot conceive of a better army for him than my condotta combined with a really first-rate condotta of effective cavalry.
“I think that this was what His Eminence D’Este had in mind, but he chose ill in the matter of these Ifriqans. They’re good enough soldiers, but they just cannot seem to adjust, adapt to this climate: at any given time, a quarter to a full half of the poor buggers are suffering of a bloody flux of the lungs, it would seem. This is bad enough in a permanent garrison on the most southerly coast, here, but can you imagine just how few of them would be effective were they to be marched up into the harsher climes of the north. It would be quite impossible. So, no, am I to combine and provide Brian with what he really needs, it must be with horsemen already acclimated to Irland. and so I need to know all that I can of this di Norfolk as soon as is possible, Ugo.”
Hurriedly glancing about to be certain that no one was close by. Sir Ugo asked in a hushed voice, “How does Your Grace plan the … ahhh . . . demise?”
Di Bolgia shrugged his massively thewed shoulders. “Probably, just let the individual die happy, a death in battle, what he would do doubt describe as an ‘honorable death.’ That way, I need do nothing myself save allow the reins to slip a bit in my fingers. The troops of him I spoke with back there will do the rest.”
“It sounds a reasonable plan. Your Grace, but how are you going to keep FitzRobert from riding out with him? Despite his good points, the man seems to be overly full of a suicidal degree of clan loyalty.”
The answer was another shrug. “With cudgel across the pate, if it comes to the sticking point, Ugo, or mayhap a bit of poppy paste. I’ve worked too long and too hard to render that shaggy savage into the likeness of a civilized gentleman to see him just go down to dust with the rest of the addle-pated FitzGeralds.”
“With di Rezzi now become his late grace,” said Sir Ugo, “there exists little to prevent quicker and more expeditious method of ridding Munster of him. Your Grace … so long as a certain degree of circumspection is exercised, of course.”
Timoteo grinned. “You truly own hidden depths, Ugo, my lad. Of what were you thinking—poison, garrote, sharp steel? Or mayhap a means less easily detectable, eh? But, no, I think that this plan of mine will be best. Besides, I’ve already told the man I spoke with back there in Laigin that that was how it would be done.”
But in the first meeting of the Royal Council, Timoteo called on the next day after his return from his surreptitious parley with the Ard-Righ, Righ Tamhas proceeded to drop a bombshell.
Resting one elbow upon the tabletop and pulling at a lock of his greasy, matted hair with bejeweled and grubby fingers, Tamhas FitzGerald said, “No, I’ve reconsidered, gentlemen. The righteous wrath of a Ri and Righ should not be, will not be, wasted upon such scum as that dog vomit Ard-Righ Brian chose to leave behind to hold his set of ditches. They are all certainly cowards, else they would have long since called me and us all to come out and fight them breast to breast as men should, not just squatted out of sight for much of the time, now and then shooting off a gonne or engine—cowards’ weapons, both of them.
“Yes, Sir Timoteo,” he said solemnly to the condot-tiere. who on hearing his words had first paled, then become almost livid of face, his big hands clenched until the craggy knuckles shone white as snow against the weathered, hairy skin, “this Ard-Righ’s contumely is indeed cause for anger, but it were better to husband both ire and strength to wreak upon him and his better, braver troops whenever they return to Munster. We have spoken.”
That afternoon, the Righ—as he so often did—drank too much with his meal to allow of his legs operating properly. Four of the FitzGerald Guards, none too steady themselves, bore him almost to the top of the stone stairs before he and they all tumbled back down them, breaking one guard’s leg and another’s neck in the process. Servants, cold-sobered men, took over at that point and bore the still-singing Righ up to his bedchamber, undressed him, and put him to bed, seemingly none the worse for wear. But when some of his gentleman-cousins went in to awaken him the next morning, it was to find him stiff and dead, the body unmarked save for a lump standing up from his pate and a trickle of dried blood that had issued from the hairy depths of one ear.
“God be praised that that hard-nosed old bastard di Rezzi is gone to God and not back here in Munster,” Timoteo said vehemently to the emergency meeting of the Royal Council. “Else he’d be railing at us all and accusing us publicly of foulest regicide.”
Le Chevalier let his gaze wander around the table with its two empty chairs—Sean FitzRobert had not been asked to this particular session—then asked blandly, “And is, or are, one or more of us guilty of that crime. Your Grace?” il Duce di Bolgia snorted. “Of course not. Marc! Everyone here, you and half the residents of mis palace complex, saw what happened yesterday. The royal ass got too tight a skin to walk and those damned cousins of his were in not much better shape, so the pack of them fell the length of a score and a half of steep granite stairs. One man was killed outright, on the spot, one is likely crippled for life, and the late royal sot was just hurt worse than he, in his drunken stupor, thought he was. The royal physician who pawed and probed the royal corpse states that the royal skull was cracked.”