“What was done to Cardinal Mustapha, a prelate whose very person is holy, a prince of the Church, a …” Abdul was become so angry that he fairly spluttered.
“An old and personal friend of your holiness,” added Sicola. “Yes, I know. But think, your holiness, is the sacrifice of all of “Irland not too high a price to pay for a bit of salve for the bruised pride of his eminence?”
“There will be no sacrifice of Irland, doubting brother,” Abdul declared hotly. “The Crusaders of God will—”
“—most likely never make an appearance, this time around, your holiness. The ill-fated English Crusade has virtually
exterminated all the glory-seekers, the religious fanatics, the suicidal types from those lands over which Rome holds sway; the barrel scrapings who’ll crawl from behind the wainscoting now will not be worth having—lunatics, thieves, brigands, and their unsavory ilk.”
“If so,” snapped Abdul, “we shall have His Holiness of the East have the Irland Crusade preached to his people.”
“It would not be wise, your holiness, to attempt any such thing. For one reason, his holiness in Constantinople pronounced a pest on both houses, as it were, early on in the English debacle, feeling he said then that both your holiness and his predecessor had been and were using the Church in what was a purely personal affair. More recently, his holiness of the East has had all that he can do, this according to his letters and messengers, to prevent a declaration of war against Rome by Sultan Omar.”
Abdul’s puzzlement appeared sincere. “But, Brother, why would Sultan Omar wish to declare war against us?”
“A little matter,” replied Sicola dryly, “of a Turkish galleon sent on a diplomatic mission to Naples, crippled and driven into a Roman port by a tempest, then impressed entire into the last fleet sent to try to supply the besieged City of London. It was one of those fine four-masted galleons of Omar’s, mounting a king’s ransom in bronze guns and captained by one of his pashas. That all would be enough, but it seems that a brace of the sultan’s favorite nephews were aboard, too.”
Abdul shrugged. “This all is made right easily enough, Brother. When the fleet returns from England, we—”
“No, your holiness, nothing about this is going to be easy. That fleet is not coming back . . . ever, none save the one fast sloop that did make it back to bear the sad tale. The fleet was brought to battle by the English fleet, and those that were not sunk in the Thames River were all captured. One of the leading galleons blew up, and the captain of the surviving sloop thinks that that galleon was the Turkish ship.”
“But why, Brother?” queried Abdul fretfully. “Why would any Roman officer take it upon himself to cause us such trouble through impressing a Turkish ship?’*
Reputedly, your holiness, it was a brainstorm of Ammiraglio Pietro himself. It seems that the fleet was awaiting the arrival of a leased French galleon, which ship was very late. The now deceased ammiraglio was loath to sail with less than four of the heavy-armed four-master galleons—for all the good they eventually did him. Then came word of this Turkish ship in harbor with relatively minor damage. It was a piratical scheme, but 1 suppose that he assumed that any infamy was acceptable was it but done in the name or the cause of the Holy See. We’ll never know, really, just what he thought or planned, for he died at sea of a seizure of some sort, a day’s sailing out of Oporto.”
“May the bastard rot in the deepest pit of hell!” snarled Abdul feelingly. “How we wish …”
“Were wishes horses, your holiness, all the world would be neck-deep in horse dung,” Sicola attested. “What is done is done. What now must be done is to attempt to extricate Church and Roman State, alike, from the sorry pass into which they have been cast by all the mistakes and excesses of your holiness, his predecessor, and their various agents.
“Your holiness has two choices only. He may very quietly retire to a comfortable, very secluded hermitage, whereupon Rome will announce his death and the College will be gathered to elect a new pontiff.”
“And if we choose to not do any such foolish thing, Sicola?” snapped Abdul. “What then? What can you and the other malcontents do?”
“Regretfully see to it that your holiness expires in all truth . . . and with some rapidity. Your quiet retirement was my own choice, your holiness; the second, more violent option was supported by a larger number in the beginning and still is favored by most. This is why I feel it is so important that your holiness allow me to change his mind, to persuade him to steal away and spend his waning years in the comfort of, perhaps, a small monastery near to Tunis.” * * *
The westering sun lay no more than two fingers above the hilly horizon when Sir Sebastian Foster, Duke of Norfolk and Lord Commander of the Royal Horse, rode at the head of his column of dusty, dog-dirty, dead-tired horsemen along the winding way through the cannon emplacements still remaining from the invasion of King Alexander’s Scots Army. Next, they passed through the gate in the stone walls that enclosed what had long ago been the outer bailey of an earlier fortified dwelling place, walked their stumbling mounts up the graveled carriage drive to come at last to and draw rein before the gracious mansion called Whyffler Hall.
CHAPTER
THE SEVENTH
“Sir Geoff,” her grace, Krystal Foster, Duchess of Norfolk, replied in answer to her newcome husband’s question as to the whereabouts of his steward and castellan for this his barony, “is away these last five days with his lances and those of Laird Michael Scott on a hunt for a band of brigands who robbed, blinded, and viciously mutilated a wandering chapman lately, and have otherwise been afflicting both sides of the border. I thought you’d approve, so I gave him permission to go so long as he left half the lances here.”
“Damn right I approve, honey,” Bass said. “It’s a sign of these new times, you know, English borderers and Scots borderers working together for the common good. Less than five years back, each would have blamed the other for the atrocities of those brigands, and eventually, reivings or raidings would have been the result, followed by vengeful burnings and ambushes and battles and then the whole damned bloody border might well have gotten involved. And of course, Sir Geoff had no way of knowing I’d be riding up here . . . hell, I didn’t know it myself, hardly, before I was on my way.”
She squeezed her husband’s hand. “I must say, I’m flattered, Bass. I know that’s not an easy ride, even in slow stages, and from the looks of you, your men and your mounts, you came damned fast. Or was it little Joe you rode up to see? I doubt he’ll know who you are—he hasn’t seen you in a year, and that’s,a long time to a child as young as he is.”
Bass squirmed in his chair. “Krystal, honey, you know how much I miss you and the baby, the only son I’ve ever had, but my duty keeps me down south, mostly, and you’re up here. Much as I wish I could say differently, it was duty brought me up here, this time—a royal warrant at Hal’s request. Somebody or something has been screwing around with that devilish machine down under the old tower keep, and Hal has ordered me to break down the wall sealing the doorway, ax through the cable connecting it to his former world, and end the menace forever.”
“You seem to be able to find time, Bass,” said Krystal coolly, “to sail off playing pirate whenever the mood strikes you. I’m told that it’s a far shorter and easier journey by sea up to one of the Northumberland ports, then only a week or less by horse to arrive here … if you really wanted to come.”
Bass sighed. “Honey, there’s still a war going on, you know, and I’m still a soldier of the king. Every ship 1 prize goes either directly or indirectly into King Arthur’s service, every cargo benefits not only me but the kingdom, which has been starved of foreign imports for years now. I don’t enjoy the bloodshed and the killing at sea any better than I did ashore. I just do what I have to do to keep faith with King Arthur and with England. I’d thought . . . that is, I’d hoped you understood, but …”
She took his hand back in hers, looked at him levelly, and said, “I do understand, Bass. I hate myself when I start to slide into bitchiness, but … but I just get so goddamned lonely up here … or down at Rutland, for that matter. There’s nothing but the boy and your letters for company. And the gallowglasses you use for post riders all speak such a garbled, guttural dialect that I can’t talk to them without Sir Geoff or someone to translate for me.”