The little priest blinked, taking in the steel, and the “miscreants.”
With a start, Kat realized she knew the little man. Of course, he’d been smaller and plumper then.
“Ugo Boldoni?” she said, incredulously.
The priest peered shortsightedly at her; then, gasped. There were some advantages to her distinctive carroty-colored hair, even if it was not fashionable.
“Kat—Milady Katerina! What are you doing here?”
Kat shrugged. “I was caught in the rain and came in to take shelter.”
“She was practicing satanic rites!” shouted one the monks, waving a threatening finger at her.
“I was sitting on a pew!” she snapped back at him. “Quietly sitting, getting some shelter from the rain—when you came in—like demons yourselves!—and grabbed those children who were playing up there. They were fooling around with one of the candles. I assumed the sacristan would come out and give them both a clout. Instead this—”
She glared at Sachs. “This foul man who calls himself an abbot came in and behaved as if they were having a black mass, instead of just fiddling with the candle wax.”
The priest looked puzzled. “But . . . but where was old Giovanni?”
“They bewitched me into sleep!” said the old man hastily. “Demonspawn they are. I’m allus chasing them out of the church. Allus up to mischief.”
The big young knight named Manfred snorted. “Smell his breath! Unless the children magicked him a bottle of wine—and if they could do that, they’d have magicked themselves some food. They don’t need questioning. They need a square meal and a place in a household.”
The priest nodded. “Alas, sir knight. This is a poor parish. There are many such souls.”
Sachs, glaring back at Kat, attempted a commanding sneer. The expression failed of its purpose; seemed more childish than anything else.
“These are mere lies! And the poor you have with you always. It is their souls, not their bodies we must deal with. Now, as your senior in the church I order you to put them out of here, Father—ah—”
The priest’s name had obviously escaped him. “Priest. I will have a word with Bishop Pietro Capuletti, and see you are moved to a more worthy station. We’ll have the truth out of them. The Servants of the Trinity have ways of dealing with the most hardened servants of Satan.”
A look of pleasure came into the abbot’s hooded eyes. The kind of pleasure that comes to a man when he finds himself back on his own ground after stumbling into a marsh.
Kat shivered. The knights, she suspected, would obey the abbot—however reluctantly—if the priest who had actual authority here denied sanctuary to her and the children. And how could once-fat, timid little Ugo Boldoni stand up to this?
“Yes, servants of Satan have no place demanding sanctuary,” put in one of the two monks unctuously. “Such rights should be denied the likes of them. And the abbot is your superior!”
That was apparently the wrong thing to say to Ugo Boldoni. His spine straightened. “You attempted to remove them from the sanctuary of the Church? You? You had no right!” He glared at the abbot. “Nor is he my ‘superior.’ In this see, that is the Metropolitan Michael—no other! In this church I am the final arbiter.”
The little priest’s anger was peppery hot. “Get out of this church! Get out right now. Go.”
And that was enough—more than enough—to end the whole affair. The knights were entirely in support of the priest, not the abbot. Within a minute, all of them were gone, the abbot and the two monks scurrying ahead of the knights as if afraid that if they didn’t move fast enough they would be manhandled out. Which, Kat suspected, was not far from the truth. On the way out, Manfred seized the still-groaning Pappenheim by the scruff of the neck and, using only one hand, dragged him out of the church as easily as he might drag a sack of onions.
* * *
When they’d gone, Father Ugo turned to Katerina. “Just what are you doing here, milady? The Casa Montescue is a long way from here, and it is late.”
Kat shrugged. Boldoni’s father had been a sailing master. A good one too, apparently. And it showed in the son’s manner, she reflected. “About my father’s business,” she said quietly. She knew that he’d know that Carlo Montescue was long overdue back from sea. Missing; presumed, by nearly all, dead.