The Reckoning - 3 (78 page)

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the nn§ anc^ let*er with Juliana Then you could . . . Hugh? Are you aying that you'd feel honor-bound to go to Italy after him?"
He nodded somberly. "I'd have to, lass. I have to be the one to tell jujn
Surely you see that?"
She did not, but neither did she argue, she'd long ago learned that his devotion to the de Montforts was the lodestar of his life. "So you jo what you must, then," she said. "I will wait."
"I would that it were so simple. But it is not. If I must journey to Italy/ it will take me at least six weeks from Pans, mayhap much longer, for I'd rather take the sea route from Marseilles than brave the Alps again So I'd not get to
Rome nil summer's end. And coming back, even !f I encountered no unexpected delays, no bandits or pirates or storms at sea, I'd still not be able to reach
France until the first frost. And then what? I could not take ship for Wales, not with the English King's fleet prowling the Channel for prey. I'd have to sail for an English port like Bristol, try to slip across the border into
Wales, then make my way north into Gwynedd, at risk from English and Welsh alike. The King's men would be nght quick to suspect an Engkshman wandering about in the midst of a Welsh war, and the Welsh would never take me for one of their own, not with this yellow hair of mine, would likely shoot first and ask afterward."
They had walked well up the glen, following the stream toward Aber's white waterfall in their quest for privacy. Now Caithn leaned back against the closest tree, for her knees had begun to tremble. This could not be her Hugh talking; he was never one to dwell upon danger, accepted risks as matter-of-factly as he did air to breathe. And then she understood "You do not want to come back, do you?"
"No," he admitted, and she felt pain that was physical "You are nght, lass. I
do not want to return to Wales. This is your homeland, Caitlin, not mine, and now that my lady is dead, there is nothing here for me That is why I want you to come with me."
"What?"
"I said I want you to come with me, Caithn." Hugh had been pacing back and forth by the stream bank, but at that, he crossed swiftly to her, reached for her hand. "Why do you sound so surprised? What did you think I meant?"
"Hugh, I ... I cannot!"
"Of course you can, sweetheart, and you must, for it is the only Way. We can be wed in France, but here . . . here it could never be. /e'd best face the truth, lass, that our one chance of winning over your ^de died with my lady.
He will never give his consent now "
"We do not know that for certes!"
"Yes," he insisted, "we do. Let's say it straight out. In Wales, I'll

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never be good enough for you. But this is a land at war, and who knows what the future holds? In France, at least you'd be safe, and I know I could make you happy." He put his arms around her then, but she stood stiff and rigid in his embrace, and he said gently, "I understand, lass, truly I do. What I ask is not easy. I know you'd miss Wales to the end of your days. But that is often a woman's fate, for it is the wife who follows the husband, and your uncle might have chosen to wed you to an Englishman or a Scot or"
"No! No, you do not understand. It would tear a hole in my heart to leave
Wales, but I would do it for you. I have thought about this, too, you see, long and hard. You are right, Hugh. Ellen's death does change everything, and
I would go with you to France if that were the only way we could be together.
But not now. Later, mayhap, but never now. How could I possibly leave my uncle with his wife just in her grave?"
"Caitlin, I know how much you love him. But"
"He is fighting for the survival of his homeland, Hugh! And he's not drawn an easy breath since Ellen died, not one. Do you truly think I could forsake him in the midst of a war? Jesu, you were there, you saw what Ellen's death did to him! How could I give him more pain when he's had so much? How could you even ask that of me?"
"I know it is not fair. But if you love me, you must make a choice, Caitlin.
God help us, that is never the way I wanted it, but it is the way it must be."
"What of your choice, Hugh? If I accepted yours, why can you not accept mine?"
"What choice? What do you mean?"
"When you told me that you must get Juliana safe back to France, did I try to talk you out of it? You know I did not! And when I now learn that you mean to chase off to Italy after Amaury de Montfort, what did I say? Go and Godspeed!
I understand your loyalty to the de Montforts. Why can you not understand my loyalty to my uncle?"
"I do! But if you insist upon staying in Wales, we'll not have another chance.
Can you not see that? For God's sake, Caitlin, think what you do, what you'll be throwing away! You say you love me. Prove it then, come with me."
She stepped back and slowly shook her head. "I cannot do that- ^
Hugh was stunned, for he'd been sure she would agree. "Isee/ he said huskily, but then pride came to his rescue, offering him a v"a" to hide his hurt. "If that is your choice, I shall have to abide byl think, though, that you shall come to regret it, Caitlin. But by then-' will be too late. I'll be gone."

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"If I asked you to stay, if I promised to go away with you once this accursed war is done . . . But no, you could not do that, could you? As long as there is a de Montfort to beckon, off you'll go, even unto the ends of the earth!
Bran, the Lady Nell, our Ellen, now Amaury. You're running out of de
Montforts, Hugh. What if evil befalls Amaury, too? YVho, then, will be left for you to serve so blindlyGuy?"
"You've said enough!" Hugh was too angry now to risk remaining, for if he did, they'd cut each other to pieces with rash, reckless words, say what could not be forgotten or forgiven. Instead, he turned on his heel, strode off, and left her there in the quiet glen.
Caitlin let him go. "So be it," she cried after his retreating back. "Go, then, to Italy, chase your de Montfort ghosts! Go to Persia, Cathay, or even to Hades, and see if I care! If you do not love me enough to stay, I'll shed no tears for you, Hugh, nary a one!"
That was a lie, though, for her eyes were already burning. She sank down on the grass, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. "Why did you have to die, Ellen?" she whispered. "Why did God take you when we all needed you so much?"
ITALY was in turmoil during the summer of 1282. The long-smoldering feud between the Guelphs and Ghibellines had heated up again, and the Pope had so far been unable to put down a Ghibelline rebellion in the papal state of
Romagna. Charles, French-born King of Naples and Sicily, was facing the greatest challenge to his authority in his sixteenyear reign. An Easter Monday uprising in Palermo, known as the Sicilian Vespers, sent shock waves across
Europe, for the rebellious Sicilians offered their island crown to the King of
Aragon, and he accepted, landing at Trapani in late August. But Charles was not a man to be daunted by either royal rivals or insurgent subjects, and as he made ready to defend his disaffected realm, peace seemed as far from Italy as it did Wales.
Caught up in these dangerous currents was a mild-mannered, affable Frenchman, Simon de Brion, now His Holiness, Martin IV, Vicar °f Christ. He'd been a reluctant Successor of Peter, for he was that rare j^an, one who knew his own limitations, and his misgivings were soon °°rne out; many of the Italians saw him as a French pawn, as Charles's PuPpet. He'd been unable to be crowned at
St. Peter's, for the Romans enied him entry into the city, and eighteen months after his election, e was still at Orvieto, had yet to set foot in the
Vatican.
out for one man, the political strife was a godsend. Guy de Montfort s °nce more in high favor, with both his King and his Pope, for in

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such turbulent times, a brilliant battle commander could name his own price.
Blood spilled eleven years ago in a Viterbo church no longer mattered muchexcept to England's King.
THE Torre delle Milizie rose up over the slopes of the Quirinal, the northernmost of Rome's seven hills. A formidable structure, dominating the quarter called the Biberatica, visible for miles, the Torre was presently in the custody of the powerful Annibaldi family, one of whom was Amaury's host.
Standing now at an open window, he looked out upon a breathtaking panorama of
Rome.
Amaury had long had a special fondness for Rome. He'd heard it said that thirty-five thousand people dwelled within its ancient mosscovered walls, which made it a large city, indeed, by English standards, but not by Italian ones, for Florence, Genoa, and Naples all had populations in excess of a hundred thousand.
Nor was Rome one of the most vital or prosperous of Italian cities. But Amaury had never seen a place in which the past seemed so close, so real. Rome had the same labryinth of narrow, crooked streets to be found in any town in
Italy, France, England. It also had triumphal arches built for long-dead emperors, broken aqueducts, crumbling public baths overgrown with grass, ruined stone bridges rising from the yellow waters of the Tiber, decaying marble monuments to heathen gods, remarkable relics of a vanished civilization. A pagan one, of course, Amaury knew. But an extraordinary one for all that, still casting a spell a thousand years after its glory had gone to dust.
The day was nearly done, but the sun still hovered above the horizon. It glinted upon the dome of Amaury's favorite temple, the Pantheon, beat down upon the Market of Trajan at the foot of the hill, upon the houses scattered below the Torre, each with its thatched or shingled roof, outside staircase leading to the upper floor, its small courtyard boasting an apple or olive tree. Farther on, it bedaubed the Tiber with a dull, tawny sheen. The riverbanks were crowded, as always, with Romans dipping drinking water from the muddy depths, collecting eel pots, dumping garbage, gossiping and joking in the fading glow ° the September sun.
A triumphant laugh now drew Amaury's attention back into the solar, where
Raymond Nogeriis, Dean of Le Puy, had claimed yetan other victim. Amaury was not surprised, for he'd had ample opportuw y to test Raymond's mettle during their journey from London. He himself a superior chess player, but he'd been hard pressed to hold own against Raymond, and he knew Adam Founder was no matcn the papal legate.

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Adam grimaced, saying tersely, "I yield." He had never been one to lose with grace, as Amaury well knew, for their friendship stretched back to his university days at Padua. One of the many transplanted Frenchmen who'd followed Charles to Italy, Adam had seen his fortune turn golden in the years since Amaury had last encountered him; he now held the prestigious post of
Rector of the papal Patrimony of Tuscany. He had arrived just that morn, having missed Amaury at Orvieto, bearing a wealth of rumor and gossip and a letter from Amaury's brother Guy.
Raymond rose, stretched, and gave Adam a complacent compliment upon a game
"well played." Noticing then that Amaury had begun to reread his brother's letter, he queried, "What says Guy?"
"He regrets not being able to come to Orvieto to greet me, but the Pope sent him into Romagna with reinforcements for John d'Eppe. He says the campaign is not going well, which likely means he thinks he ought to be directing the siege at Meldola instead of d'Eppe."
"He may well get his chance," Adam predicted. "Rumor has it that the Pope grows daily more discontented with d'Eppe, especially after his failure at
Forli. My source tells me he's thinking of giving d'Eppe's command to Guy."
"Captain-general of the papal army," Amaury said softly, then flashed a smile that was sudden and sardonic. "What I would not give to see Edward's face when he hears that!" he said, and the other men laughed.
Picking up his brother's letter again, Amaury said, "Guy also tells me that
I'm an uncle. Margherita bore him a daughter last year, whilst I was still caged at Taunton."
"A belated congratulations, then," Raymond said heartily, "twiceover!" Seeing
Adam's puzzlement, he explained, "Amaury's sister is wed to a Welsh Prince, and when we left England, she was great with child. Due in June, did you not say, Amaury?"
"It must be vexing," Adam sympathized, "that here it is September, and still you know not if it is a lad or lass. But then, you're not likely to hear from her till the war's done, are you?"
"I keep hoping," Amaury admitted. "If Ellen could smuggle a letter f1'0 England, there are friends of our lord father who'd right gladly find r her a pilgrim or merchant bound for Rome. It would not be easy, f it could be done, and my sister has never lacked for mother-wit.
^'U find a way."
Kiln ^ w^re interrupted then, by a young servant, bearing brimming, ^ ed goblets of a Tuscan red wine that Amaury fancied. He also
WK 3 k°w' °^ Pears' Amaury's favorite fruit. Raymond and Adam ed in amusement as the boy hovered at Amaury's elbow, shyly

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waiting *° see ^ ne cou^ ^ °f further service, not withdrawing until Amaury dismissed him with a smile and a "Grazie, Giovanni."
"Tfiis is the second time he's brought us wine, unbidden," Adam marvejed. "Who does this lad think you are, Amauryhis long-lost father?"
^jjiaury grinned. "I may have sired a by-blow or two in my wilder davs bat Giovanni *s not one °f them. The lad suffered a nasty mishap a few days a§°' was trying to break up a fight down in the kitchens, and fell into the hearth. I happened to notice his blistered arm, gave him af a^oe sa^ve that eased his pain, and I've been fending off his gratitud6 ever since!"
//j-ftat medical training of yours can be right useful at times. A pity you're s° set uPon returning to France, for we can never have enough doctor^ m these pestilent parts. Roman air is as unhealthy as can be found anywhere in
Christendom, and fevers and agues strike down more pe°P^e than" Adam caught himself, too late, and gave Amaury an ap01°8etic '°°k- "Damnation, me and my flapping tongue! I forgot for the moment that your brother died of a tertian fever . . . sorry."
//fhat is no longer a raw wound, Adam. I" Amaury turned then, toward tne door, f°r Giovanni was back, breathless and excited.
//j4y lord . . . for you, a visitor," the boy stammered, managing at last to convey, in his very faulty French, that one of Amaury's countrymen ''un inglese rubio," was seeking him out, on a matter most urgent.
j^js journey to Rome had been an unending ordeal for Hugh. It had stirred UP
a^ his buried memories of Bran, and at times he felt as if he were raving that nightmare odyssey from Tuscany to Montargis, bearing isleM de Montfort word of her son's death. Grieving for Ellen, haunted bv Bran/ wretchedly unhappy at having failed to reconcile his differences with Caitlin, he raced his ghosts and his regrets through the stifling sumifler heat, pushed himself to the limits of his endurance as he tracked AmaiJry to the papal residence at
Orvieto, then on to Rome. And now he was here, after so many weeks, and so many miles, and he still did not kflOW now ne was going to tell Amaury that his sister was dead.
put he'd forgotten how quick-witted Amaury was. As Raymond and Adam looked on, puzzled, Amaury got slowly to his feet, staring at tj,e dusty, disheveled
Englishman with disbelief that gave way almost at QI1ce to comprehending horror. Only death could have torn Hugh frorfl{i^en's side, and Amaury knew that, even as he made one desperate atteiflP* a* Denial. "No! Oh, Christ
Jesus, no ..."
jiugh's eyes filled with tears. Pulling a leather pouch from his tun"-' he stumbled forward, spilling its contents onto the table in front ° An\»^~ a rrayed' folded letter that bore the royal seal of Wales and ptiire ring cut in the shape of a cross.