The Spirit Ring (16 page)

      
The crossbowman was a hairy fellow, with a bushy scalp and a thick curling black beard. His teeth gleamed in the midst of the thatch as he grimaced for his aim. The only thing Fiametta could think to do was set his beard afire. As he circled the wrestlers to regain his shot, Fiametta began to muster the oft-practiced domestic spell, her eyes squeezed to slits and her hands clenching in concentration against her terror.

      
Her father's voice whispered in her ear. "No, Fiametta! 'Tis sin!"

      
Her mouth fell open, and she whirled, but saw nothing, no smoke-form —

      
Out of the ground in front of the crossbowman, dirt and dust and leaf litter and little sticks arose and became the figure of a man. A whirl of detritus and decayed beech mast formed legs, pleated tunic, a big cloth hat—
Papa!
With an astonished yelp the crossbowman fell back a pace, his trigger released, and his deadly bolt flew wide into the woods.

      
With a crackling pop of wrist bones, Thur's grip shook the sword from the swordsman's grasp. The swordsman screamed in pain. The crossbowman howled as the leaf-figure dissolved into a cyclone that whirled around his head, casting dirt into his eyes and sticks into his beard. Thur stooped to grab up the dropped sword and spring back, shoving his man away. The Swiss whipped the sword around in a wild figure eight, inexpert but menacing in its momentum. The crossbowman clutched at his eyes.

      
"Run!" Master Beneforte's voice came out of nowhere.

      
Fiametta darted forward, grabbed Thur's free hand, and yanked. "Run for the gate!"

      
Gasping for breath, he nodded. They bounded out of the hollow. His long legs soon had the advantage of her, and she leapt into the air at each stride and let him pull her along. Her shoulder blades cringed with the expectation of the
thunk
of a crossbow bolt, heavy steel shattering ribs, biting deep into her lungs —

      
It seemed to take forever to reach the postern door, floating in its pool of light like a receding mirage. Fiametta fell on it, pounding, and wheezing "Help!" but her words seemed a whisper and her blows weak as a babe's. Thur's pounding made the oak shake on its hidden iron hinges. "HELP!" he did not disdain to bellow.

      
"Who goes there?" came a man's growl from overhead.

      
Fiametta fell back, craning her neck upwards, but could only make out blurred dark heads, one tonsured, one helmeted, against the bright lantern light. "Help! Sanctuary, for the love of God! We must see Abbot Monreale!"

      
The helmeted head craned outward in turn. "Why, I know the girl. It's the Duke's goldsmith's daughter. I don't know the man, though."

      
"His name is Thur Ochs, brother of your Swiss captain," Fiametta called back urgently. "He's come to seek his wounded brother. Oh, let us in, hurry! They'll be after us!"

      
"We are forbidden by the abbot to open the door," said the tonsured head.

      
"Then let down a rope," said Thur, in what started out as a reasonable tone, but rose to a yelp on the word
rope
as a crossbow bolt whanged off the stone a yard from him and ricocheted into the dark. They made beautifully illuminated targets. Thur stepped between Fiametta and the night.

      
"We could at least let the girl in," said the helmeted head.

      
"Sinful, to have her in here. Better the man."

      
"Bah! Your hospice is full of crying women right now, Brother. Don't quibble."

      
"Don't
delay
," shrieked Fiametta as another metal bolt whacked into the oaken door and stuck there, vibrating with a deep bass hum.

      
A knotted rope came curling down at last. Thur boosted her halfway up it; indeed, her puny girl arms could scarcely lift her own weight. But she must climb quickly, so he could climb in turn. Skin scraped from her palms, but she flung herself over the top of the wall on her stomach and rolled across in an awkward bundle of skirts. "Hurry, Thur!"

      
The soldier and the monk were standing on a mere wooden platform, none too solid, hastily raised to overlook the postern door. The helmeted soldier peered into the night, raised his own crossbow, and with a curse fired a quarrel in return for one that hummed close over his head. "Maybe
that
will keep the bastards' heads down," he growled, ducking below the stone.

      
Thur rolled in turn over the top of the wall and fell to the platform, making it shake. The monk yanked the rope up hand-over-hand. The soldier peeked back over the wall, just the top of his helmet and his eyes exposed. Fiametta searched Thur in panicky haste for blood, but none gouted from his back or anywhere else. The crossbowman's eyes must still be half-blinded with dirt; judging from the force of his quarrels' flight, he'd followed them close to the wall.

      
"I must see the abbot," Fiametta panted to the crouched monk. "It's an emergency."

      
The soldier snorted. "God's bones, that's the truth."

      
The monk frowned. "Just because we're granted dispensation from our rules of silence doesn't mean we're free to use displeasing language in the cloisters."

      
"I never took a vow of silence."

      
The monk grimaced; it was evidently an ongoing argument. He turned to Thur. "What does she want to see the abbot for?"

      
"It's my father," Fiametta answered him. "I'm afraid he's in terrible danger. Spiritual danger. We witnessed Lord Ferrante using black magic."

      
The soldier crossed himself; the monk looked disturbed. "Well... tell her to follow me," he said to Thur. He climbed down the platform's triangular braces into the yard below, which proved to be the monastery's cemetery.

      
"Why don't
you
tell her? Should I come, too?" asked Thur, sounding confused.

      
"Yes, yes," said the monk impatiently.

      
"He's trying not to speak to a woman," Fiametta whispered in explanation.

      
"Oh." Thur blinked. "Doesn't he trust his abbot's dispensation?"

      
Fiametta smiled sourly down on the shaved scalp. "Perhaps he's a disobedient monk, in his heart."

      
The monk looked up and shot her an outright glare, but then looked doubly unsettled. They both followed him, Thur first, helping her jump down safely the last few feet. The monk, silent again, beckoned them through another gate to a corridor, through an even darker room, and out into a cloister-courtyard. He led them up steps to a gallery and knocked on a door. After a moment another monk opened it and stuck his head out. Orange candlelight flowed from the gap. Fiametta was relieved to recognize Abbot Monreale's secretary, Brother Ambrose, a big man with a kindness for cats, rabbits, and other small animals, whom she had met several times in the Abbot-and-Bishop's company.

      
Old habits dying hard, their guide monk pointed silently to Thur and Fiametta.

      
"Fiametta Beneforte!" the secretary said in surprise. "Where did you come from?"

      
"Oh, Brother Ambrose, help me!" Fiametta said. "I must see Abbot Monreale!"

      
"Come in, come in—thank you, Brother," he dismissed their reticent guide. "You may return to your post."

      
He ushered them into a small chamber, the abbot's study or office. It was furnished with a scriptorium-style desk with a brace of beeswax candles casting light across a paper and quill the secretary had apparently just put down. Another candelabrum burned brightly on a tiny altar below a small carved wooden crucifix hanging on the opposite wall. Abbot Monreale rose from his knees in front of it as they entered.

      
He was dressed now in the gray habit of his brothers, the cowl pushed back, only his belt with its keys marking his rank. His craggy face looked weary and worried. Tonsured hair made a gray fringe around his scalp that almost exactly matched his garment. The robes made him look bulkier than he was; his body was burned lean with years of ascetic moderation.

      
As he turned to them his gray brows shot up in surprise. "Fiametta! You escaped! I'm glad you are unharmed." He came toward her with a warm smile and took her hands; she curtsied and kissed his bishop's ring. "Is your father with you? I could use him now."

      
"Oh, Father," she began, then her face crumpled with exhausted tears. It was the sudden sense of safety, in Monreale's presence, that unstrung her; she'd done all right in the woods. "He's dead," she gulped.

      
Monreale, looking shocked, led her over to sit on a bench against the wall. He glanced curiously at Thur and gestured him to sit also. "What happened, child?"

      
Fiametta sniffled, and regained control of her voice. "We got out of the castle before you, I think."

      
"Yes."

      
"We fled in a boat. Papa became very ill suddenly. I think it was a sickness of his heart, brought on by the banquet and the running and the terror."

      
Monreale nodded understanding. Though not a healer himself, as the regulating supervisor of Montefoglia's healers he was well experienced in both the physical and the spiritual infirmities of men.

      
"Papa bought a horse in Cecchino, and we rode on it into the night. But some soldiers Lord Ferrante dispatched overtook us on the road. Papa fought them while I hid. I found him in the field, dead—unwounded—I think his heart burst. They'd stripped him. I took his body to an inn, where Thur found me—oh! Ask after your brother, Thur. This is the younger brother of Captain Ochs," Fiametta explained hastily. "He was on his way to Montefoglia, and—ask, Thur!" Hers was not the only mortal anxiety here, though the Swiss had been more patient.

      
"Have you seen my brother, Holy Father?" Thur asked. His voice was steady, though his hands fiddled with the lion ring. "Is he here?"

      
Monreale turned his whole attention on Thur. "I'm sorry, son. I saw your brother fall, but he was not among those we carried away. I thought it was a fatal blow he took, but I was hurried off just then, and can't swear to his last breath. I'm afraid I can't counsel you much hope for his life, though you must hope for his soul—he was a very honorable man—if that's a help to you. But... it's barely possible he may still lie with other wounded in the castle. His body was not returned with the others during yesterday's parley. I—in truth, I have not heard. There's been much to occupy me,"

      
"That's all right," said Thur. He looked a little numb. He'd expected to be freed of his fears one way or another; now, it seemed, he would be forced to bear them further. His shoulders bent, and his right thumb absently stroked the ring. Monreale studied him thoughtfully.

      
"Parley?" said Fiametta. "What's going on?"

      
"Ah. Well, Duke Sandrino's remaining guards surrounded us, myself and Lord Ascanio. We fled through the gate, though in hindsight I think we should have stood and fought them there... speaking militarily. We fought rearguard through the town and retreated to Saint Jerome. A multitude of refugees have sought sanctuary here since. We're very crowded." He shook his head. "So much bloodshed, so sudden. Like a judgment. I must stop it, before it spreads like a plague from man to man all over Montefoglia."

      
"What are you doing now?"

      
"Lord Ferrante also seeks to stop this unlooked-for war. He sent to treat with me, as
de facto
chancellor to poor little Ascanio. The lad's asleep in my room right now."

      
"A truce with Lord Ferrante?" Fiametta repeated, appalled.

      
"I must consider it. We're not in a good position, here. The Duke's guards were a match for Losimo when Sandrino led them, but now they're scattered, demoralized, separated from their commanders."

      
"Can't you send for help—somewhere?"

      
Monreale's lips thinned bleakly. "That is precisely the problem. For years, Duke Sandrino walked a very careful line between Milan and Venice. Call either of them in now, to an unmanned dukedom, and gobble! snap! Montefoglia would be eaten in a trice. Call in the other to eject the first, and Montefoglia becomes a battlefield."

      
"Would Lord Ferrante really attack the monastery?" said Thur, sounding shocked. "How could he get away with such a deed?'

      
Abbot Monreale shrugged. "Easily. Monasteries have been razed before, by violent men. And if he succeeded—who's to punish him? If he establishes his rule in Montefoglia and Losimo, he'll be too strong to readily dislodge. Except by either Venice or Milan, who would then keep Montefoglia for themselves—what gain to Lord Ascanio in that?"

      
"What about Papal troops?" said Fiametta, seizing on a hope.

      
"Too far away. Even if the Gonfalonier would dispatch them, involved as he is now with the troubles in the Romagna."

      
"But the Duchess Letitia is the granddaughter of a pope!"

      
"Wrong pope," sighed Monreale. "Perhaps, at the next election, her family's star will rise again, but not under His present Holiness's rule. The Curia will be swayed by arguments of order over right. Why should they spend troops to restore a weak woman and child to the Duchy when, if they do nothing, a strong, experienced man who's a known Guelf will assume the government?"