While we stood, the abbess and two senior nuns rose from their knees and went to the great oak doors of the chapel. There, a pair of novices whispered to them; the abbess looked stricken, and put a hand to the cross at her neck.
She approached the legate with her eyes cast down. ‘Excellence, there is a rabble at the gates,’ she said.
Fra Peter turned to me. ‘You and your men are armed. You must hold them until the knights of the Order are ready …’
Father Pierre looked at us – and smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I will not allow a single Veronese to be killed. Much less you gentlemen, who love me. God will protect me, messires.’ He turned to me. ‘Do not follow me, unless you are unarmed.’
Fra Peter gave me a look. It is surprising how much information a man or a woman can convey in a single flick of the eyes. I knelt before the legate, and he put a hand on my head and blessed me.
‘Come!’ he said. ‘But leave your swords. Because I will neither live by one nor die by one.’ He walked out of the chapel and I followed him into the yard. It was already dark, and we could hear the crowd at the convent gates.
‘Mount,’ I said. ‘For the love of God, gentles, mount and draw your swords, but take no action unless the crowd strikes the legate.’
Nerio pressed his horse in beside mine. ‘You know what you are doing?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I lied.
Nerio saluted me with his sword.
Ahead of us, Fra Peter and Fra John of the Scottish priory – John Cameron, that was – opened the gates.
A cluster of nuns appeared around the legate with torches.
The legate wore neither cope nor chasuble, nor any garment of gold. But in the orange torchlight, he seemed to glow. The mob – the crowd, I should say, because they were citizens and craftsmen, not the poor – the crowd gave back a step.
‘Brothers and sisters in Christ!’ Father Pierre said. He said it gently, firmly, and his voice carried.
He took a small wooden cross from one of the sisters. They stood their ground with the resolution of English archers or Swiss spearmen – women can be stauncher than men. Behind them stood a dozen knights of the Order, all in their scarlet, but none armed beyond daggers.
‘He’s the Emperor’s man!’ shouted an educated voice safe in the heart of the crowd. A voice whose Italian was tinged with French.
‘Brothers and sisters!’ Father Pierre called again. ‘Do you know that the Holy Father has preached a great crusade? Do you know that the princes of the West are even now gathering at Venice under the banner of the King of Cyprus to strike a great blow for Christ, and retake Jerusalem if it can be accomplished?’ He smiled his gentle smile. ‘I would serve the Emperor, if he would come to me and tell me that he would lead a thousand of his best knights to Jerusalem. In the eyes of Christ, there are no Guelfs and no Ghibbelines! There is only the flock of Christ – and the wolves that seek to divide us so that they can consume us. Brothers and sisters, shall we all pray for the state of Christendom?’
‘He is a liar and a hypocrite!’ the voice said, conversationally. ‘The Pope will sell this city for gold – to barbarians!’
I knew that voice. I’d listened to it for too long – after Brignais.
It was d’Herblay. In Italy. Safe, deep in a crowd, and I was standing, head bowed, unarmed.
But Father Pierre ignored the voice as if it didn’t exist. He knelt. He was within a spear’s length of a man with a heavy axe; there were armed apprentices even closer than that. The nuns drew back a little, so that all could see him. Then they knelt, ten women of faith.