And further, it is difficult to protect a woman you have not seen in two years and more.
I prayed. It is one of the times that I’d say prayer helped me the most, in that with prayer came the clarity, sent, I think, by that fine soldier Saint Maurice: the clarity to see that my first duty lay to my squire.
And as I rose from my knees, a Turkish slave fetched me to attend Fra Juan.
‘My friend Robert, Bishop of Geneva, has been polite enough to say that there has been some misunderstanding, that Marc-Antonio was rescued from some brigands and is safe, and will be returned to you unharmed. And all you have to do is go and fetch him.’ Di Heredia tapped his teeth with his thumbnail. ‘I am almost sure that they do not mean to kill you. But almost sure is separated from sure by the length of a dagger … You know that expression?’
‘I can handle myself,’ I said, or something equally foolish and untrue.
He nodded. ‘They can kill you. My question is: what can they offer you to turn you? Would you betray Father Pierre?’
‘No!’ I said, hotly.
‘Good,’ Fra Juan said. ‘Try to remember that. If I don’t see you in three hours, I’ll pay them a visit.’
I rode to the bishop’s palace and dismounted, leaving my riding horse with servants. The Bishop of Geneva had a palace as large as most of the cardinals, and larger than the Hospital. I wore the Emperor’s sword – it was like a talisman, and it made me brave, but in truth, I was terrified. Battle is one thing. This was another.
The major-domo, a deacon, escorted me to the great hall. The bishop sat on a low throne, with men standing around him. The hall was hung in tapestries, magnificent weavings of war and the chase and scenes from the chansons. The blues were vibrant and alive, the reds stark. A hart bled out, and its blood pooled in scarlet silk almost to the floor.
I wore my surcoat of the Order, a little travel stained. It was, I thought, the best armour I had.
The bishop raised an arm from where he sat on a low dais. ‘Sir William!’ he called. His voice was a trifle high, but so is mine. His slightly protuberant eyes locked on mine. He smiled. ‘Please grace us with your presence.’
The Bourc Camus was standing at his right side. D’Herblay was nowhere to be seen. Marc-Antonio was with them; he had a cut across his face and a black eye, but he was well dressed and he was smiling. I didn’t know the other men.
I bowed, fully and respectfully. ‘My lord, I came as soon as I received your message.’ This was the tack that di Heredia and I had determined on. ‘I am so relieved to see my squire in good spirits.’
The bishop smiled. It transformed his long, narrow face, pleasant enough to be considered handsome, to a devil’s. If he had had fangs, I couldn’t have been more shocked. ‘And for my part, Sir William, I am so glad you could come, as my last invitation …’ he glanced at Camus, ‘went awry.’
Camus glared at me.
‘I hope your shoulder is better,’ I said sweetly. ‘Fiore can be hasty.’
Camus’s mouth worked. But no sound emerged.
‘The Bourc has been forbidden to speak,’ the bishop said. ‘Because between his hatred and your adolescent posturing, I would be moved to haste. Please confine yourself to speaking to me.’
I bowed my head. ‘My lord, that is too great a privilege. I will take my squire and go, leaving you with my thanks and saving you—’
‘Shut up.’ The bishop snapped his fingers at me. ‘Do not speak until I ask you to.’ He waved at the two men by him. ‘Take the boy to the solar until we are done.’