The Seal(113)

49


KNOW THYSELF

. . . as if there were some monster in his thought too hideous to be shown

Shakespeare, OTHELLO


Iterius ran from the royal gates and from there he stumbled over the bridge and through narrow streets, holding himself together. Fear nestled deeply in his breast and he barely noticed the people that, like a blur of images, came and went about in the early morning. In this state of half-mindedness he lurched into a fishmonger’s cart and, throwing his arms about in the air for balance, lost his footing and fell face down into mud and filth. He heard laughter and a shiver whisked through him.

He recalled the dream; he had seen himself falling from a great height, and the feeling of surprise and a terrible pain had come over him as if some creature were tearing at his face, throat and hand. Amongst the events of this nightmare he had seen the King’s face distorted into a grin as he laughed and said these words: ‘You shall never know it now, Iterius!’

How must he interpret this beyond the plain facts? He was a man marked for death . . . a counterfeit . . . empty and deluded.

Such a man without the affection of his king was a man utterly lost in the void of his own nothingness. A nothing!

What should he do? He was given a glimpse of the horror of his destiny, and against this momentary lapse into the truth of things, he closed his eyes and lay, letting the muck soak into his cloak and breeches and stockings. ‘Oh!’ he said, opening one eye and looking around him for assassins, and again, ‘Oh!’ into the mud. An anxiety rose to his throat and caused a great trembling to come over him. He grasped his cloak and pulled the wet muddy thing around him, taking gasps of air into his lungs. Calm ... calm . . . he told the blood congealing in his veins, Calm ... calm . . . he told the thoughts that flared up in the pit of his mind. His cunning had never failed to find deplorable ways around immovable obstacles. All he needed was a moment to collect himself. Just a moment and something would surface to rescue him from this predicament . . . something . . .

The world moved around him as if he were a cockroach flailing in a puddle. Children passed and threw food at him or kicked more mud into his face, but the Egyptian was lost in thought and ignored these inconveniences long enough for a dull sense that all was not lost to gradually emerge from the abysmal depths of his soul. He might be nothing more than an imitation, a forgery, but even something worthless held its own strange value for those who had a use for it. He stood and wiped the grime from his face and his hands and took the thought to its conclusion.

The lawyer, de Plaisians . . . that was the name that had popped into his mind . . . something told him that this man would find him useful. Perhaps a little could be gained after all?

He straightened his back. First he would travel to Grozeau for an audience with his other master, the Pope. Iterius had failed him as well, but perhaps something could be salvaged.

Perhaps the Pope would take him as his astrologer? In the event this tack proved unsuccessful he would take more poison to give to Clement’s keepers.

Yes, all things would be put to rights.

And thus did Iterius walk away from his humiliation with the gait of the resourceful, and a smile upon his mud-stained face.





50


CONSPIRACY

Men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil.

St John 3:19


Charles, Count of Valois!’ exclaimed Guillaume de ‘Plaisians when the King’s brother rushed to catch up with him along one of the corridors in the east wing of the palace. When he reached de Plaisians, the King’s brother was breathless and sweating.

De Plaisians smiled. ‘How fortunate to meet with you,’ he said, looking over the man with mild amusement, for arrayed in purple with ermine around his shoulders the count looked like those strange creatures one saw illuminated in bestiaries. ‘What is your pleasure, Count?’

Charles of Valois, disconcerted and suffering a cold, took a dismal moment to regain his composure before answering. ‘Plaisians . . . you have sent a message whose contents . . . whose contents, suggest . . .’ he lowered his voice, ‘treason of the highest order.’ He edged towards a painting of St Louis, grim-faced and ascetic, commissioned by Philip. When he was sure there was no one in earshot the count spoke again. ‘There are spies everywhere! Philip tells me that the papal commission’s first witness, de Folliaco, was a spy – how do we know we are not being watched as a lion observes its prey, hidden in the shadows?’

‘It is we who, one might say, hide in the shadows. Besides, in these arts, dear Count, I am king.’

‘Arts?’ he snickered, sniffing and sucking his phlegm. ‘I have heard your only art is in making women moan, Plaisians. I have heard you like them especially lowborn.’