Christopher Buehlman - Between Two Fires

“Yes, Your Eminence.”

“Have you eaten anything?”

“No, Your Eminence.”

“Well, get some figs or something in you. It won’t do for you to seem greedy at table. Vincent, bring some figs.”

The boy who had been watching all of this while waiting to help the cardinal undress gladly left the room.

Three… four… five…

“Furthermore, the tables of the Grand Tinel shall be full of knights, and highly placed ones. You won’t be sitting near any, but try not to…encounter them. They’ll hear your proclivities in your speech and hate you for it.”

The cardinal had imitated Robert at proclivities in your speech , and it stung. Despite his stately way of stamping out syllables, the old Limoges cunt had the same proclivities.

His father’s face leapt into his head, and he nearly squinted.

Twelve… thirteen… fourteen

“Why are you pushing your lower lip out at me like that? Are you one of the Holy Father’s camels?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, Pierre.”

The older man pinched the younger man’s cheek just a little harder than was friendly.

“Not until the hat’s off.”

“No. Your Eminence.”

Robert Hanicotte entered the Grand Tinel for what must have been the thirtieth time in his life, but the great, barrel-vaulted room never failed to take his breath away. So many torches burned on their iron sconces and so many candles of the best wax glowed on the trestle tables that it was possible to make out faces even at the far end of the hall, where the pope would soon occupy his throne, near which a quartet of servants stood, and over which a canopy of crushed velvet the color of a shadow on wine hung, tasseled with braids of cloth-of-gold. He craned his head up to look at the false night above him; a cloth of gloaming blue covered the barrel ceiling, studded with gold stars only man would have measured out so uniformly. The steward showed him to his bench, next to the cardinal; eighteen of them were here, like vicious jabs of red in the mostly blue room. He took his seat facing the door he had just entered and watched the other guests file in.

The room got louder as it filled with knights and minor kings. He noticed that very few ladies came with these men, which made him wonder what entertainments the invitations hinted at. The youngest of these was a big fellow, handsome in a soft-chinned way, attended by a page in Spanish red. What made him stand out, however, was his quiet manner. His sobriety and bearing belied his youth.

The steward guided him right, toward the pope’s cathedra and high table, and on they marched. He kept expecting them to stop, but this man was placed only two seats down from the pontiff.

“Your Eminence, may I ask who it is that just entered, seated very close to the Holy Father?”

The cardinal smiled his weary smile.

“The man sitting just next to the pope is a Valois, cousin to the king. But he’s too old for you to ask after, isn’t he?”

“I was just…”

“Yes, I know what you were just. The one who caught your eye is the Comte d’Évreux, future king of Navarre. A sycophant and a coward with a capable younger brother everyone hopes he’ll promote by dying. Any more questions?”

Robert looked down.

“Are you hungry?”

“No, Your Eminence.”

“Good.”

“Brothers, friends, honored guests,” the pope began, standing before his cathedra of carved oak and gold leaf. “I welcome you all to the Feast of the Warriors of Our Lord.”

As per the commands of his physician, the Holy Father sat between two great copper braziers, the brightest fires in the room, which cast twin shadows on the walls of the Tinel, shadows that moved forward as he did.

Robert loved to hear Clement VI speak—his every word seemed an artisanal gift selected especially for the listener and, with the weight of his office behind him, seemed also to suggest an intimacy not only with the man, but with God. Robert was too far away to see the lines at the corners of the pontiff’s eyes, but he knew the power those lines had to punctuate the Holy Father’s frequent smiles. His hands scooped the air as he spoke, like an Italian’s hands, but gently, as though they were playing in water. When Pope Clement turned his attention on you, he seemed at once to overrule every churchman who had made God seem stern, and to forgive them their misunderstanding of grace. He also seemed to know your foibles, and that your virtues so far outweighed these that the Lord scarcely noted them. He forgave his own foibles with equal abandon. Clement was a pope of light penance, short pilgrimage, and stunning feasts, and his smile illuminated a far wider path to Heaven than you had feared to find.

If Robert stared at him with filial love, he was not alone.

Clement’s voice flowed into the Tinel like mulled wine.

“For gathered in this hall are men beloved of the Lord for the charity of arms; when men take up the sword to further their own ends, they spill Christ’s blood anew; but when they take up arms for His bride, the church, they heal His five wounds, and this is the profoundest charity. For too long now have Christian kings warred amongst themselves, each seeking to enrich his realm by impoverishing another. It is no accident that this killing Pest has followed wars, and that wars have followed famine; at each turn have we been shown, to greater and greater degrees, the displeasure of the Father whose Son lies abandoned, His Cross and His Crèche tread upon by those who will not drink his offered blood. I speak, of course, of the Turk, whose bloody crimes against the friends of peace are reviled in every decent land. In my left hand, I hold a letter from Edward, king of England and ruler of the Aquitaine. In my right, I hold a letter from Phillip, by God’s grace king of France. Both letters, sworn to in the presence of bishops, pledge the crowns of England and France to a mutual peace, with one aim: Jerusalem, City of the Lord. Jerusalem, the holiest stone in the earthly crown. Even now the shipyards in Marseille ring with hammers. Let the believers in the lies of Mahomet tremble. We shall take Jerusalem back.”

At this, the knights beat their goblets on the painted tables before them. One shouted, “Deus vult!” and another joined him, and soon the Grand Tinel rang with “God wills it!” When the echo faded, the pontiff continued.

“The first ships will sail for Cyprus on Christmas Day.”

Again they cheered.

“And,” the pontiff said, stepping forward and opening his hands, “another matter concerns us. Our late words in defense of a certain quarter were, we now believe, in error. Many men, wiser men than we once thought, have said that we cannot drive the rat from the granary while the mouse steals in the pantry. I tell those very few of you who wear crowns or sit near them to ready yourselves and your kingdoms in secret; soon we shall recall our bull, Sicut Judaeis , in defense of the Hebrew race, and issue another which shall grant any Christian whatsoever the right to turn his hand against any Jew, and to take from such whatever goods he desires, even his house and chattel. Very soon now, from the feast day of Saint Martin of Tours, the murder of a Hebrew shall no more be a sin than the hunt of a stag. Remember this word, stag . For some of you shall soon have cause to love this word.

“In His holy name, and to His holy purpose, let us pull the weeds, both far and near, that have too long choked His garden.

“Yet I shall speak no more, for hunger makes men deaf.

“Let us eat.”

Robert was disturbed at the thought of harm coming to the Jews of Avignon, who seemed a docile and clever people, and who were undeniably among the greatest artisans of Provence.