Ocryhoe’s mind was racing as she tried to make sense of the news Raphael had given her. Fieschi had been enthroned as the Bishop of Rome? When had that happened? And if he was supposed to be overseeing Christendom, what was he doing hiding out as a mere priest on a frigid mountainside weeks away from Rome? She shivered, trying to ignore the obvious answer: He had come for her, or for the cup, or both. He had gone into hiding and risked his own well-being. He had entrusted the task to no other, not even one of Senator Orsini’s men, not even to another cardinal. He had come himself. For her.
And now he had her.
Thank God, thank gods, thank goddesses, she did not have the cup with her. But he would torture her to try to get it. She did not think she would be very strong in the face of torture. Perhaps he would be clumsy at the torture and kill her accidentally. Then it would be over. Let Percival’s visions tell him what to do with it next.
They arrived at the village, now an army camp despite her many lively memories of it as a bustling little hub of civil life and commerce. Ocyrhoe was marched off away from the other hostages, remaining with the archbishop’s party all the way into the village green. Then Sinibaldo nodded curtly to His Eminence and went into a cottage on the nearer side of the green. Ocyrhoe’s guard tugged at her rope, and with a sinking feeling she followed after.
They entered the main room of the cottage. It was in good form despite having been abandoned by its owners more than half a year ago. Over the tamped-dirt floor, tapestries had been laid down as rugs, leaving a wide space in the middle for the firepit. The walls were also hung with tapestries—where did they get all these tapestries in the middle of an army camp?
Without a word, Sinibaldo di Fieschi crossed the small room to the backless chair that was against the wall, sat in it, threw back his hood, and stared at her.
“Sit,” he said, pointing to a stool. The guard picked her up and placed her standing just in front of the stool, then jabbed his knee into the back of hers. She collapsed onto the stool.
“I would have sat,” she snapped up at him. “There was no need for that.”
“Leave us,” said the priest. His eyes roamed the room briefly. “Everyone,” he said. “Absolutely everyone. She has no power to hurt me. Leave the building empty and wait outside.” Then he settled his gaze on Ocyrhoe, who stared back defiantly, until they were entirely alone.
“Where is it?” he demanded as the door closed.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” she said. “Bishop of Rome! Who would have thought it?”
He put his elbows on his thighs and leaned forward. “Where. Is. It.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Who is Percival, really?”
She should have been expecting that, but wasn’t. The alarm showed in her face. Then she made herself laugh. “That’s a question I am not sure even Percival can answer,” she said.
“I mean what is his real name.”
“Percival,” she said. “What else should it be?”
“His name is not really Percival,” said His Holiness impatiently.
“Then you now more about him than I do. I only know him as Percival. His closest friends call him Percival. He wants to endear himself to me, so you’d think he’d tell me secrets if he had them. Why do you want Percival?”
“If you don’t have the cup, he does.”
She shook her head. “He doesn’t.”
“Then who has it?”
She forced her muscles to relax enough to pull off a shrug. “Someone else, apparently,” she said.
“Tell me who.”
“Why?” she asked, willing a tone of boredom into her voice.
“Because I will kill you if you don’t,” he said.
She gave him a droll look, ignoring how furiously her heart was beating. Imagine Ferenc is watching you, she thought. Impress him. Delight him. “If you kill me, you will never find out where it is.”
“I’ll make you wish you were dead.”
“Too late. I already wish it.”
“I am threatening to torture you.”
“Yes, I got that. It won’t help much. I really don’t know where it is.”
“Why are you so bent on keeping it from me?”
“Why are you so bent on getting it?” she shot back.
Father Sinibaldo began to answer, thought better of it, then sat back against the wall, considering. “If I tell you why I want it, will you tell me where it is?”
“I just told you, I don’t know where it is. But I might be willing to help you find it, if I know why you want it.” That was truthful enough. After years of her life being dominated by the cup, she felt entitled to understand why people made a fuss about it.
He crossed his arms and considered her for a long moment. “You are a Binder who did not complete your training.”
She nodded.
“If you had done, there are things you would know that you do not know. Things that might explain my interest. So. I will tell you a few things. As much as you would know had you matured into a proper Binder.”
Ocyrhoe bit back a laugh at the irony of being instructed in her Binder duties by the man who’d interrupted her instruction in the first place. “Go on, then,” she said, astonished at her own impudent tone.
“There are forces in the world that oppose order,” said Fieschi carefully. “And there are forces that struggle to maintain order. It is my humble duty, sitting as I do in St. Peter’s chair, to lead the battle to preserve order.”
“Oh, that kind of order,” Ocyrhoe sniffed.
He ignored her tone. “Many subtle things happen below the ken of most men. There are ancient grudges and animosities that predate even Our Lord’s appearance. And likewise there are alliances. And there are certain energies that assist in maintaining those alliances. Those energies are often embodied in objects. Or people. Or the coming together of an object with a person.”
“As with Father Rodrigo and the cup.”
“Yes,” he said. “You know yourself how erratic and uncontrolled such energy is. It must be claimed, it must be harnessed, by those who have the training to do so.”
“My Binder training would have taught me how to harness it?” she asked.
“No. But it would have taught you how to recognize those capable of harnessing it. It would have taught you how to assist them.”
“And you think just because you manipulated a group of moronic, hypocritical cardinals into voting for you, that makes you qualified to harness this so-called energy?”
Fieshi’s face darkened but he did not rise to the bait. “No, in fact,” he said. “But perhaps Percival is qualified. And so it is in my interest, as the shepherd of the church, to ensure a good alliance between Percival and myself.”
“So that you can coerce him into doing what want?”
“I can still torture you, you know,” he warned her. “I am being very generous with my time and arcane knowledge. You do not deserve it, but I am being civil to you. Do not test me. What the grail can do, specifically, is beyond my present certainty. It needs a handler, so to speak. I thought you were a handler, but if you were, you would have done something with it by now—beyond merely convincing one soldier to desert the French army.” Seeing her expression, he nodded. “Yes, that’s how I knew to find you here. But if you were an agent of the grail, you would have done far more by now. Percival, I think, is an agent.”
When Ocyrhoe realized she was nodding without meaning to, she stopped herself. She would not say it aloud, but he was right, of course.
“Rodrigo was such an agent,” she said.
“That is why I wanted him,” said Sinibaldo Fieschi. “If Frederick were wiser and saw as deeply into things as he likes people to believe he does, he would have recognized Rodrigo’s usefulness and held on to him instead of sending him off into the wild
s. So Frederick himself does not really understand the significance of these matters.”
But Léna does, thought Ocyrhoe.
“But Léna does,” he said.
“You’ve seen her more recently than I have,” said Ocyrhoe. “She abandoned me to the wilderness. I have no truck with her.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” he said. “But she certainly keeps company with Frederick. And Frederick has friends within the Shield-Brethren. Whose membership includes Percival.”
She shrugged. “So what is your point? Léna wants the grail? Then why did she send me into the wilderness when I was in possession of it?”
“She wanted you to meet up with Percival so that she could regain the grail once Percival was attached to it,” concluded Pope Innocent. “It’s more useful to her that way.”
“She wants it for Frederick?”
“For the good of all of Christendom, I hope not,” said His Holiness.
CHAPTER 37:
A CHALLENGE
For days the three of them watched, impotently, as the Good Ones doled out their meager, quotidian possessions—shawls, the occasional stylus or table knife, blank parchment for writing prayers—prayed with the Credents, and meditated before the simple images of Jesus upstairs in the chapel, while around them wounded men lay dying.
Raphael had grimly made his peace with the Good Ones’ attitude. Vera and Percival could not. Vera simply fumed to herself, disgusted by the fatalism that everyone—even the soldiers of Montségur—cloaked themselves in so comfortably.
Percival was far more agitated, nerves almost fraying as he tried to reconcile himself to waiting for the cup. Each passing day, as the snow melted and the days lengthened, he sought out a different Good One to debate. There was no reason to die, he argued; there were plenty of other Cathar outposts around the countryside and in other countries—in the shadow of Emperor Frederick’s court in Cremona, even. Surely the Good Ones here should be left in peace to join their brethren elsewhere, as long as it was not in the French king’s realm.
“Surely as long as they promise not to allow their spiritual beliefs to be exploited by secular powers again,” he said finally to Peire-Roger. The lord of Montségur looked at him wearily, insulted.
“Is that what you perceive I have done here? I have exploited the spiritual beliefs of others to my own political advantage?” He gestured with weary irritation around the keep. “What advantage is there in this? I used to be lord of an actual castle, with a mansion to live in, and gardens and vineyards and fountains and featherbeds. There are other Occitanian lords who still have those things, because they would not risk losing them in order to protect their own people. For years now I have been trying to keep my father-in-law’s desperate outpost as a functioning refuge for the persecuted minority of my people. I don’t even believe in what they believe—do you know that? My father took the consolamentum on his deathbed, but I myself am no Credent. I think they’re mad to believe what they do. In the world we live in now, to be pacifists? In a land as beautiful and plentiful as ours, to claim that the material world is pure evil, and that we who love the smell of lavender or the taste of good wine are indulging in the devil’s work? It’s nonsense. Every bit of it is nonsense. And yet,” he concluded fiercely, “the people who believe this nonsense are my people. I am their lord and I’m responsible for them.”
Percival was startled by the clear-eyed vigor of a man who had for months seemed composed mostly of blunder and booze.
“Then would you not save them, if you could?” he asked.
Peire-Roger looked deeply insulted. “I just spent the past eight months trying to save them. I failed.”
“I have a notion,” said Percival. “If you will allow me to pursue it, I believe it will save the Good Ones from unnecessary martyrdom.”
Innocent did not torture her. In fact, he offered her a chilly sort of kindness. He kept her tethered in a corner of the house where he was residing, and she was watched ceaselessly by Dietrich’s men, but she was nesting on a featherbed and given warm, new stockings, a newly sewn, long tunic of heavy silk, and a warm, new mantle. For a brief span in the morning and again in the evening, she was allowed out into the cool, March air—always tethered—for exercise. It crushed her spirit to see the beautiful little village converted to a military camp. The paddock for the horses was now a training ring for knights; by design or coincidence, her daily walks took her by here when the German knight, Dietrich, was fighting somebody each day. She became familiar with his style. Somehow the way he executed his moves fit his personality—angry, arrogant, cold. Although she had seen them all in battle, she could not imagine any of her new acquaintances—except perhaps Vera—engaging in such exercise by choice. She was not sure what kind of duelist Raphael would make; considered, cautious, and particular, most likely. But Percival? That she could not conceive at all, although she had seen him in the skirmishes outside the barbican, but always in passing, briefly. In her imagination he was more visionary monk than warrior.
The rest of the time she remained tied loosely to the corner of the room. Her wounded arm was cared for, the bandage changed each day until it was no longer necessary. Sinibaldo offered her potions to numb the discomfort; she refused these. He offered her his own rations of wine; these too she refused, accepting only water and asking for bread.
He deprived her of food, though. After a few days she wore a dreamy, docile look. Then he made his move.
He sent all of his men from the cottage, and placed a low stool near her corner. In his priest’s robes, he gazed at her as she lay quietly on the featherbed. His hawklike stare was gentler than usual. “Here we are, little one. You and I.”
She looked at the wall.
“Do you know why I really asked for you instead of Percival?”
She did not acknowledge him.
“Ocyrhoe.” She did not respond. He repeated her name three times, pausing between, without raising his voice, although the tone sharpened slightly. Finally her eyes turned to look at him.
“Give me your oath you will help me get the grail. Bind yourself to me as Léna has bound herself to Frederick, and I will override every rule of army rationing that you may fill your belly as often as you like.”
A long pause. Finally Ocyrhoe said, “Léna has broken the rules of the sisterhood in her allegiance to Frederick.”
He gave her a knowing look. “You are already estranged from the sisterhood. Why not align yourself with the most powerful man alive, who will value your assistance beyond rubies?”
Another pause.
“I’m hungry,” she said quietly. “Feed me first, and when I am clearheaded we’ll discuss it.”
After more than a week she was in a twilight stupor for want of nourishment, but no more willing to compromise. He had gruel brought to her and then, a few days later, bread and dried meat. Accustomed to the diet of the Cathars, she would not eat the meat.
She was not sure how she passed the time each day, but somehow each day passed. He gave her several days to regain some strength with food. Then he sent his entourage away again and spoke to her as if to an intimate friend. He explained, earnestly but calmly, his mission to preserve the order of the world against the hubris of the Mongols, the Emperor, the Infidels, the heresy of the Eastern Church. He spoke of the nobility of serving a cause greater than oneself.
“You and I together, with the cup,” he said. “Perhaps as you mature you could learn to control it. We could steer the fate of the world.”
She regarded him a moment. She stuck her lower lip out thoughtfully, then nodded. “Yes,” she agreed. “Perhaps we could.”
She saw the gleam in his eye, saw him repress the urge to smile triumphantly.
“Shall we?” he said softly. “Not many homeless orphans get that chance.”
Ocyrhoe smiled very slightly and gave him a knowing look.
> Then she spat in his face.
Sinibaldo di Fieschi was impassive as he rose and walked out of the cottage. A moment later, Dietrich entered, grimacing. Without a word he grabbed a tattered, woolen sleeping roll from the opposite corner and chucked it so hard at Ocyrhoe it almost knocked her over.
“Stand up,” he said.
She did.
He leaned down and grabbed the featherbed she had been sleeping in. “Stupid girl,” he said, disgusted. “Refusing him. Stupid little witch-spy.”
He pushed her down onto the tattered bedroll, dropped the featherbed on the far side of the room, and left her alone in the cottage. That evening she was given back her ragged clothes from Montségur. Sinibaldo di Fieschi did not speak to her again.
Surely the two weeks was almost up. She would be released then, and she would collect the grail from Rixenda and get far away from here before Sinibaldo di Fieschi could get his hands on her. She agreed that Percival might be an agent for the grail, but that only made her doubt the wisdom of his having it. He certainly would not work with Sinibaldo Fieschi, but with whom would he work? She did not trust his judgment.
She thought perhaps twelve days had passed, but she was not sure. His Holiness, still dressed as a priest, was in the hut, eating dinner with Dietrich and the other Livonian knights. The smell of the meat sickened her stomach; she had accepted only bread dipped in olive oil.
There was a quick rap on the door; one of Dietrich’s men unbolted it to reveal Hugue de Arcis and His Eminence the Archbishop of Narbonne standing at the threshold. Their retainers were clustered behind them, an ensemble too large to fit into the room.
“Just the two of you,” said Innocent, without pausing in his eating. Hugue and the archbishop had given up pretending they were in charge when in Innocent’s presence; his casual air of mastery made each of them seem foolish when they attempted to behave as if he were subservient to them.
The two men stepped into the room, furs and wools clutched about them as if it were still deep winter. Dietrich and the other knights stopped eating.
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