“As is…my duty,” she said, pressing both hands over her heart and bowing her head slightly. “I go at once.”
Somercotes held up a hand to stop her. “Do you know who I am?” he asked. When she shook her head, he smiled at her. “It will be difficult to inform the message’s recipient as to who sent it if you do not know my name, don’t you think?”
She blushed, though the expression in her eyes said she was more angry than embarrassed.
“I am Robert of Somercotes,” he said, “a cardinal of the Church.” He placed a hand on the top of her head. “And I offer you all my blessings for your journey. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” He felt her flinch as he said the Latin words, but she held still until he finished.
“I…I am Ocyrhoe,” she said, and though she seemed to want to add something, she clamped her mouth shut and shook her head slightly.
“Well met, Ocyrhoe. We are bound together now by our message, yes?” The fact she had not offered the ritual exchange did not concern him overmuch. She knew what he asked of her; he didn’t care that she seemed too young to fully understand. The message itself was what mattered. “Go and deliver it.” He gestured toward Ferenc. “Take the young man with you. You seem to work together well.” And it will be less complicated for us to explain his presence here.
Outside the door, Fieschi suppressed a sigh of satisfaction. He straightened, glanced around the corridor to make sure nobody saw him, and walked swiftly back down the corridor toward the tunnel that would lead him to free air and Orsini.
There was so much for he and the Bear to talk about.
22
The crowd swarmed across the wooden planks of the scaffolds like a ferocious colony of termites, a writhing mass of humanity that twitched and leaped and shouted in response to the two combatants. First Field had three fighting grounds, and as only the center one was in use, the audience had repositioned the scaffolds to more tightly embrace it. In between the scaffolds, crates and wooden beams and chunks of rock made for makeshift platforms from which still more of the commoners could watch. There were patches of color in the otherwise uniform sea of dirty brown, tiny clusters of men in finer robes, surrounded by their mailled guard.
A standard stood next to the ring; Kim caught glimpses of it through the throng. Every time the crowd parted slightly, affording him a brief view of a corner, his desire to see it fully only increased.
His Mongol guards hung back, milling about on the periphery of the excitement. They were outnumbered, and the crush of people was too great, too uncontrolled, and they were hesitant to force a gap through which Kim could reach the fighting ground. Unwilling to wait for them to decide how best to approach the crowd, Kim walked to the back edge of the scaffolding and leaped, reaching for a bracing bar. He pulled himself up, feeling the muscles stretch and pop in his shoulders, and he hung there, a few feet off the ground, face pressed up close to the back of a Westerner. He pulled up a leg, got it hooked on the long plank, and pulled himself over the bracing bar, barreling into the top row of spectators.
They were not amused, and several turned angrily on him as he shoved his way into their midst. Below them, his Mongol guards shouted up at him to come down, and the Western men, hearing these strident voices, suddenly lost interest in pushing Kim off the scaffolding.
Kim ignored the men around him. He was too busy examining the fighter in the ring.
Down below, a tall, powerfully built man in a quilted coat-apparently the Frank-stood near an equally sized, heavier-set man who was lying on his back. The Frank held a wooden sword, and though he was breathing heavily, he did not appear to be overly tired. His brow was damp with sweat, matting his blond hair to his head, and he had a broad smile on his bearded face. As the man on the ground rolled away, the Frank planted the tip of his weapon in the ground and raised one hand in a salute to the crowd.
They reacted in kind, yelling and screaming their adoration of his martial prowess. The Frank turned slightly and bowed to the flag standing in the triskelion beside the ring. Kim could not help but smile. It was the symbol of the Rose Knights, just as Zug had drawn for him in the dirt.
The Rose Knight’s opponent crawled from the ring to a thunder of booing and catcalls. Another man stepped forward, ducking under the ropes. This one was shorter, though no less strong than the previous combatant, judging by the thickness of his arms and legs. He was also a Westerner, darker in skin and hair than the Rose Knight, but his beard was trimmed in a similar style, and his clothing was equally unadorned. In one hand, he carried a thick shield, and in the other hand, a wooden cudgel. He spun his weapon a few times, and the crowd fell silent, leaning forward with intense fascination to listen to the sound the heavy club made as it whirled through the air.
The Frank nodded, acknowledging the man’s right to enter the ring. Holding his blade in a low, close guard, he eased into a ready stance. Kim watched intently, his mind already starting to catalog the Frank’s fighting style, comparing it to his own. Looking for ways it could be beaten. The Frank’s sword was shorter than the staff Kim preferred, but the way the Frank held his weapon suggested such proficiency that to think the Rose Knight would be disadvantaged in matters of reach would be foolish. There was patience in his stance as well, a placid calm not shared by his opponent.
They had not even crossed weapons, and already Kim knew who was going to win the fight. Nevertheless, how the battle played out would be useful knowledge.
The Frank thrust, the tip of the blade driving at his opponent. It was a surprising move, as his stance had seemed more suited for defense, but that was part of the illusion. He had wanted the club-wielder to think he was ceding the timing of the first blow. The other man turned the thrust aside on his shield, stepping forward as he did to bull-rush the Frank. The Frank responded, moving so fluidly that he seemed to have been waiting for that very response from the club wielder. Kim considered the possibility that the thrust, like the stance, was part of the lure to which the club wielder had fallen prey. The Frank’s weapon rotated in his hands, the tip arcing away, and the club wielder found himself rushing toward the hard pommel of the wooden sword.
The pommel slammed into his head, and as the stunned fighter attempted to recover, he stumbled and swung his cudgel and shield as one in the Frank’s direction. The Frank hadn’t stood still. As soon as his pommel strike had landed, he was stepping past the staggering fighter. In the confusion following the strike, his sword had somehow managed to slide past the man’s guard, parallel to his body. The Frank, behind his opponent now, pulled the wooden blade tight against the man’s neck, choking him. His opponent struggled and grunted, dropping both his weapons as he attempted to free himself, but he could neither reach the Frank nor get any leverage against the blade pulled tight against his throat since the Frank’s hip was also at his back, pushing it forward and putting him hopelessly off balance. It was an interesting technique, extremely useful in this situation where the Frank was using a wooden sword, but Kim wondered about its efficacy in combat with a sharp weapon.
By the time the man yielded, the crowd had exploded into noise again. Their voices echoed loudly amid the ruins of Hunern, and Kim knew this was the sound he had heard back at the compound. As the Frank slapped his opponent on the back, sending him staggering toward the rope, Kim lightly slipped under the bracing bar and dropped back to the ground.
His Mongolian escort crowded him, and the one in charge started to berate him for leaving their side. Kim cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I am ready to fight,” he said. “Make a path for me.”