Father Rodrigo’s response had been a wordless grunt, a reminder of the way they had communicated in the first months after Mohi, when the priest had been terribly sick. But, unlike then, he came willingly when Ferenc led him to the shelter of a tall tree, and he fell asleep almost immediately upon lying down on the ground. Ferenc arranged the blanket as best he could to cover both of them, and he stared up at the night sky, listening to the priest’s breathing.
The weight is gone, Ferenc thought as his eyelids grew heavy. Whatever he carried from Mohi to Rome is no longer with him. There was something else—a lighter burden, but one no less valuable than the message he had carried previously.
With that thought Ferenc fell into a fitful sleep of his own. He dreamed about cavernous tunnels whose openings were covered by red curtains, and of the women who kept disappearing into these tunnels—women who wore long coats of maille. They wore no helms, and their long, unbound hair flowed down their backs, like the manes of horses.
In the morning, there was dew clinging to everything, and even with a flint Ferenc doubted he could have started a fire. They were, as he feared, cold, hungry, and damp. It would be easier to find an outlying village and offer his labor in exchange for breakfast.
“Why did we run away from Rome, Father?” he asked as he stretched, letting his gaze wander about the countryside.
“We did not run away, my son,” said Father Rodrigo simply, as if this was all the answer that Ferenc could possibly need. “We have a task to perform. One that we could not have accomplished inside the city walls.”
“What task is that, Father?”
Father Rodrigo offered him a puzzled expression. “To release the power of the Grail, of course.” He patted the tattered satchel he had brought with them.
Ferenc stuck a finger in his ear and worked it back and forth, as if he could dislodge the words he had just heard. The Grail? He remembered a cup Father Rodrigo had been holding on the ledge above the crowd. It had fallen from his hand when the soldiers had grabbed him. Was that the Grail? But how had that cup found its way back to Rodrigo?
“What... what does it do?” Ferenc asked. He recalled the crowd’s reaction to the cup: astonishment and awe. But he hadn’t seen what had been so remarkable about the cup. It had looked like an old drinking mug, tarnished with age.
“That is not the right question, my son. Instead, consider what it is that the Grail wants us to do,” Father Rodrigo replied with a small smile. “We are but vessels through which it operates. I must show it to the people of Italy, of Germany and France. I must show it to everyone, and the Grail will tell them what it wants from us.”
That was not a promising, or elucidating, answer, and Ferenc eyed Father Rodrigo’s satchel with suspicion. He had packed it himself. He didn’t recall putting a cup in there, nor any opportunity when the priest might have done so. “What did it want yesterday in the marketplace?”
“It wanted me to rouse up the people of Christendom and urge them to shake off the danger of the Mongols. It wanted me to prevent the arrival of a prophecy—to prevent the world from coming to an end.”
Ferenc’s stomach tightened into a knot. His voice leaping up almost an octave as he demanded, “Mongols? The ones from Mohi? Father, you were there. You know what they did, what they can do. We cannot fight them. Even with everyone from the market yesterday. We will be killed!”
“Calm yourself, my son,” Father Rodrigo said. “I am not talking about a marketplace of people descending on an army. I mean we must gather all of Christendom, every man, woman, and child, and all together, as a united front, we will confront them and drive their evil from our land.”
“Everyone?” Ferenc repeated, saying the word with exaggerated care. “Everyone?”
“Everyone.”
Ferenc considered this. “How?” he asked, unable to comprehend such a mass of people.
“God will provide,” Father Rodrigo, a serene calm descending upon his face. The priest stared into the distance, a wry smile on his face.
Ferenc sighed, faced with the entirely reasonable conclusion: however calm and rational Father Rodrigo seemed, he had taken leave of all of his senses. The fever may have finally left him, but it had burned away too much of the priest.
“Excuse me, Father, I need to relieve myself,” Ferenc said. He picked up the blanket and carefully draped it around Father Rodrigo’s shoulders. The priest patted Ferenc’s hand and continued to smile at nothing in particular. Unwilling to look upon the priest’s face any more, Ferenc turned his attention to the nondescript countryside of grass and occasional copses of trees. Then he purposefully began to walk to the east, looking for something in particular.