She recognized the Emperor’s pavilion. Strange to think it had been but one overnight since she had left here; how much had happened in so short a time! A week ago she had known nothing of Father Rodrigo, Ferenc, Cardinals, or emperors.
All the sides and tent flaps were rolled up to the eaves of the tent, so they could see the Emperor, and he could see them, a good twenty paces before they arrived. Frederick was sitting in the camp’s one oak chair, low-slung camp stools scattered before it, as if he were expecting a party. A guard stood at the entrance and others were stationed around the perimeters; a page boy stood behind Frederick’s chair. Otherwise he was alone. When they were half a dozen strides distant, Frederick opened his arms wide as if in greeting. He smiled.
“Damn him,” Fieschi muttered. But his voice, for once, lacked rancor.
“Welcome to my home away from home,” Frederick called out. “Won’t you join me for a cup of wine?”
They entered into the shade of the pavilion. Helmuth, in the lead, saluted, said, “Sire!” then bowed briskly and stepped away to the right. Ocyrhoe wanly imitated his bow.
“Hello, my young friend,” Frederick said to her, amusement in his eyes. Ocyrhoe managed to squeak out, “Sire” and scurried to the left, away from Helmuth.
She watched Fieschi and Frederick as they looked each other in the eye without speaking. Neither wore the challenging or angry expressions she had expected—their faces were both neutral, almost pleasant. Neither one would break the stare.
“I outrank you, Sinibaldo,” Frederick said eventually. “I expect you to at least bow your head.”
“I will prostrate myself with gratitude,” Fieschi promised, “as soon as you return him to me.”
Frederick gave him a small, mocking smile. “Who? The priest?” He put a finger to his lips. “No, I am mistaken. The Pope. Yes, is that who you are speaking of?”
Fieschi closed his eyes a moment, took a careful breath, and said through gritted teeth, “He is not—”
“Oh, and what was it that he had with him?” He waved away Ocyrhoe’s brightening expression with a wave of his hand. “No, not the boy. The other thing. The cup. Yes, that’s what it was. The Cup of Christ.”
“What?” Fieschi exploded.
“The Holy Grail,” Frederick said patiently. “You got my note, clearly, and your rapid arrival confirms my suspicion.” He glanced at Ocyrhoe for a brief second, and she was surprised by both the merriment and caution in his eyes. “I am glad I kept my language circumspect—”
“What suspicion?” Fieschi asked, his face even darker with rage than before.
“You wouldn’t come trotting out of the safety of Rome for a mere priest, especially one as addled as that poor man is. Even if he was your newly elected Pope. No, dear Sinibaldo, I think you’ve come for something much more important.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Fieschi raged. “The Holy Grail doesn’t exist.”
Ocyrhoe heard a ragged breathlessness in the Cardinal’s voice as if he were struggling to hide a different emotion entirely. Panic.
“Oh, I beg to differ, my dear friend,” Frederick countered heartily. “A dozen or so members of my entourage, after setting eyes on the cup, wished to traipse after the priest on his idiotic crusade; my guards had to physically restrain them. I thank God I have some atheistic sentinels who were immune to the goddamned allure of the thing.”
Fieschi was still changing color, paling now. “What do you mean, follow after him? Where is he?”
Frederick shrugged. “No idea. I released him into the wild, a few hours back. I thought it was only sporting to give him a head start if Cardinal Fieschi was on his trail.”
“Goddamn your—” Fieschi started. The sentinels around the pavilion instantly stepped inside; soldiers passing by on the avenue beside them stopped and turned toward them, as if the entire camp was prepared to assault Fieschi should he shout again. He took a very large breath and let it out forcefully, holding his hands up in a ceding gesture.
Frederick regarded him calmly. “I have already been excommunicated this week—in a much more official manner—so I will look upon your outburst as nothing more than—”
“Where is the priest?” Fieschi demanded, his voice quiet but firm. “Why did you let him go?”