*
Fieschi pushed the door closed and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. With a hand lightly brushing the wall, he walked carefully into the tunnels. He knew where he had to go and what he had to do; it would not take him long to reach the common areas where the cardinals resided. As his feet retraced the steps he had taken earlier, back toward the room where he had eavesdropped on Somercotes and the others, he banked the remainder of his long-burning frustration with Orsini. He had reacted too slowly. It would be hours—possibly days, even—before they could be sure the city had been sealed in time.
He had to force the vote. He couldn’t wait to find out if Orsini had been successful or not. Besides, even if they were caught, there would be no way to know to whom in the city they might have spoken. He had to assume the secrets of the Septizodium would not remain secret much longer.
When he reached Somercotes’s chamber, it was empty, and it took him several minutes of wandering through the narrow, dimly lit halls before he found his quarry. Somercotes was in one of the rooms that had natural light, and when he entered the chamber without announcing himself, the room was too bright for his dark-accustomed eyes, and he stood in the doorway, blinking.
When his eyes had adjusted, he saw Somercotes watching him with a bland expression. His Bible lay open, in his lap, as if he were sharing a passage with his companion. On the bench beside him sat the new arrival—the madman—still filthy and disheveled.
“Cardinal Somercotes,” said Fieschi without preamble, “a word in private, if you please.”
“Certainly, Cardinal Fieschi,” said Somercotes pleasantly, completely unruffled by Fieschi’s tone. He closed his Bible and turned to the priest. “Father, if you have need, do not hesitate to seek me in my chamber.” The priest looked up vacantly, his sweaty face shining with reflected sunlight.
Fieschi was surprised to find himself contemplating a desire to smash that beatific expression with a rock. Like one of the many shards of stone, lying within easy reach—
Somercotes now laid his hand on Fieschi’s arm, fingers digging into flesh, drawing his attention from the smiling priest. “Let us go to my chamber, Cardinal,” Somercotes said. His gaze was steady and his grip strong, but Fieschi tore himself loose, refusing to let the other man lead him, and stalked from the room.
Fieschi’s own hands shook slightly, and he clenched his fingers before him as he walked so that Somercotes would not see how close to the surface his rage was.
When they reached his chamber, Somercotes closed the door behind them, a polite smile stuck on his face. As he braced the door with a loose timber—affording them some privacy—the smile vanished.
“I have little to say to you, Sinibaldo,” he said tightly, “and even less tolerance for your company. So speak concisely, and then remove yourself from my presence.”
“You have been entertaining unauthorized guests,” Fieschi said. “You have been engaging in covert activities with the aim of destabilizing our work here.”
Somercotes stared at him for a second and then let loose a snort of laughter. “Who are you to lodge such a complaint, Sinibaldo? I know where you go at night, and why, and I am not the only one who smells meat on your breath when you return. Your dining habits alone destabilize our work, if you can even call the hellish farce we are subjected to here work.”
“You have engaged a messenger to seek aid from the Holy Roman Emperor,” Fieschi said. “A man whom you know to be no friend of the Church.”
“Your Church,” Somercotes said. “I count Frederick to be one of the most learned and enlightened men of our age. I would celebrate any effort on his part to aid us in our trying time. But that should be no mystery to you. I have never hidden my admiration and respect for the man. Why would I not seek his assistance?”
“So you do not deny sending a messenger?”
Somercotes shrugged. “I have sent many messages to the Holy Roman Emperor and would have continued to do so had we not been sequestered in this hellish dungeon.”
Fieschi gaped, his words caught in his throat. “No,” he started, suddenly flustered, “earlier today. You sent a message earlier today.”
Somercotes said nothing, and there was nothing in his expression that gave Fieschi any clue as to what the man was thinking. Eventually, the Englishman shrugged. “Today?” he drawled, seeming to give the matter great thought. He shifted the book in his hands as if he were about to open it and start reflecting on a passage from the Bible. “I’m not sure what you are talking about, Sinibaldo. You are the only one who wanders in and out of this place. How could I have sent a message?”
Fieschi snapped his mouth shut with an audible click. Mentally staggered, he held himself as rigid as possible, trying to ascertain how to extricate himself from the error he had just made. He knows that I know. I have just given myself away, and he pretends otherwise. He needed to shift his attention away from the messenger, as well as the implication of what Fieschi might have done in response to such knowledge.
“This new man is not who he appears to be,” he said.