The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart (37 page)

“What do I owe the pleasure, with my fast hardly broke?” Barousse asked.

“Listen, Alexius,” the doge began, “you know why we’ve come, and any pretensions that you don’t will be seen as admission
of guilt.”

“It is
Captain Barousse
, if you do not mind, Doge Strafa—Doge,” Barousse said, flashing a smile at the cardinal. “And who are your guests?”

“I am Cardinal Buñuel,” the red-frocked man said sharply.

“And I am Sir Jean Gosney of Meaux.” The armored man bowed. “A chevalier in the service of the cardinal.”

“Now that we’re acquainted, it’s time you turned over to us those whom, for the sake of this city’s honor as well as your
own, we are willing to assume you were incarcerating on our behalf.” The doge clicked his boots together.

“The Grossbarts.” Barousse’s smile widened. “And the priest who sought sanctuary here, yes?”

“He is no longer a priest.” Cardinal Buñuel wiped sweat from his brow.

The Grossbarts found Martyn in the kitchen wolfing down cold bacon with his left hand, the right one, which the Road Popes
had injured, now lame and dangling. He sloshed a glass of wine in their direction and returned to his meal. Hegel poked his
head outside while Manfried shouted into the cellar. Together they checked the servants’ quarters off the hall to the foyer.
They were vacant of both people and belongings, irking the Brothers further.

“Where’d they go, then?” Manfried demanded.

“Dismissed.” Martyn swallowed. “This morning, sent them all off. Those men working in the garden last night as well.”

“Stands to reason, I suppose,” said Hegel, he and Manfried sitting down beside Martyn to eat.

Captain Barousse’s grin never faltered, unnerving Rodrigo even more than the wary doge. “With pleasure will I give them to
you, for, as you say, I only meant to keep them until your arrival. Frankly, I began to worry I would have to send for you
to relieve me of them, so slothful was your pacing.”

“What?” The doge blinked, unprepared for this turn.

“I suspected they might be ruffians, but without your confirmation I could do little but stall their departure. Then this
lunatic ally of theirs arrives dressed as a priest and spouting six kinds of heresy, and I have to hold my sword for a full
day and night until you deign to visit. Honestly, Strafalaria, any grudge you bear me should not have delayed your dutiful
action to deliver me from such blasphemies.” Rodrigo covered his gaping mouth with his hand, never having seen Barousse so
alert.

“What is the delay we are now experiencing, then?” Cardinal Buñuel asked. The doge was overjoyed Barousse’s bluster had not
distracted the cleric but was disappointed the use of the hated moniker Strafalaria went unnoticed.

“This and nothing more,” Barousse said without pause. “Until this very moment I could not confirm the Grossbarts were indeed
wanted by you. I would have my men bring them to you this instant but they are pious Christians like the rest of us, and refuse
to lay hands upon the priest and those with his blessing, by whom I mean those bearded bastards, until such time as a higher
authority, as it were, confirmed for them the priest was indeed a heretic and not simply, ah, confused.”

“He has confirmed it!” The doge haughtily declared.

“Only by assuming the priest lodged within is indeed the priest he seeks.” Barousse extended his palms. “So you see my conundrum?”

“Did he give the name Martyn?” asked the cardinal.

“He did not give any name at all,” answered Barousse.

“Then let us in and we’ll have a look!” said the exasperated doge.

“I am not in the custom of taking orders when I have done nothing to deserve the overthrow of my command,” Barousse said,
quickly adding, “but to prove I have done nothing wrong, I will gladly welcome you, revered cardinal, to enter as my guest
and confirm the identity of the priest, at which time
my
men will take them out and give them to
your
men.”

“What are you scheming?” the doge shouted, earning a stern look from the cardinal and a hidden smile from the chevalier.

“And you would prove my innocence by invading my home and seizing those who you would dub my guests? A display born of perhaps
pernicious intent?” Barousse fired back, Rodrigo nervously glancing at the assembled guards, who numbered nearly twice those
in Barousse’s service.

“Deranged or not, he seems far from stupid enough to bring all of Christendom down upon his head by doing me harm,” Buñuel
whispered in the scarlet ear of the doge. Then, turning back to Barousse, he raised his voice. “And surely, as my host, you
would consent to my bringing a guest whom I vouch for, the honorable Sir Jean?”

“Without reservation, and the doge as well if—No?” Barousse masked his displeasure at Strafalaria’s shaking head with an even
broader smile. “As you choose, then. Now, if I may have the good doge’s word his men will not attempt to storm my residence
when I open the gate, we may get this over with and I may finish my repast.”

“That’s fine.” The doge grimaced. “You have my word. If they are not returned with the felons in very short order you also
have my word they will come in whether you open the gate or not.”

Barousse waved his hand dismissively while the gate swung open, the captain’s men clearly as relieved as the doge’s that things
had ended thus. The cardinal and the chevalier left their reins in Strafalaria’s hand, making him wish he had brought a page
along. The gate clicked shut again, and Barousse winked at the fuming doge before escorting the men into the house. Rodrigo
hurried around the side to the kitchen door, dumb-struck that the frenzied plan Barousse had whispered to him on the short
walk to the meeting had unfolded so flawlessly but worried the Grossbarts would not be where the captain insisted they would
be. Their presence in the kitchen was not surprising but still a relief, prone as the Grossbarts were to thwarting expectations.

“To arms, Grossbarts,” Rodrigo panted. “Our enemies are upon us.”

“How’s that?” One hand went to Manfried’s mace but the other stayed on his cheese.

“The doge has come to arrest the three of you, bringing with him a French knight and a cardinal as well as men, but the captain
has outwitted them, and now,” Rodrigo tilted his head toward the sound of the great door in the foyer opening, “he has lured
the doge’s guests inside, and we must take them prisoner. Now! And by force!”

Shouting reached them, and still chewing their breakfast the Grossbarts hurried down the hall after Rodrigo. Martyn followed
at a sensible distance, a bottle in his good hand. Entering the spacious chamber they saw four of Barousse’s men aiming crossbows
at two impressive figures, one bristling in plate and chain armor, the other draped with lily-white, coal-black, and blood-red
cloth. Both were shouting at the pleasantly smiling Barousse, but they quieted when he stepped forward and laid the edge of
his cutlass against the cardinal’s throat.

“Better.” Barousse nodded. “Much better. May I present Cardinal Buñuel and His Lordship Sir Jean Gosney of Meaux. Cardinal,
Sir Jean, this is Hegel Grossbart and Manfried Grossbart, my two advisors. Rodrigo you have already met, and who is this?
Ah, of course, the supposedly defrocked priest, Father Martyn.”

“We are already intimately acquainted,” Martyn sneered, making directly for Buñuel. “You have erred in the introductions,
however, captain, for this man has no authority over a servant of God. This heretic presided over my torture! How dare you
wear those robes in my presence? You are hereby excommunicated!” To the delight of Barousse and the Grossbarts and the horror
of everyone else, Martyn slapped the cardinal in the face. He then twisted around and stormed back to the kitchen before he
committed greater sins.

“Blasphemy,” Buñuel gasped. “Seize them, Jean, dash their mouths!”

Like many veterans of his age and country, Sir Jean had been captured and ransomed several times in his life, and found the
arrangement far more comfortable than a martyr’s death. His command of Italian therefore failed him, and he unfastened his
helm to better demonstrate his obedience. Bowing to Buñuel, he remastered the language of his captors and turned to Barousse.

“If you will give me your demands I will shout them to the doge, and I vouchsafe he will prove more honest in his negotiations
than most.” Sir Jean shrugged at the livid cardinal.

“Tell him to wait until Vespers for your release, at which time I will have received a full pardon from Church and city for
my regrettably forceful keeping of both of your company,” said Barousse. “Furthermore, all of my men and guests will likewise
receive identical pardons, I will be recompensed to the sound of one thousand ducats, and receive the word of both of you
as well as the doge that this matter, soon to be forgiven by the Lord, will be forgiven by you personally as well. Tell that
weasel to wait at his palace for any further demands, which shall be sent before dark.”

“Churl!” Cardinal Buñuel spit. “Think you can imprison us by sword and get whatever you desire? Heaven is not granted to such
rogues!”

“Imprison?” Barousse adopted a pained expression and sheathed his sword. “Never! You are free to leave at your will! Of course,
if you choose to leave before I grant it my men will murder you where you stand. But imprison? No, no. No irons, no cages,
simply hospitality as befits men of your station.”

The Grossbarts were staring at the weathered chevalier, who without his sharp-visored hounskull helmet looked decidedly less
intimidating. His paunchy jowls were smooth, and what few scars he possessed were shallow and indistinct. Compounding matters,
he had lathered himself with perfume, reminding the Brothers of the witch’s pungent hut.

“Hop to, then.” Barousse had moved to the door when the cardinal, who saw the fear on the faces of his guards, addressed the
crossbowmen.

“By directing your weapons at me you have damned yourselves! Only if I live may you be absolved!” Then the cardinal broke
for the door.

Hegel caught him in the shin with the haft of his pick, sending Buñuel sprawling in the doorway. The Grossbarts snatched him
up and held his arms while he spit and kicked, his normally placid nature undone by the indignity. With a nod from the captain
they dragged him to the kitchen while Barousse, Rodrigo, and the guards supervised Sir Jean’s recitation of demands to the
furious but not entirely surprised doge.

The doge left his pikemen blocking the gate and rode off while Barousse shut the door and clapped Rodrigo on the back. The
scheme had succeeded more than even he had hoped, and after apologizing again to Sir Jean, he disarmed the knight and escorted
him to the dining chamber along with three of the crossbowmen. With the servants dismissed, Rodrigo hurried to fetch wine
and food for the captain.

Loading up several plates with what little cold meat the again-feasting Grossbarts had not already claimed, Rodrigo descended
to the cellar for wine. Gasping at the sight awaiting him, he raced back up the stairs and shouted at the Brothers, “What
have you done with the priests?!”

“Put’em down there.” Manfried tossed his crust at Rodrigo. “As you’s just seen, I imagine.”

“Fools! That crazed priest’s killed the other one!” Rodrigo yelled.

“Goddamn it all!” Manfried jumped up. “I told you to tie him good!”

“I did!” Hegel followed. “If he’s so worthless as to be slayed by a trussed-up man he deserves what he gets.”

They stumbled down the stairs and saw the naked Buñuel swaying from the rafters, ordure dribbling down his legs. Martyn had
traded his worn robes for the scarlet-piped finery of the cardinal and prayed fervently in a corner, oblivious to the ruckus
he had caused. The Grossbarts relaxed upon discovering the miscommunication and Manfried chastised Rodrigo.

“Gotta use them eyes, boy.” Manfried shook his head. “With the clothes switch I can see the cause, but even a cursory glance
would tell you it was the other way round. Bein perceptive’ll keep you alive longer than runnin hither and thither squawkin
all kinds a meck.”

“Your mad friend did it, as I say! Your pet heretic killed the cardinal!” Rodrigo hunched over and vomited.

“That ain’t gonna help the stink.” Hegel retrieved a bottle of wine from the lattice rack.

“Look,” Manfried addressed the gagging Rodrigo, “either my way or yours, only Mary knows which is right, which is mine, a
course, but that defeats the purpose. Point is: either I’s right, and a man a Mary’s Will, committed to righteousness, has
hung a heretic, which is his duty and obligation, especially considerin said heretic mocked us all by pretendin to be pious.”

“But—” and then Rodrigo dry-heaved.

“But we could have it your way,” Manfried continued, “and assume it was the red and very dead cardinal what was the righteous
one, meanin Martyn’s a heretic, and worse still, one what murdered a man a Mary. And since he’s aligned with us, we’s all
accomplices.”

“There has to be another way.” Rodrigo wiped his mouth.

“Certainly,” Manfried continued, raising his voice. “We turn Martyn over to the doge and explain the mistake, and hope he’s
the understandin sort. You got no time to snot on your sleeve, so take the sensible reality a things: we’s doin Mary’s work,
and this cardinal asshole did worse than interfere, he blasphemed, and we ain’t gonna tolerate that.”

“Have a drink,” Hegel quietly offered, but when Rodrigo raised his head he saw the Grossbart handing it to Martyn.

His psalm trailing off, Martyn opened his eyes and took in Hegel. The doorway above him ringed Hegel in light, and Buñuel’s
dangling legs seemed as wings to the demented servant of God. The bottle shone red in Hegel’s hand as he repeated the offer.

“I am not worthy of these stolen robes, let alone your mercy,” Martyn murmured, fumbling at his sash.

“Hold a tic.” Hegel put his hand on Martyn’s shoulder and squatted down. Taking a cue from Manfried, he coached the priest.
“We’s agents a Mary, and from where we stand, you came by them robes and whatever station they imply through your own fuckin
piety. We ain’t heretics, we’s bout the only ones sides yourself knows how corrupt and wicked what they call
the
Church is, with that bastard you hung bein prime example. So wear them vestments with dignity and pride,
Cardinal
Martyn.” Hegel wiped imaginary dust from Martyn’s shoulders.