Free Blood Ties by C.C. Humphreys

remembered the old Jew’s secret, the jewels he was probably carrying. Yet the thought didn’t even cause him to break step. That was part of an old life, dissolving now in smoke and fire. This mute, shaven man was leading him to a new one. Leading him to his destiny.
    Thomas Lawley leaned against the oak panelling of the antechamber, desperately trying to stay awake. A chair had suddenly become vacant five paces from him, but he knew as soon as he sat down he would be gone. He had not slept at all for two nights, and in the previous three weeks had barely mustered half a dozen decent rests. Wind and tide had been against him at Dover and he had been forced to spend three days on the water, to land in Hamburg. The Jesuit system of transit was, of necessity, less developed in the Northern and Protestant German states. He’d made up for the lost time from Catholic Bavaria on, pushing each horse hard, abandoning them at the way stations, snatching both sleep and food in short bites. But time had been lost, Renard had expected him to have reached Rome a week before, to be already starting on his return, bearing the weapon of coercion.
    And now he’d been standing for six hours outside Cardinal Carafa’s door. It was well-known how the man inside hated the Jesuits, but he also must have known the importance of Thomas’s mission. It took all of his training, meditations and prayers muttered under his breath, to calm his anger, as he watched courtier, pilgrim and priest precede him into the audience chamber. At least those around him gave him space to lean, stretch his limbs, relieve his aching knee. They would not want their exquisite robes to brush against his muddy cloak and boots.
    His eyes flickered shut – and opened to the sound of the outer door, another supplicant admitted. This one was different, much younger than most of the fat prelates and courtiers gathered to pay court to the man everyone thought would be the next Pope. This youth was dressed in plain contrast to the gaudiness on display, a grey cloak over a simple black doublet, his dark hair cut short, the wisps of a young man’s beard on his chin. His pale face was finely boned and, Thomas noticed, streaked with blood, probably from the scab at his ear. More blood stained his doublet and he made the occasional attempt to blend it into the dark material.
    He had been abandoned by his guide, a bald-headed man who seemed to have some special privilege there, for he had swept into the audience chamber and the person who had been lately admitted, a corpulent, red-coated bishop, had been ejected, protesting vigorously. He looked like a fat and squawking pigeon, all ruffled feathers, and Thomas found himself smiling, an unaccustomed sensation in recent years. He looked at the youth to see if the amusement was shared. He found the boy staring at him, but there was no humour in his eyes.
    Thomas had the sudden sensation he had seen the young man before. He looked intelligent and Thomas had taught many in Jesuit schools before his true mission began. Taking a chance now, while the other looked at him, he raised his hands to his chest, the left sheltering the right from all but a direct view. Pinching his thumb and forefinger together, he described a tiny cross in the air, the upright first, the crossbar carrying on into the curves of an ‘S’. He watched the young man’s eyes, saw them dart away, come back. Then saw them harden before he looked down, returning to the task of scraping the blood from his shirt front.
    He recognizes me. And he rejects me , Thomas thought. Why?
    The inner doors opened and the shaven man stood there. As the assembled company rose, to primp and prepare for their audience, the man beckoned the youth who stiffened, then strode forward. The door closed, swallowing both men, outrage and ruffled feathers returning to this side of it. Within the hubbub, Thomas made his mind still.
    What , he pondered, did the man who would be Pope want with