Heinzerling surprised himself with a vault over the pew rail of his own. Immediately, though, he had to jerk to a halt faced by the halberds of four of the Swiss guards. They'd leapt to protect the pope—rather later than Lennox the Protestant had done, he noted with grim amusement, not to mention the Stone brothers.
"My friend, there—my master, he is hurt." He pointed to where Lennox lay, visibly nowhere near the pope. A bit to his surprise, they let him through. No doubt the vestments helped, but he suspected the Swiss guards were just too confused themselves to be thinking clearly.
Whatever language Lennox was cursing in sounded like a good one for it. Or languages. Heinzerling recognized English and German and the Scotsman was going through at least two others.
"If you can swear so, Herr Hauptmann Lennox, it seems to me you are not so badly hurt?" Even as he spoke the mild joke he checked for bleeding, for any sign of injury.
"If I'm no wounded—ye papist swine—why the de'il dae—I hurt so much?" Lennox was getting his breath in great whooping gasps and spending all of them on swearing.
Blood. Heinzerling could see blood. Not much, but . . .
He traced it to a bloody score up one ear, that was welling up bright red and dripping onto the marble floor. "Your ear," he said.
"No mind—ma ear—ye bampot—ma bluidy ribs," Lennox wheezed. "Hit on—the cuirass."
"The what?" Heinzerling tried to remember what part of the body the cuirass was. He was conscious of figures gathering around him.
"Here." Lennox gasped and rolled over. "Crivvens, that hurts."
Heinzerling saw immediately. The flashy dress cuirass armor that Lennox wore had taken the pistol ball high on the left side, where the piece curved back toward the shoulder-strap. It was cracked clear from collarbone to armpit, the crack running right through a long, gouged dent running away upward with a smear of gray lead in it. "Scheisse, du glücklicher Hundinsohn," he breathed.
"Bluidy cheap pot-metal rubbish," the Scotsman hissed. "Nae decent proof plate'd 'ae cracked so."
"Saint Thomas should have had such as you," came a voice. Both of them looked up. "To stand between him and his king's knights," the pope went on, smiling broadly.
Lennox went bright pink, seemed on the verge of either laughing or wailing protest—perhaps both—and clutched his chest again and groaned.
"My friend is a brave man, Your Holiness," said Heinzerling solemnly, for want of anything better to say.
"And a true and pious son of the Church, whom God has preserved. He has laid down his life, and kept it!" The pope spoke these last words loudly, to a ragged cheer from those nearby who had seen what Lennox had done.
Heinzerling could feel the next development looming up on him like an avalanche of embarrassment. He had brought this, this—Calvinist—it was too much.
Too much for Lennox as well, who was gasping with pain between the sobs of laughter. "Will"—gasp, wheeze—"ye tell yon"—sob, chortle—"canna e'en call 'im a papist"—gasp, wheeze—"since 'e's the pape himself"—sob, chortle—"or will I?"
Lennox subsided in incoherent shuddering moans of agony and hilarity.
For Heinzerling, it was just the agony. "Actually, Your Holiness . . ."
The sound of gunshots brought all the Marines outside the church to sudden alert.
"Saddle up," Lieutenant Trumble commanded. "No, wait! MacNish, you come with me. We'll check the side entrance." Billy was already mounting his horse. He pointed toward the main entrance to the church. "Sergeant Southworth, take the rest of the men in there and see what's happening. On foot!"
Southworth and his three Marines ran toward the entrance, pulling out their swords and bracing themselves for a confrontation with the two confused-looking Swiss guards standing there. When they got within ten feet, all four of them as well as the Swiss guards were swept away by a swarm of screaming people charging out of the church. They might as well have been six chips of wood trying to stop a tidal wave. Fortunately, they all managed to keep their feet so none of them got trampled.
Billy Trumble stared at the sight, for a moment. Then, rolling his eyes with exasperation—doesn't anything go right?—he and MacNish started trotting around the side of the church.
As they came around the corner, they saw a man racing out of the side door and heading toward an alley. Maybe five seconds later, Ron Stone burst through it also. The Stone kid spotted Trumble and came to a sudden halt. He looked back at the door, as if thinking to flee back inside.
Weeks of slowly building frustration and anger at the idiot hippie kids who'd hauled one Lieutenant Trumble all over Italy till his ass felt like it would never recover came to a boil. Billy forgot all about the man who'd run down the alley.
"Halt!" Billy shouted. "Ron Stone, you are under arrest!"
Under the circumstances, it was probably a silly thing to say—just for starters, he had no jurisdiction here whatsoever—but Billy couldn't think of anything better. Given that he was being a dumbass anyway, he pulled out his sword and waved it around. "Halt, I said! In the name of the law!"
The lieutenant was now within fifteen feet of the Stone kid. Ron squinted at him. "Trumble? Is that you?"
"Who the hell do you think it is, you—oh." It suddenly occured to Billy that wearing his dress uniform, complete with that fancy stupid-looking helmet with sidebars, Ron hadn't recognized him.
"Yeah, Stone, it's me."
Ron pointed a finger at the man who'd raced out of the church. Billy turned his head just in time to see the man disappear into the alley.
"Go after him! Get him!"
Billy turned back. "Nice try, Stone. And you're still under—"
"You jackass! That's Ducos. He just tried to kill the pope!"
Billy stared at him. With a look of total exasperation, Ron stood stiffly erect and raised his right hand.
"Look, I'm telling the truth. Scout's honor."
"That's the Vulcan live-long-and-prosper salute."
Ron stared at his hand. Then, started hopping up and down. "Who the hell cares? Billy, goddamit—do your duty!"
Billy looked at the alley entrance. Belatedly, he realized that the guy had been acting kind of suspiciously. And now that he thought about it, the man did seem to match the description he'd been given of Ducos.
He came to a decision, and slid the sword back into its scabbard. "All right, Stone, but if you're lying your ass is grass. Where's the guy headed, anyway? I don't want to lose him somewhere in there. These alleys can be a maze."
"Not that one. It just leads straight through to another square. There's two coaches waiting on the other side of it. You can't miss them."
Billy headed off, MacNish following.
Ron stared after him, trying to decide whether to follow. Then five Swiss guards piled out of the church and buried him under a mass tackle.
That's what I was afraid of. They're really pissed about what happened to Jesus.
When Frank came to, the first thing he saw was Gerry. He was kneeling next to Frank, his face scrunched up.
When Gerry saw that Frank was conscious again, he wiped his sleeve over his nose.
"You okay?"
Frank nodded. Gerry burst into tears.
"I didn't mean to kill him," he sobbed.
Frank struggled to a sitting position and folded Gerry into a hug. "Yeah, I know. It just happened."
"Why did he have to be so stupid?" Gerry whispered, clutching his older brother tightly. "I mean, he wasn't really a bad guy or anything. Why did he grab me? That's why the gun went off. I didn't plan to shoot him. I just wanted to stop him from trying to kill the pope."
For a moment, Frank felt a burst of sheer hatred such as he'd never felt before in his life. "It was Michel Ducos did it, Gerry, not you. He played us for fools—and no one worse than Marius, because the poor guy was half a fool to begin with."
Gerry pulled away from Frank far enough to wipe his nose again. "I'll get him for that."
"No, you won't. We all will. The Stone boys stick together."
Just as the Swiss guards manhandled Ron to his feet, he remembered something. He twisted his head and shouted as loudly as he could.
"Billy, watch out! There's a boobytrap waiting in—oh, damn."
The entrance to the alley was a cloud of smoke. Gerry had outdone himself.
A moment later, two horses surged back out of the alley, snorting fiercely. One of them had a rider wearing a Marine dress uniform. It was not Billy Trumble.
It took Billy a couple of minutes to recover from the fall. Then, another minute to crawl painfully out of the worst of the smoke. When he got into clear air, he realized that he'd crawled the wrong way.
"Doesn't anything go the way it's supposed to?" he cried out to an uncaring universe, then sprawled against the wall of the nearest building in a half-reclining, half-sitting position. His head hurt and he was still feeling dizzy.
A very good-looking girl came running up the alley toward him, her skirts flapping like flags in the wind. As she got close, Billy saw that it was Frank Stone's girlfriend, Giovanna.
When she reached him, Giovanna leaned over and screamed in his ear. "What did you do to my husband?"
Billy gaped at her. "When did you guys get married?"
Giovanna screeched pure fury. She reached down with both hands and, before Billy realized what she was doing, had yanked his sword out of the scabbard. Then, held it over his head.
"If you killed my husband, I will kill you!"
He stared up at her for a moment. "Guess not," he murmured. Then, burst into laughter that was just barely this side of sheer hysteria.
"You guess not what?! Answer me or I cut your head off!"
"Nothing goes the way it's supposed to. What do you think?"
Luckily for Billy, MacNish came stumbling down the alley, groping his way through the smoke. "Are you there, sair?"
Giovanna sprang toward him, hefting the sword like a baseball bat. Pretty decent grip, lousy stance, was Billy's assessment.
"What did you do to my husband?" she screamed at the Scot trooper.
MacNish stared down at her. "Nothin,' ma'am. Don't even know who yer husband is."
"Liar!" She took a magnificent swing. Home-run quality, Billy thought; ground rule double for sure. If it had hit MacNish, his head would have sailed over the next building.
As it happened, the blade didn't come within two feet of the Marine. But MacNish was a Scotsman and knew a bad bargain when he saw one. He didn't draw his own sword. Just turned on his heels and ran back down the alley.
Giovanna ran after him, swinging the sword every other step.
Billy lurched to his feet and followed. Laughing softly all the way down the alley.
When he got out of the alley and back into the street in front of the church, his laughter got a lot louder. Giovanna was there, still brandishing the sword, but now surrounded by perhaps a dozen Swiss guards. They were—in a very gingerly manner—trying to keep her at bay.
"Looks like pretty fair fight to me," he choked.
Then Frank Stone came out of the side door of the church. Giovanna dropped the sword and raced toward him. Wisely, the Swiss guards got out of her way.
"He told me you were killed! He told me you were killed!"
She flung herself into Frank's arms, sobbing. Frank held her tight. "He lied," he whispered. "That's what Michel Ducos does. He lies."
Giovanna pulled her head back, her eyes still wet but slitted. "He made his escape, then. He took the coaches and told me you were dead. Everyone was dead except him, he said. I will get him for this."
"Not on your own, you won't. Join the club."
Inside the church, Urban VIII was now surrounded by a phalanx of cardinals.
"We shall investigate this affair!" hissed one of them. "The truth will be revealed. The Holy Office—"
"Basta!" The pope raised his hand firmly. "I think I have had enough of the Holy Office, for a bit. Yes, yes, we must investigate, but . . ."
Urban's eyes moved across the crowd gathered just beyond the inner ring of cardinals, looking for a certain face. A young face in which he had come to have great deal of confidence lately.
He spotted the man and crooked a finger. When he came up—managing to do so, somehow, without quite elbowing any cardinal aside—the pope issued his instructions.
"Monsignor Mazarini. I wish you to undertake an investigation of this entire bizarre affair. Find out the truth, and then report to me. Alone."
"Yes, Your Holiness."
The pope spoke loudly enough for Mazzare and Jones to hear him, where they knelt beside Lennox. The Scot cavalryman was doing much better, now that Heinzerling had removed the cuirass. The Jesuit, who was something of jack-of-all-trades, included a certain degree of medical knowledge in his repertoire. He told Lennox he was pretty sure he'd suffered nothing worse than a couple of broken ribs.
"In short, less in the way of damage than I inflicted upon you myself, that time of our theological dispute."
"Ha!" snorted Lennox. "And I won that fight, too."
Heinzerling was on the verge of issuing a retort, when he heard the pope's informal proclamation. He twisted his head around.
"Ah. What is that handy American expression of yours?"
Mazzare and Jones considered. " 'The fix is in,' " suggested Jones.
"Yes. That one."