Blood Ties by C.C. Humphreys

his lessons. A playmate who did not want to learn Latin or Greek, but whose inattention only drew a caress from her indulgent father’s one hand.
    Maria. Daughter. Beacon in his dark. The only person the Fugger loved more than Jean Rombaud.
    ‘I think, Holy Father, that I might have thought of a way.’
    Carafa beamed. He would not correct him again on the title. It would be his soon enough, anyway.
    ‘My son, I never doubted you that you would.’
    Gianni watched the Jesuit approach the throne, bow, kiss the ring. He had recognized the Englishman as soon as he saw him in the antechamber. Thomas Lawley had taught him when he’d first come to Rome three years before. It was hardly a surprise he wasn’t recognized in return; he had been one of a hundred in that intake of boys. But he remembered Thomas as being typical of his order: kind, patient, tolerant, the lessons imparted more with caresses than the beatings Gianni had been used to at Montecatini Alto. At first he had relished it and had thrived. As he grew older he recognized it for what it was: weakness. It was why he left early, seeking the more rigorous discipline of the Clerks Regular under Carafa, who was known for his loathing of the Jesuits. With them, he could think less and act more. Much more.
    After the shock of Carafa’s words, Gianni realized that there was no mission he would more willingly undertake. It was as if his whole life had been aimed at this point, like an arrow seeking its target. It had the inevitability of pre-destination. The sins his father had committed in his mistaken zeal for a heretic’s cause had hurt the One Faith badly. He had thwarted a chance to fight back when Protestantism was still a fledgling bird. He had even killed a Prince of the Church. Who better than his son to right those wrongs? That six-fingered grip rested heavy and evil upon his whole family. He, Gianni, would remove them from its grasp. Only he could redeem the name of Rombaud.
    The Cardinal’s conference with Thomas was brief, swiftly reading the letter the Englishman delivered. In a moment, he was beckoning Gianni forward.
    ‘Brother Gianlucca.’ He used Gianni’s full name. ‘Brother Thomas.’
    The two men each inclined their head.
    The Cardinal continued. ‘The Imperial Ambassador has spelled out here the necessity before us. There must not be any hindrance to this, for the arrival of the relic in London will greatly aid our cause there. You need not know why, merely believe it to be so.’
    The two men bowed, waited.
    ‘Our friend of the Society of Jesus’ – Both could hear the distaste as Carafa spoke those words – ‘has papers for the Imperial forces at Siena, power to speed you into the city. Once inside, it will be our servant here who seeks out those to fulfil our quest.’
    ‘Once inside, your eminence? Has the city fallen then?’ Thomas’s tone was gentle, his eyes unfocused and aimed somewhere between the Cardinal’s, his hands clasped easily before him. It was a technique all Jesuits learned, especially with men of authority.
    The Cardinal recognized the manner, no softness in his voice now.
    ‘Siena agreed terms on the seventeenth of April, yesterday. Those who wish it will be allowed to march out with full military honours on the twenty-first. Should give you time to get there and enter in triumph with the conquerors.’
    He had been perched on the front of his throne. Now, he leaned back and passed a hand before his face, looking every year of his great age.
    ‘Go now. My servant here has money, good men already hired, horses prepared. Go! And may the Lord guide you in everything.’
    The shaven man barely allowed them their amens, sweeping them out of the chamber. Another flunky, to great dismay, announced the end of audiences for that day.
    As angry priests and courtiers surged around them, Thomas said, ‘Well, young man. Shall we be about our work?’
    ‘God’s work, Jesuit.’
    Thomas merely smiled at the venom of the