Moniz was preternaturally grave. “It is of the first importance that the people should be pacified.”
“But how?”
“There is one way only—by a promise that you will submit to the will of the Holy Father, and by penance seek absolution for yourself and your city.”
A red flush swept into the young cheeks that had been so pale.
“What?” he cried, his voice a roar. “Release my mother, depose Zuleyman, recall that fugitive recreant who cursed me, and humble myself to seek pardon at the hands of this insolent Italian cleric? May my bones rot, may I roast for ever in hell-fire if I show myself such a craven! And do you counsel it, Emigio—do you really counsel that?” He was in a towering rage.
“Listen to that voice,” Emigio answered him, and waved a hand to the open window. “How else will you silence it?”
Affonso Henriques sat down on the edge of the bed, and took his head in his hands. He was checkmated—and yet....
He rose and beat his hands together, summoning chamberlain and pages to help him dress and arm.
“Where is the legate lodged?” he asked Moniz.
“He is gone,” the knight answered him. “He left at cock-crow, taking the road to Spain along the Mondego—so I learnt from the watch at the River Gate.”