The Pope's throne is absent for some time before Cardinal Corleone, resplendant in his crimson robes, returns alone to the court.
He approaches the centre of the room, where the throne of St. Peter sits. Standing behind it, he allows one hand to linger for very slightly too long on the top of the wooden back-rest, before clasping both hands behind his back.
"Ladies and Gentlemen... Eminences and Highnesses..." Corleone greets the assembled dignitaries with smooth aplomb.
"Sadly His Holiness cannot be with us at the moment." His gaze drops to the seat of the throne, "unfortunately, the recent turn of events has hit his health rather hard. Let us pray for his swift recovery."
"In the mean time, His Holiness has asked that I answer any of your queries whilst we wait for my colleagues, the other cardinals of Europe, to arrive for the Conclave."
To Cardinal Bodeker,
Corleone inclines his head in a graceful gesture of respect, "Your Eminence." He says, wisely deferring to the man who, as Primate of Germania, is his technical superior,
"I think you will find that these
sworn afidafids and confessions, which were secured by Cardinal de Montpetit provide sufficient proof of Archduke Albert's... involvement in this affair."
Corleone snaps his fingers and Father Angelo, one of the Pope's favoured sycophants, scurries, almost runs to the German Primate with one of the many copies of the investigation's findings.
Angelo has his uses after all, Corleone considers to himself with a cool half-smile.
To the legate from Bourbonnais,
Corleone steeples his fingers in front of his face in a gesture of humilty, "I hardly think that any man in the Empire could
possibly take any pleasure in the unfortunate situation the Archduke finds himself currently in."
"However, I agree that the talks we have been involved in to date have floundered somwhat. I have watched His Holiness try so very hard to bring the two sides involved in the war in Fra... in the war in north-western Europe together, but alas..." Corleone lifts his face to the exquisitely adorned ceiling of the chamber with a look of wounded piety.
Corleone's dramatic muse is broken as
Cardinal Ortucchio abruptly shouts the news of Count Molfetto's rebellion in Genoa and he watches in amusement as the Genovese cardinal rushes from the room.
Cardinal Corleone then notices
Johann von Kanizsai. The Cardinal frowns for a moment and then:
Oh, good God, of course; he'll be from that grotty little place on the edge of civilisation, full of peasant superstition and gothic I-don't-know-what's, he thinks.
"Welcome, Your Grace." He smiles,
"I believe His Holiness wished to inquire into the safety of one..." Corleone's eyes cloud over as he searches through his exhaustively trained memory; a tool which has served him well during his rise through the Church's ranks, "...one Princess Mariana." His mind delivers the woman's name on time and Corloene smiles effortlessly.
"Yes, certain parties amongst us who would apparently wish to remain anonymous have expressed certain concerns about her wellbeing. Can you vouch for this, Your Grace?"
With that Corleone quietly orders a junior churchman to make a note of any further replies, gathers up the letters that have travelled far from the east and makes his way from the chamber.
One from Novgorod, one from Muscovy... I hardly need bother the old fart with these, he thinks.
