My love is the flower that opens at morning,That greets with her petals the radiant sun,Yet methinks 'tis not she who lives by the sun,But the sun gives its light so my lady may shine.
Sophia's smile was itself sunny as he finished the first verse. She leaned back, putting her hands out behind her on the bed, and closed her eyes as he sang the second and third. When he began the fourth verse, she drew closer to him till their legs were touching. Making himself concentrate on his music, he went on to the fifth verse. He resolved that at the end of it he would stand up and move away.
At sunset my love will close up her petalsTill with the dawn she awakens again,And her beauty will blaze out to dazzle the day.To see her the sun will be eager to rise.
By the end of that verse she was leaning against him and had reached around behind him to stroke his neck. Without his consciously willing it, his arm stole around her waist and pulled her to him.
His song, he realized, was insidious in its power. He had thought only to entertain her with his music, but he was seducing her. Herhead rested on his shoulder, her eyes closed. Her fingers crept slowly, delicately, across the back of his neck under his hair, sending thrills down his spine. He could not move away from her.
"Stop," he whispered. "Please stop."
"Are you afraid of me?" she asked softly.
"I am afraid for both of us. You do not know what a raging fire a lovely woman like you can kindle in a man like me."
She withdrew her hand from his neck and let it rest on his thigh. That, he thought, made it even more difficult for him.
"I must tell you something," she said. "I am not—wholly innocent."
His heart felt a sudden chill. How could this dear creature be anything but innocent?
Now her hands were in her lap and her eyes were cast down. "As you surely know, most women past twenty, unless they are nuns, have been married for years. You must have wondered what I am doing in Orvieto, unmarried, living with my uncle."
"I never thought about it."
"Thenyouare very innocent."
Simon felt himself wilt inwardly. How could he have been so blind as not to wonder why Sophia was not married? She had seemed timeless to him and attached to no one. Even her relation to the cardinal, except that it put her in the enemy camp, seemed unimportant.
"You have a husband?" His voice was heavy with sorrow. Foolish as it was, he had dreamed that she might be virginal. But that made no sense, now that he considered it. The rule in courtly love was to fall in love with a lady who was married to someone else. His Parisian courtly lovers had been married women. If Sophia were already married, that should make it better.
Then why did he feel so disappointed?
"I was married at fourteen. His name was Alessandro. He died two years later of the damned fever that takes so many of our good Sicilian people. He was very kind to me, and I was inconsolable."
"Ah. You are still in mourning for him?"
She turned her hands over, showing empty palms. "I loved him so much that I could not think of marrying another man in Siracusa. At length my mother and father decided to send me to live with my uncle in the hope that I could forget Alessandro enough to consider marrying again."
"Do you wish to marry again?"
"I have met no one I am drawn to but you, Simon, and marriage between you and me would be unthinkable. My family's station is so far beneath yours."
His heart leapt happily. She was free, yet, as she said, not wholly innocent. He need not feel quite so guilty about the passionate thoughts he had been having about her. And as for marriage between them being unthinkable, she did not know that none of the great houses of France would consider a daughter of theirs taking the name de Gobignon. Her nonclerical family might be of low station, just as the pope's father had been a shoemaker, but Sophia was the niece of a cardinal, a prince of the Church.
It was love, not thoughts of marriage, that had brought him here tonight. Still, he must respect her honorable widowhood. Since she had loved her husband, she might be more susceptible to him, and he must guard her virtue all the more steadfastly. Perhaps she thought that he respected her less as a widow. He must reassure her.
She was not holding him any longer. He could stand up without tearing himself away from her. He sprang to his feet and strode to the center of the room.
"Believe me, I think you just as pure as if you had never been married at all."
She looked up at him, surprised, her hands still folded in her lap, her dark eyes wide.
"I am delighted to hear that. But"—she cast her eyes down and smiled faintly—"does that mean there is to be nothing at all between us?"
"I love you!" Simon declared. "I will always love you. I think of you night and day. I beg you to love me in return."
"Oh, Simon. How beautiful." She held out her arms to him. But he stayed where he was and raised his hands warningly.
"I mean to love you according to the commandments of l'amour courtois. With every fiber of my being I yearn to be altogether yours, but you must restrain me."
"I must?"
"You must be what the poets of old Languedoc called 'mi dons'—my lord. You must rule me. One day we will join together in body, but only after I have been tested and found worthy."
"Is that what courtly love means?"
"Yes, and that is why it is more beautiful than marriage. Husband and wife may embrace carnally the moment the priest saysthe words over them. No, they arerequiredto. Courtly lovers know each other only when love has fully prepared the way, so that their coming together may be a moment of perfect beauty."
Sophia looked at him silently. Her face was suddenly unreadable.
"Do you understand?" he asked after he had stood awhile gazing into her lustrous brown eyes. "These ideas are perhaps new to you."
"The woman is ruler of the man?"
"Yes."
The corners of her mouth quirked. "Then what if I were to command you to get into this bed with me?"
He was certain from her sly smile that she was joking. But he could think of no clever answer. He considered what he had read, what he had been told, what he had done with other women. None of it helped. The women who fell into bed with him on the first tryst had not been serious about love, nor had he been. In all the lore of l'amour courtois the woman made the man wait—sometimes for years, sometimes for his entire life—and the man was happy to wait, and that was all there was to it.
Then he remembered something his mother had said, a secret so precious he would never tell anyone, not even Sophia. Not even Friar Mathieu needed to know it. But it guided Simon now.
The first time your father and I were alone together I wanted him then and there. But he was strong enough for both of us. It was a whole year before we possessed each other in body. And you came of that union.
"You will not command me so," he said with cheerful confidence.
Her eyebrows rose—they were strong and dark, like a raven's wings. "Indeed?"
"Because you know how much better it would be to wait. We both want each other now. But if we restrain that hunger, it will grow. It will be not just a desire of the flesh, but a longing of the spirit. It is said that the souls in paradise know no greater happiness than two lovers do, who are united in soul as well as body."
"Prodigioso," she said. "But I am just a Sicilian girl, and I do not perhaps have the refined spiritual appetite of a French nobleman. What if I cannot wait?"
"It is natural," Simon said, thinking again of what his mother had confided to him. "Then I must be strong enough for both of us."
The thought of her powerful passions, which she restrained with such difficulty, excited him. Holding himself back from her was going to be painful, but delightfully so. And think of the ecstasy when at last they were united.
Sophia released a long sigh and brought the palms of her hands down on her knees with a slap of finality. "So be it, Simon. You will teach me the ways of courtly love, and I will do my best to be your—what did you call it?"
"Mi dons. My lord."
Her teeth flashed white in the candlelight, and her lips glistened. Simon's own lips burned to taste hers.
"How strange. As if I were the man. Ah, but you are very much a man, Simon, and you make me feel very much a maiden."
Simon turned and went to the window. The night air blew through the gauze curtains, and he felt a wonderful aliveness all over his body. He wondered whether Alain, out there in the dark somewhere, could see him here in the window. He pushed the curtain aside so Alain, if he was there, could get a good look and know that his seigneur was safe and happy.
Dawn must still be hours away. What would he tell Alain about what transpired this night? The truth, assuredly. But would Alain believe him? And if he did, would he mock Simon for not bedding Sophia?
No, Alain would understand. He respected the good in men and women as much as Simon did. Which was why they were friends as well as lord and vassal.
Sophia stood beside him and put her hand on his shoulder.
"You cannot stand there all night, Simon. Come back and sit down."
He bowed. "As mi dons commands." He let her take his hand and draw him away from the window.
There was one chair in the room, and he took it. Foolish to expose himself to temptation by sitting beside her on the bed again. The chair was straight, with a tall back and no arms. The only touch of comfort in its rectilinear shape was a cushion laid upon its seat. Sophia smiled and shrugged and sat again on her bed.
Would she let him spend the night? Whenever he had been all night with a woman, they had made love. Should he sing to her again? Would she want to sleep? He pictured himself watching over her while she slept, perhaps kneeling by her bedside, and the beauty of it thrilled him.
Now he remembered something she had said earlier, that he had accused her of kissing himonly to further my uncle's plots against the Tartars. She was aware, then, of what Ugolini was doing.
She has no idea how much she revealed to me.
He sang another troubadour song, "White Hands." She let him draw off her red silk slippers, and he almost cast away all his promises to himself as she curled her toes against the palm of his hand. He forced himself to stand up and pace the room while she lounged back on her bed, her head propped up on her elbow, watching him with that delicious smile of hers.
She questioned him about his life, and he offered her a simple version of it, telling her nothing about his secret illegitimacy and the dishonor of the man whose name he bore. It struck him while talking to her that perhaps these two sins that had shaped his life—Amalric de Gobignon's treason and Nicolette de Gobignon's adultery—had given him the strength to resist the temptation to assail Sophia's virtue. He told her how he had spent much of his youth in the household of the King of France and how this had led to Count Charles d'Anjou's giving him the task of protecting the Tartar ambassadors.
And thus, inevitably, their talk got around to the Tartars.
"Why did you accept this task from the Count of Anjou?" she asked. "You have a lofty title, huge estates, everything you could want. Why trouble yourself with all this intrigue?"
Having decided not to tell her the truth about his past, Simon now could not answer her question both honestly and fully. He could not say that he had committed himself to this mission to clear the stain of treason from the name of de Gobignon and to prove that he had a right to the title.
So he told her of another reason, equally true.
"I am in part an orphan, and the king was like a second father to me. It is his wish that Christians and Tartars join together to liberate the Holy Land. And I would do anything for him."
Sophia frowned. "I find that hard to understand. As for me, I hate the Tartars."
Simon's mind pounced on that. Could she be more involved in Ugolini's scheming than she had admitted?
"Why do you hate the Tartars? You know so little about them."
"I know that they almost made enemies of us because you thought I was kissing you just to help my uncle."
Walk carefully, Simon.
Again she was hinting at her uncle's involvement in all that had gone wrong for the alliance. But if he asked her about it outright, she might think—as he had thought of her—that he was courting her only to further his cause.
"Well, I am sure your uncle is following his conscience, as we all are," said Simon. Actually, he believed nothing of the kind. But he did not want to offend Sophia, and perhaps l'amour courtois would permit a small lapse in one bound to be truthful to his lady.
"And your conscience tells you to guard those savages?"
"I want to see Jerusalem liberated and the Saracens conquered," Simon said. "Every good Christian does."
She sat up in bed, looking at him earnestly. "Do you not fear that the Tartars are worse than the Saracens? That is what my uncle says."
Step by step, as if he were defending a philosophical proposition at the University of Paris, Simon explained to her what he believed. Yes, the Tartars were barbarians and had committed unspeakable atrocities. But the Saracens, united under the Mameluke Sultan of Egypt, were more powerful now than they had been in hundreds of years. If not stopped now, they would sweep all the crusaders out of Outremer, the land beyond the sea.
And a wave of Mohammedan conquests might well not end there. To this day the Moors were a power in Spain, and it was not that long ago that there were Saracens in France and here in Italy. Surely she remembered that her own island of Sicily had been conquered for a time by the Saracens. Indeed, King Manfred von Hohenstaufen's army was made up partly of Saracens, and he himself was an infidel.
With their belief in spreading their religion by the sword, the Saracens were a far greater danger to Christendom than the Tartars. The Tartars were simple pagans, easily converted to Christianity. Friar Mathieu had personally baptized over a dozen high-ranking Tartars.
She listened intently, her golden-brown eyes so fixed on his that he feared more than once to lose his train of thought. But he persevered to the end. When he finished, she nodded thoughtfully.
Now, he thought, he could turn the conversation to her uncle.
"All this is so obvious," he said, "it is hard to understand why your uncle should have formed a party to oppose the alliance."
She touched her fingertips to her mouth in surprise. That mouth—it was like a blooming rose.
"You mean my uncle is theleaderof those who are against the alliance?"
This reminded him of mornings he had tiptoed through his forest at Gobignon, longbow drawn, catching a glimpse of a stag's brown coat and then losing sight of it again in the thick broussailles, trying to stay downwind and draw close enough for a good shot without frightening the deer into headlong flight.
"But I thought you already knew that," he said. If she denied that she knew any such thing, then his quarry had escaped him.
"So, he put David of Trebizond up to baiting the Tartars while you and I were so delightfully engaged? Wicked uncle! To think I almost lost you on his account." She clenched a pretty fist that looked as if it had been chiseled in marble. On one finger her small garnet ring glittered in the candlelight.
"I believe he brought David of Trebizond and his servant Giancarlo here to Orvieto, as well as that Hungarian knight, Sire Cosmas, who spoke at the pope's council, to discredit the Tartars." Simon wondered whether he should tell Sophia about the bravos Giancarlo was recruiting. No, if he told her what he knew about them, he would have to require her to keep it a secret, and that might make her feel disloyal to Ugolini.
She nodded. "Now I understand why he spends so much time closeted with that silk merchant, talking about—who is Fra Tomasso di—di—?"
God's robe!
"Fra Tomasso d'Aquino?"
She nodded. "That was the name. He sent David to see this Fra Tomasso, and when David came back I overheard my uncle joyfully shouting, 'Fra Tomasso is with us!' over and over again. Is he an important man, this Fra Tomasso?"
Simon tried to keep his face calm, but he was horrified. Simon recalled now that the d'Aquino family were from southern Italy, the kingdom of Manfred the unbeliever, as was Ugolini. And were not the d'Aquinos even related to the Hohenstaufens? Something must be done about this at once. How far had the plotters—that was what they were, plotters—gotten with d'Aquino?
How much further dare he pursue this subject before Sophia grew suspicious of him? And how much further before he began to feel that he was degrading their love?
Our love? But she has not said she loves me.
The realization was like a thunderclap in his mind.
What he really wanted to know was whether she loved him or not. To come right out and ask her was not the way of courtly love. He must wait for her to say. But she would never speak of love as long as they went on about the Tartars and Ugolini.
To the devil with Ugolini and David of Trebizond and Fra Tomasso and the Tartars!
He had learned enough anyway, he decided. She had confirmed his suspicion that Ugolini was the ringleader of the forces in Orvieto arrayed against the Tartars. She had let him know that they had drawn Fra Tomasso d'Aquino into their conspiracy.
Of one thing he felt certain. If she were working with her uncle to block the alliance, she would not have let him learn so much.
A hand shook Simon's shoulder. His whole right side ached. He fought wakefulness, trying to plunge deeper into sleep. He was in a cool blue lake surrounded by dark masses of spruce. He had just seen a wolf with a silver-white coat drinking from the lake on the opposite shore and he was trying to swim to it.
"Simon. You must wake up."
He opened his eyes. Right before his face was a twisting streak of orange against a royal blue background, and he realized he was lying on his side on the Persian carpet in Sophia's bedchamber. He rolled over on his back and rubbed his aching side. He saw Sophia's face just above him.
He could not help himself. He reached up with both arms and pulled her down to him and kissed her. Her lips felt cool and dry, and he had a sudden fear that his breath must be sour from sleep. She pushed herself away from him and he did not try to hold her.
"There is light coming through the window, and I hear birds singing," she said. "You must go now. Many of my uncle's servants get up at dawn."
He sat up. She was kneeling beside him, still wearing the samecream-colored gown. He remembered now that they had talked of courtly love, and a little about her childhood in Sicily. To his disappointment, she had not said that she loved him.
The necessities of nature had forced on them an intimacy of one sort—while each had pretended not to notice, the other had used the chamber pot discreetly placed behind the red and green diamonds of a screen.
She had been the first to fall asleep. Sleep had overtaken him, too, but each time he dozed off he started to topple off the small straight chair he was sitting on. The fourth or fifth time this had happened he gave up sitting and stretched out on the carpet.
"Quickly, Simon, please. If my uncle ever finds out you were here, he will send me back to Siracusa."
God forfend!The habits of his knightly training took over, and he strode quickly to the corner, where he had left his sword and belt leaning against the wall, and buckled them on.
He remembered that Alain was supposed to sing an aubade, a dawn song, in the street below to warn and rouse him. An old troubadour custom. Perhaps he had sung, and Simon, sleeping so soundly, had not heard.
"Did you hear anyone singing out in the street?" he asked.
Sophia smiled and shook her head.
Blast Alain. He must have overslept, too.
Sophia said, "But how will you get out of here? It is not as easy to climb up to the roof as it is to climb down from it."
Simon went to the window and pushed the curtain aside. The rope he had climbed down on was still dangling from above. He gave it a hard pull, and it held firm. He looked up at the sky. It was a deep violet with only a few faint stars and one brightly shining planet.
The morning star might be Venus, a good omen for a lover.
His heart was light, even though he was leaving Sophia. It had been a beautiful night.
A half-filled cup of wine stood on the table by her bed. He swigged it to rinse his mouth, swallowed, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He tried to think of some parting word worthy of a troubadour, but none occurred to him.
She stood by the bed, her eyes warm. He held out his arms and she slipped into them with as much ease as if they had been lovers for years. She was so much shorter than he that he had to lean down to kiss her, and as he did she arched her body against him.
"I love you," he whispered, embarrassed by its prosaic simplicity. But it was simple truth.
"And I love you." She kissed him quickly on the lips and turned away.
Her words stunned him. He felt for a moment as if he were going to fall dead on the spot. And that if he did, it would be a perfect moment to die.
The candles were almost burned to the bottom. He looked over at the painting of Saint Simon Stylites, whose blue eyes seemed to gleam out at him from the shadows.
He wrapped the rope around both arms, gave it another yank to be sure it was tied tightly above, and stepped up on the windowsill. He swung around so that he was facing the wall of the mansion and began to climb, his joy at her parting words making him feel stronger and more agile. His hands gripped the rough rope; his feet in calfskin boots pressed against the wall, pointed toes seeking out cracks. He did not look at the stone-paved street three stories below.
He heard voices in the street—and froze. There were men gathered down there. If they looked up, they would see him climbing up the front of the cardinal's mansion.
Move quickly, he told himself. He scrambled up to the square Guelfo merlon around which his rope was tied, pulled himself over the parapet, and dropped with relief to the flagstones of the flat roof.
He untied the rope. Curiosity made him want to look at the men whose raised voices he heard coming from across the street. Something had disturbed them. But he had the feeling that if he did not look at them, they would not see him.
Hurry.Holding the loosely coiled rope in one gloved hand, he ran as lightly as he could so as not to disturb anyone in the rooms below him.
He came to the back of the building, where, two stories below him, a crenelated lower wall protecting the courtyard joined the main building. He uncoiled the rope, found its center, and doubled the line around an angled merlon at the corner of the roof battlements so that both halves dangled down just above the courtyard wall. Then, gripping the doubled rope, he swung himself out and began to climb down.
A thunderous roar battered at his ears. He saw in the courtyard a big gray hound racing over the paving stones twice as fast as any man could run. It kept up a furious, enraged barking in a deep,bone-chilling voice. In an instant the dog was below him. Its bellowing was sure to rouse the cardinal's guards. Its huge, pointed white teeth glistened; its tail lashed from side to side.
If I fell, that damned dog would eat me alive.
He remembered seeing the dog before with Giancarlo, David of Trebizond's servant. It had been friendly enough that day. But now it saw him as an intruder.
Giancarlo called it by name. What the devil was it? If I could speak its name, maybe I could get it to shut up.
Simon stood on the courtyard wall, thankful that it was too high for the dog to reach him. The hound sprang at the top of the wall, at the same time emitting a bark so loud it almost knocked Simon off his perch.
Simon pulled on one end of the rope, and it snaked around the merlon and came rippling down to him. To his horror, one end fell past him into the courtyard.
In an instant those great ivory fangs had sunk into the braided hemp. Simon yanked on the rope, but there was no tearing it loose. Hoping to catch the dog by surprise, Simon gave the rope some slack and then jerked with all his might, but succeeded only in dragging the beast a foot or so, claws scraping on cobblestones. At least the animal could not bite the rope and bark at the same time. Enraged, muffled growls issued around its clenched teeth. It snapped its head from side to side, trying to tear the rope out of Simon's hands.
He cut part of the rope away with his dagger, letting the end the dog held fall into the courtyard. Even as he was coiling up the rest of the rope, the beast gave a howl of fury and with a tremendous leap was halfway up the wall.
The remaining rope tied to his belt, Simon hung by his hands on the outside of the wall and let himself drop, hitting the stone street with a thud that sent jolts of pain through his shinbones. He heard shouts on the other side of the wall mingling with the roars of the hound.
Limping a little at first from the force of the drop, he staggered into the nearest side street. He would have to circle back to the avenue that ran in front of the cardinal's palace, approaching it from another direction.
It seemed to take hours for him to find his way through the snake's nest of byways. But he felt not the least bit disturbed. It did not matter. Nothing mattered, because Sophia's parting words tohim had beenAnd I love you. He felt like dancing through the crooked streets.
By the time he emerged near the east side of the cardinal's palace, he could see quite clearly. There was no sun, though. The morning was damp and gray. He would have to cross the avenue and walk back past the cardinal's mansion to find the inn he and Alain had picked for their rendezvous. It must be near where that crowd of men had formed a circle around something.
"Are you the watch, Messere?" a man said, coming up to him as he approached the crowd.
"I am not," said Simon with a slight haughtiness, and the man fell back, eyeing Simon's rich clothing, sword and dagger.
"Scusi, Signore."
I really should not let myself be seen around here.
With deference to Simon's dress and manner, the crowd parted for him when he joined them to see what they were looking at.
It was the body of a dead man.
It was Alain.
Simon staggered back, feeling as if he had been struck in the heart by a mailed fist.
"No!" he cried.
"Do you know this man, Signore?" someone asked him.
Simon did not answer. He fell to his knees beside Alain, horrified by the face so white it seemed carved from marble. He saw now the great bloodstain down the front of Alain's pale green tunic. Flies with gleaming blue-green bodies were humming above the bloodstain, settling down again after Simon's arrival disturbed them.
He raised his head, and through the tears that clouded his vision he recognized a face. Last night's innkeeper. A short, balding man with large eyes and a generous nose.
"We have sent for the watch, Your Signory," said the man.
"Did anyone see or hear anything?"
"My wife heard your friend go out before dawn. He never came back."
Jesus, have mercy on me, thought Simon.This is my fault. He went out to await the dawn so he could warn me. And someone killed him.Tears were pouring from his eyes. He was sobbing convulsively.
"Poverello," he heard someone mutter sympathetically. Here he was a knight, a count, kneeling in the street weeping in front of a crowd of strangers. He did not care.
Guilt crushed him. He wanted to lie beside his friend's body and be dead with him. But how could he? No, he had to find and kill Alain's murderer.
Still kneeling beside Alain, he wiped his face with the edge of his cape and surveyed the crowd. To keep his identity a secret seemed unimportant now.
"I am the Count de Gobignon of France. I will pay handsomely anyone who helps me find the man who did this. If anyone can name the murderer, I will pay"—he thought a moment—"a thousand florins."
A murmuring ran through the crowd. A fortune! Foolish, perhaps, Simon thought, to offer such a reward. A man would accuse his own brother to get that much money.
I may hear many names. I will have to be sure.
He looked down at poor Alain. The flies were crawling on his face, and he brushed them away. Alain's lips had turned blue. He looked for Alain's purse and saw none on his belt.
Stabbed to death for the few coins he carried. Dead at twenty years of age. Tears overflowed his eyes again.
Oddly, Alain still wore his sword and dagger.
Alain's weapons were still both sheathed. Whoever had stabbed him had not given him time to defend himself. Yet, there were no recessed doorways or alley openings where an armed robber might hide himself.
The spot was unpleasantly familiar. This was where Simon's archers, at de Verceuil's orders, had shot two Orvietans.
Had Alain been tricked by someone pretending to be a friend? Was the killer someone Alain knew?
Ah, my poor friend, what a shame it is when a young knight dies without sword in hand.Simon clenched his fist, the tears falling unceasingly.By the wounds in Christ's body I swear I will avenge the wounds that killed you, Alain.
Simon remembered now that the watch was on the way. When they got here they would ask him questions about what he and Alain were doing here, questions he did not want to answer until he had time to think.
A scandal would give de Verceuil a chance to eat me alive. And I must get Friar Mathieu to help me.
"Send someone to the Palazzo Monaldeschi for my horse," he said to the innkeeper, standing suddenly.
"As you wish, Your Signory." The innkeeper hurried off.
Simon swept the crowd with his gaze. "Remember, all of you. Anyone who saw anything, heard anything. You will be paid. Come to the Palazzo Monaldeschi."
Simon sat down on the stone street to wait for the horse. Silently the crowd that had gathered waited with him.
When the innkeeper's servant brought the horse, Simon lifted Alain's body with the help of two other men and lashed it securely facedown over his horse's back with the rope he had used to climb to Sophia's room.
Sophia.He had been so happy just moments ago because she said she loved him as they parted. Was she looking down now, seeing this pitiful sight?
Fresh sobs forced their way into his throat, and he leaned against his horse, covering his face with his arms.
I have to get away from here quickly.
He forced himself to stop crying and took hold of the reins. The Orvietans fell back as he led the horse up the street leading northward to the Monaldeschi palace. He felt warmth on his neck and looked up to see the sun through a break in the clouds.
Alain would never see the sun again.
Whoever did this to you, Alain, I will not rest until I have killed him with my own hands.
Sordello's face, looking as if hewn from granite by an indifferent sculptor, was gray with fatigue. His arms bound behind his back, he knelt before Daoud, wearing a tattered brown frieze robe Tilia had somewhere found for him.
Daoud sat once again on the former papal throne. Dressed in black cassocks and hoods that covered their faces, Lorenzo and five of Tilia's black servants stood along the walls of the room. Every so often Sordello's eyes flickered to the implements of torture around the room and quickly away again.
Yet the night's assault on his mind had not altogether broken his spirit. "If you think to frighten me with this clowning, think again, Messer David. I have stood undaunted before the Inquisition in my day, and they are a good deal more fearsome than you and your henchmen."
Leave him his shred of dignity, Daoud thought.A man who has lost that is too dangerous.
"We are beyond fear now, Sordello, are we not?"
Sordello's eyes glowed in the torchlight like a trapped animal's. "What kind of devil are you?"
Daoud tried to smile kindly. "You call me a devil after I have sent you to paradise?"
The old bravo sighed, and his eyes closed. "I did not know that my body was capable of feeling so much pleasure. Even when I was twenty and at my best, I never knew such delight. It shook me to the very root of my soul."
"I know," said Daoud. He was thinking back to his own initiation. Given sanctuary in Egypt, the Hashishiyya had built a tent-palace of wood and silk west of El Kahira, at the foot of the pyramids. Over a series of moonlit nights, Daoud had drunk the Old Man of the Mountain's brew. He had entered hell in the bowels of the Great Pyramid and then had ascended into paradise, where the houris promised by the Prophet had ministered to him for what seemed an eternity. Yes, he knew very well what spirit-freezing delights Sordello had experienced.
"What are you, then?" Sordello growled, his eyes flashing open. "Some kind of stregone? What was that witches' potion you made me drink?"
"Do you wish to return to paradise?"
"Youarea devil, Maestro. You want my soul."
The man was quick, Daoud thought. For all that he was a flawed man, he had a strong mind. He remembered being made to drink the preparation of wine and hashish. And he already realized why Daoud had done this to him.
So delicate, this part.
Now the bond must be forged. As a succession of Old Men of the Mountain had forged it between themselves and their disciples in Alamut, in Masyaf, in all those mountain strongholds across Persia and Syria from which terror had gone forth for more than a hundred and fifty years.
"I am but a man like you, Sordello. I do not want your soul. I want your loyalty."
"You want my treachery, you mean. You want me to betray my master, the Count de Gobignon."
There was more than quickness here, Daoud thought. There was that foolhardiness he had seen in Sordello before. A man of sense, knowing that he was in the power of a force beyond his control, even beyond his understanding, would do nothing to antagonize that force. Yet Sordello persisted in challenging Daoud.
At the mention of Simon de Gobignon's name, Daoud's concentration wavered. When de Gobignon found his knight dead outside Ugolini's mansion, what would he do? There would be trouble over this, surely there would be trouble. Daoud cursed himself for leaving Tilia's house and going back to the cardinal's mansion.
He forced his mind back to Sordello. How to work with this provoking spirit?
"To send you into the enemy camp as he did, Count Simon must have great confidence in your ability."
Sordello laughed angrily. "Confidence? That high and mighty French fop? He was probably hoping you would catch me. Sia maledetto!"
He curses de Gobignon. Excellent. Or is this merely for my benefit? Daoud peered at Sordello, wishing the room were lit by more than a few torches burning in cressets. The flickering light was impressive, like this gilded throne, but if Daoud could get closer to Sordello and see better, he could be more sure of what the man was really feeling.
Daoud said, "He who is loyal to me is never cast out, no matter how foolishly he behaves."
"Does he who is loyal to you get to go to paradise often, Maestro?" Sordello's voice was thick with yearning.
It was time for the final step. Daoud beckoned. The nearest hooded figure on his right, who was actually Lorenzo, came forward with a green earthenware cup. He bent and held it before the kneeling Sordello.
"More of your stregoneria? Or have you finally decided to poison me?"
"Would I have showered you with wonders, as I have tonight, only to kill you? No, I have one final wonder to show you. Drink, Sordello."
This wonder probably will be the death of you, but not for a while.
After a long hesitation, the old bravo lifted his head and swallowed the liquid Lorenzo poured down his throat. He made a sour face. "Paugh! It tastes bad!"
Daoud said nothing and waited. After a few moments of silence Sordello sat back on his heels. His gray head began to nod. His eyes closed.
Daoud arose from the throne and went down to him, holding a candle in one hand.
"Look at me, Sordello." The prisoner's head lifted, and his brown eyes stared fixedly into Daoud's. Daoud bent and passed the candle flame before Sordello's face, but his eyes remained motionless.
"Do you love Simon de Gobignon, or do you hate him?"
"Hate. I hate him," Sordello said in a dull voice. "I have suffered much on his account."
"Would you kill him if you had the chance?"
Even in his trance Sordello's eyes seemed to glow, and his face flushed. "Yes. Oh, yes, Maestro. Gladly."
That was good. The will must already be there. Then it remained only to shape the deed. Daoud reached inside the collar of his tunic and pulled out the silver locket Blossoming Reed had given him. It was, he had decided, better than a word or combination of words. It was something Sordello would never see again unless Daoud wished him to see it.
He dangled the locket by its chain before Sordello's face, letting it swing from side to side. He held the candle so its flame reflected from the silver disk.
"Watch the locket, Sordello. Look closely at it. The design on its face is like no other in the world. Make certain that you would know it if you saw it again."
For a time he let the locket swing, and Sordello's head turned from side to side, following it.
"Do you know this locket now, Sordello? Truly know it?"
"Yes, Maestro."
"Could you mistake it for another?"
"No, Maestro."
"Good. Now I command you. When you see this locket again, it will be a sign. It will mean that you are to kill Simon de Gobignon at once. As soon as you see the locket, you will take up the firstweapon that comes to hand, and you will await your first good chance, and you will strike him down. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Maestro."
"Will you do it?"
"Yes, Maestro. With much joy."
"Say what you will do, Sordello."
"When I see that locket, I will kill Simon de Gobignon at once."
"That is good. Now, in a little while you will wake up. And you will not remember anything I have said to you about the locket and about killing Simon de Gobignon. You will forget all about it until you see the locket again. And then you will strike."
"Yes, Maestro."
Daoud went back to the throne and sat down. He slipped the locket's chain over his head and dropped the silver disk back inside his tunic. Sordello slumped in his kneeling posture like a figure of wax that had been placed too close to a fire.
Daoud waited patiently, and in a few moments Sordello raised his head, his eyes bloodshot but alert.
"Will you let me visit paradise again soon?" His memory had gone back to the moment before he drank the drug.
"Notverysoon," said Daoud. "But serve me well, and it will happen again." He could not make Sordello wait a year, as the Hashishiyya usually did with their initiates. But it must be a wait of some months, or the experience would lose its magic. And in months his work in Orvieto might be done.
And then again, I might still be here ten years from now.
"Tell me what I have to do, Maestro."
"Serve me faithfully, and from time to time, when it pleases me, you will visit paradise. Disobey me or betray me—we will know instantly if you do—and when you least expect it you will find yourself in hell. Not the one we created for you last night. The real one."
"You don't need to threaten me," said Sordello with a flash of his old rebelliousness. "Just tell me what you want."
"Simply go on doing what you have been doing. You will give the Count de Gobignon information about us—but from now on we will tell you what to tell him. And you will keep me informed about the young count. Hardly any work at all, you see."
Sordello grunted. "I doubt it will be that easy. But as long as you offer a reward so great, I am your man."
My slave, thought Daoud, hoping that his pity for this creature did not show in his face.
But he must remember that there were hidden places in this man's soul. And he had never before tried to enslave a man as the Hashishiyya did it. He could not be sure that he had succeeded fully, and so he had made a creature potentially as dangerous to himself as to anyone else. The flesh on the back of his neck crawled.
She was sitting by the window, staring out at the spot on the street where the young man's body had lain. She heard the door open behind her. She turned, and there was David. Golden-haired, lean, tall, with those light-filled eyes. She forgot herself and felt a leap of love, and then her heart clenched like a fist with anger.
Wait, let him tell it before I judge him.
He closed the door slowly, a strange expression on his face. She looked from him to the image of the saint. Yes. The look around the eyes was the same. They had accepted pain and sorrow, did not struggle against it as ordinary people did, and they knewsomething.
Except that David's eyes were not the bright blue of the saint's. David's eyes seemed to reflect whatever color was about him.
How could it be that the icon she had painted could remind her of two such different men as Simon de Gobignon and David of Trebizond?
He stood there looking at her, and she realized that he was waiting for her to speak. He wanted to know what she and Simon had done in this room, and he did not want to ask. And she knew at that instant, watching his face, that he was expecting to be hurt by what she would tell him about herself and Simon.
But what about that young Frenchman in the street? I saw Simon kneel by him, weep for him, bear him away.
"Something terrible has happened," she said.
His eyes narrowed. "You did not succeed with de Gobignon?"
"No, someone killed his friend, who was waiting for him, down there in the street. Everything is ruined. Simon will not want to see me again. He will be certain to blame me for that young man's death."
"Why should he?" David walked over to the chest, where the enameled candlesticks on either side of the painting of the saint still held burnt-out stumps of candles. He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the chest. He rested his forearms on his knees andhis gaze on the flame and azure carpet. There were deep lines in his face. He looked as if he had not slept all last night.
His face in front of the saint's face. Looking from one to the other, Sophia saw the resemblance more plainly than ever.
She sighed and spoke with elaborate patience. "What else can Simon think but that his friend was killed by some overzealous protector of mine?"
"Why would a protector kill a man standing in the street when there is another man up in the bedroom with the woman he is supposed to protect?" There was something in the harshness of his gaze, a flatness in his steel-colored eyes, that told her beyond the possibility of doubt that it was he who had killed Simon's young companion.
But had he not been at Tilia's house all night?
She nodded her head slowly. "Simon will probably think that way, too."
From his seat on the floor, David looked up at her with a hard smile. "And, since I am certain you gave him incomparable pleasure in bed, he will overcome any objections he has to seeing you again."
She felt as if he had stamped on her heart. To him she was nothing but a harlot to be used to ensnare his enemies.
And if that was allhethought she was, how could she find it possible to think any better of herself?
If I am not a whore, what am I?
But she would tell him the truth whether or not he chose to believe it.
"Nothing happened between us," she said tonelessly.
He stared at the carpet. She saw hope struggling with doubt in his face.
Doubt won. His smile was cynical.
"You failed to seduce him? I cannot believe that."
"Whatever you may believe, that was how it was."
"Why do you bother to lie to me?" Anger smoldered in his face. His cheeks were reddening.
"WhywouldI lie to you? It would make no difference to you if I went to bed with Simon."
"If, as you say, nothing happened, then explain to me why it did not." He folded his arms and sat hunched forward.
"When a man like Simon is in love—" she said, and stopped. "Youdounderstand what I mean by love?" How did a man broughtup in Egypt as a slave to Turks feel about women? Saracens, she knew, kept their many wives locked up most of the time.
Daoud shrugged. "I can only guess at whatyoumean by love."
"A man like Simon shows his love by holding back his ardor. He does not realize that I know this. I have let him think he is teaching me about courtly love."
"And what did you learn by letting him woo you in this courtly way?" He looked pleased. He was beginning to believe her.
"He tried to find out things from me. He is such an innocent. He had no idea that I was telling him what you told me to tell him."
David sighed, stood up, and walked to the window. She could see the tension in his back. How broad his shoulders were. Not huge, like those of some knights, but graceful and powerful. His posture was not just erect; it was perfect, straight yet flexible, like a blade of the finest steel. She imagined him with his shirt off. The palms of her hands tingled at the thought of stroking his shoulders.
"Did you not want to take him into your bed?" His voice was cold.
She thought back to her night with Simon. During those hours when she had been Sophia Orfali, she had been disappointed when Simon insisted that he would not touch her. But Sophia Orfali had to accept his judgment.
Earlier, she had wanted to take Simon to bed as a kind of revenge on David for letting Rachel be used by the Tartar. But last night she had let Simon decide what they would do. When she was with Simon, she was what Simon wanted her to be.
Is that what I am, a woman who becomes whatever the man she is with wishes?
She expelled her breath in a short, sharp sigh.
"I wanted to do whatever was necessary. If it had been necessary to make love to him, I would have done it."
She shut her eyes momentarily. Her head spun. Now, with David here, she wanted David, not Simon. And she hated herself for wanting him, when he saw her as no more than a useful object, as Manfred had.
If only Alexis had lived. These loves I feel for men, for Manfred, for Simon, for David. I cannot help myself, and it betrays me. It divides me against myself. And they do not return my love.
And yet, she was sure David did care for her, perhaps even loved her, though he would never admit it. Why else this jealous questioning?
That might even have been why he killed Simon's friend!
The thought made her heart stop beating for an instant and her body turn cold. Killing Simon would have upset David's plans, but he might have taken out his jealous rage on Simon's friend.
"But what did youwantto do with de Gobignon?" he demanded, turning from the window.
He would not let it alone. She slid off the bed and got to her feet. She went to the chest and stood with her back to David, staring at the picture of the saint. Anger clouded over her vision so that she could not see the painting. She clasped her hands together to control their trembling.
"I do not have to tell you that," she said in a choked voice. "It does not matter. I do what is necessary."
"As I do!" There was a snarl in his voice.
What did he mean by that, she wondered. She turned and the look she saw on his face made her stomach knot itself. His teeth were bared and his eyes were narrowed to glowing slits.
Now she had to hear him say it. "Did you kill that boy?"
She watched him slowly regain command of himself. Calm returned to the hard, tan features. His eyes held hers, and their color seemed to change from white-hot to the cold gray of iron.
"Of course."
She felt something break inside her. Grief overwhelmed her. She mourned for the young Frenchman. She did not know the man David had killed, but she imagined him to be just like Simon. She wept for him and for Simon. And for David. She did not want to cry, but she could not help herself. She walked slowly to her bed and sat down heavily. She could feel the tears running down her cheeks.
"Why did you kill him?"
"I had to leave Tilia's. I made the mistake of coming back here. From across the street I saw de Gobignon in this window." His voice was tight, his words clipped, as if he were trying to hold something in. "At the same time, the Frank, who was on watch, saw me. If I had allowed him to live, de Gobignon would have known that I approved of his being with you. And he was no boy, but a knight, strong and trained."
"He could have been no match for you."
"I gave him no chance to match himself against me. This is not some tournament. Your life is in as much danger as mine is."
"I never forget that," she said.
David had killed Simon's friend. She wished that she had gone to bed with Simon.
"Do you think de Gobignon will now be afraid to try to see you again?" There was a sneer in David's voice, and she felt the heated blood rising to her face.
"He is no coward."
He looked at her with weary eyes and a tight little smile. "Well, then. He will want to see you again. Send a message to him. Have him meet you someplace other than here. Someplace where he will feel safe. A church, perhaps."
"A church. Yes, that is a good suggestion. Then you will not have to wonder what we are doing."
"From what I have heard of Christian churches, that is not necessarily true."
She wished she had the skull to throw at him again. That was all that poor young knight would soon be—a skull, buried in the earth.
"How dare you insult the religion you were born into?" she shouted. "Have you forgotten that I am a Christian?"
He glared at her, turned on his heel, and slammed the door behind him.
Feeling alone, unloved, and desolate, not even sure who she was, Sophia sat heavily on her bed. Sobs racked her chest, one after the other. Not willing to admit how much Daoud had hurt her, she struggled with her tears for a time, then gave in and threw herself full length on the bed, pain spreading through her body.
"Is it not a sin, Father, to explore a man's body like that?"
"It is considered a crime in many places. But it is not a sin when it is done with reverence, to discover the truth."
Watching Friar Mathieu, Simon felt his stomach rebel. The old priest bent over the long naked form of Alain de Pirenne, stretched out on Simon's bed, wielding a freshly sharpened carving knifeborrowed from the Monaldeschi kitchen. The knife flashed in the light of the many candles set around the bed as Friar Mathieu enlarged the wound in Alain's belly. Simon kept looking away and then staring back, fascinated.
"It hurts me to see you treat Alain so," said Simon. "Though I know you mean to do good."
"My brother Franciscan, Friar Roger of Oxford, says that if you want to know God, you must look as closely as possible at His works. He says that to read the book of God's creation is better than reading philosophy, and is a form of prayer."
"Philosophy. Yes," said Simon. "I learned last night that Fra Tomasso d'Aquino is an enemy."
"One moment." Friar Mathieu had tripled the width of the lower wound and was now pulling the lips of the gash apart, peering intently into it. If Alain had been alive, Simon knew, blood would have been pouring out of that incision.
Sickened, Simon turned away. He wondered if he could sleep again in this bed, knowing that Alain's poor naked body had been stretched out there, to be tormented in death by this old Franciscan physician-priest.
If he abandoned the bed, he would have to give up the room, though, and it was one of the few private rooms in the Monaldeschi palace. It was a warlike room, as befitted a young knight, decorated with battered Monaldeschi arms. Crossed halberds, spotted with rust, were hung on the stone chimney that ran up from the kitchen on the first floor. Shields, dented and scratched, each almost as tall as a man, faced each other from opposite walls. They were probably quite old, since they bore simple blazons. The one on Simon's right was ocher, with a black chevron dividing it across the middle. The other bore an azure cross against a white background.
This being the top floor of the palace, the mullioned window was spacious, and Friar Mathieu had drawn back the curtains and pulled the twin window frames inward on their hinges to get more light. Simon went to the window and looked through the protective iron grill down into the square. Two men and three horses were gathered by the steps leading to the front door. They wore yellow and blue livery, the colors of the city of Orvieto.
"I think I have found something," said Friar Mathieu. Just as he finished speaking, Simon's door shook under a heavy knock.
"Say nothing," said the Franciscan. "I will tell you later."
The knock sounded again. Simon went to the door and openedit. A stocky man whose bald head came up to the middle of Simon's chest stood there. Simon observed that the man carried more muscle than fat on his sturdy, barrel-shaped frame. He wore a yellow silk tunic trimmed with blue, and a short sky-blue cape. A bright gold medallion on a gold chain hung from his neck. Two daggers, one long and stout, the other short and slender, hung from the right side of his belt. The sword on his left side reached from his waist to his ankle. Simon knew he had seen him before, but he could not remember where.
"Your Signory, Count de Gobignon, it is my honor to address you," the stout man said. His words were polite, but his tone was perfunctory. He had to tilt his head back to look at Simon, but his voice and expression made Simon feel very young and small. Even so, Simon held his silence and did not step aside to let the man in. Let him introduce himself first.
After a pause, the man said, "Your Signory, I am Frescobaldo d'Ucello, podesta of Orvieto." He stopped, eyeing Simon. He had sparkling black eyes, and his black mustache was trimmed so that it was no more than a thin line above his mouth. Simon remembered now having seen this man, the governor of the city, at the execution of that poor heretic a month ago.
"Signore Podesta," Simon bowed. "The honor is mine."
"Not at all, Your Signory." Now the stout man looked past Simon into the room, and his eyebrows flew up. Simon turned and saw Friar Mathieu anointing Alain's brow with his oil-dipped thumb, forming a cross on the white forehead. Most of Alain's body was under an embroidered coverlet, and the kitchen knife had disappeared.
D'Ucello blessed himself and said in a low voice, "I will examine the body after the good father is finished with the last rites. Would you be so kind as to step out of the room, Count, so that we can talk?"
Closing the door behind him, Simon followed d'Ucello through the corridor out to the colonnaded galleria overlooking the lemon trees where he and Sophia had kissed on the night of the contessa's reception for the Tartars.
So long ago that seemed now, though it was little more than a month, and so much tragedy had come of it.
Simon told d'Ucello the story he had worked out, that he and Alain had gone to that inn searching for women and had gotten separated.
There were large bags under the podesta's eyes, dark as bruises. They contracted as he listened to Simon.
"Forgive me, Your Signory, but I must be clear. Are you telling me that you slept with a woman last night?"
Simon tried to look abashed and reluctant to speak. "Yes."
"And where did this take place, Your Signory?"
"In my private room at the inn."
"Who was she?"
Simon had prepared his answer. "I do not know. A pleasant lady whom I met in the common room."
The bags under d'Ucello's eyes twitched. "There are no whores in that part of town, Signore. It is one of my duties to see that the prostitutes are limited to a quarter of the city where they will not offend the holy or the well-born. A cardinal has his residence across the street from where your friend's body was found." D'Ucello's mouth stretched, but neither his eyes nor the dark bulges under them joined in the smile. "The woman who entertained you must have been an ordinarily respectable person who chose to go astray that evening." He paused and looked grimly up at Simon.
Simon felt as if a clammy hand had taken him by the back of the neck. He should have realized this vaguely imagined woman would not satisfy any determined questioner. He struck his fist against his leg. D'Ucello's eyes flickered, and Simon knew he had caught the gesture. He felt as if a net were slowly being drawn around him, and he resented it. Back home no mere city governor would dare trouble the Count de Gobignon any more than he would disturb the king or one of his brothers.
As d'Ucello continued to stare silently at him, Simon studied the podesta. This was a man who was jealous of his power, Simon decided. A man who, despite his politeness, would enjoy embarrassing a young nobleman.
"What was the woman's name?" d'Ucello pressed him.
"I have no idea."
The thick black eyebrows rose again, wrinkling the balding scalp. "You spent the entire night with this woman and never called her by name?"
Simon had been intending to claim that honor forbade him to tell the woman's name. He felt certain the governor would reject that argument as trivial under the circumstances.
"We spoke very little. I addressed her with various foolish endearments."
"Could you describe her?"
"Most of the time we were in the dark." Simon felt d'Ucello had pressed him enough. It was time to fight back. "Signore Podesta, my good friend and vassal was murdered in the street, a street supposedly under the protection of your watch. I fail to see how it helps you to do your duty of finding his killer by questioning me as if I were a criminal."
The podesta's brows drew together, and he took a few steps backward, diminishing the importance of the difference in height between him and Simon.
"Your Signory, I have questioned everyone who lives in that neighborhood, and everyone I could find who was passing through it last night," he said. "I learned from the innkeeper at the Vesuvio that your friend slept alone last night. I know that you did not meet anyone in the inn, woman or man. You stopped there briefly, left your friend, and went somewhere else. You did not engage a private room for yourself. The innkeeper and several other people agree to that. Will Your Signory be good enough to tell me where you did go?"
Simon heard with dismay the weakness in his tone and was appalled at how easily d'Ucello had exposed his lies. "Those you spoke to about what I did must have been mistaken," he said. "Perhaps they did not notice my return to the inn." An inspiration struck him. "They may be trying to protect the woman I was with."
D'Ucello smiled thinly. "I see. Then you are telling me that you had carnal relations with this woman while your good friend and vassal looked on."
Simon was momentarily at a loss for words. It would have delighted him to reply by running d'Ucello through.
They stood bristling at each other like two hostile hounds when Simon heard a door open. A moment later, to his enormous relief, Friar Mathieu joined them by the marble railing overlooking the atrium.
"If you wish to examine young Sire de Pirenne's body, he lies in Count Simon's room waiting for you, Signore," said Friar Mathieu. "This is a very sad day for us."
With a black look at Simon, d'Ucello bowed to the old priest and left the galleria.
When they were alone, Friar Mathieu grunted. "A good thing I merely extended the wounds Sire Alain had already suffered. Thepodesta might well bring charges against me for desecrating a corpse if he saw I had made incisions in the body."
"Did you learn anything?" Simon asked.
"I am convinced that Sire Alain was not merely stabbed to death."
"What do you mean?" Simon was eager to get Friar Mathieu's advice on how to handle the podesta, but this was more important.
"When I looked closely at the wound in his stomach, I discovered that it was two wounds," said Friar Mathieu. "He was punctured there by a thin, round object, like a large needle. Then he was stabbed through the heart, and blood poured out of him. And then the killer stabbed him in the belly to try to mask the dart wound."
"How do you know that?"
"The belly wound did not bleed much, so the heart wound must have preceded it. When the killer drove his knife into the puncture in the belly, it did not go in exactly the same direction. The smaller wound goes upward at a slight angle, as if the needle were driven in from the level of the killer's waist. The knife wound goes straight in. I had to dig below the skin and ribs to discover the needle wound."
"A needle could not have killed Alain."
"It could have been a poisoned dart. Alain's lips are blue. That is sometimes a sign of poison."
Simon heard a clumping of boots in the corridor. He hurried in from the galleria to find Cardinal Paulus de Verceuil, accompanied by two black-robed priests, striding toward the room where Alain lay.
"Now one of your knights has been killed!" de Verceuil boomed. He was dressed in a dark cerise tunic with particolored hose and forest-green boots with pointed toes. The only indications of his ecclesiastical office were the absence of a sword and the presence of the large jeweled cross hanging from his neck. A purple velvet cap adorned with a black feather was draped over his glossy black hair.