my head off."

There was a particle of truth in that, Simon thought as Friar Mathieu
translated. Kindly as King Louis was, decapitation would be preferable
to facing his reproach if Simon's weakness caused the Tartars' death.

John shrugged and answered Friar Mathieu quietly. Simon held his breath,
praying that this last effort would work.

Friar Mathieu said, "John says that you are a brave young warrior, and
it would be a shame to have your head cut off when you have a lifetime
of battles ahead of you. For your sake they will forgo the pleasure of
this fight. But they insist on taking only two guards with them. They
insist that the rest of their men fight beside yours."

Relief washed over Simon. He hoped he would be able to think as quickly
in the coming battle as he had just then.

"I can use their other men. Have whatever the ambassadors need for their
comfort carried to the spice pantry." He looked again at the pile of
garbage. "Tell them they will be next to the kitchen. They should like
that."

XLII

"Count Simon!" Simon recognized the crackling voice of the contessa.

She was wearing a floor-length gown of deep purple velvet. She held up a
disk-shaped bronze medallion on a silver chain.

"Please take this, my young paladino. Wear it into battle for me."

Simon went to her, his steel-shod feet echoing in the hallway. All his
movements felt slow and clumsy in the mail shirt that hung to his thighs
and the mail breeches that protected him from waist to ankle.

Embossed on the medallion was a mounted knight driving his lance into a
coiling bat-winged dragon baring huge fangs in rage. Where the lance
pierced the scales was set a tiny, teardrop-shaped ruby.

"Thank you, Donna Elvira," he breathed, full of admiration for the
workmanship. "It is most beautiful."

She reached up and put it around his neck. He could feel its weight
through his mail shirt.

"San Giorgio. It was my husband's, and I have kept it locked away in my
jewel casket since the day the puzzolenti Filippeschi murdered him. It
is yours now. San Giorgio will give you victory." She raised her thin
body on tiptoe and he felt her dry lips press against his cheek.

"I will never forget this moment, Madonna." He touched her yellow cheeks
with his fingertips to brush away her tears.

He did not want her to know that this was his first--his very
first--battle.

* * * * *

Climbing the spiral stairs