r misses an
opportunity to remind me that I was once a family man. Perhaps Paulus
envies my wider experience of life."

"Not at all!" de Verceuil protested.

"Or perhaps he thinks it a scandal that a cardinal should have
daughters," said le Gros, still addressing Simon. "At least mine are
legitimate, unlike the offspring of certain other princes of the Church.
As for the high office, it was not my choice. His Holiness commanded
me." He leaned confidentially toward Simon. "He needed more French
cardinals. He cannot trust the Italians to support him against the
accursed Manfred von Hohenstaufen."

"Even more than that, he was hoping you could persuade King Louis to
give his brother Charles permission to fight Manfred," said de Verceuil.
"You failed him in that."

"That case is not closed," said le Gros. "Indeed, what we do here today
may lead directly to the overthrow of the odious Manfred, as I am sure
you both understand." He smiled, first at Simon, then at de Verceuil.
"But should we not be speaking Latin, the mother tongue of the Church?
Some lupus might be spying on us."

In Latin de Verceuil answered, "I fear Count Simon would be unable to
follow us."

"Not at all, domini mei," Simon cut in quickly, also in Latin. "I have
had some instruction in that language." His many and often quarreling
guardians had agreed at least that he should have an education far
superior to that of most other great barons. Having studied for two
years at the University of Paris, Simon had once been the victim of a
lupus, a wolf, an informer who reported students for breaking the
university rule that Latin must be spoken at all times. The fine he paid
was negligible, but his embarrassment was keen.

"Good for you, my boy," said le Gros, patting him lightly on the
shoulder. De Verceuil's lips puckered as if he had been sucking on a
lemon.

A sudden blast of trumpets silenced the conversation in the hall.
Servants swung open double doors near the papal throne, and two men
entered. One was Pope Urban, whom Simon had not seen since the day of
that ill-omened papal mass for the Tartar ambassadors. His white beard
fanned in wispy locks over his chest. The mouth framed by his beard was
compressed, and his eyes were hard. Simon knew that he had been born
Jacques Pantaleone at Troyes in France, not far from Gobignon, and was a
shoemaker's son. Only in the Church could a man from such a humble
beginning rise to such high position. Urban h