dinal
camerlengo, after all.

Someone must try to reach Ugolini. It could not be de Verceuil, either,
with his arrogance and bad manners. Even if the man were to try to talk
to Ugolini, which was unlikely, he would doubtless make an even greater
enemy of him.

Friar Mathieu should do it. He could speak to Ugolini as one churchman
to another. But then Simon shook his head. So many of these princes of
the Church looked down on the mendicant friars.

_Seize any opportunity._

Simon rode up the hillside, debating with himself. Just before the road
passed between two rounded, green-covered peaks, it widened so that
carters could pass each other. Simon swung his leg over the saddle and
stepped down from his horse to enjoy the view. Against the hillside,
under a peaked roof, a statue of Saint Sebastian writhed, his body
pierced by arrows. The agony depicted on the saint's face made the
countryside look all the more serene.

_Oh, patron saint of archers, let no more harm come to innocent people
from my crossbowmen._

Simon turned to look at Orvieto. It was like a city from some tale of
faeries, a fantastic island on its huge rock. What was it the Italians
called that gray-yellow stone? Tufa. Most of the churches and palaces
and houses of Orvieto were also built of tufa. Beautiful.

The clatter of hooves interrupted his thoughts. He looked up to see four
horsemen approaching from the north, followed by two heavily laden
baggage mules.

Simon's mood changed at once from contemplation to tense alertness. His
hands moved to check the position of his sword and dagger, making sure
he could draw them quickly. You had to be careful of strangers in a
strange country. As the men rode closer he saw that they also had short
swords and daggers hanging at their sides. Closer still, and he saw
long swords slung over their backs, and crossbows hanging from their
saddles.

Annoyed with himself for feeling afraid, he yet followed the dictate of
prudence and mounted his own horse. He kept his hand near, but not on,
the jeweled hilt of his scimitar as the men rode closer. Highwaymen
would be willing to kill him just for that precious sword.

The man in the lead wore a soft velvet cap that draped down one side of
his head. Under it, Simon saw, was curly black hair shot through with
white. The stranger's grizzled mustache was so thick as to hide his
mouth. But, courteously enough, he touched his hand to his cap where his
visor would be