to Tilia's, then.

He chose another street leading out of the square so as not to pass the
inn where de Gobignon's man had been on watch. As he walked, he cast his
mind back over what he had done. The killing left him troubled.

Saadi had taught him never to waste human life. _To wage war is a holy
obligation. But have a care that you kill, not with a small soul, but
with a great soul._

This had been a necessary murder, Daoud thought. This young Frank had to
die that Islam might be saved from infidel hordes of East and West. But,
looking into his heart, Daoud knew that he had, indeed, killed with a
small soul. He had been forced to kill de Gobignon's man, but he had
also wanted to, and he had felt unworthy triumph over Simon de Gobignon.
It had not even been an honorable fight. The Frank had no chance.

_Purify my heart, oh, God_, he prayed as he walked back to Tilia
Caballo's brothel.

XXXII

Simon remembered those kisses in the garden of the Palazzo Monaldeschi
as he looked again at Sophia, and his arms ached to hold her. But he
must keep himself in check. He was still not sure he could trust her.
And even if he were certain of her honesty, courtly love commanded him
not to touch her until months, perhaps years, of worshipful wooing had
passed.

Sophia said, "I must tell my uncle that his mansion is not as well
protected as he thinks it is. His guards must have been asleep tonight."

Her oval face reflected the warm glow of the five or six small candles
she had placed around her room. Her dark brown hair was unbound and fell
in waves to her shoulders. He felt his heartbeat quicken as he looked at
her.

"You did invite me here, Madonna." Simon felt rather proud of the way he
had scaled the wall by the courtyard gate, waited till the cardinal's
guards were out of sight, then climbed to the roof of the central wing.

"Yes, but I did nothing to help you, and I truly do not see how you got
here." She stood facing him, her hands at her sides. He was not sure
whether the gown she wore was for bed, or for him, or both. It was a
translucent white tunic, sleeveless and cut deep in front, revealing the
swelling of her breasts, pulled in at the waist by a cloth-of-gold belt.
A large gold medallion stamped with a horse's head hung from a gold
chain around her neck. His eyes kept traveling from her shoulders to her
bosom to her narrow waist. The effort of holding himself back from
touching her was agony. Sweet