is knees before the pope, holding up the
white cloth over his head like a banner. Then the pope also knelt,
somewhat shakily, with the assistance of two young priests in white
surplices and black cassocks. Urban reached up for the cloth and pulled
it down to his face and kissed it.

_He is seeing that cloth for the first time, and yet he seems to have no
doubt that he is looking at the blood of his God that died._

Daoud felt a chill that was colder than the December air.

* * * * *

Daoud pushed his way to the edge of the open pavilion, where the pope,
assisted by Father Kyril and Fra Tomasso, was saying high mass. A band
of musicians blew on hautboys and clarions, sawed at vielles, stroked
harps, and thumped on drums.

The white cloth with its strange rust-colored stain was stretched on a
gilded frame above the altar. Daoud felt uneasy whenever he looked at
it. Just when it seemed he had found the key to wrecking the union of
Tartars and crusaders--a miracle. What did it portend?

Memory showed him his mother and father celebrating Easter, standing
hand in hand before the altar at Chateau Langmuir, receiving Holy
Communion--the Sacred Host--from their chaplain. When he was old enough,
his mother had told him he, too, would be allowed to take Jesus into his
heart by swallowing the Communion wafer. What a strange belief! But at
the time it had seemed beautiful.

_I bear witness that God is One, that Muhammad is the Messenger of
God...._

He glanced around the pavilion, and saw many faces he had come to know
in the last few months. There was Cardinal de Verceuil with his big nose
and small mouth. There was Ugolini, the size of a child, dressed up as a
cardinal, blinking rapidly, looking rather bored. In the front row of
standing worshipers were John and Philip, the Tartars, in silk robes.
Beside them, Friar Mathieu, the Franciscan, cleverest of Daoud's
opponents. Daoud gauged him to be a genuinely holy man, if an infidel
could be called holy.

And next to him was the pale young face of the Count de Gobignon.

As Daoud looked at him, de Gobignon looked back, and his eyes widened
slightly.

_One day, Count, you will die by my hand._

The mass began, and even though there must have been five thousand
people in the valley, there was complete silence. The quiet was eerie.
At a Muslim religious celebration this large, the crowd would be
chanting in unison, there would be music, der