shouts and screams, the thundering and clanging.

There would not be time to get orders from Count Charles. There would
hardly be time to consult with the experienced men--de Marion, de la
Durie, de Puys--among the barons he had brought with him. The plan, the
decisions, would have to be his alone.

At what place, at what moment, should he throw the Gobignon army into
the battle? If he just led them into the present confusion, his columns
of knights and files of archers would at once fall apart into more knots
and whirlpools of combat like those he saw below. His army could be
wasted, ground up like wheat in a water mill. The turmoil in his mind
was as bad as the chaos he had seen on the field.

* * * * *

The floor of the valley was uneven, and rolling hills hid the battle
from Lorenzo's eyes, but the clash and clamor of the fighting carried to
his ears as he approached the French camp. It was empty except for about
ten sentries, some armed with crossbows, others with pikes, who stood at
its perimeter. They were all turned to watch the battle, their backs to
Lorenzo despite the creaking of his wagon and the clip-clop of his
horse's hooves.

The tall tents were dusty, stained, and patched, their colors faded.

Lorenzo spotted a party of horsemen in bright cloaks atop a hill outside
the camp. One helmet was topped with a gilded crown.

Charles was being sensible, standing back from the battle and watching
it--unlike Manfred, whom Lorenzo had seen just as he was leaving the
Hohenstaufen camp, riding into the fray waving his great broadsword.
Lorenzo shook his head sadly.

_What my king needs is less gallantry and more ruthlessness._

Holding up a parchment covered with elaborate handwriting and a large
seal of green wax with long ribbons, he pulled his cart up to the
nearest guard, a stout, white-haired man with bleary eyes. Naturally,
only the least able-bodied would be left to guard the camp this day. And
the worst they would be expecting would be attempts at thievery by the
whores and traders whose tents and wagons lay a short distance up the
road from the camp.

"Here is my safe conduct from King Charles's ally, the bishop of
Agnani," said Lorenzo briskly. He held his breath anxiously while the
guard stared at him.

"We are in the middle of a battle, man. You can't just drive your cart
in here. What do you have in it?"

The guard barely glanced at the document Lorenzo had