laced with enough
belladonna to kill a whole army of Tartars. He would leave that to greet
them on their return from the battle. Then he would unhitch his dappled
brown and white gelding, a good riding horse, and scout around the edges
of the battle to see if there was some way to get at the Tartars more
directly.

A crossbowman sat on the ground at the entrance to the blue and yellow
striped tent. He picked up the bow that lay on the ground beside him and
jumped to his feet when Lorenzo drove up. Lorenzo remembered seeing him
guarding the Tartars in Orvieto, and his heart beat heavily for a
moment, but the man gave no sign of recognizing him.

Lorenzo held up his splendid parchment and explained his mission.

"They are not here," said the guard sourly.

"Well, the Bishop of Agnani is an important ally of your King Charles.
Help me unload this wine." Lorenzo went around the cart and pulled the
back down to make a ramp.

"It is good wine." Lorenzo continued, "and you can drink your fill after
we get it into the tent. The Tartars will not miss a few cupfuls."

Grumbling despite the promised reward, the guard helped Lorenzo
manhandle the cask to the back of the cart, tip it, and roll it down to
the ground. Then they unloaded the other one.

The guard stood back to let Lorenzo roll the first cask by himself
through the loose flap into the Tartars' tent.

"Stay away from the girl," he growled at Lorenzo's back. "His Eminence
the cardinal says she's under arrest."

Lorenzo stiffened, and a chill gripped him. What danger was Rachel in
now?

As Lorenzo straightened up, he heard a gasp.

The tent was lit by a single candle and the daylight that filtered dimly
through its silk walls. It was held up by two center poles and an oblong
framework from which the sides were hung. Around the edges were camp
beds. Between the center posts was a table. Charcoal glowed in a
brazier, warming the interior of the tent.

A shadowy figure rushed toward him. Lorenzo backed away, his hand
reaching inside his tunic for the sandbag.

"Lorenzo!"

"Rachel." His voice was choked.

Her arms gripped him as tightly as if she were drowning. He felt warmth
flood through him.

"Ah, Rachel." He had not seen her since he had taken her to Tilia
Caballo's, and not a day went by that he had not cursed himself for
doing so. She looked well, her face pink, but thinner than he
remembered. She was, he realized suddenly, very beautiful.

"I thou