ght your name was Giancarlo," said a dry voice. Lorenzo looked up
to see the old Franciscan monk who traveled with the Tartars standing
near him.

"What is going on here?" The Venetian burst into the tent. "Get your
hands off that woman." He drew the shortsword he wore at his belt.

Lorenzo instantly let go of Rachel and stepped back. He bowed low,
spreading his hands in a courtly gesture.

"Forgive me, Messere," he said in a placating tone. "A long-lost
cousin." His hand darted for his boot and seized the handle of his
dagger.

"I don't believe that for a--" the Venetian began, but his guard dropped
slightly, and his words were cut off when Lorenzo's blade plunged into
his chest.

"Jesus have mercy!" said the old Franciscan. The Venetian dropped to his
knees and fell on his face on the carpeted wooden floor of the tent.

"Try to give an alarm and you are dead too, Father," Lorenzo growled.

"No, Lorenzo, no!" Rachel cried. "Friar Mathieu is a good man."

"Perhaps that would not matter to Messer Lorenzo," said Friar Mathieu,
his eyes fixed on Lorenzo with a penetrating stare. "If, as I suspect,
he serves that elegant blasphemer Manfred von Hohenstaufen."

Lorenzo gave a short bark of a laugh. His heart was galloping.

Friar Mathieu knelt and whispered prayers in Latin over the dead
Venetian. With his thumb he traced a cross on the man's forehead.

"You think there is no good to be found in King Manfred's camp?" Lorenzo
said. "I am not surprised. You Franciscans pride yourselves on your
ignorance."

Rachel's hand rested lightly on Lorenzo's arm. "Lorenzo, I beg you, do
not insult Friar Mathieu. He has been my only friend since John took me
from Madama Tilia's house. What are you doing here?" Her face lit up
with hope. "Have you come to take me away?"

Lorenzo's mind was working rapidly. Apparently, Friar Mathieu was a
decent sort, and Lorenzo had no desire to kill him. But what to do with
him? Rachel might have given him the answer. This was, in fact, a
God-given chance to get her away from the Tartars. And Daoud, he knew,
would bless him for it.

"Where are the Tartars, Rachel?" he said.

"They put on mail and took bows and arrows and swords, and they have
joined the fighting."

Lorenzo was astonished. "Charles is risking their lives in this battle?
Pazzia!" And the would-be king of Sicily himself was not even fighting.

"Yes, it does seem mad, does it not?" said Friar Mathieu.

"Well, that is good