ng angry.
Six knights he had brought with him. Any knight worthy of his spurs
should be able to stop any pack of commoners from fighting. And if they
could not, he thought with a sudden shift from anger to anxiety, what
more could he do?

There was no time to think. "Father, will you come, please?" he said to
Mathieu, and without waiting for a reply struck Thierry on the shoulder
and began to run with him.

"I follow, as quickly as I can, my son," he heard from behind him.

"Could you not stop them?" he demanded of Thierry as they headed down a
narrow cobblestoned street at a dead run.

Dread made his legs heavy. De Puys, a veteran of the last crusade, de
Pirenne, a strong and well-trained knight--_they_ had sent for _him_.
For Simon de Gobignon, twenty years of age, who had never in his life
been in a battle.

Breath of God, what did they expect of him?

"There was nothing we could do without killing the Tartars' bodyguard,"
said Thierry. "You will see how it is when you get there."

The inn was a stone building with houses on either side. The lower half
of the divided door was shut, but the upper half was open, and Simon
heard shouts from within. Thierry, ahead of him, yanked the door open
for him.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the large room.
Shadowy figures jostled him as he pushed his way through. A little light
came from the grilled windows and from a single huge yellow candle
burning in a candlestick on a table. The room reeked of sweaty bodies
and old wine.

"Make way for Monseigneur le Comte!" Thierry called uselessly as the
Venetian mercenaries jabbered angrily in Italian.

Simon pushed his way into the corner of the room lit by the candle and
found himself facing a scowling, dark-skinned man pointing a gleaming
sword at him. Five of the Armenians, sabers out, had formed a protective
ring.

Within the ring, the sixth Armenian had a man bent forward over a table.
The man's arms flailed feebly and his eyes bulged. Even in the poor
light Simon could see that his face, turned on its side toward him, was
purple. The Armenian was holding his bow behind the man's neck and was
turning it slowly. Now Simon saw the string cutting into the neck.

It hurt Simon to look at what was happening. He felt his own breath cut
off, his heart pounding as if he were laboring for air. He wanted to
turn away and knew he could not. He must somehow stop this before that
Venetian died.

"Blood