red the curly yellow locks of the pale head that lay on a
red silk pillow. The air of Orvieto had grown chilly in the three days
since Alain's murder. The city had enjoyed almost summer weather until
late in the fall, but now November had fallen upon it with icy talons.
The sky this morning was a heavy purple-gray, and a dampness in the air
foretold chill rain.

At the very head of the procession walked Henri de Puys, bareheaded but
in full armor, leading Alain's riderless great horse. The cart bearing
the body, driven by a servant in orange and green Monaldeschi livery,
followed. Then came Simon and the other French knights.

_Please, God, let nothing else unseemly happen today. Let us bury your
servant the Sire Alain de Pirenne with honor._

He looked back and saw that the two Tartars, wearing their cylindrical
caps adorned with red stones and their red and blue silk jackets, had
mounted their horses. Because Alain was a warrior and they were
warriors, they rode horses to honor him today.

The sight of them was a reproach to Simon. If he had thought only of the
Tartars and not become involved with Sophia, Alain would be alive today.

After the Tartars, rows of spear points and bowl-shaped helmets
glittered, the Monaldeschi retainers and men-at-arms. Behind the
Monaldeschi banner, two green chevrons on an orange background, rose a
curtained sedan chair draped with black mourning streamers. In it, Simon
knew, were the contessa and her grandnephew.

Simon had been waiting for the contessa to appear. He raised his arm in
a signal to de Puys, who began to walk southward, toward the Corso,
pulling the reins of Alain's horse. The wheels of the cart creaked into
motion.

As the procession wound its way through the larger streets of Orvieto,
the thought occurred to Simon that Alain's killer might be among the
onlookers, one of the faces that watched, with little emotion, from the
sidelines or looked out of a second-story window.

Sordello had sent word through Ana that among Giancarlo's hired bravos,
none had any idea who might have stabbed Alain.

Simon knew what the Orvietans, most of them, must be saying. _A French
knight goes whoring and gets himself stabbed, and they give him the
greatest funeral since Julius Caesar's._

A stab of guilt shot through him. To protect Sophia, he had told de
Verceuil and d'Ucello that he and Alain had gone wenching. He had
besmirched Alain's reputation.

The cortege stopped at ev