e corridor. They led
down to the same place as did the main stairs, the reception room on the
ground floor. But her pursuers would not know that. Sure enough, they
were following her through this first-floor corridor. She glanced back
and saw that the crowd of Italian men had gotten in their way, so that
half the corridor was between them.

_Run, Rachel!_

Frantically she ran down to the first floor. There, horror greeted her.
More of Tilia's black men--she could not count--were sprawled around the
reception hall.

She saw blood spattered over the frescoes. She saw a black arm lying by
itself. One body had no head. She heard a scream of horror and knew it
was her own voice. Why were they doing this? What devils drove them?
There was blood all over the floor. Puddles of it. She had to dart
around them, over them.

Terror streaked through her as a tall man blocked her path. His hood was
thrown back and his cloak was open, and a jeweled cross glittered on his
chest--like the one Tilia wore, only three times bigger. Their eyes met;
his were staring and full of rage. His nose was big, and his mouth was
small and cruel. He pointed a long finger at her, a fortune in jeweled
rings glittering on his gloved hand.

"You! The one we came for! Stop!"

She stood paralyzed as a recollection of the dread face before her
flashed into her mind. Dinners for John and Philip--Tilia had given
elegant dinners, three or four of them--with musicians and the
companionship of her ladies, Rachel included.

And this was how they repaid her courtesy.

This man had been a guest at those dinners. He was a man of very high
rank, a cardinal in the Christian Church. He was French, she remembered.
His Italian words were heavily accented.

_What will they do to me if I don't obey him? Will they burn me for
being a Jew?_

And there was the other Tartar, Philip, standing beside the French
churchman. He looked like John--round head, brown skin, slitted
eyes--except that his beard and mustache were black. He was carrying a
bow in one hand and had a quiver full of arrows slung over one shoulder.
Rachel froze, like a rabbit trapped by two wolves.

The tall Frenchman reached for Rachel--but another figure appeared
between them, one of Tilia's black men. He blocked the tall man with the
cross, giving Rachel a chance to jump for the door.

Out of the corner of her eye Rachel saw Philip, strong white teeth
gleaming in a brown face, raise his bow. She