n priest climbed down from the
cart. He pulled his hood up against the rain. Rachel put one hand
between her legs and tried to cover her breasts with her forearm, lest
he be offended. Fear and the cold rain beating down on her naked flesh
made her shiver violently. She could not hope for kindness from this
white-bearded man. After all, as a priest he must condemn her as a
harlot. And if he found out she was a Jew, he would despise her all the
more.

The priest reached up into the cart and took down a long walking staff
and a gray blanket. Leaning on the staff, he approached her slowly.
Looking at her very sadly, unconcerned about the rain soaking his robe,
he draped the blanket over her head and shoulders. She gripped the edges
of the blanket and pulled it across her. As long as John's rope stayed
slack, the blanket would cover her, although it was already cold and
heavy with rainwater.

The kindness in the seamed, bearded face warmed Rachel, and she dropped
to her knees before him.

"Help me, Father," she begged. "Do not let him take me away from here."

"Get up, child." Leaning heavily on the staff with one hand, he used the
other to help her to her feet, and she saw how stiffly he moved and
heard him give a little groan of pain.

"You are hurt, Father."

"Just a few old broken bones," he said. "It has been months, and they
are mending well enough."

He reached under the blanket that covered her, and she shrank away from
his hand.

"Forgive me," he said. "I mean no harm." Without looking at her, and
hardly touching her, he managed to loosen the rope around her chest so
that it fell to the ground. She stepped out of the loop, and it slid
away from her. She looked up and saw John coil the rope and tie it to
his saddle. His face was reddened and his mouth compressed with anger.

"It is useless to try to outrun a Tartar on horseback," said the priest.
"They are like centaurs. What is your name, child?"

As she told him, Rachel felt a glimmering of hope. The priest had spoken
to John in his own language, and the Tartar seemed to have some respect
for him. At least he was no longer trying to drag her away.

"I am Friar Mathieu d'Alcon," said the white-bearded priest. "What does
this man want with you?"

Rachel felt a blush burn her face.

"He has lain with me, and he paid money to me and Madama Tilia," Rachel
said, barely able to choke out the admission of her shame. "Now he is
leaving Orvieto, and he wants