His voice as he uttered the prayer was barely audible over the clicking of the horses' hooves on the stony road, the rumbling of the two carts and the rustling of the pines on the hillside. He repeated what Friar Mathieu had said to him about being ready to follow God's will. Then the old Franciscan made the Sign of the Cross in the air. The road narrowed now so that there was not enough room for horses side by side. Simon fell behind Friar Mathieu. _Roland and Nicolette need never know I told anyone._ The only way they would find out would be if he felt called upon to reveal the secret to the world. He felt as if his whole body were plunged into icy water. He realized that by his promise to Friar Mathieu--to God--he was embarked on a course that could end in ruin or worse for his mother and father as well as himself. Their pretense that Simon was Amalric's child was a crime. He saw them all brought as prisoners before King Louis. How could he bear to face the king, whom he admired more than any other man in France, even more than his own true father? What punishment would the king mete out to them? Would they spend the rest of their lives locked away in lightless dungeons? Would they have to die for their crime? Surely God would not ask that of him. And then, Simon might decide, with God's help, that he had the best right of anyone to the count's coronet. If he kept it, and kept the secret of his parentage, it would be through his own choice. No mortal would thrust that choice upon him. He began to feel better. He started humming a tune, an old crusader song Roland had taught him, called "The Old Man of the Mountain." Until now other hands had shaped his life. From this moment on he would hold his destiny in his own hands. * * * * * "May I disturb you for a moment, Your Signory, before you retire?" The Contessa di Monaldeschi's chief steward was a severe-looking man with long white hair streaked with black. Simon had just set foot to the steps leading to the third story of the Monaldeschi palace, where his bedchamber waited. He most definitely did not want to be disturbed this evening. But the steward had shown gravity and discretion arranging for the drunken Tartars to be bundled off to bed, and Simon felt that whatever he might say would be worth listening to. "Late this afternoon a vagabondo came to our door. He claims to be a former retainer of yours. He begs an audience with you--most humbly, he says to tell you. He waits in the kitchen. We can keep him till tomorrow. Or we can put him out in the street. Or you can see him. Whatever Your Signory desires." A former retainer? A sour suspicion began to grow in Simon's mind. "Did he at least tell you his name?" "Yes, Your Signory. Sordello." Simon felt hot blood pounding at his temples in immediate anger. _Has that dog had the temerity to follow me all the way to Orvieto?_ "Send him away," he said brusquely. "And do not be gentle about it."