"I think I have found something," said Friar Mathieu. Just as he finished speaking, Simon's door shook under a heavy knock. "Say nothing," said the Franciscan. "I will tell you later." The knock sounded again. Simon went to the door and opened it. A stocky man whose bald head came up to the middle of Simon's chest stood there. Simon observed that the man carried more muscle than fat on his sturdy, barrel-shaped frame. He wore a yellow silk tunic trimmed with blue, and a short sky-blue cape. A bright gold medallion on a gold chain hung from his neck. Two daggers, one long and stout, the other short and slender, hung from the right side of his belt. The sword on his left side reached from his waist to his ankle. Simon knew he had seen him before, but he could not remember where. "Your Signory, Count de Gobignon, it is my honor to address you," the stout man said. His words were polite, but his tone was perfunctory. He had to tilt his head back to look at Simon, but his voice and expression made Simon feel very young and small. Even so, Simon held his silence and did not step aside to let the man in. Let him introduce himself first. After a pause, the man said, "Your Signory, I am Frescobaldo d'Ucello, podesta of Orvieto." He stopped, eyeing Simon. He had sparkling black eyes, and his black mustache was trimmed so that it was no more than a thin line above his mouth. Simon remembered now having seen this man, the governor of the city, at the execution of that poor heretic a month ago. "Signore Podesta," Simon bowed. "The honor is mine." "Not at all, Your Signory." Now the stout man looked past Simon into the room, and his eyebrows flew up. Simon turned and saw Friar Mathieu anointing Alain's brow with his oil-dipped thumb, forming a cross on the white forehead. Most of Alain's body was under an embroidered coverlet, and the kitchen knife had disappeared. D'Ucello blessed himself and said in a low voice, "I will examine the body after the good father is finished with the last rites. Would you be so kind as to step out of the room, Count, so that we can talk?" Closing the door behind him, Simon followed d'Ucello through the corridor out to the colonnaded galleria overlooking the lemon trees where he and Sophia had kissed on the night of the contessa's reception for the Tartars. So long ago that seemed now, though it was little more than a month, and so much tragedy had come of it. Simon told d'Ucello the story he had worked out, that he and Alain had gone to that inn searching for women and had gotten separated. There were large bags under the podesta's eyes, dark as bruises. They contracted as he listened to Simon. "Forgive me, Your Signory, but I must be clear. Are you telling me that you slept with a woman last night?" Simon tried to look abashed and reluctant to speak. "Yes." "And where did this take place, Your Signory?" "In my private room at the inn." "Who was she?"