_Then might it not be better for all of us if I fail to protect the Tartars, and some enemy of Christendom succeeds in killing them?_ Simon felt an aching tightness in his forehead. He desperately wanted the alliance to succeed, and thereby show the nobility of France that neither he nor his family any longer deserved their scorn. If the alliance failed, he failed, and the house of Gobignon would sink deeper into dishonor. Let others worry, he decided, about whether it was right or wrong to protect the Tartars. "Monseigneur!" There was urgency in the voice that hailed Simon from across the square, and a feeling of dread came over him. He turned to see his equerry, Thierry d'Hauteville, his wavy black hair uncovered, running across the piazza. "They are fighting, Monseigneur!" Thierry panted. "Our Venetian archers and those men from Tartary. You'd best come at once." "Jesus, save us!" Simon heard Friar Mathieu whisper beside him. Staring into Thierry's anxious eyes, Simon felt himself getting angry. Six knights he had brought with him. Any knight worthy of his spurs should be able to stop any pack of commoners from fighting. And if they could not, he thought with a sudden shift from anger to anxiety, what more could he do? There was no time to think. "Father, will you come, please?" he said to Mathieu, and without waiting for a reply struck Thierry on the shoulder and began to run with him. "I follow, as quickly as I can, my son," he heard from behind him. "Could you not stop them?" he demanded of Thierry as they headed down a narrow cobblestoned street at a dead run. Dread made his legs heavy. De Puys, a veteran of the last crusade, de Pirenne, a strong and well-trained knight--_they_ had sent for _him_. For Simon de Gobignon, twenty years of age, who had never in his life been in a battle. Breath of God, what did they expect of him? "There was nothing we could do without killing the Tartars' bodyguard," said Thierry. "You will see how it is when you get there." The inn was a stone building with houses on either side. The lower half of the divided door was shut, but the upper half was open, and Simon heard shouts from within. Thierry, ahead of him, yanked the door open for him. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the large room. Shadowy figures jostled him as he pushed his way through. A little light came from the grilled windows and from a single huge yellow candle burning in a candlestick on a table. The room reeked of sweaty bodies and old wine. "Make way for Monseigneur le Comte!" Thierry called uselessly as the Venetian mercenaries jabbered angrily in Italian. Simon pushed his way into the corner of the room lit by the candle and found himself facing a scowling, dark-skinned man pointing a gleaming sword at him. Five of the Armenians, sabers out, had formed a protective ring.