_I should stop this enterprise now_, Simon thought. _I should turn back before it is too late._ The longer they were on the road, the harder it would be to declare suddenly that Gobignon was _not_ going to war in Italy, to tell his barons and knights to return to their homes and hang up their arms. If he did so at this moment, he would provoke great anger in these men of his own household. Today and tomorrow great barons would be joining him, mature men--his vassals--but men of weight and power in their own right. Their scorn at his change of heart would be almost unbearable. But did he want to be another Amalric de Gobignon, leading the flower of his domain's manhood, hundreds of knights and thousands of men-at-arms, to war, with only a handful coming back? If this was a bad war, God might well punish Charles d'Anjou with defeat. And Simon would share, not in the glory as Charles had promised him, but in disaster and death. _And I am not rightfully the Count de Gobignon._ He knew, though these men did not, that he had no right to call them out to war. If Simon de Gobignon, a bastard and an impostor, led this army to its destruction, what name was there for such a crime? The voice of Valery de Pirenne, Simon's new equerry, broke in on Simon's tormented thoughts. "I am not sorry to be leaving home this time of year. What better place to spend the winter than sunny Italy?" _I have already caused the death of this young man's brother. Will I kill Valery too?_ "It rains much in Italy in January," said Thierry, now Sire Thierry d'Hauteville, having been knighted by Simon at the beginning of November on the Feast of All Saints. His tone was lofty with experience. "Bad weather for war," said Henri de Puys, whose experience was ten times Thierry's--or Simon's, for that matter. "But the rains should be over by the time we reach that infidel Manfred's kingdom." "Look there," said Thierry. "More knights coming to meet us." Simon saw a line of about a dozen men on horseback, three canvas-covered wagons and a straggling column of men on foot with spears over their shoulders. The oncoming knights and men were tiny in the distance, marching along a road that would meet Simon's route. _Oh, God, now it will be harder to turn them back._ "That will be the party from Chateau la Durie," Thierry said, pointing to the horizon where the four towers of a small castle were just barely visible. A distant bell was ringing out the noon hour as Simon's troop met those from la Durie. All of the new knights wore red crosses on their tunics. Sire Antoine de la Durie was a stout man about de Puys's age with a huge mustache called an algernon, whose ends grew into his sideburns. Simon and de la Durie brought their horses together and embraced. The knight smelled like a barn. "How was your harvest, Sire Antoine?" Large white teeth flashed under the algernon. "Ample, Monseigneur. But not so ample, I trust, as what we shall gather in Sicily."