A crossbowman sat on the ground at the entrance to the blue and yellow striped tent. He picked up the bow that lay on the ground beside him and jumped to his feet when Lorenzo drove up. Lorenzo remembered seeing him guarding the Tartars in Orvieto, and his heart beat heavily for a moment, but the man gave no sign of recognizing him. Lorenzo held up his splendid parchment and explained his mission. "They are not here," said the guard sourly. "Well, the Bishop of Agnani is an important ally of your King Charles. Help me unload this wine." Lorenzo went around the cart and pulled the back down to make a ramp. "It is good wine." Lorenzo continued, "and you can drink your fill after we get it into the tent. The Tartars will not miss a few cupfuls." Grumbling despite the promised reward, the guard helped Lorenzo manhandle the cask to the back of the cart, tip it, and roll it down to the ground. Then they unloaded the other one. The guard stood back to let Lorenzo roll the first cask by himself through the loose flap into the Tartars' tent. "Stay away from the girl," he growled at Lorenzo's back. "His Eminence the cardinal says she's under arrest." Lorenzo stiffened, and a chill gripped him. What danger was Rachel in now? As Lorenzo straightened up, he heard a gasp. The tent was lit by a single candle and the daylight that filtered dimly through its silk walls. It was held up by two center poles and an oblong framework from which the sides were hung. Around the edges were camp beds. Between the center posts was a table. Charcoal glowed in a brazier, warming the interior of the tent. A shadowy figure rushed toward him. Lorenzo backed away, his hand reaching inside his tunic for the sandbag. "Lorenzo!" "Rachel." His voice was choked. Her arms gripped him as tightly as if she were drowning. He felt warmth flood through him. "Ah, Rachel." He had not seen her since he had taken her to Tilia Caballo's, and not a day went by that he had not cursed himself for doing so. She looked well, her face pink, but thinner than he remembered. She was, he realized suddenly, very beautiful. "I thought your name was Giancarlo," said a dry voice. Lorenzo looked up to see the old Franciscan monk who traveled with the Tartars standing near him. "What is going on here?" The Venetian burst into the tent. "Get your hands off that woman." He drew the shortsword he wore at his belt. Lorenzo instantly let go of Rachel and stepped back. He bowed low, spreading his hands in a courtly gesture. "Forgive me, Messere," he said in a placating tone. "A long-lost cousin." His hand darted for his boot and seized the handle of his dagger. "I don't believe that for a--" the Venetian began, but his guard dropped slightly, and his words were cut off when Lorenzo's blade plunged into his chest. "Jesus have mercy!" said the old Franciscan. The Venetian dropped to his knees and fell on his face on the carpeted wooden floor of the tent.