Hieronymus raised a reproving hand. “We must forgive our enemies, though, indeed, such a King is God’s enemy. His prisons are filled with the flower of Sicilian chivalry—the list of those he dooms to die is long.”
“Though none have died yet,” Theron interrupted.
Hieronymus nodded. “They say he swore a great oath his court-fool should be the first victim of your sword, and till the fool is found the victims wait on death.”
“Please Heaven he be not found, then,” Theron prayed.
Hieronymus smiled sadly. “He will be found when his time comes,” he said. “Yet Heaven seems to counter the wicked King. Those whom he drove into exile still linger in the port. Contrary winds deny their sails.”
Theron lifted his head from his hands. “They say the fairest maids of Sicily have been carried to his palace.”
“Yet they are maids still,” Hieronymus said, “for he swears to love no woman till your daughter dies.”
“He is so sure of that,” Theron sighed.
Hieronymus sought to console him.