Daoud laughed. That Tilia had yielded was a great relief. And she was both witty and dangerous, a combination he admired.
XI
Simon was surprised at how young Cardinal Paulus de Verceuil looked. The man who stood with him in a vineyard on the road to Orvieto had a long, fine-skinned face and glossy black hair that fell in waves to his shoulders. If his scalp was shaved in a clerical tonsure, his red velvet cap covered it. His handsome violet silk tunic reminded Simon that his own surcoat was travel-stained and that Thierry had not polished his mail in days.
De Verceuil tossed away the cluster of pale green grapes he had been nibbling and spoke suddenly.
"Count, a report has reached me that you spoke rudely to the doge of Venice." His booming bass voice sounded as if it were emerging from the depths of a tomb. "You do realize that your actions reflect on the crown of France?"
He thrust his face into Simon's as he spoke, which made Simon involuntarily draw back. De Verceuil was one of the few men Simon had ever met who matched his own unusual height.
Simon felt his face grow hot. "Yes, Your Eminence."
"And how could you dismiss the trovatore Sordello from the post to which Count Charles himself appointed him?"
"If Sordello had stayed with us, the Tartars might have taken such offense as to go back to Outremer."