Mathieu shook his head. "No one will hurt me. Go along now."
Simon jumped into the saddle and spurred his palfrey to a trot. Thierry rode beside him.
"Those two didn't throw anything," Thierry said.
"Of course not." Simon wondered if de Verceuil cared that the Venetians had shot two innocent men.
When Simon caught up with the procession, de Verceuil was still furiously scrubbing his face with his pale violet cloak.
"If you had done something sooner about the rioting, this outrage would not have happened to me," he said, a quaver of anger in his deep voice.
God help me, thought Simon. I could easily grow to hate him. Cardinal or not.
Word of the shootings must have spread through the city, Simon thought, because the twisting street leading to the cathedral was nearly empty.
But the piazza in front of Orvieto's cathedral of San Giovenale was packed with people. Simon's eye was immediately drawn to the top of the cathedral steps. There stood a white-bearded man wearing a red mantle over white robes glittering with gold ornament. On his head a tall white lozenge-shaped miter embroidered with a red and gold cross. In his hand, a great golden shepherd's crook at least seven feet tall. Simon's mouth fell open and he held his breath.