Simon turned away, feeling dread at having to go into the papal court alone.
The great hall of the pope's palace was long, high, narrow, and shadowy. Even though it was a sunny day outside, the small windows of white glass on both sides of the room admitted insufficient light, and had to be supplemented by a double row of three-tiered chandeliers, each bearing dozens of candles. The pope could have saved himself the cost of a great many candles, Simon thought, if he had built his great hall in the new style, like the king's palace in Paris, with buttresses that allowed for much larger windows.
But this was Italy, he reminded himself, where there was war in the city streets, even war against the pope. Large glass windows would offer poor protection. The King of France did not have such worries.
At the far end of the room a long flight of marble steps swept up to an enormous gilded throne, empty at present. Down the center of the steps ran a purple carpet, and over the carpet lay a wide strip of white linen.
Two rows of high-backed pews faced each other on either side of the throne. Between them was a table laid with rolls of parchment, an inkstand, and a sheaf of quills. The pews were as yet empty, but around them stood cardinals in bright red robes with flat, broad-brimmed red hats—some of them Simon remembered seeing at the cathedral two weeks before. Farther removed from the throne and more numerous were the purple-robed archbishops and bishops. Scattered around the hall were priests, monks, and friars in black, white, brown, and gray. There must be nearly a hundred men in the room, Simon guessed. The air was filled with a buzz of conversation.
He felt the hollow in his stomach and the trembling in his knees that disturbed him whenever he entered a roomful of strangers. And these strangers were, most of them, the spiritual lords of the Church. He looked for a place where he could stand inconspicuously. He dared not speak to anyone. He felt as if a frown from one of these men would be enough to send him into disordered retreat.
And suddenly before him there was the frowning face of Cardinal Paulus de Verceuil. The wide red hat with its heavy tassels seemed precariously balanced on his head. His gold pectoral cross was set with emeralds and rubies. The buttons that ran down the front of his scarlet cassock, Simon noticed, were embroidered with gold thread.
"What the devil are you doing here?"
Simon cast about wildly in his mind for a sensible answer. Nothing he could say, he was sure, would win this cardinal's approval.