"Mischance? What sort of mischance?" Did it matter, Simon wondered, how this had happened? He had failed utterly and absolutely, that was all that counted. His foolish decision to go to Ugolini had led to this disaster. Another stain on the house of Gobignon.
He put his hands to his face. "If only I had stayed with them this morning."
Mathieu patted his arm. "Do not reproach yourself. No one will blame you. It would probably have happened just the same even if you were there."
Simon felt the old friar's words like a blow in the face. What shame, to be thought so useless that even his presence would not have saved the Tartars. But, he told himself, turning the knife in his own guts, it was true. Anyone stupid enough to let something like this happen would surely be useless in a moment of danger.
"Did you not know how dangerous these hills could be?" he asked.
"They were determined on a long ride," said Friar Mathieu. "Tartars are used to vast distances and great spaces. You cannot imagine how miserable they were feeling, cooped up in a hill town surrounded by a wall on top of a rock. I felt sorry for them. In fact, I even feared for their health."
Simon was indignant. "Feared for their health! The devil you say! Now look at them."
Friar Mathieu squeezed Simon's arm. "Do not mention the devil. He may come when you call. As for them"—he waved a hand at the two inert forms in the cart—"this is embarrassing, to be sure, but we need not blame ourselves."
"Embarrassing? Embarrassing! Is that all you call it?"
One of the bodies on the straw moved. As Simon stared, it lurched to its knees. He heard a few slurred words in the guttural speech of the Tartars. The figure crawled on hands and knees to the side of the cart, lifted its head, and vomited loudly and copiously.