A swollen yellow moon appeared over the treetops, and Simon was grateful for its light. Now they would have less trouble following the road.
Friar Mathieu said, "It is not an easy thing for so young a man to match wits with two powerful churchmen skilled in dialectic. I congratulate you on doing it at all."
Simon felt a hollow in his stomach. He saw himself going back to France, sneered at not only for his family's disgrace but for his own incompetence.
"Our mission must succeed," he said, clenching his fist. His voice rose above the creak of the wagon wheels, surprising even himself with his vehemence.
"God has His own ideas about what ought to succeed or fail," said Friar Mathieu. "Do not try to take the whole burden on yourself."
"I must," said Simon, feeling tears burn his eyes.
The voice in the semidarkness beside him was soft, kindly. "Why must?"
"Because of who I am," Simon said in a low voice.
"What do you mean, Simon?"
Can I tell him, Simon wondered. Ever since, seven years ago, his mother and Roland had told him the secret of his birth, questions of who he really was, questions of right and wrong, had assailed him, and there had been no one to ask. He loved his mother and he admired Roland, but they were too close to it all. But to tell anyone else would bring calamity down on all three of them.