"If you learn any more, try to get word to me," he told Sordello.
He turned and hurried through the nave of the cathedral to the front doors, still holding in check the urge to run.
"For them to attack is pazzia," said the contessa. "We have twice the men-at-arms they do. Yet I pray God this rumor is true. By tomorrow morning Marco di Filippeschi will be hanging from our battlements." The cords in her neck stood out, her nose was thrust forward like a falcon's beak, and her eyes glittered.
Simon said, "With respect, Contessa, they must have more men than you do. I was told they might have five hundred. And siege machines."
They were seated in the small council room of the Monaldeschi palace—Simon, the contessa, de Verceuil, Sire Henri de Puys, and Friar Mathieu—around a circular table of warm brown wood.
"But surely we have better men," said Henri de Puys in French. "What sort of fighters could these Philippe-whatever-they-are muster? Routiers, highwaymen?"
Friar Mathieu turned to de Verceuil. "Might I suggest that Your Eminence use your influence with Pope Urban. Perhaps his holiness can stop this battle."
"Yes," said de Verceuil. "I will try to speak to him. But he is sick, and pays little attention to anything."
Probably de Verceuil is annoyed because he did not think first of going to the pope.