"If you were not a man of the Church, I would kill you for saying that." His voice trembled.
"Really? I doubt you would dare." De Verceuil turned away.
"Monseigneur!" de Puys cried, his face redder than ever. "Do not make me ashamed to wear the purple and gold."
That hurt even more than what de Verceuil had said. It hurt so much Simon wanted to weep with anger and frustration.
Instead, he bent forward and lifted the trapdoor and hurried down the steps. He heard de Verceuil say something to de Puys, but he could not hear what it was. Fortunately.
He stopped on the roof to look for Friar Mathieu. Groups of crossbowmen were running from one side to the other. Friar Mathieu was making the sign of the cross over a fallen man.
"I think the Tartars may be in danger, Friar Mathieu," Simon said. "I want you to come with me so that I can talk to them."
To Simon's relief the old Franciscan did not object. "Let us take two of the Armenians with us," he said. "If there is danger, you should not go alone."
Now that he was away from de Verceuil and de Puys, Simon could reflect that he might, indeed, be mistaken. But he had to act, even though he doubted himself.
Simon, Friar Mathieu, and two Armenian warriors named Stefan and Grigor hurried down the tower's inner staircase to the ground floor. Single candles, burning low, lit the corridor at long intervals. Here were storerooms and cubbyholes where servants worked and lived. The relentless pounding of rocks reverberated in the stone walls, punctuated by occasional screams penetrating through the arrow slits.