"I follow, as quickly as I can, my son," he heard from behind him.
"Could you not stop them?" he demanded of Thierry as they headed down a narrow cobblestoned street at a dead run.
Dread made his legs heavy. De Puys, a veteran of the last crusade, de Pirenne, a strong and well-trained knight—they had sent for him. For Simon de Gobignon, twenty years of age, who had never in his life been in a battle.
Breath of God, what did they expect of him?
"There was nothing we could do without killing the Tartars' bodyguard," said Thierry. "You will see how it is when you get there."
The inn was a stone building with houses on either side. The lower half of the divided door was shut, but the upper half was open, and Simon heard shouts from within. Thierry, ahead of him, yanked the door open for him.
It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the large room. Shadowy figures jostled him as he pushed his way through. A little light came from the grilled windows and from a single huge yellow candle burning in a candlestick on a table. The room reeked of sweaty bodies and old wine.
"Make way for Monseigneur le Comte!" Thierry called uselessly as the Venetian mercenaries jabbered angrily in Italian.
Simon pushed his way into the corner of the room lit by the candle and found himself facing a scowling, dark-skinned man pointing a gleaming sword at him. Five of the Armenians, sabers out, had formed a protective ring.
Within the ring, the sixth Armenian had a man bent forward over a table. The man's arms flailed feebly and his eyes bulged. Even in the poor light Simon could see that his face, turned on its side toward him, was purple. The Armenian was holding his bow behind the man's neck and was turning it slowly. Now Simon saw the string cutting into the neck.