"I have told you my gold shipment was late getting from Marseilles to Ostia," said Charles in a placating tone. "You will be paid. Tonight, tomorrow, or the next day it will catch up to us."
"Then tonight, tomorrow, or the next day, Monseigneur," said the pock-marked FitzTrinian, "you can command us to charge that rabble."
The Roman mob was close enough now for Simon to make out what they were shouting.
"Muorire alla Francia!" Death to the French!
The cry sent a bolt of fear through Simon. They would have to do something at once.
Were Charles's lieutenants actually going to sit on their motionless horses and haggle with him until these infuriated Romans fell upon them? Not just Charles's venture was at stake, but their own lives. Could they be stupid—or greedy—enough to let themselves be overwhelmed while they argued about money?
Yes, they could be. That stupid and that greedy.
Simon's fear transmuted itself to anger. These men were a disgrace to chivalry. Worse, as marshals of an army commanded by King Louis's brother, they dishonored France. He almost wanted to draw his sword against them, his disgust was so great.
"You speak of dishonor when you are refusing to attack an enemy in the field at the order of your seigneur?" Charles shouted.
"We are not refusing, Monseigneur—" Alistair FitzTrinian began.