The Romans were running desperately, and the pity he had forced himself not to feel while he was fighting them rose up to overwhelm him. His heart lodged in his throat like a rock, and tears crept out of the corners of his eyes.
In God's name, what have I done?
"Magnificent, Simon! You did admirably."
Charles d'Anjou had ridden up beside him and was grinning out at the carnage in the fields of stubble. His dark eyes were alight with pleasure. He struck Simon on his mailed back, one of those hard blows he was fond of.
"What presence of mind! What initiative!" He lowered his voice. "You could not have done better if we had planned it ahead of time. You saved me a fortune in gold."
He spurred his black and white charger closer to Simon's mare and leaned over to kiss him emphatically on the cheek, his stubble scratching Simon's face.
"I don't understand," said Simon.
Charles drew back and looked at him with narrowed eyes. "You don't? Well, you did the right thing. We'll talk about it later."
He turned and shouted at his three commanders. "You see, idiots! One French knight with his head on his shoulders can do what all of you and all your knights could not."
"We were not attempting to do anything," du Mont said sourly, pushing his helmet back off his bowl-shaped hair.