"Those were the bowmen I brought from Lincoln you used, Monseigneur de Gobignon," said FitzTrinian. "You did not have my permission."
In his present mood, Simon wished the pock-marked knight would make an issue of it.
"Do not make yourself more ridiculous than you already are, Sire Alistair," said Charles.
"We still have not settled this question of pay," said Dietrich of Regensburg.
"Go pick the purses of those dead men out there," said Charles with a scornful laugh.
Again Simon was sickened by Charles's manner. He had expected that the count would punish his rebellious commanders. Hanging would be an excellent idea. Flog them out of the army, at least. Instead, he continued to argue with them, even banter with them, as if they were all a pack of merchants in a money changer's shop.
To get away from the wretched business, Simon kicked his dark brown mare into motion and, followed by Thierry, rode out toward the city. He wished desperately that he were back in Perugia with Sophia.
He had seen enough killing in Orvieto, especially the night of the attack on the Palazzo Monaldeschi, to harden him. Still, it made his heart feel heavy as stone in his chest to see so many lives cut short. And by his command.
What pain it must be to die. To have your life stopped, forever.
He recalled the arrow that had whizzed past him. He could easily have been killed.