"God's blood!" Simon struck his forehead with his hand. "Forgive me, Father. But if the pope has not enough troops to keep him safe in Orvieto, surely he is in even more danger on the road. And if the Tartars are with him, we could lose everything."
Friar Mathieu shook his head, absently rubbing his bound right arm with his left hand. "We can gain everything. His Holiness needs help desperately. Now he can be persuaded to give King Louis permission to join with the Tartars." The old Franciscan's eyes fixed on Simon's. "You must go to the pope."
Simon felt the palms of his hands grow cold. "The pope will not listen to me, Father."
Friar Mathieu chuckled. "Is he more likely to listen to that fool—God forgive me—de Verceuil?"
"Yes," said Simon after a moment's thought. "De Verceuil is a cardinal. And is it not his task to treat with the pope? Mine is to guard the ambassadors."
"Are you not close to King Louis, Simon? Almost a foster son?"
Simon hesitated. "That is putting it a bit strongly. But he knows me well."
Friar Mathieu gestured with his left hand. "Then you are the person to carry His Holiness's appeal for help to King Louis."
The suggestion dismayed Simon. It meant he would have to leave the Tartars for months. And just when they would be much more vulnerable to attack, following the pope from one city to another.
"No, Father," he said. "I cannot leave the Tartars."