Simon could bear no more. He stood up abruptly. He was torturing this girl. And in a way, she was torturing him.
He said, "Rachel, we will leave now. I am sorry I frightened you. In truth, I have no wish to hurt you. But, I—I am upset too. Listen to me. If you ever decide you want to get away from here, tell me. I will not let John or Cardinal de Verceuil or anyone else stop you if you want to be free."
Rachel took her hands away from her face. "Where can I go? Tell me that, Your Signory. Where can I go?" Her eyes, rimmed with red from crying, were pools of darkness in her pale face. The sight of her tears made Simon's own eyes burn.
Friar Mathieu stood up, leaning heavily on his stick. He took Simon's arm, whispered a good-bye to Rachel, and drew Simon out of the room. Silently they went back up to the top-floor loggia. Simon seethed and churned, his mind full of confusion and pain.
They sat together on a bench in the deepening twilight. The sun was down and the sky over the distant hills was copper-colored.
"How clumsy I was," Simon said. "She will tell us nothing now."
"You learned quite a bit," said Friar Mathieu, "if you think about what she told you."
"I know this much," said Simon. "I have been a fool. Sophia has been lying to me."
"Everyone in love is a fool, Simon. The more in love, the more they want to believe whatever the beloved tells them. Only a man or woman in love with God can be a fool without risk."
From the distant walls of Viterbo, the guards called the hours to one another. Their long-drawn cries echoed against the stone building fronts.